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Of Love and Other Demons [realizm magiczny], opowiadanie.

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Mich'Ael
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Of Love and Other Demons [realizm magiczny], opowiadanie.

Postautor: Mich'Ael » pt 17 paź 2008, 09:24

Zanim cokolwiek wrzucę mam drobne pytanie i wątpliwość zarazem. Forum jest w zasadzie polskojęzyczne - więc nie wiem czy w ogóle jest sens wrzucania tutaj opowiadania w języku angielskim. Po drugie - czy ktoś zechce toto przeczytać? Poczekam na odpowiedź trochę a potem wrzucę opowiadanie, jeszcze dzisiaj.



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Postautor: Mich'Ael » pt 17 paź 2008, 19:58

Nikt nie zaprotestował więc przyjmę, że tym razem milczenie oznaczać będzie zgodę. A nawet jeśli nie - ktoś na pewno władny będzie usunąć niechcianego posta. Drobne zastrzeżenie - to opowiadanie nie jest żadnym arcydziełem i nawet do miana arcydzieła nie pretenduje. Napisałem je już jakiś czas temu, ostatnio wygrzebałem, nieco poprawiłem, nieco pozmieniałem... a że lubię je i mam do niego pewien sentyment to i stwierdziłem, że możnaby pokazać je innym ludziom. Byłbym wdzięczny za wyłapanie wszelkich błędów logicznych, niedociągnięć, potknięć i tym podobnych - z chęcią je poprawię i zachowam w pamięci, swojej pamięci znaczy. A, i temu, ko będzie je czytał odradzam nastawianie się na jakąś straszną oryginalność w podejściu do tematu. Tyle powiedziawszy, wrzucam co wrzucić miałem:



Of Love and Other Demons.



Love is a strange thing, isn't it? One of the strangest, I'd say. Some people claim they'd do anything and everything for love, others tend to despise and reject the feeling. Whatever you yourself might think of it, it is definitely hard to reject love completely, or to remain indifferent to this powerful feeling. You may think I'm being romantic here, that I'm idealizing love. A little bit, perhaps, but let's not be too skeptical, shall we? After all, I too shared your point of view and your doubts not that long ago. I used to think that love is not so divine, you know. But there are reasons for which I no longer am so rationalistic. You'll probably believe in the power of love (sounds funny in itself, doesn't it?) after I have told you my story. Perhaps no more will you laugh at people who „would run right into hell and back.” For love, of course, not just like that. I wouldn't make such run, for nobody at all. At least I thought I wouldn't. Ok, but let's not go too far, hear my story first. Oh, and by the way, the name is Tommy. Tommy Orvis. Yeah, the Tommy Orvis. Singer and musician, I mean – maybe you know some other famous Tommy O? Hell knows, so to speak. Oh, and I’m damn good at what I do.

So, where should I start not to confuse you? Maybe from Her? I've told you that I was not romantic, didn't I? Well, it was so until I met Her, my angel. I never actually believed in that stuff about love at first sight, unity of souls, destiny and the like. You know, people don't believe in such things until they actually happen to them. And love herself struck me while I was earning my living in some big park, with crowds of people listening. It was there that I saw my goddess for the first time. And I tell you, she was really standing out from the gray crowd. But let me start from the very beginning so that you know all the facts, right? I was born to a wealthy family in some small town that I do not even remember enough to tell about it. Maybe it doesn’t even exist any more? Hell knows. After all, small towns in America tend to disappear. Evaporate, huh. I said I do not remember much of my hometown. To be honest, I cannot recall much of my youth either. The first thing I do recall was the guitar that my father gave to me for my tenth birthday. Odd, isn’t it? As if my life was started with music... My father was a very rich man and a connoisseur of all things artful, as I call them. He collected, and loved, everything that was of the high arts. Only the best pieces were worthy of his attention, though. He also supported strongly those who really had talent – but their talent had to be truly tremendous. I must've had some of this as well, because he liked to listen to my playing and singing ever since he gave me the guitar. And I still have it. This is odd too, isn't it? It never once broke down. I would probably have lived happily ever after with my father (I never knew my mother and only learned that she was very beautiful) but I wanted to be free. Unrestricted. I wanted to see the world and to master my music in contact with nature, not in some academy or studio. That is why I never signed any contract – and believe me I could and I had a chance. And so it started, at the age of twenty I set out to play and sing a world of my own. I roamed the country happily, earning a modest living (well, not that modest actually – quite a decent one, but ‘modest’ just sounded nicer) with what I got for providing entertainment. To be honest, this living did not have to be ‘modest,’ as people offered me everything they had to convince me that, you know, I should play only for them. After all, forgive me my not being humble, my music was really good – and I could see that it was good in the reaction of the audiences. Or maybe ‘the things listening,’ I should say. Time virtually ceased to flow when I touched the strings of my guitar, both people and animals stood motionless in amazement, lost in the miraculous tunes. Even the trees around, even the stone-cold stones (forgive me the joke), seemed to be trying to come closer, to warm their inanimate hearts – as did the people – with my ethereal music. People sometimes just forgot to breathe while listening to my guitar and voice, I mean it. And I just stood there, smiled, and played the hell of a music, played for them to show that life doesn't have to be so bad, that the world could be better. OK, enough. If that's not boasting about and showing off myself - then I don't know what is. Excuse me this, maybe my music wasn't so perfect, yet it seemed to be such to my listeners, and to me. But let me now tell you about my love.

