December 3rd, 2011

Perdido Street Station

“Grimnebulin,” he said. “What does your caterpillar do?”
“I know, I know, it’s grown like fuck, hasn’t it?” said Isaac, strolling over.
“Tremendous little bugger, eh?”
Yagharek pointed at the cage and looked up questioningly.
“Yes,” he said. “But what does it do?”

Дочитала, просмотрев по диагонали последние двести страниц движухи. Во-первых, я не могу читать книги с движухой, во-вторых, я хотела узнать с чего все началось (чем все закончилась не хотела, что характерно).

Минус один любимый персонаж, конец в итоге примерно угадала, начало не угадала совсем.
Немного огорчена, хотя совсем не разочарована.

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Хочу про все это поговорить.
Некто, случайно присутствовавший при обсуждении (не будем показывать пальцем), выдал, что когда при нем в последний раз обсуждали такую траву, это были "Сумерки". Пф.
Скоро начну постить цитаты тоннами.

И просто выкладываю любимый вид бабочек. Actias luna:

"New Crobuzon was a city unconvinced by gravity."

"Veldt to scrub to fields to farms to these first tumbling houses that rise from the earth. It has been night for a long time. The hovels that encrust the river’s edge have grown like mushrooms around me in the dark.
We rock. We pitch in a deep current.
Behind me the man tugs uneasily at his rudder and the barge cor­rects. Light lurches as the lantern swings. The man is afraid of me. I lean out from the prow of the small vessel across the darkly moving water.
Over the engines oily rumble and the caresses of the river small sounds, house sounds, are building. Timbers whisper and the wind strokes thatch, walls settle and floors shift to fill space; the tens of houses have become hundreds, thousands; they spread backwards from the banks and shed light from all across the plain.
They surround me. They are growing. They are taller and fatter and noisier, their roofs are slate, their walls are strong brick.
The river twists and turns to face the city. It looms suddenly, mas­sive, stamped on the landscape. Its light wells up around the sur­rounds, the rock hills, like bruise-blood. Its dirty towers glow. I am debased. I am compelled to worship this extraordinary presence that has silted into existence at the conjunction of two rivers."

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