Arcane Knowledge concealed in Truismes

Мандельштам

Sun, 05 Jul 2009 14:25:25 GMT

Часто встречается мнение, что Мандельштама сгноили за "кремлевского горца". На самом деле известно, что это не совсем так: его арестовали за это стихотворение в мае 1934 г., а уже через три года, в мае 1937 г., О.Э. получил разрешение выехать из Воронежа, где отбывал ссылку. Он переместился в Тверь, но спустя год был опять арестован и этапирован на Дальний Восток, где и умер 27 декабря 1938 г.

Так вот есть версия, что окончательное неудовольствие Человека с Твердой Рукой вызвало довольно своеобразное и пугающее стихотворение Мандельштама "Ода", написанное в конце воронежской ссылки. Предлагаю вам почитать интересное исследование этого текста. На свой страх и риск, ясное дело.

Это я решил переташшыть кое-что сюда с dirty.ru

Pitch Drop

Sun, 05 Jul 2009 14:20:18 GMT

Про Медленныя Черныя Капли читать под Вырезом!

Фильм "Кромешная тьма" (Pitch Black) с человеком, оснащенным подходящей фамилией Дизель, не про кромешную тьму, а про тьму, подобную смоле (впрочем, pitch в английском — общее название целого класса соединений от смол до битума, канифоли и пека, так что надо осторожно). Эта смола настолько вязка, что выглядит и ведет себя почти как твердое тело. Именно это её свойство подвигло профессора Томаса Парнелла из Квинслендского университета (что в Брисбене) устроить в 1927 г. эксперимент — "налить" это дело в колбу, дать ему остыть (на это ушло три года), а затем посмотреть, с какой скоростью будут формироваться капли.

На карточке, шо вы видите на картинке выше, любовно написано: капли падали в 1938, 1947, 1954, 1962 и 1970 г. С тех пор упали ещё три. Профессор Парнелл, между тем, умер, увидев только две капли, и неудивительно: вязкость этого вещества, по оценке наблюдателей, в 230 миллиардов раз больше, чем у воды.

Этой инициативе, что печально, присудили Ignoble Prize (Шнобелевскую премию) за 2005 г. А между тем за стремительными каплями можно даже понаблюдать здесь.

Ответьте, пожалуйста

Sun, 05 Jul 2009 14:00:20 GMT

View Poll: В генерале

Another little something

Mon, 11 May 2009 17:46:21 GMT

Friends

Even though it was already late in the evening, the pub was almost empty. Some people, apparently, decided to make an early exit while they still could. In fact, there were only Reg, Will, another guy they had never seen before, and Thumbs, the bartender.

'You know,' said Reg, 'his thumbs must be twice as long as any I've seen.'
'Fancy that,' said Will. 'I myself never go around noticing people's thumbs. Anyways, that's why he's called Thumbs, you know?'
'He's not actually called Thumbs,' Reg observed. 'It's his nickname because of the way he handles the glasses. And yes, they are long, but I'll have you know that opposable thumbs are the high point of evolution. So he must be in a way more human than we are.'
'Sure,' said Will. ‘Finally someone to tell the world what long thumbs mean. Apart from all the penicentric hypotheses.’

There was a bit of silence, then Reg asked:
‘So what are you gonna do?’
Will shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I mean, now that it’s all, as they say, official…’ Reg added rather helplessly.
‘Yeah,’ Will nodded, ‘got that. But it doesn’t seem like I’ve got much choice, you know? I’ll just… go. When my time comes, of course.’
‘But listen,’ Reg said urgently, ‘it’s all going to be different. Um, in the meantime. Before going. Now it seems like half the country is leaving, and possibly more. Admittedly, it also means that there’ll be a lot of… free stuff, but you’re not the guy for looting, I know you’re not. Hey, it’s going to be hell here.’
‘Yes, but, you know, that just reminds me.’ Will’s eyes flared. ‘First of all, I think you have to stick to your beliefs…’
‘…or absence of them,’ Reg helped.
‘Fine!’ the other man snapped. ‘And plus—when all’s said and done, what’s so clever about just sweeping away all the right folks and leaving this place to rot and violence?’
‘That was sort of, um, the essence of it. You know, the righteous will inherit the kingdom of heaven. Or suchlike.’
‘Well, I never!’ Will downed the rest of the beer in one go. ‘And the rest can just bloody well sod off, huh? Only before, you know, if you didn’t inherit anything, you could at least get a horse, and something to stick in nasty people’s eyes or soft parts, and then you went and built yourself a handsome asset base. Or maybe you got killed by someone else who also happened to be a bit disillusioned and also bigger and faster than you. But now?’
Reg thought it over. ‘Now you could do the same thing, I guess, with most folks gone,’ he said. ‘Only instead of a horse you should get yourself a car, because a horse only has one horsepower. And you’d probably need a gun, because see, all the government seem to be on the final page, too, if you know what I mean.’
‘Sure, just like in the Crusades. Only it wouldn’t be the same, not with nothing to look forward to! People didn’t go after the Holy Sepulchre just to pinch a bit for themselves and the folks at home, Reg, they had faith. Well, presumably.’ Will made a pause to inhale. ‘And how do they manage it anyway?’ he demanded.
Reg finally rebelled. ‘Hey,’ he said indignantly, ‘why is it like I’m the bad guy all of a sudden? What did I do to you, tie you down and whip you and tell you not to believe? Come on.’

