(no subject)
Вот некоторые отрывки того что мне понравилось. Что-то в плане юмора, что-то в плане языка или лиричности, что-то по смыслу. Что-то просто во мне отзывается, долго объяснять почему.
Автор очень наблюдательный и мудрый человек, имхо.
Понятно, что когда нет контекста оно не очень понятно. Так что все равно рекомендую оригинал.
a hat full of sky Pratchett Terry
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And if they couldn’t bend their thinking around the world, they bent the world around their thinking.
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Actually, only half a dozen Feegles in the Long Lake clan could read and write very well. They were considered odd, strange hobbies. After all, what-when you got out of bed in the morning-were they good for? You didn’t need to know them to wrestle a trout or mug a rabbit or get drunk. The wind couldn’t be read and you couldn’t write on water.
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‘What’s this about the big wee hag?’ she said, her voice as small and meek as a mouse trained at the Rodent College of Assassins.
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When a man starts messin’ wi’ the readin’ and the writin’ then he’ll come doon with a dose o’ the thinkin’ soon enough. I’ll fetch some o’ the lads and we’ll hold his heid under water until he stops doin’ it, ‘tis the only cure. It can kill a man, the thinkin’.’
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When a man starts messin’ wi’ the readin’ and the writin’ then he’ll come doon with a dose o’ the thinkin’ soon enough. I’ll fetch some o’ the lads and we’ll hold his heid under water until he stops doin’ it, ‘tis the only cure. It can kill a man, the thinkin’.’ ‘I’ll
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I see ye’ve been talking to the toad again, Rob,’ said Big Yan. ‘He’s the only one arroond here that used them lang words that tak’ all day to walk the length of…’ He turned to Jeannie. ‘It’s a bad case o’ the thinkin’ he’s caught, missus. When a man starts messin’ wi’ the readin’ and the writin’ then he’ll come doon with a dose o’ the thinkin’ soon enough. I’ll fetch some o’ the lads and we’ll hold his heid under water until he stops doin’ it, ‘tis the only cure. It can kill a man, the thinkin’.’ ‘I’ll
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‘She’s the hag o’ these hills,’ said Rob, ignoring her. ‘Just like her granny. She tells the hills what they are, every day. She has them in her bones. She holds ‘em in her heart. Wi’out her, I dinnae like tae think o’ the future.’
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It didn’t seem fair. ‘Oh, it evens out,’ said Miss Level, as they walked on through the woods. ‘You do what you can. People give what they can, when they can.
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‘You do? What do you do with all that food?’ ‘Store it,’ said Miss Level. ‘But you-’ ‘I store it in other people. It’s amazing what you can store in other people.’ Miss Level laughed at Tiffany’s expression. ‘I mean, I take what I don’t need round to those who don’t have a pig, or who’re going through a bad patch, or who don’t have anyone to remember them.’
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But there wasn’t a person on the Chalk, from the Baron down, who didn’t owe something to Granny. And what they owed to her, she made them pay to others. She always knew who was short of a favour or two. ‘She made them help one another,’ she said. ‘She made them help themselves.’
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‘Well, couldn’t you help him by magic?’ ‘I see to it that he’s in no pain, yes,’ said Miss Level. ‘But that’s just herbs.’ ‘It’s still magic. Knowing things is magical, if other people don’t know them.’
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‘Oh, you mean make him young again?’ said Miss Level. ‘Fill his house with gold? That’s not what witches do.’ ‘We see to it that lonely old men get a cooked dinner and cut their toenails?’ said Tiffany, just a little sarcastically. ‘Well, yes,’ said Miss Level. ‘We do what can be done. Mistress Weatherwax said you’ve got to learn that witchcraft is mostly about doing quite ordinary things.’
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‘Witches are all equal. We don’t have things like head witches. That’s quite against the spirit of witchcraft.’ ‘Oh, I see,’ said Tiffany. ‘Besides,’ Miss Level added, ‘Mistress Weatherwax would never allow that sort of thing.’
