Чёрная курица, или Подземная жительница

[caquet]

REALISM is mine, my miracles,

Take all of the rest-take freely-I keep

but my own-I give only of them,

I offer them without end-I offer them to you

wherever your feet can carry you, or your

eyes reach.

Why! who makes much of a miracle?

As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,

Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,

Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward

the sky,

Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in

the edge of the water,

Or stand under trees in the woods,

Or talk by day with any one I love-or sleep in

the bed at night with any one I love,

Or sit at the table at dinner with my mother,

Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,

Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of an

August forenoon,

Or animals feeding in the fields,

Or birds-or the wonderfulness of insects in the

air,

Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down-or of

stars shining so quiet and bright,

Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new-

moon in May,

Or whether I go among those I like best, and that

like me best-mechanics, boatmen, farmers,

Or among the savans-or to the soiree-or to

the opera,

Or stand a long while looking at the movements

of machinery,

Or behold children at their sports,

Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or

the perfect old woman,

Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to

burial,

Or my own eyes and figure in the glass,

These, with the rest, one and all, are to me

miracles,

The whole referring-yet each distinct and in its

place.

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a

miracle,

Every inch of space is a miracle,

Every square yard of the surface of the earth is

spread with the same,

Every cubic foot of the interior swarms with the

same;

Every spear of grass-the frames, limbs, organs,

of men and women, and all that concerns

them,

All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,

The fishes that swim-the rocks-the motion

of the waves-the ships, with men in them

-what stranger miracles are there?

Walt Whitman

Именно поэтому этот журнал обо всем, что привлекает мое внимание или занимает мои текущие мысли, иногда даже рождая мечты, но при этом ни о чем конкретно. Так, пустопорожняя болтовня, восторженное кудахтанье домашней птицы, обзирающей со своего плетня манящую бесконечность прекрасных далей, но накрепко привязанной к своей лужайке привычным удобством родного подземелья…




Чудесная чёрная курица работы талантливой Лады Репиной