He rose—a bit unconvincingly—and headed towards the door. William followed him after some hesitation.
‘See,’ said Reg didactically, swaying from the sidewalk to the empty lanes and back, ‘I’m sure we can arrange… matters so that you can go, too.’
‘I’m not going! I didn’t believe before and I didn’t… don’t believe now.’ Will insisted.
‘What, even with these things around?’ Reg pointed to a large sign that had a red arrow and an all-caps line that said REGISTER FOR EARLY SALVATION HERE. ‘I mean, there are these… conscription offices almost all over the city, and you still don’t believe?’
‘Especially now,’ said Will obstinately. ‘God’s supposed to work in mysterious ways, but somehow he either doesn’t work at all, or he works like that, you know, in giant brushstrokes which you have to be insane not to see.’
‘I don’t understand this,’ Reg moaned. ‘What’s so bloody difficult about having a quiet faith deep down that your soul is immortal? Well, I don’t care. I, for one, believe in your soul, and I don’t want you to stay back.’
‘That doesn’t matter, Reg,’ Will objected, ‘for all they know you could believe in everyone, but that doesn’t mean they need to stuff their heavenly crafts, or whatever, with every bugger you’ve ever happened to lay your eyes on.’
‘I don’t care,’ Reg said. A car went by and someone shouted at them something unpleasantly short about how people of unorthodox sexual preferences had a difficult time in front of them. ‘Up yours, moron,’ said Will.

They entered the hall. It was pleasantly cool and there was a figure behind a table, feverishly typing something. The figure’s gaze was affixed to the monitor in front of it.
‘Hi,’ said Reg. ‘We’re here to ask about some procedures, please.’
‘Do give me a moment, please,’ said the figure, ‘just let me finish with this bill of lading.’ After some more typing it hit Enter very resolutely with a triumphant air and said: ‘Uh-huh! Let’s see how you like that, mister I-can-take-them-all-and-there-will-be-space-left-for-the-pets! All booked and not even taking any luggage!’ The creature turned to Reg. ‘You were saying, sir?’
‘You’re an angel, right?’ Reg inquired with an uncanny straightness.
‘Indeed,’ the manager muttered smoothly. ‘Just call me Tariel.’
‘Very well, Tariel. My friend here,’ Reg said, while Will pretended he wasn’t interested, ‘doesn’t believe in God.’
‘My, my!’ said the heavenly person worriedly. ‘That would seem to present a bit of a problem, indeed. You see, we are only at liberty to offer our Early Vacation package to people who are, so to speak, solid of faith. Adamand. Unwavering. Stanch. Resolute. And with the rate of subscription—conscription, as some deign to call it, ha—what it is, very likely we will not have any slots left by the end of the month.’ It clamped its hands.
‘What about last-minute conversions?’ Reg insisted.
‘Yes, well, you know how these things work,’ replied Tariel with a little uncertain smile. ‘One day you’re sneaking along slowly through life like a wounded sloth, and then all of a sudden your existence is full of meaning and you march proudly into the welcoming embrace of the Aeternity.’
‘How do you do that?’ asked Will.
‘What?’
‘How do you pronounce Eternity with a leading A? And weren’t you sceptical just now about all these people who are late to subscribe?’
‘Oh,’ the angel made an uncertain cough. ‘The A, it’s… a habit by now. Gives words a stronger ring. As for sceptical, oh no,’ he shook his head vehemently, ‘no. We have ample space for anyone who can add to, um, the team spirit.’
‘Fine, fine,’ Reg said. ‘Understood. So, Tariel, how does my friend get on the… gravy train?’
‘I really couldn’t tell, sir,’ said the creature apologetically. ‘Believe me, I would like to help. And it would be very easy if your esteemed friend here believed, of course. We are being unusually lenient to our clients as it is, and I’m sure we don’t want to drag more people into the Kingdom kicking and screaming. That might upset some of the more legitimate subscribers.’
‘Now it’s the capital K in Kingdom…’ Will said.
Reg advanced on the angel and said quietly:
‘How does one convert last minute?’
‘No!’ Will cried. ‘Hey! Don’t give me any of that caretaking nonsense! Things have to be done with respect, you know!’

