Персе
третий радующийся
порой мне кажется, что я взрослый, разумный человек, погружённый в поиск решения практических проблем: накормить кота творогом, сдать режиссуру без пересдач, вычистить сто сорок одну серебряную ложечку, а в следующее мгновение сижу в пижаме с фиолетовым осликом и плачу навзрыд над смертью книжного героя. господи, как это несправедливо. самая нежная, чуткая, добрая, прекрасная, вздорная, гордая. потому-то это и было неизбежно.

The emotional, loving, moody child had had small chance of developing into a happy woman. Had she as a girl been naturally joyous yet all that had befallen her must surely have driven away the bright birds, one by one, from her breast. As it was, made of a more sombre clay, capable of deep happiness, but more easily drawn to the dark than the light, Fuchsia was even more open to the cruel winds of circumstances which appeared to have singled her out for particular punishment.

Her need for love had never been fulfilled; her love for others had never been suspected, or wanted. Rich as a dusky orchard, she had never been discovered. Her green boughs had been spread, but no travellers came and rested in their shade nor tasted the sweet fruit.



@темы: get in me, dead poets society, горменгаст