Eve Dice was her name. I do not even know how to describe the feeling I experienced at seeing her for the first time, perhaps this was the famous love at first sight. She looked like a star blazing amidst dark skies. Such was her unearthly beauty. Yes, love herself must've struck me when I saw my future beloved one, there's no other possibility. I just felt this little tingle inside me and, in one second, knew it was her that I wanted to spend my life with. And it was not only because she was beautiful, believe me that I've met many beautiful women in my life. This was something different – some would surely call it unity of souls. Fortunately, I did not believe in that kind of stuff at the time and simply called the feeling by its name. Love. Luckily enough, it was not only me who felt the wind of love. Eve has also been charmed by the singer in the park around which enormous crowds gathered. Me, that is, to get rid of any remaining doubt. Her affection made things much simpler – but still, I do not know whether she loved me or my music more. She seemed to get totally lost in it, the music, I mean, and her unearthly beauty seemed almost divine at such moments, when she simply stood there listening. She looked like some fantastic being, a dryad or a nymph perhaps. Soon she became my most devoted fan and a beloved enthusiast of me and my music. We decided to settle down at some peaceful place. You probably wouldn't call Big Apple ‘peaceful,’ but it is there that fate tossed us. Well, it could’ve been worse, I think. Besides, I never imagined myself wanting to settle down – and it just happened. Like that, before I even noticed. After some years of traveling together we thought that it would be better to have some place to call home. Natural, isn’t it? And I, the ever-roaming free spirit, bought a small flat in BA and lived there with Her. Still, I did not abandon my music. You may say that this city is not a paradise and that it is dark and full of crime. Sure, it is. And I was glad to try and make it just a little bit brighter with the things I played. Not to mention that I earned more money from people accustomed to living in this gloomy city – they simply appreciated what my music gave them more. Unfortunately, all that's well ends fast – and all because of this damned drug… Lethe, they call it, and not without damn good reason, as you'll see. This crap is highly addictive and... no, wait, that's not the way to say it. This is the most addictive shit man has ever created. Just one dose – and you're lost, in love with Lethe. The effects of this accursed thing are strange, to say the least. I don't think there's any other drug that has so many legends about it, but the facts are simple, I think. The first doze provokes euphoria and makes you addicted. People get real happy, you know, jumping around and laughing at nothing included. This itself is not harmful in any way – if you don't have another hit shortly. An hour or so, I think. Most people are satisfied with the effects of the first dose, but if you use the drug for some time you eventually become curious what would happen after a stronger injection. Two hits at once, you know. Well, people say that all the emotions from the first hit are suddenly gone, as if taken away by the second doze, and you just get drowsy and forgetful. And that's an euphemism – you forget everything, everything I say, for several hours. Know what I mean? Everything. Your name, your address, your past, friends, your dog's name. Hence the name of the drug, I suppose. Now, does it not fit it? Irony of life, I'd say. But some addicts actually enjoy this state of forgetfulness – this peculiar, chemically-induced tabula rasa – and do not stop at the second hit. Their curiosity asks a questions of what would happen after a third dose, and demands and answer. And they take it. And are lost. A third dose taken shortly after the previous two (I mean – real quickly; before you forget about it…) is more than flesh and blood can take. The addict then gets sleepy. Very sleepy, I mean, and in the end they leave their previous life behind and enter the realm of Hypnos, Morpheus or whatever you call the guy taking care of people’s dreams. They take a nap, in one word. Unfortunately enough, this nap lasts forever. No, no – they don’t die but enter a very strange state of sleep. Dead but dreaming, I would call it. No, wait, I lied. Our miraculous medicine and technology managed to wake two or three of them up from this half-death. They entered the full-death only several minutes after awakening. Cool, ain’t