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All the other girls were staring at her, and Tiffany couldn’t help thinking about sheep. When a dog attacks a sheep, the other sheep run away to a safe distance and then turn and watch. They don’t gang up on the dog. They’re just happy it’s not them.
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Petulia raised a hand nervously. ‘Um-’ she began. ‘Petulia, I’ve told you literally a million times not to start. Every. Single. Sentence. With “Um”-haven’t I?’ ‘Um-’ said Petulia, trembling with nervousness. ‘Just speak up, for goodness’ sake! Don’t hesitate all the time!’ ‘Um-’ ‘Petulia!’ ‘Um-’ ‘Really, you might make an effort. Honestly, I don’t know what’s the matter with all of you!’ I do, Tiffany thought. You’re like a dog worrying sheep all the time. You don’t give them time to obey you and you don’t let them know when they’ve done things right. You just keep barking.
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Tiffany’s First Thoughts were running around in circles. Her Second Thoughts were caught up in the storm. Only her Third Thoughts, which were very weak, came up with: Even though your world is completely and utterly ruined and can never be made better, no matter what, and you’re completely inconsolable, it would be nice if you heard someone bringing some soup upstairs…
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She belonged to the Chalk. Every day, she’d told the hills what they were. Every day, they’d told her who she was. But now she couldn’t hear them.
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There were bottles of coloured glass in the ‘potions’ section and, oddly enough, the smaller the bottle, the more expensive it was. ‘That’s because there’s often very rare ingredients, like the tears of some rare snake or something,’ said Annagramma. ‘I didn’t know snakes cried,’ said Tiffany. ‘Don’t they? Oh, well, I expect that’s why it’s expensive.’
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‘Miss Tick uses a saucer of water with a bit of ink poured into it,’ she said. ‘And she usually borrows the water and cadges the ink, at that.’ ‘Oh, a fundamentalist,’ said Annagramma. ‘Letice-that’s Mrs Earwig-says they let us down terribly. Do we really want people to think witches are just a bunch of mad old women who look like crows? That’s so gingerbread-cottagey! We really ought to be professional about these
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In truth, most witches could get through their whole life without having to do serious, undeniable magic (making shambles and curse-nets and dreamcatchers didn’t really count, being rather more like arts-and-crafts, and most of the rest of it was practical medicine, common sense and the ability to look stern in a pointy hat). But being a witch and wearing the big black hat was like being a policeman. People saw the uniform, not you. When the mad axeman was running down the street you weren’t allowed to back away muttering, ‘Could you find someone else? Actually, I mostly just do, you know, stray dogs and road safety…’ You were there, you had the hat, you did the job. That was a basic rule of witchery: It’s up to you.
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‘Ah, weel, no man kens the workin’s o’ the female mind,’
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‘Get past “I can’t”, Miss Level,’ Mistress Weatherwax snapped. ‘Don’t think about it, just do it! My tea’s getting cold!’ So this is witchcraft too, Tiffany thought. It’s like Granny Aching talking to animals. It’s in the voice! Sharp and soft by turns, and you use little words of command and encouragement and you keep talking, making the words fill the creature’s world, so that the sheepdogs obey you and the nervous sheep are calmed…
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‘No it ain’t,’ said Mistress Weatherwax, firmly. ‘I ain’t thinking of one right now, and I gives you my word on that. You want to take control of that brain of yours, Miss Level.
