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Monday, March 19, 2018

Two short stories

I don’t care about Nicholas Nickleby. I don’t want to know how he wandered around London and I got insults and humiliation. No one wanted to help him even in the very small. This is Nicholas when he was a child, his father died, and the uncle had abused nephew. A sudden moment of exaltation and palinopsia luck this literary character, I also do not apply.

I deeply care about the experiences of Oliver Twist, described by Charles Dickens. I book be not read, the contents told the lady I was infatuated. She sometimes quoted amazing stories. About Nicholas Nickleby I also told her. Dickens was her favorite author.

She loved to tell of Pushkin, Lermontov, Leo Tolstoy. And I told her about how exciting that is happening in my life, about the corporatization of the factory where I worked, about my chances to take over this company. She chirped about the remote, empty, not having a relationship. And said it (what she just go on and on) is more important than vanity.

We later broke up, I was not up to her, not to her tales and fables.

Yet, no, no, I remember her. And its bursts of childishness that occurred at the most inopportune moments. For example, lying in bed, you need to understand what to do, and it parses to read poetry. I was kind of nervous. And in the end sent her away. We must do the work, not float. But sometimes breaks, remember, and analyze disappointment: my love she did not understand.

What’s the use of her ill-fated Nicholas Nickleby? But I lost it. Now, perhaps, recounts the misadventures of orphans to someone else. And I remember other people’s sorrow to anything. (Its lack.) To pour out of a sieve. About the same Oliver Twist. Well, he came to a gang of juvenile delinquents, and it was led by an old Jew Fagin… And my mind starts to go because intriguing and wants to get my plant is a different type of Jew, Rabinovich. I to the travel of Nils with wild geese, which she told me on the night read as a child, if I couldn’t sleep. Today I can not take his family on holiday to Turkey because of the sanctions, and workers — to pay the money owed since the crisis.

Or the story about raising Lazarus from the dead. All ears buzzed this nonsense. He may have been raised in ancient times. Now no one is resurrected. My friend got beaten and then shot dead, he owed the dealer. How many healers and doctors were invited to his leg lift while lying in intensive care, it did not work. Why would I know about Lazarus? But this Lazarus out of my head no go. Or as Vronsky threw Anna Karenina. And she threw herself under a train. This is my witness, when I left her, poisoned. I have been reading stuff here and took the example of the fools, who could not get along with her husband-the old man (there many such?) and the young lover, pulled out his nonsense about love and social justice. Well that my not under the train leaped, and chose the poison, otherwise I would have felt guilty.

Don’t want to know too much. It wearies me. Don’t want to think about too much. All those extra people — Pechorin and Bazarova, not useful to society. And that someone, thanks to a happy coincidence, found lost relatives and great wealth. Such a belief in miracles discouraged. For something that does not become unnecessary and not to be left out, we must fight. We must fight for success and happiness. For survival. Christ did not fight — how it ended? Don’t want to know about the gods and their eccentricities and wonders. Walk on water, can feed hundreds of people with one loaf. I have problems of my own. Workers on strike, the salaries are low. I do not know how to feed them two loaves. To me the aspirations of the workers close to. I rose from the bottom, out of poverty, alone, without help. Father died, his uncle, brother of his mother, bullied me. I left the house. Got into a gang of thieves. But well-turned, when the guys got busted. And then he was gaining its victories. Didn’t have time to be distracted by trivia. I finished school with a bad certificate. In the army, found myself. Cramming statutes, marched. Grip everyday I since dead iron. And love of order. And absence of vibrations. They appeared when I listened to it, this is crazy, tough, she was told: you have to believe in divine help and not to cut the throat of competitors. Where would I be if I did listen to it. Here and snatched it from his mind. Don’t need fairy tales! About the brother Ivanushka and sister Alyonushka. It is not necessary to teach: “do Not drink!”. Because in Russia obstreperous over a glass. If you do not drink, you’re an outcast and to communicate with you no one will.

All wrong, wrong with writers. Knocked off stride, do not give focus. Distract. How many years since we broke up and I remember her lectures in bed. Sometimes it begins to seem: it I is — Oliver Twist or, damn it, prowling London, Nicholas Nickleby, and that is I was lucky to meet good pals and to organize a business. But it is not so. Oliver Twist and Nicholas Nickleby, and good people don’t have me no bearing, and I to him. But imagining it in my own stories have something important to reveal something useful helped to understand. From the problems of those unable to escape.


The writer was a high opinion of himself (all writers have a high opinion of himself) and coming to a supermarket, kept with exaggerated dignity. He still tried, so that others do not notice: the products he chooses the cheaper, if not entirely overdue. On the checkout humiliation somehow still possible to survive, to pretend to be distracted, ” cashiers ponvideos any buyers, but to the rest I wanted to look not the miser and not the poor.