it? The peculiar thing, I learned it later with some effort, was that all those people, when awakened and before they died, claimed that thanks to the drug they went to some land of mythology. I don't know why, but instead of simply admitting they were in our Hell, all of them claimed to have paid a short visit to the land of the dead invented by the Ancient Greeks. Maybe the name of the drug has something to do with this. Oh, and they claimed to have been drawn by some mystic force from said realm of death – I bet this was the effort of the doctors manifesting. Well, they all died in the end (patients I mean, not doctors) – so even if they have escaped, death came riding right after them. You take the third hit – and that’s was the last drug you use in your life, no other option possible. Finito, I mean. End of the road for you, see you on the other side – and give my best to Lucifer. Nobody escapes Death, I'd say, even in those crazy times of ours. Nobody escapes but some might try and beg her (him?) for letting them go. Oh, but I haven't told you why I'm telling you so much of the drug, have I? Forgive me, but you would not speak much clearer if you were in my place. You know, a tragedy makes man's thoughts a little bit chaotic and hazy, to say the least. I've told you that something terrible happened to me because of the drug, right? At least you could think so. Well, it was not exactly to me. I must've been damn blind not to notice that my Eve started taking this crap. Lethe, I mean. But well – I missed the whole thing somehow. I've never found even a single syringe, with the characteristic snake symbol on it, in our small flat. That would confirm my suspicions – for I definitely had some vague suspicions. I must have had. And would you accuse the most beautiful creature of this world, and she was one for me, of taking drugs? I would and did not. Besides, I was busy at that time with earning a living for the two of us. I had no great problem with that, my music was welcomed everywhere I went – so I played more for fun than for money. Only it was time-consuming to earn money that way. Anyway, my dearest Eve eventually took the third hit right after the two previous ones. All of the users do so, sooner or later. Curiosity kills them – it would seem that it had killed not only the cat (man, that was one cruel joke…). You know this feeling when you return home and know that something's not right? I had it that day. I came back home, left my guitar, took my shoes and jacket off. The flat was all silent, Eve did not come to give me a ‘hello-kiss,’ as she always did. I felt cold running down my spine and knew, not suspected – knew, that something terrible happened. I checked the whole house, my terror growing, only to find my Eve in our bedroom. She lay motionless on the bed – and I stood paralyzed by the door. Three syringes with the serpentine symbol were next to her. The window was open, fresh air coming through it eventually relieved my shock. I ran to her and took her body in my arms. I could feel her breath and her heartbeat, both slow but not gone. Yet it was already too late. She’d already entered the land of those who do not walk the earth. Tears came to my eyes, they were still flowing when an ambulance came for her. It was hopeless, I could only wait, with forlorn hope by my side. She would never wake up of her own accord, I knew it. Her coma will eventually become a full stop (excuse me this another joke, despair-stricken men have their rights), medicine can only prolong her dreamy existence. Many a day have I sat by her hospital bed, with no move at all, by either party. Many a night have I cried at home. Many an hour have I wondered through the city. My guitar was some relief to me, that I soon noticed again. Music always helped me a little bit even in direst of situations – and it did so this time. I started expressing my sorrow by playing the saddest songs ever played. And all the world stopped when I played, and all the world cried with me. I tell you, even the sewer rats cried, and the dark ravens. There was no hope for me, and my music expressed it. Then a crazy idea occurred to me. If those few that awakened told the truth, if there indeed is a world that they all go to... maybe there is some way to bring her back? It still seems crazy to me but I decided to try and win my love back from the grip of Death. Hey, why not? I'll try and succeed, or die trying. After all, I know what mistakes are to be avoided, do I not? The question is whether my talent is really that great. The hell with doubts, let's do it.