Tariel sighed. ‘I am afraid, sir,’ he said solemnly, ‘that your friend has quite correctly summarised the situation, even though I have a smidgen of suspicion he may have been referring to something else. This has to be done either with respect, or not at all.’
‘I don’t believe this!’ Reg cried. ‘You just said you were transporting a shit… some airborne vehicle-load of people into the beyond, and my friend here, just because he has his weird principles, doesn’t qualify? But can’t you respect the irreversibility of his decisions?’
‘We certainly can,’ the manager said peacefully. He licked the tip of his pen and wrote something random on a piece of paper. Tariel generally looked a bit nervous and uncomfortable. ‘Without doubt, the strength of your friend’s resolve is quite, quite commendable. But I am sure you will also understand that the subject against which he has made such an irreversible decision is, ah, the very matter I am positioned here to represent. With respect, sir, it does not seem that your friend is eligible to enter the kingdom of Heaven.’
‘And even the fact that I can speak for him and say he’s got this immortal soul won’t help?’ Reg asked.
‘Unfortunately, no, sir,’ said Tariel with another sad sigh. ‘It has to be a personal application, and we have cancelled salvation by proxy approximately half a thousand years ago.’
‘At least will he get there when it’s all over… here?’
‘Oh, that, sir, is a difficult question,’ Tariel responded. Now he was definitely having a hard time. ‘You see, Heaven, by virtue of having a rather constant temperature, stays more or less the same volume, unlike, um… the lower region. It is therefore rather conceivable that once the Early Vacations are all handed out, there will be no space left. Later there will of course be sorting procedures, intended to establish the background of all participants, and perhaps—I say this merely to indicate that a possibility always remains, you see, and not because I infer there was an error in judgment—perhaps some people will be relocated in the general downward direction. But it will not be a lot.’
‘So for all intents and purposes my friend Will…’
‘Your friend will quite possibly remain, er, dead, sir,’ Tariel managed.

Reg glared.
‘I meant my friend Will with a capital W!’
‘I am so sorry, sir,’ the angel said. He sounded sincerely upset. ‘Perhaps your friend wants to apply to our competitors. If he does it with sufficient haste, I understand there is a package of rights and exemptions from certain tortures which will apply for the effective term of confinement.’
‘Which is forever,’ said Reg monotonously. Will didn’t say anything. Neither did Tariel.

They were all silent for a moment. Then Reg said: ‘I want to withdraw my application, then.’
‘What?’ Will said, flabbergasted. ‘Are you, are you, are you insane? Who needs these silly gestures?’
‘Yes,’ Reg said, after a little pause. He seemed to have arrived at some definite conclusion. ‘I don’t want to go if he’s not there.’
‘This is… a rather unorthodox request, sir,’ Tariel said carefully. ‘Although such things have been known to happen. You are certain you do not want to reconsider?’
‘Quite certain,’ Reg said happily. ‘I mean, I won’t know if I’m dead anyway, and if we go up, it will be the two of us.’
‘Childhood friends, eh?’ said Tariel with a sudden tired familiarity.
‘More or less, yeah,’ said Reg.
‘I seem to recognise the pattern.’ The angel rummaged in one of his drawers and finally withdrew something Reg recognised as his Early Vacation application. ‘So you’re taking it back, huh?’
‘Reg,’ Will said weakly, ‘what on Earth do you think you are doing, and why?’

Instead of answering, Reg snatched the sheet from Tariel’s hand and tore it in two halves.
‘Does that annul it?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Tariel gravely. ‘But you can shred it, just to stay on the safe side, lest it grab you to the skies by your ankles when you least expect it. I assume you are not interested in our Seventh Sky lottery?’
‘Nah,’ said Reg just as Will said, ‘Yeah.’

‘What?!’ Reg exclaimed. Tariel smiled a shade enigmatically. ‘Well,’ he proffered a little ticket, ‘have a go.’

Will scratched the surface. Underneath it were the words: ‘IT IS YOUR LUCKY DAY, SINNER! THIS DOES NOT ONLY ABSOLVE YOU OF ALL YOUR SINS BUT ELEVATES YOU DIRECTLY TO CLOUD LEVEL NINE!’

‘O-oh!’ said Tariel appreciatively, ‘that one commands a very fine view!’ He wanted to say something else, but saw Reg’s face and, emitting a little gurgle, stopped.

Will looked at Reg. ‘Well, what do you think of that, man? Always living in the fast lane, huh?’ Reg didn’t say anything.

There was a minute of silence.

‘Ah, well,’ said Will with a shrug. ‘I guess you should just give it to the next bugger who comes ‘round, to avoid all the paperwork. Let’s go, Reg, we’ve got some crusading to do.’

He tossed the ticket to the manager, and the two friends left. Tariel watched them go. Then another man came in. He was a bit ill at ease and he kept pricking his extraordinarily long thumbs nervously.

‘Listen, I mean, oh, hi. Please,’ he said timidly, ‘d’you think it’s easier for a bartender to get into the kingdom of heaven, or the camel? I mean… Relative to the camel, who has higher chances? The camel, or… you know?’

