Макбет
Перечитываю Макбета под дощ и печеньки. Философске мысле одолевают.
Погода, во всем виновата, погода)
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
"Макбет" сцена 5, Шекспир, конечно же, кто ж еще