Where you see me now is my room. Dirty, isn’t it? I haven’t cleaned it, did not have the heart to remove anything of Hers. Even the three syringes still lay where they were... then. But now I’ve got a trio of my own, right here. Farewell, cruel world, I say in my thoughts, looking through the window. No one will notice my departure for some time. Good, for I am going to return. I roll up my sleeve, the needle shines ominously in the light of the setting sun. The snake symbol also glitters, cold eyes look at me, then at the exposed vein. Will you not bite me, mister snake? I smile to myself. Here ends my story, friend – but, hopefully, not for good. In this small, dirty flat in NY I set out for my last journey perhaps. I go to meet the lords of the underworld and try to beg them for the life of my beloved. Just like in this myth. You know, the one with... First hit... euphoria, the wave of happiness almost drowns me, all the colors are brighter, the world does not seem so bad any more... another... hmm? What was the name of the guy, can’t focus. Orpheus? Is that me? Who am I? where? was I to... inject this?... in-ject? third one... hello, darkness, my old friend, I've come to talk with you again...



***



Darkness, even a complete one, cannot last forever. Darkness without any is unnatural and disturbs the eternal balance of the world. Thus a light from the shadows shall spring whenever it is too dark and the other way around – a dark spot shall always appear when there is too much light. Is it true of hope? Does a glimmer of hope spring from complete lack of it? Sometimes.

It was not hope that awoke the man, though, but light. The light that pierced through his dead-shut eyelids and got to his very mind - perhaps to the forlorn hope that had its spring flowing there. He opened his eyes, protecting them against the light with his hand. It took him a good while to get accustomed to the new surroundings. High above him was the sun, its rays coming down along an almost vertical rock wall. He lay at the feet of the wall, he must have got down somehow. The valley he was in was immense, yet where the sunlight did not reach it was completely dark – and not with the natural darkness that results from the lack of light. This was the darkness of the underworld. He got up slowly and noticed his guitar lying nearby. He smiled and picked it up, the instrument has always, as if by magic, been with him. Soon, when his eyesight adjusted to the mixture of dazzling brightness and complete darkness, he was able to start playing some simple tunes. He did not yet remember that it was precisely what he planned to do. Instantly it became brighter, the strings of his guitar were brightened up by the music he played. The darkness of the underworld apparently decided not to interfere either with the music nor with the musician – both were things all but alien to this realm. And, as the darkness withdrew before the man, light appeared to replace it, emanating from the strings of his guitar. Light that has not been here for a very long time. The man began his descent down the mouth of a chilling cave. A light from the shadows sprang.

There was a guardian of course, assuring that none of the living enters this land of the dead, nor shall any of the dead leave. This poor creature has not heard anything but the moaning of the tormented spirits for much too long a time, for ages even. The music that came with the man was completely different, it carried a touch of freshness and lively joy with it. The beast lowered its three heads and stopped growling. It knew perfectly well that he who approaches is not dead, yet it decided to let him through – sometimes the creature just had to make an exception. Not too often, though. The musician passed through the eternal guardian and continued his descent.

The path was long, yet the man felt no weariness or fatigue – such is the privilege of those who enter the realm of the dead. Eventually, before him there spread a river that seemed impossible to cross. Its black waters seemed very unfriendly, to say the least. The man smiled, this must have been exactly what he expected to see, and continued playing as he approached the gloomy ferryman. The shadows of the formerly alive surrounded the musician, eager to hear anything that belongs to the world they have left ages ago and will never see again. The music was warm, and it was really cold down there, in this realm of death where there is no light. There was a boat with shadows of men and women awaiting to be carried to the other shore, from which there is no coming back. There was the ferryman, eternal and unmoved by time. His hooded robe was worn and torn, as was his boat – and he himself. Still, he persevered in his work, continually, tirelessly, without break. Who else would do it, if not him? Yet another miracle happened and the ferryman stopped for a while, rested his arms upon the oar he held and listened to the music that lightened the shadows around and warmed the chilled hearts of all who listened to it. The musician got into the boat and the ferryman did not protest, though the mysterious minstrel did not pay the usual charge. Could music have done that? Could it have moved the still heart of the carrier of the dead?