Tariel looked at the man, and then at the lottery ticket that was still clutched in his hand.

‘I think, sir,’ he said slowly, ‘that today can be safely said to be the luckiest day of your life.’

Just a little something

Fri, 24 Apr 2009 20:26:48 GMT

The Truth

'So this is it?' asked Spittledust. He was a short balding man and a textbook illustration of someone in his uneasy forties. 'This, here, is the... culmination?'

'Yes, it would seem so,' said Amagothi. She was tall and she used to have hair that, as the crew had joked, if unwound would stretch all the way back to Earth, but then she decided to cut it because it felt right.

'Very biblical,' said Spittledust a bit sadly. 'A man, a woman, and... well, this... thing.'

'Too bad the forbidden fruit is out of reach,' Amagothi said with a pleasant smile. Men had to undergo chemical castration when they went on the Trek. It helped, they said, to rein in the animal. Amagothi knew this; and Spittledust knew that she knew. Still, he decided to ignore the taunt. He didn't really care.

'Ah, see, the truth is more important than that,' he replied evenly.
'Is it?' Amagothi asked. 'The Trek took more than forty years. Do you still think it is more important?'
'You do not seem to understand,' said Spittledust with an unexpected weariness in his voice. The Focus in the meantime kept blinking and making strange noises. 'That's the only thing I can think, the only thing I have been designed to think. As you know all too well. I was born in the Crawler, raised in the Crawler. Ninety-five percent of all time I saw anyone, I saw you. Even if I had the means, I wouldn't have the desire. The one purpose of my life is in front of me, and I intend to complete it.'

Amagothi sighed. She decided to steer clear of the topic.
'Do you think it knows the truth?' she asked cautiously, fearing it would provoke another outburst.
'I do not know,' remarked Spittledust. 'And, of course, I will never know. I do not know the difference between truth and... untruth. Perhaps you do.'
'You are boring,' the woman said. 'I'm almost happy this journey has ended. Imagine that of the eighty thousand ships ours is the one that homed in on the right place. What are the chances of that happening!'
'One in eighty thousand, of course,' said Spittledust slowly, 'times one minus the probability that the Abacus was wrong that the Focus is even on these planets. One minus the probability in brackets, but I'm sure you got that.'
'In brackets yourself, tedious monster,' Amagothi yawned.
'You know,' Spittledust reflected, 'from a purely theoretical standpoint I would have liked, all things considered, to fuck the living daylights out of you. For the educational benefit of the act.'
'Yes, that kind of claim is all the easier for its sheer impossibility, isn't it?' Amagothi smiled. She had good teeth. 'Now press the button.'

Spittledust obeyed. The Focus came to life. It unfolded in a single fluid motion, revealing the anthropomorphic figure inside. They stepped back. They hadn't expected a living creature.

'Yes?' said the figure.
'Who are you?' asked Spittledust stupidly.
'No, who are you?' inquired the person inside. It seemed he—or she?—was busy polishing something that had a bizarre shape.
'We are the Trekkers,' Amagothi answered smoothly. She had been trained for that. ‘We come on the Crawler from a faraway place called Earth in search of the Truth.’
‘And?’ the creature demanded.
‘We have been led to believe,’ said Amagothi very patiently, ‘by our research centre back home, called the Abacus, that here is where the essence of the Truth lies concealed.’
‘I know all that and this is outlandish,’ said the creature. ‘Quite, quite unlike anything I have heard before.’
‘Why?’ Spittledust stuttered.
‘You are, I believe, Spittledust?’ the entity asked. ‘And you must be Amagothi.’
‘Quite,’ the woman said with a poorly concealed joy. This, after all, was what you expected of the Truth. To know the right things.

‘Such funny names, too,’ the creature chuckled. ‘Tell me more about this Trek of yours.’
‘But you must know,’ Amagothi wailed. ‘What is the point of us wasting your time… and our time, come to think of it—discussing things we all know?’
‘Well, I, you know, I like conversations,’ the creature said a shade defensively. ‘Does me good, conversing.’

Spittledust stared. Then he whispered in Amagothi’s ear: ‘Something’s not right.’ By then, of course, the woman felt it too, but she didn’t come all that way to shrug her shoulders now and go home. So she asked: ‘And?’

‘We-ell,’ the thing said, ‘you’ve probably imagined yourself a neat olden scroll wherein would be inscribed the answers to millenia-old questions, such as why the Planck constant is what it is (although that, admittedly, can’t be millenia-old), huh? Let me tell you something—the thing don’t exist.’
‘What’s going on?’ Spittledust almost shouted.
‘Hey, no need to yell!’ said the creature. ‘You don’t have any of that testosterone poison in you, why do you sound like a wounded warthog?’
‘Well, to be quite honest…’ Amagothi made a pause, thinking how to put it best. ‘You are quite the anticlimax. My partner and I expected something a bit more… convincing.’
‘Fine, fine,’ the shape responded diffidently. ‘I am not the Truth. I am, as it were, the placeholder. Call me… Bob.’
‘Where is the real thing, then?!’ Spittledust demanded.
‘Does he always communicate in screams?’ Bob asked Amagothi. ‘Very unnerving in a species, that.’
‘Are you trying to side with me?’ Amagothi said suspiciously. ‘I don’t even half understand what you are.’
‘Want a drink?’ Bob asked. Turned out the thing it was doing wasn’t polishing—it was actually shaking… a shaker. ‘Got myself a little cocktail here, screwdriver, nothing posh.’