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‘Why did you and Miss Tick send me to her, then?’ she said. ‘Because she likes people,’ said the witch, striding ahead. ‘She cares about ‘em. Even the stupid, mean, dribbling ones, the mothers with the runny babies and no sense, the feckless and the silly and the fools who treat her like some kind of a servant. Now that’s what I call magic-seein’ all that, dealin’ with all that, and still goin’ on. It’s sittin’ up all night with some poor old man who’s leavin’ the world, taking away such pain as you can, comfortin’ their terror, seein’ ‘em safely on their way… and then cleanin’ ‘em up, layin’ ‘em out, making ‘em neat for the funeral, and helpin’ the weeping widow strip the bed and wash the sheets-which is, let me tell you, no errand for the faint-hearted-and stayin’ up the next night to watch over the coffin before the funeral, and then going home and sitting down for five minutes before some shouting angry man comes bangin’ on your door ‘cos his wife’s havin’ difficulty givin’ birth to their first child and the midwife’s at her wits’ end and then getting up and fetching your bag and going out again… We all do that, in our own way, and she does it better’n me, if I was to put my hand on my heart. That is the root and heart and soul and centre of witchcraft, that is. The soul and centre!’ Mistress Weatherwax smacked her fist into her hand, hammering
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out her words. ‘The… soul… and… centre!’ Echoes came back from the trees in the sudden silence. Even the grasshoppers by the side of the track had stopped sizzling. ‘And Mrs Earwig,’ said Mistress Weatherwax, her voice sinking to a growl, ‘Mrs Earwig tells her girls it’s about cosmic balances and stars and circles and colours and wands and… and toys, nothing but toys!’ She sniffed. ‘Oh, I daresay they’re all very well as decoration, somethin’ nice to look at while you’re workin’, somethin’ for show, but the start and finish, the start and finish, is helpin’ people when life is on the edge. Even people you don’t like. Stars is easy, people is hard.’
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She nodded at the distant, departing figure of Petulia. ‘Friend of yours?’ she said, as they set out. ‘Er… if she is, I don’t deserve it,’ said Tiffany. ‘Hmm,’ said Mistress Weatherwax. ‘Well, sometimes we get what we don’t deserve.’
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For an old woman Mistress Weatherwax could move quite fast. She strode over the moors as if distance was a personal insult.
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No sleep, no rest, just endless… endless experience, endless awareness. Of everything. All the time. How we envy you, envy you! Lucky humans, who can close your minds to the endless cold deeps of space! You have this thing you call… boredom? That is the rarest talent in the universe! We heard a song, it went ‘Twinkle twinkle little star…’ What power! What wondrous power! You can take a billion trillion tons of flaming matter, a furnace of unimaginable strength, and turn it into a little song for children! You build little worlds, little stories, little shells around your minds and that keeps infinity at bay and allows you to wake up in the morning without screaming!
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‘Oh, aye? An’ I’m ta’ see you go through there alone, am I? Ye’ll not find me leavin’ you now!’
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‘I’m made up of the memories of my parents and grandparents, all my ancestors. They’re in the way I look, in the colour of my hair. And I’m made up of everyone I’ve ever met who’s changed the way I think. So who is “me”?’
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How clever of humans to have learned how to close their minds. Was there anything so amazing in the universe as boredom?
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Then Granny turned away and joined the stampede towards the teas. It was interesting to see how the crowd parted, all unaware, to let her through, like the sea in front a particularly good prophet.
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‘That doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t,’ said Tiffany. ‘You gave it away,’ said a sharp voice behind her. ‘You had it in your hand, and you gave it all away. How do you feel about that, Tiffany? Do you have a taste for humble pie?’ ‘Now you listen to me, Annagramma,’ Petulia began, pointing a furious finger. Tiffany reached out and lowered the girl’s arm. Then she turned and smiled so happily at Annagramma that it was disturbing. What she wanted to say was: ‘Where I come from, Annagramma, they have the Sheepdog Trials. Shepherds travel there from all over to show off their dogs. And there’re silver crooks and belts with silver buckles and prizes of all kinds, Annagramma, but do you know what the big prize was? No, you wouldn’t. Oh, there were judges, but they didn’t count, not for the big prize. There is-There was a little old lady who was always at the front of the crowd, leaning on the hurdles with her pipe in her mouth with the two finest sheepdogs ever pupped sitting at her feet. Their names were Thunder and Lightning and they moved so fast they set the air on fire and their coats outshone the sun, but she never, ever put them in the Trials. She knew more about sheep than even sheep know. And what every young shepherd wanted, really wanted, wasn’t some silly cup or belt but to see her take her pipe out of her mouth as he left the arena and quietly say “That’ll do” because that meant he was a real shepherd and all the other shepherds would know it, too. And if you’d told him he had to challenge her, he’d cuss at you and stamp his foot and tell you he’d sooner spit the sun dark. How could he ever win? She was shepherding. It was the whole of her life. What you took away from her you’d take away from yourself. You don’t understand that, do you? But it’s the heart and soul and centre of it! The soul… and… centre!’