Apparently it did, though even the eternal ferryman was surprised by it. It has been a really long time since he heard such beautiful music. The man left the old and crumbling, but seemingly indestructible, boat behind him and moved up the road. He still played his guitar, yet his music triggered little interest on this side of the black river. Here there were only shadows of shadows, only those who have already drank the icy water of oblivion and forgot all their feelings. Yet the music that the man played seemed to brighten the darkness before him and, as he had no other light, he simply needed to play not to get lost. Also, the music warmed his heart and fueled the feeble flame of hope that sparkled within him. After all, he made it thus far, he might succeed where others have failed. Eventually, out from the gloomy darkness before the man there rose a monumental black gate, made of black stone, upon which the rays of the sun have never fallen. The man stopped for a while, looked upwards and did not see the top of the huge gate, both because of its immense size and the darkness enveloping everything outside the faint glimmer he himself emitted. He listened for a moment to the sound of his music falling on the massive gate and falling off from it, much weakened. The man smiled and struck the strings of his instrument harder, the tunes that he produced were powerful, they echoed loudly in the empty space of the underworld. Oddly enough, they very much resembled those that made Jericho fell. And, to his joy and amazement, the gate swung ajar, as if moved by magic, and the man stepped inside, straight into the chambers of the palace of the Lord of Death himself. The musician once again changed his tune, his music now become sad, full of regret and sorrow after a great loss. He started singing, expressing what he wanted of the underworld's Lord in simple but beautiful words. He wanted his love back, only that little. And also that much. The walls of the black palace seemed to shake, moved by the sorrowful tunes, it has been an eternity since they last heard the voice of a human being – for shadows spoke not. Undisturbed by any monstrous guardians, but there surely were some such, the man entered the throne chamber of the black palace. His music filled the hall, the black interior for this one moment seemed to be more colorful, happier. The man came to the feet of the throne, stopped singing and knelt down – as if to pay due respect to the Lord of Death. Yet he did not cease playing, his fingers continued hitting the strings producing most wonderful tunes. He dared lift his eyes and look into the face of the gloomy ruler. The latter only nodded his head slowly, lifted his hand to silence the musician. Smile appeared on the rigid and severe face, a thing so rare that it has only occurred several times in the entire history. The underworld's Lord voice was surprisingly soft. He explained to the mortal man that he shall get his love back under one condition. The mortal suppressed a smile, he knew perfectly well what this condition was going to be. And was prepared to fulfill it.



***

The man left the palace and went straight back to the dark river and the boat crossing. He was now playing the most joyful song ever – and, for a moment, even the shadows of the dead that have long lost their feelings and memory stopped their moaning and simply listened. Never before has such merry a song lightened these halls of the dead, never before has a mortal man been so happy here, in the land of eternal sorrow. The man did not look back, though the temptation was an extreme one. He could only hope that all this was not a cruel joke played on him by divine powers and that his beloved really followed him. He knew that on the boat he could look at his beloved for a while, make sure that she is indeed going to be alive again. This hope, this anticipation of reunion fueled his music, making it sweet and cheerful. The gloomy ferryman carried the man to the other side without hesitation, he enjoyed the music even more this time. The man was now sure – the silent shadow of his beloved followed him, amidst other shadows on the boat. His music become yet more joyful, echoing loudly in the emptiness. Several spirits wanted to follow the man but they were too afraid of the infernal gatekeeper to leave the underworld. The infernal dog did not even growl, entranced by the music – which was now as close to the one produced by the divine Apollo himself as mortal music could ever be. Only one shadow passed the gate of the underworld, and only one living man – the rest stayed there. Forever. The rays of the sun were becoming visible, the man hastened his steps, his music also hastened. He stopped, bathed his hand in a stray ray of the sun. The light was warm and pleasant. He stopped playing, turned around to his beloved one that still stood in the shadows of the underworld. And that was his mistake, a mistake that all of them make because of love. Or maybe it is a cruel joke on the part of the gods, after all? In any case, his love has not yet left the underworld – and he was to look at her only after they have both left. Words of love died on his lips when he beheld the almost material yet elusive figure of his love recessing rapidly back to the realm of the dead. And this time it was irrevocable. He stood motionless for a long while and heard the gates of underworld closing. This sound brought him back to reality. The cry that he produced, the long “no” full of unspeakable sorrow, would move even the stony hearts of gods. Maybe it did.