Amagothi stepped back and dragged Spittledust by the hand; the man looked quite murderous.

‘This is a farce,’ she said quietly. ‘I can’t believe it. I’m almost expecting people to step out of the shades and say ‘How’s that for pulling your leg, huh?’ and laugh jovially, and then there will be some killing, believe me.’
‘Is THAT,’ bellowed Spittledust, making some very angry revolutions with his rather peaceful-looking finger, ‘is THAT what I have sacrificed forty years of my life for? What I have sacrificed my very manhood for?’

Bob didn’t say anything and just kept shaking his thing with an enigmatic look on his face. Amagothi signed.
‘Oh dear. This is it, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘This is where I understand what the truth is.’
‘Broadly, yes,’ Bob answered.
‘But that’s a bit cheap, isn’t it?’ Amagothi asked weakly.
‘Ah, see, good things don’t necessarily have to be expensive,’ Bob said with a little nasty smile. ‘Sometimes…’
‘Sometimes it takes forty years and eighty thousand ships and the combined intellectual exertion of a star-faring race to understand that you shouldn’t chase something that cannot exist, right?’ Amagothi said.

Spittledust stared.

‘Do go on,’ Bob said. He was enjoying it.
‘That only because another star-faring race has planted something deep in space… where you only discover it by accident,’ Amagothi made sure the audience heard the italics, ‘and only because this something happens to be the coordinates of a world lost somewhere in space, and only because these coordinates admit eighty thousand different interpretations, you shouldn’t go chasing after every single one of them, because it is possible—it is just effing possible—that it’s all a big joke?’
‘No!’ the creature protested. ‘No damn joke! I only sit here, waiting for you. All the other guys are going to reach their planets and say, “Ah, well, no luck, I guess, too bad, but that’s life for you”.’
‘BUT YOU ARE NOT THE DAMNED TRUTH! YOU ARE JUST SOMEONE AMIABLE TO TALK TO!’ Amagothi almost exploded with wrath.

And then it dawned on her.

Spittledust continued to stare.

Amagothi turned to him.

‘Let’s go,’ she said, cursing quietly under her breath. ‘Let’s go, Spittledust. We’ve got another forty years of travel ahead of us.’

‘Wait!’ Bob called after them. ‘There’s one other thing! Women are cleverer than men! But I’m sure you got that anyway, this situation here was rather… self-explanatory. Honestly, what thinking creature voluntarily cripples…’

‘Shut up,’ Amagothi said quietly.

After some shaking, the ship took off. Bob sighed as the Focus wrapped up again. ‘I guess that covers humans,’ he said. ‘And anyway we never got to the bottom of that Planck business.’

О боже, это происходит со мной - somebody stop me!

Sun, 22 Feb 2009 21:32:20 GMT

Мне не страшен дикий вирус,
Не пугает отрубленный пауэр!
Ведь мой ноутбук охраняет
Клаус-Мария Брандмауэр!

On a related note.

Мне некоторое время не даёт покоя пытательство вспомнить научно-фантастический роман какого-то Большого Западного Писателя. Я, как водится, не помню ни названия, ни писателя. Там прилетают эйлиены (how very original), которые с помощью венгерского мальчика-предателя, которого девочки не любили, получают контроль над нашими компьютерными сетями и устанавливают своё мозговладычество над людьми. Но проходит поколение (всё это там описывается довольно подробно), и их свергает молодой английский убийца пакистанского происхождения – дело в том, что господство эйлиенов основано на умении видеть Ненавижду в головах людей, а этот парень – то ли Халил, то ли Халед, в общем, похоже на того чувака, который про Аишу поёт – научился их любить и параллельно стрелять в них ПТУРСом.

Я не уверен, что это вообще переводили на русский. Помогите, ра.

Просьба

Sun, 22 Feb 2009 20:53:18 GMT

Пожалуйста... пожалуйста.

Пожалуйста, передайте это всем знакомым и друзьям.

Слово "интеллигентный" пишется именно так.

Вот так. Вот, смотрите:

ИНТЕЛЛИГЕНТНЫЙ

Spread the knowledge, people!

Те, кто будут говорить вам, что это слово допускает альтернативное написание, или будут соблазнять вас интелегентностью или интилектом – враги! Они за Антихриста!

Не дадим России погибнуть!

