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DXBCKT про Калюжный: Страна Тюрягия (Публицистика)

Лет 10 назад, случайно увидев у кого-то на полке данную книгу — прочел не отрываясь... Сейчас же (по дикому стечению обстоятельств) эта книга вновь очутилась у меня в руках... С одной стороны — я не особо много помню, из прошлого прочтения (кроме единственного ощущения что «там» оказывается еще хреновей, чем я предполагал в своих худших размышлениях), с другой — книга порой так сильно перегружена цифрами (статистикой, нормативами,

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DXBCKT про Миронов: Много шума из никогда (Альтернативная история)

Имел тут глупость (впрочем как и прежде) купить том — не уточнив сперва его хронологию... В итоге же (кто бы сомневался) это оказалась естественно ВТОРАЯ часть данного цикла (а первой «в наличии нет и даже не планировалось»). Первую часть я честно пытался купить, но после долгих и безуспешных поисков недостающего - все же «плюнул» и решил прочесть ее «не на бумаге». В конце концов, так ли уж важен носитель, ведь главное - что бы «содержание

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DXBCKT про Москаленко: Малой. Книга 2 (Космическая фантастика)

Часть вторая (как и первая) так же была прослушана в формате аудио-версии буквально «влет»... Продолжение сюжета на сей раз открывает нам новую «локацию» (поселок). Здесь наш ГГ после «недолгих раздумий» и останется «куковать» в качестве младшего помошника подносчика запчастей))

Нет конечно, и здесь есть место «поиску хабара» на свалке и заумным диалогам (ворчливых стариков), и битвой с «контролерской мышью» (и всей крысиной шоблой

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iv4f3dorov про Соловьёв: Барин 2 (Альтернативная история)

Какая то бредятина. Писал "искусственный интеллект" - жертва перестройки, болонского процесса, ЕГЭ.

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iv4f3dorov про Соловьёв: Барин (Попаданцы)

Какая то бредятина. Писал "искусственный интеллект" - жертва перестройки, болонского процесса, ЕГЭ.

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To Paradise [Ханья Янагихара] (fb2) читать постранично

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also by hanya yanagihara

A Little Life

The People in the Trees











This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Hanya Yanagihara

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.

www.doubleday.com

doubleday and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

Cover painting: Iokepa, Hawaiian Fisher Boy, oil on canvas, by Hubert Vos, 1898. History and Art Collection / Alamy Stock Photo

Cover design by Na Kim

Maps by John Burgoyne

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021943460

isbn 9780385547932 (hardcover)

isbn 9780385547949 (ebook)

isbn 9780385548410 (open market)

ep_prh_6.0_138917749_c0_r0










To Daniel Roseberry

who saw me through

and

To Jared Hohlt

always










CONTENTS

 

Book I

WASHINGTON SQUARE

Book II

LIP-WAO-NAHELE

Book III

ZONE EIGHT










book i

  WASHINGTON SQUARE










I

 

He had come into the habit, before dinner, of taking a walk around the park: ten laps, as slow as he pleased on some evenings, briskly on others, and then back up the stairs of the house and to his room to wash his hands and straighten his tie before descending again to the table. Today, though, as he was leaving, the little maid handing him his gloves said, “Mister Bingham says to remind you that your brother and sister are coming tonight for supper,” and he said, “Yes, thank you, Jane, for reminding me,” as if he’d in fact forgotten, and she made a little curtsy and closed the door behind him.

He would have to go more quickly than he would were his time his own, but he found himself being deliberately contrary, walking instead at his slower pace, listening to the clicks of his boot heels on the pavestones ringing purposefully in the cold air. The day was over, almost, and the sky was the particular rich ink-purple that he couldn’t see without remembering, achily, being away at school and watching everything shade itself black and the outline of the trees dissolve in front of him.