***



’Are you not too cruel, my love? Always imposing the same one condition. And the one condition you know they will not, and cannot, fulfill’. - said a woman, completely not fitting the underworld because of her beauty, to her husband, having heard the echoes of the sorrowful cry.

’I dare say I am not, my dear. Violating the eternal laws’ – the man responded and drank some wine from his glass – ‘should not come easy. He will join her soon enough anyway. You know that, my dear. Should the breaking of such laws be possible at all, I wander...’ - the man nodded his head in thoughts, drank some more wine – ‘and all for love... they all fail... and still they try... for love... to love, my dear Eve?’ - he smiled to his wife. They drank to love. In both meanings.



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wiedzmin89
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Postautor: wiedzmin89 » ndz 19 paź 2008, 18:32

jesli myslisz ze ktos jest az tak dobry to sie mozesz rozczarowac, moze sie ktos znajdzie ale nie licz na komentarze

<Arri edit: ja się znajdę nawet z komentem, tylko dajcie mi czas>


Tych wszystkich którzy upajają się zgiełkiem mass mediów, kretyńskim uśmiechem reklamy, zaniedbaniem przyrody, brakiem dyskrecji wyniesionym do rzędu cnót, należy nazwac kolaborantami nowoczesności.

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Postautor: Mich'Ael » pn 20 paź 2008, 08:14

Stąd właśnie się brało moje początkowe pytanie o to, czy w ogóle mam to zamieszczać. Stało się, wrzuciłem, teraz pozostaje czekać. I nie przesadzajmy z tą "dobrością" - angielski na poziomie "Przyzwoity" powinien wystarczyć. A jak się komuś będzie chciało sięgnąć po słownik to nawet mniejszy poziom ujdzie... ;)



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Postautor: Arrianna » pn 20 paź 2008, 21:24

OK, enough. If that's not boasting about and showing off myself - then I don't know what is


ależ mnie denerwują te wstawki a jest ich kilka. Sztucznie to wychodzi.



You take the third hit – and that’s was the last drug you use in your life, no other option possible
błądzik?




Curiosity kills them – it would seem that it had killed not only the cat (man, that was one cruel joke…).
oj okrutny, okrutny i jakiś taki nie na miejscu jak ktoś wspomina utratę ukochanej osoby



Darkness without any is unnatural and disturbs the eternal balance of the world.
without any ale czego? co? O_o



i w tym momencie na razie przerwę :/ skończę może jutro. Wybaczcie ale jestem teraz nie w pełni sił umysłowych :P

Pozdrawiam czasowo :)


"It is perfectly monstrous the way people go about, nowadays, saying things against one behind one's back that are absolutely and entirely true."

"It is only fair to tell you frankly that I am fearfully extravagant."
O. Wilde

(\__/)
(O.o )
(> < ) This is Bunny. Copy Bunny into your signature help him take over the world.

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Postautor: Mich'Ael » wt 21 paź 2008, 09:53

Czy rzeczone wstawki denerwują samym swym istnieniem czy jest jakiś szczególny powód? Jeżeli to drugie, a podejrzewam właśnie to, to przydałoby się jego podanie, w ramach konstruktywnej krytyki.



Błądzik, i to wielbłądzik nawet - taki wielki i rażący. ;) Oczywiście "was" tam być nie powinno. Dzięki za wytknięcie.