За интеллигентность!

Шутка

Sun, 22 Feb 2009 20:47:48 GMT

Медовый месяц они провели на островке Лангерганса.

Relationship crap

Fri, 13 Feb 2009 14:21:30 GMT

Мне кажется, что если что-то и станет погибелью прогрессивной части человечества – так это манера бесконечно забрасывать внутрь себя и других удочки, а затем, извлекши их на свет божий, с упоением рассматривать, что же там такое выловилось – шина от велосипеда, бутылка из-под "Балтики" или старый сапог. Всё больше я наблюдаю вокруг себя, и к вящему своему неудовольствию в себе тоже, отвратительную привычку тащить из разных дупел гнилушки и затем обсуждать их днями и месяцами напролёт, и описывать, и рассказывать о них друзьям. Это даже не интроспекция, а какой-то душный эгонанизм. Всякий нынче стал психоаналитиком for all and sundry; самые интересные темы для обсуждения – темы отношений и того, прости Господи, какими бывают люди, и как выстраивать взаимодействия с ними, а как не выстраивать, и как это, и как то.

Удивительно причем, с какой охотой и с каким глубокомыслием, начертанным через всё лицо, люди участвуют в этом процессе поэтапного изобретения деревянной ложки. Интересно, а почему этот человек повёл себя так? А что он имел в виду, когда так себя повёл? А что мне надо было ему ответить? А как к этому отнесётся N.?

Я даже сам не понимаю, почему меня это так раздражает, но, по-моему, ничего более бесперспективного в части развития мыслительного процесса вообще нет.

А самое парадоксальное при этом то, что все эти растекания ртутью по полу часто непостижимым образом сочетаются с банальным неумением себя вести. Что тоже, без сомнения, добавляет ситуации пикантности – т.к. если какой-нибудь человек свято уверен, что надо всегда и всем говорить правду, whether invited to do so or not, он поневоле снабжает окружающих большим количеством материала для анализа.

Надо меньше рефлексировать и больше делать, в общем. Ну и, ясное дело, врачу, исцелися сам. :-/

(ro)Bot (fo)Rum

Thu, 12 Feb 2009 16:17:27 GMT

nunegadli, который Метакор, создал, да славится его имя, первый в мире форум для роботов.

Ca suffit

Thu, 05 Feb 2009 20:59:42 GMT

История моих взаимоотношений с ТНК-ВР, наконец, закончилась.

Много было хорошего, чего отрицать. И люди, и расположение, и работа, и зарплата, и бонусы (смайлег). Но тем не менее.

В июле я написал заявление, его не приняли. В ноябре мне объявили, что меня сокращают ("по соглашению" – что при учете моего заявления, о котором прозорливые кадры, видимо, всё-таки не забыли, было справедливее, чем со многими другими людьми); я уже не хотел, т.к. кризис бушевал по полной. В середине декабря сократили всё-таки (надо быть справедливым, с очень хорошей подушкой), но пообещали, что будут возможности доп. employment-a – требовалось ехать в Белоруссию и делать что-то такое в Минске с какими-то неясными перспективами. Два дня назад перспективы прояснились: начальником должен был стать Максим, я подчинялся бы ему, деньги были бы неплохими, etc. Я думал два дня. Сегодня позвонил ему и сказал, что не хочу ехать.

Меня можно, таким образом, официально считать дауншифтером. Хочется верить, ближайшая пара месяцев покажет, что всё-таки в первую очередь шифтером, и только во вторую – дауном.

Очень неудобно, но надо это написать

Mon, 02 Feb 2009 13:01:51 GMT

Дорогие невзаимные друзья, у которых название журнала совпадает с названием учетной записи в ЛЖ! Прошу, если вы на самом деле живые люди, а не нанороботы, отметьтесь как-нибудь, чтоб я вас добавил, и муки перестали грызть мою совесть. Спасибо.

How Alan Rickman Affects Honest People

Sun, 18 Jan 2009 04:59:31 GMT

In 2002, Mother and I wanted to go to New York to see a staging of Private Lives on Broadway. Our friend a7sharp9 got us the tickets, and Rickman was starring as Elyot Chase, so naturally, there was no refusing the offer.

I was at the time graduating from the University of Toronto, so it was from there that we had to go.

We went to the embassy. By way of a little dramatic detour I must mention that back then things were much easier than today. Today I have what seems like a lot of money and only one person who I really want to understand me. And yet I fret about being jobless and I count money even though I have enough for a year's comfortable life; and as for that person, I can never get my message across without offending her. In a way, I am living these days like a taco of too too solid flesh wrapped in a tortilla of nervousness. I guess this is a bonus that comes with making it past mid-twenties.