But it would be wasted, so what she said was: ‘Oh, just shut up, Annagramma. Let’s see if there’s any buns left, shall we?’
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There was nothing shiny, nothing new and nothing unnecessary.
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‘She made the sky her hat,
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‘Ah,’ said Granny, relaxing a little. She stared at the gently rippling cloak and sniffed. It really was a wonderful creation. The wizards had got at least one thing right when they had made it. It was one of those items that fill a hole in your life that you didn’t know was there until you’d seen it.
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‘If you don’t know when to be a human being, you don’t know when to be a witch. And if you’re too afraid of goin’ astray, you won’t go anywhere.
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Then she made the wind her coat, too,’ said Granny Weatherwax. ‘It’s a skill. Rain don’t fall on a witch if she doesn’t want it to, although personally I prefer to get wet and be thankful.’ ‘Thankful for what?’ said Tiffany. ‘That I’ll get dry later.’ Granny Weatherwax put down the cup and saucer. ‘Child, you’ve come here to learn what’s true and what’s not but there’s little I can teach you that you don’t already know. You just don’t know you know it, and you’ll spend the rest of your life learning what’s already in your bones. And that’s the truth.’
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‘Magic wand,’ she said. ‘See?’ A green flame leaped out of it, making Tiffany jump. ‘Now you try.’ It didn’t work for Tiffany, no matter how much she shook it. ‘Of course not,’ said Granny. ‘It’s a stick. Now, maybe I made a flame come out of it, or maybe I made you think it did. That don’t matter. It was me is what I’m sayin’, not the stick. Get your mind right and you can make a stick your wand and the sky your hat and a puddle your magic… your magic… er, what’re them fancy cups called?’ ‘Er… goblet,’ said Tiffany. ‘Right. Magic goblet. Things aren’t important. People are.’ Granny Weatherwax looked sidelong at Tiffany. ‘And I could teach you how to run across those hills of yours with the hare, I could teach you how to fly above them with the buzzard. I could tell you the secrets of the bees. I could teach you all this and much more besides if you’d do just one thing, right here and now. One simple thing, easy to do.’ Tiffany nodded, eyes wide. ‘You understand, then, that all the glittery stuff is just toys, and toys can lead you astray?’ ‘Yes!’ ‘Then take off that shiny horse you wear around your neck, girl, and drop it in the well.’ Obediently, half-hypnotized by the voice, Tiffany reached behind her neck and undid the clasp. The pieces of the silver horse shone as she held it over the water. She stared at it as if she was seeing it for the first time. And then… She tests people, she thought. All the time. ‘Well?’ said the old witch. ‘No,’ said Tiffany. ‘I can’t.’ ‘Can’t or won’t?’ said Granny sharply. ‘Can’t,’ said Tiffany and stuck out her chin. ‘And won’t!’ She drew her hand back and fastened the necklace again, glaring defiantly at Granny Weatherwax… The witch smiled. ‘Well done,’ she said quietly. ‘If you don’t know when to be a human being, you don’t know when to be a witch. And if you’re too afraid of goin’ astray, you won’t go anywhere.