żarcik owszem, okrutny, ale na upartego jak najbardziej na miejscu. Niektórzy ludzie są po prostu cyniczni w obliczu straty, którą ponoszą czy właśnie osoby, którą tracą. Wierz mi, są tacy ludzie, są. Jako autor opowiadania jednoznacznie stwierdzam i rozwiewam wszelkie pozostające wątpliwości - bohater niniejszego opowiadania to cyniczny bydlak jest, on naprawdę mógł coś takiego powiedzieć.



Zasadniczo to "darkness without any light" powinno być - i byłem pewien, że było. Już raz poprawiałem ten błąd... nie wiem, tekst nie lubi słówka "light" czy co?



Dzięki za dotychczasowe komentarze, liczę na dalsze.



P.S. Edgar Allan Poe w grobie się przerwaca za tak karygodne pogwałcenie postulowanej przez niego zasady jedności efektu, nakazującej czytać, i pisać, opowiadania tak, żeby dało się je "połknąc" za jednym posiedzeniem... ;)



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Postautor: Arrianna » wt 21 paź 2008, 18:04

Instantly it became brighter, the strings of his guitar were brightened up by the music he played.
nieciekawe powtórzenie




There was a guardian of course, assuring that none of the living enters this land of the dead, nor shall any of the dead leave.
tu tez



właśnie mi przyszło do głowy, że dość dużo ludzi czeka na brzegu bo od jakiegoś czasu nikt nie wkłada zmarłym w usta obola dla Charona :P Jak dla mnie to problematyczna kwestia. Skoro inni zmarli nie mieli obola to jak u licha się przeprawili? A jak się przeprawili inaczej - to jak? i czemu ten akurat miałby płacić? O_O



Should the breaking of such laws be possible at all, I wander...
szlaja się? :P chyba "wonder"? :)



Hmm jakieś tam błądziki. Jak zwykle.

Pytanie jakie ciśnie mi się na usta - dlaczego nie po polsku?

Styl - pierwsza część gdzie jest narracja pierwszoosobowa jest dla mnie zuem. Nie lubię takiej narracji a wspomniane wcześniej wstawki powodowały u mnie drgawki <to takie subiektywne odczucie po prostu - denerwują swoim istnieniem>.

Narracja dalej podobała mi się bardziej. Choć jest w tym tekście coś dziwnego jeśli chodzi o styl. Widać, że nie pisał tego native speaker <nie to, że źle - brakuje tylko jakiejś takiej lekkości, naturalności posługiwania się językiem, tak trochę sztywno jest >.

Co do fabuły - hmm trochę nudny jest ten wstęp < no i ta NARRACJA!>. Rozwodzisz się tam nieludzko a nic się nie dzieje- natomiast gdy zaczyna się dziać biegniesz do końca niczym sprinter O_o Opisałeś tą całą akcję w podziemiach bardzo eee lakonicznie :P No cóż, mógł tam mieć więcej przygód ale nic to.

Hmm tacy Eurydyka i Orfeusz XXI wieku... Nie wiem sama czy mi się podoba czy nie, bo widzisz ten początek do mnie w ogóle nie trafia a akcja w podziemiach się prawie niczym od mitu nie różni poza tym, że główny bohater od razu zna zasady gry O_o < pff i jeszcze ją zmaszcza!>.

Co mi się podobało - sam koniec :D Tak, koniec mi się podobał <bo baba jestem, no :P>.

Hmm może następnym razem coś po polsku? ;)

A teraz wracam chorować. Pozdrawiam serdecznie :)





P.S. Dobrze, że trupy się nie przewracają w grobach. Tak mogą tylko wampiry :P


"It is perfectly monstrous the way people go about, nowadays, saying things against one behind one's back that are absolutely and entirely true."



"It is only fair to tell you frankly that I am fearfully extravagant."

O. Wilde



(\__/)

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(> < ) This is Bunny. Copy Bunny into your signature help him take over the world.