Well, anyhow, in the spring of 2002, things were very different. I used to be a teaching assistant and my Mum was a postdoc, and each month we only had enough money to last us till the end of that month, provided we spent, typically, no more than 20 to 30 Canadian dollars a day. And yet we went to cafés and even restaurants sometimes, and had plenty of good time. I had lots of students, all of varying cultural backgrounds, all much older than me, with whom I used to communicate, unsurprisingly, in English. And yet all these students liked me and got good grades in the end. So it was a very different life—an idyllic picture where people never got anxious about much, never got nervous, slept well, ate regularly, smiled a lot and were generally relaxed.

It was therefore quite unusual that when we went to the embassy, we felt rather, what shall I say, freaked out. The point was, we weren't really sure we'd get our visas. It was in the wake of 9/11, after all, we didn't really have any stable source of income (my TAship already drew to an end, I think, or was about to elapse), and we needed to demonstrate to the embassy people that we had enough cash and that we didn't intend to elope and work secretly as illegal dishwashers or anything of the kind. And there was a little problem: we couldn't do that. We only had enough to go to New York, spend some time there, and then fly back home and live for some time before money started coming in (from where, we didn't yet know).

My Mother is a very delicate and soft-spoken person, and as such, she is normally quick to detect nasty people—because the vibrations they create are so alien to her. She pointed to one consul lady behind the glass and said: 'I hope we won't go to her.' I quickly glanced at the other embassy staff and understood Mum had to be correct: indeed the lady she had selected boasted the most convincingly unpleasant attitude written across her face. She seemed to say, 'I know it is my job to keep you pathetic immigrants-to-be outside the borders of my country, and believe me, I have both the energy and the resources to do it.' Guess what—as luck would have it, we ended up in front of that very lady. She was black, by the way, but I don't think it changed matters in any way; she even, somehow, looked more sternly American for that.

We showed her our student cards. She demanded more documents. We said we had none (thankfully we were clever enough to add on us). She almost laughed out at our worthlessness, but I think there's something in the air of embassies that forbids people to express powerful enjoyment. So she simply smiled and said we would have to come back with a lot more documents; and we had gathered that by then anyway.

We were rather depressed as we walked back. Collecting all those papers was a rather deplorable task in itself, but in addition to that, there was simply no proof of income we could show anyone, our bank balance was slim, and we didn't expect any receipts. And then we remembered that Mother's late University supervisor (and she is a story unto herself, we would have never made it through in Canada without her) had issued her a letter—only it was in the year 2001—with a promise to pay her a rather considerable honorarium for her scholarly research. Which meant that we had proof of income after all. So what if it was for the wrong year?..

...As we went back to the embassy, Mother said: 'I am not going in there: there's a couple of passages in the book I am reading that I have to go through very urgently. So I'll go sit in a cafe and you go and please please please come back quickly." I think she was expecting that I'd get handcuffed right there and, well, at least she would be able to visit me every now and then. I said okay and went in. I approached the same lady and gave her all the documents she wanted, bar the upgraded one. She leafed through the bunch quickly and said: "I'd like proof of income." I exhaled and gave her the last sheet of paper I had. She looked at it very quickly and smiled. "That will do. Come back to get your visas in two weeks," she said.

I left. I must confess I was rather shaken. And in two weeks' time we came back, and collected our passports, and learned we had been issued five-year visas, which was unheard of at that time when people typically got six-month or annual ones.

Later we discussed all this with Mum and agreed that what had impressed the lady in the end was the absent-mindedness with which we attended the embassy the first time. We only had our student cards on us, we didn't look surreptitious... and I like to think we were aloof in that characteristic scholarly manner that made us look credible. And we didn't, in the end, lie to anyone. We saw our play and then left; and we only used the visa once after that to go visit our friends when Mother went to participate in a conference in Harvard. The visa, having reached its prime, then declined and expired in the spring of 2007, and was remembered thereafter with much compassion.

It was Alan Rickman at stake, people! performing on Broadway!.. We'd force our way if we had to, you know.

Pratchett

Wed, 31 Dec 2008 10:41:21 GMT

Terry Pratchett will be admitted into knighthood in 2009.

Spiffing, Sir Terence!

О, сколько нам открытий чудных готовит просвещенье, ух!

Thu, 18 Dec 2008 22:46:14 GMT

Шекспир - это как целый мир.

Мне кажется, что-нибудь подобное мог бы про него написать известный силуэтолог, гурьбовед и муравист Шляпников.

А вот из неожиданного.

Смутился духъ во мнѣ. О нощь! о страшный сонъ!
Ступайте изъ ума любезны взоры вонъ!
Наполни яростью, о сердце! нѣжны мысли,
И днесь между враговъ Офелію мнѣ числи!
Офелію - - - увы! едино имя то
Преображаетъ все намѣренье въ ничто,
И нудитъ, во умѣ загладить ужасъ ночи.
Чтожъ здѣлаютъ потомъ ея драгіе очи!
О долгъ! преодолѣй любовь и красоту,
Остави щастливымъ приятну суету!
Отрыгни мнѣ теперь тирановъ гнусныхъ злоба,
Свирѣпство къ должности, на жертву къ мѣсту гроба,
Гдѣ Царь мой и отецъ себѣ отмщенья ждетъ!
Онъ совѣсти моей покою не даетъ:
Я слышу гласъ ево, и въ ребрахъ вижу рану:
О сынъ мой! вопіетъ, отмсти, отмсти тирану!
И свободи гражданъ.