In his mind he was justified, “What can I do? The government has put in such conditions. Books are not issues, the pension is tiny. The state, not I should be ashamed”. But inwardly perturbed as much as necessary, and each will not work and will not rasanjani: so and so: I was one of the most worthy bright minds, great talent and original, and live almost hand to mouth. Dropped me below the bunk. Shame on the state which does not appreciate talent!

“Well, that name’s not on TV, not photographed for the press, comforted himself a writer. — There is joy in anonymity and recognition. And why should light if your writing to anyone but yourself?” Consolation, he knew that sounded weak.

One day, picking apples out of the box for the item with rotten, he caught ironic look of a guard in camouflage uniforms. Wrinkled stooped type frankly scares you watching the attempts to find among mold tselenkim fruit. But the writer did not hesitate and domobran “apples from the barrels,” so they were marked in the price (half the price of fresh).

The next time the same security guard found a writer even more quizzically.

“He can not know me, thought the writer. “I doubt he reader. And when was the last time my photo appeared in the newspaper?”

But the guard took a step in his direction, sounded chuckled and said:

Do you not remember? No wonder. Although you haven’t changed. I turned gray.

The writer, a stone with a proud face, waited.

— But I… — the guard coughed again and put his hand on the worn-out holster. He smelled of cheap Tabachishin and onions. — Sometimes I want to shoot so fast and ridiculous, pointless flying life. Well, remember: the construction team, the Institute, check on the potatoes. Vodka in the barn.

— Venya? Benjamin? — exclaimed the writer.

— That’s it. Come on, your skinny, and security guards gritted my delicate writer’s hand.

— What brings you here? You’re kind of like… ” said the writer.

Time he trailed off, he had blurted out. Standing before him a bent old man with the gun (strangely, not with the Berdan rifle) was served in the old days, stunning hope.

— Yes, was head of the student scientific society. But then I rolled… a Change of priorities, change of social formation, my research became unnecessary. Science was not needed. You time with scientific paths skipped. I read your book. First newcookie. Then — fiction, about the beautiful life on other planets. And village your stories. About the barefoot childhood. Now literature is not necessary…

The writer shook his head. He wanted to ask, “But how could you to be here? Yes, even in this age?” And again said nothing, bit my tongue.

The guard, though, hurtful words were not spoken, understood everything and replied:

— Life has not worked. It happens. His wife left. The second died. Could become a corresponding member, but did not have time. And after even before the election is not made. Other, young, come, their time has come. The son was caught with drugs and got off him, gave bribes. What good is he in the Slammer. Well, live as it is necessary. I’m not from here, porter worked hard. And chauffeur. But my knees hurt. Lower back does not arc. That is just in an arc, as you can see. Well, what about you? You, I see not too sweet.

Writer jarred. He could not agree with this assessment. Yes, set forth simply and clearly. And internally rebelled, he, a man of intellectual labor is not to betray your intelligence with a degenerate poor bastard? Not on the same Board they really are. The writer was astonished, let loose the importance of the brow.

— A difficult period… Like at all… But I’m struggling to compose… in the table. I’m used to it.

— I see. In these boots as you, a good life people will not find it. Nothing, if I give advice? You, thinkers, not of this world. Soar and practical questions may not make sense. Don’t take this stuff, ” said the former classmate. Come the end of the month, we in addition to the salary allowed to take the re-grading. Not the moldy stuff. I will share with you. Are you married? And the kids — adults?

— All right, — rounded out the conversation writer. — I will go and talk.

But changed the store. And although it was too far to travel to other grocery, and the prices there were higher, bypassed native supermarket side. And when the need to drop in there (it was a month and a half), was relieved to see Benjamin there. Instead, when entering a crowd a young boy with a Taser.

And next week, Benjamin showed up. And in another week. The writer casually asked the changer:

— Where is the predecessor?

The guy made a troubled face:

— Died… something happened to him. Whether the son had a fight, or cancer found. He is, in short, in the woods. Hung herself with a scarf. Done that without the use of the service trunk. We then would courts is well-worn.

Leaving the shop, the writer thought, “what a trick! However, it was possible to expect. But why? Even if the son of discord. Even if the disease. Cancer in the ageing body may last for decades. It is foolish, and hurriedly he fled from the battlefield. The mind I clearly superior. And the shoes worn, so it’s natural. The government is to blame, not yourself. Soulless the state keeps all the crap. Below the bunk. Below the lower. Don’t need talent. So they shot and hung”.

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