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Postautor: Mich'Ael » śr 22 paź 2008, 15:09

Zacznę od wyjaśnienia dlaczego nie po polsku. Dlatego, ponieważ, bo, gdyż była to praca pisana celem otrzymania zaliczenia z zajęć z realizmu magicznego (teoretycznie można ją było i po polsku napiać, drugi odważny tak zrobił - ale nie wpadłem na to). Można było oczywiście napisać kolejny nudny i nieprzydatny nikomu esej akademicki - ale postanowiłem udowodnić, że ogarniam istotę MR w inny sposob. Chyba się udało.



Co do powtorzeń w pełni się zgadzam, usunę je - po prostu ostatnio nagle mnie naszło na poprawienie tego. A że było to spontaniczne cokolwiek to nie chciało mi się aż tak trudzić. Ale zrobię to, gdyż, jak żem pisał już, opowiadanko lubię (bardziej niż ono na to zasługuje).



A w kwestii oboli - masz mnie. Nie mam pojęcia, dopiero teraz o tym pomyślałem. Podejrzewam, ze jako "obol" może być obecnie traktowane, nie wiem, włożenie zwłok do trumny i pochowanie? Bo monety do pyszczka to już faktycznie zwłokom nikt nie wkłada. A ten, bohater znaczy, miałby płacić... hmm... bo jakby przepłynął to by mu gitara zamokła? ;) Nie wiem, ale jakoś tak się przyjęło, że w Styksie się raczej nie pływa - musi co coś zżera ewentualnych pływaków. Ale to faktycznie słaby punkcik opowiadania.



Pięć lat studiowania angielskiego na poziomie, na jakim studiowałem, znajomość setek dziwacznych słów - a "wander" i "wonder" zawsze i wszędzie mi się mylą. Podobnie jak parę innych. Dzięki za drobiazgowe wytknięcie. Ale może faktycznie miałem na myśli, że się szlaja jak to pisałem? ;)



I owszem, tacy Eurydyka i Orfeusz w XXI wieku, co zaznaczyłem w pierwszym poście. Opowiadanie nie jest nadmiernie oryginalne (co za mistrzowski eufemizm... ;) ) - bo i nigdy nie miało takie być. Było pisane tylko celem otrzymania zaliczenia. Ale kiedyś się zawezmę i przepiszę je od nowa, zmieniając ja całkowicie. I owszem, coś po polsku wrzucę, pewnie niedługo nawet.



Dzięki za przeczytanie i komentarze, miłego chorowania i szybkiego powrotu do zdrowia.



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Postautor: AgnieszkaW » śr 05 lis 2008, 21:29

:)

Dorzucę swój koment.

jako fajne ćwiczenie językowe, może być, na pewno rozwija Autora. Ale czytelnik ma z tego niewiele.

Jeżeli chcę rozwinąc się anglojezycznie, sięgnę po literaturę pisaną przez nativow:)

W opowiadaniu szukam niebanalnego ujecia tematu i piekna malowania słowem. Mało kto potrafi osiagnąc to w języku nabytym:)

pozdr.

A.



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Postautor: Mich'Ael » czw 06 lis 2008, 16:45

AgnieszkaW pisze::)

jako fajne ćwiczenie językowe, może być, na pewno rozwija Autora. Ale czytelnik ma z tego niewiele.

Jeżeli chcę rozwinąc się anglojezycznie, sięgnę po literaturę pisaną przez nativow:)


Osobiście uważam, że czytelnik może się rozwinąć, jeśli tylko sięgnie po słownik i zacznie sprawdzać słówka. I nie wiem w jaki sposób literatura pisana przez nejtiwów jest znacznie bardziej rozwijająca niż mój tekścik - nieskromnie, Bozia nieskromność wybaczy na pewno, stwierdzę, że angielskim posługuję się raczej lepiej niż gorzej. ;)



A tak poza tym to owszem, dla Autora - że aż napiszę o Nim wielkimi literami; kolejny przejaw nieskromności - to było fajne ćwiczenie językowe. I w języku nabytym nie da się pisać dobrze a ładnie? Biedni Irlandczycy, Walijczycy, Mieszkańcy Indii i wiele innych nacji... ;)



Dzięki za komentarz, nie liczyłem, że ktoś się jeszcze dopisze. A wszystkim marudzącym a narzekającym na poziom języka angielskiego zasugeruję śmiało aby sami napisali coś lepszego, o. :P




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