Winter would be upon them soon, and he had worn only his light coat, but nevertheless, he kept going, crossing his arms snug against his chest and turning up his lapels. Even after the bells rang five, he put his head down and continued moving forward, and it wasn’t until he had finished his fifth circumnavigation that he turned, sighing, to walk north on one of the paths to the house, and up its neat stone steps, with the door opening for him before he reached the top, the butler reaching already for his hat.

“In the parlor, Mister David.”

“Thank you, Adams.”

Outside the parlor doors he stood, passing his hands repeatedly over his hair—a nervous habit of his, much as the repeated smoothing of his forelock as he read or drew, or the light drawing of his forefinger beneath his nose as he thought or waited for his turn at the chessboard, or any number of other displays to which he was given—before sighing again and opening both doors at once in a gesture of confidence and conviction that he of course did not possess. They looked over at him as a group, but passively, neither pleased nor dismayed to see him. He was a chair, a clock, a scarf draped over the back of the settee, something the eye had registered so many times that it now glided over it, its presence so familiar that it had already been drawn and pasted into the scene before the curtain rose.

“Late again,” said John, before he’d had a chance to say anything, but his voice was mild and he seemed not to be in a scolding mood, though one never quite knew with John.

“John,” he said, ignoring his brother’s comment but shaking his hand and the hand of his husband, Peter; “Eden”—kissing first his sister and then her wife, Eliza, on their right cheeks—“where’s Grandfather?”

“Cellar.”

“Ah.”

They all stood there for a moment in silence, and for a second David felt the old embarrassment he often sensed for the three of them, the Bingham siblings, that they should have nothing to say to one another—or, rather, that they should not know how to say anything—were it not for the presence of their grandfather, as if the only thing that made them real to one another were not the fact of their blood or history, but him.

“Busy day?” asked John, and he looked over at him, quickly, but John’s head was bent over his pipe, and David couldn’t tell how he had intended the question. When he was in doubt, he could usually interpret John’s true meaning by looking at Peter’s face—Peter spoke less but was more expressive, and David often thought that the two of them operated as a single communicative unit, Peter illuminating with his eyes and jaw what John said, or John articulating those frowns and grimaces and brief smiles that winked across Peter’s face, but this time Peter was blank, as blank as John’s voice, and therefore of no help, and so he was forced to answer as if the question had been meant plainly, which it perhaps had.

“Not so much,” he said, and the truth of that answer—its obviousness, its undeniability—was so inarguable and stark that it again felt as if the room had gone still, and that even John was ashamed to have asked such a question. And then David began to try to do what he sometimes did, which was worse, which was to explain himself, to try to give word and form to what his days were. “I was reading—” But, oh, he was spared from further humiliation, because here was their grandfather entering the room, a dark bottle of wine furred in a mouse-gray felt of dust held aloft, exclaiming his triumph—he had found it!—even before he was fully among them, telling Adams they’d be spontaneous, to decant it now and they’d have it with dinner. “And, ah, look, in the time it took me to locate that blasted bottle, another lovely appearance,” he said, and smiled at David, before turning toward the group so that his smile included them all, an invitation for them to follow him to the dining table, which they did, and where they were to have one of their usual monthly Sunday meals, the six of them in their usual positions around the gleaming oak table—Grandfather at the head, David to his right and Eliza to his, John to Grandfather’s left and Peter to his, Eden at the foot—and their usual murmured, inconsequential conversation: news of the bank, news of Eden’s studies, news of the children, news of Peter’s and Eliza’s families. Outside, the world stormed and burned—the Germans moving ever-deeper into Africa, the French still hacking their way through Indochina, and closer, the latest frights in the Colonies: shootings and hangings and beatings, immolations, events too terrible to contemplate and yet so near as well—but none of these things, especially the ones closest to them, were allowed to pierce the cloud of Grandfather’s dinners, where everything was soft and the hard was made pliable; even the sole had been steamed so expertly that you needed only to scoop it with the spoon held out for you, the bones yielding to the silver’s