Что это такое, мать вашу за ногу? - спросишь ты, просвещенный читатель. Хоть ты и не помнишь, я уверен, "Гамлета" на, так сказать, кромешную изусть, всё-таки дохнуло от этого многостишия хтоническим славянством, правда? даже с поправкой на еры и яти, которые сами по себе направляют восприятие в определенное русло. И гражданскаго пафоса здесь в одной последней строчке достанет на весь оригинал "Гамлета" - "свободи гражданъ", for God's sake.

А дело тут вот в чем. Было когда-то такое время, когда всякий считал себя вправе метастазировать на благодатном литературном материале. Шекспир к моменту написания процитированного отрывка (ок. 1750 г.) был уже давно и благополучно мертв, а даже если б был и жив, то уж явно не поехал бы на Русь бить в чан за такое глумление над первоисточником (т.е. собой). Так и получилось, что первым российского зрителя к Шекспиру приобщил Сумароков.

Пост же мой, собственно, призван заставить задуматься над тем, насколько отставала наша литературная эволюция от западной. Ну, это, ясное дело, не секрет ни для кого, но всё-таки... Три текста, по которым редакторы реконструируют и формируют современного "Гамлета" - это т.н. First Quarto (1603), Second Quarto (1604/05) и First Folio (1623). Это за двести лет до Пушкина и за сто пятьдесят - до Сумарокова (который вот так вот, извините, слил тему). Ну как тут не расплакаться бессильно?

ЯВЛЕНІЕ ПОСЛѢДНЕЕ.
ТѢ ЖЕ и ВОИНЪ.

ВОИНЪ.
Полоній, государь, подъ стражею скончался.

ОФЕЛІЯ.
Ахъ!

(ХА-А-А-А - G.R.)

ГАМЛЕТЪ.
Знать, что казни онъ достойной убоялся,
И убоявшися себѣ убійцомъ сталъ.
Скажи мнѣ, какъ онъ жизнь мучительску скончалъ?

ВОИНЪ.
По приведеніи ево подъ стражу нами,
Онъ грозными на насъ металъ свой взоръ глазами,
И въ изступленіи предъ нами походивъ,
Сказалъ: когда вашъ Князь уже остался живъ,
Напрасно дочь моя тамъ проситъ и стонаетъ.
Прошеніемъ вину свою усугубляетъ;
Я не хочу отъ нихъ щедроты никакой,
И ихъ владѣтельми не ставлю надъ собой,
Скажите имъ, что я о томъ лишъ сожалѣю,
Что больше погубить ихъ силы не имѣю,
По сихъ словахъ тотчасъ онъ ножъ въ себя вонзилъ,
Скрежещущъ палъ, и духъ во злобѣ изпустилъ.

ОФЕЛІЯ.
Я все исполнила, что дщери надлежало:
Ты само небо днесь Полонья покарало!
Ты, Боже мой! ему былъ долготерпѣливъ!
Я чту судьбы твои! твой гнѣвъ есть справедливъ!
Ступай мой Князь во храмъ, яви себя въ народѣ,
А я пойду отдать послѣдній долгъ природѣ.

Конецъ трагедіи.

<...>

First Player
'Run barefoot up and down, threatening the flames
With bisson rheum; a clout upon that head
Where late the diadem stood, and for a robe,
About her lank and all o'er-teemed loins,
A blanket, in the alarm of fear caught up;
Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep'd,
'Gainst Fortune's state would treason have pronounced:
But if the gods themselves did see her then
When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport
In mincing with his sword her husband's limbs,
The instant burst of clamour that she made,
Unless things mortal move them not at all,
Would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven,
And passion in the gods.'

Что он Гекубе, что ему Гекуба, иными словами, чтобы о ней рыдать? Вот удивительно - Сумарокову Гекуба явно ничто, а Шекспиру - что-то.

А, ладно. Чего там.

Davenport

Fri, 12 Dec 2008 00:22:52 GMT

Davenport

That year the spring was rather dismal. It did, of course, feature—the way springs usually go—the chirping of birds, the tender blooming of flowers, the awakening of sweetly-scented grasses, barely clothed children flocking into streets to catch cold, and many other pleasant little things. The green months did also bring with them spring’s necessary requisite: the air that felt as if it were fresh water from a mountain creek, only very strongly diluted, but still drinkable. As I describe the season, I understand increasingly clearly how difficult it must be to see just what was improper about those days… And yet amidst all this there hovered the impression of pointlessness, as if the Lady Spring herself was unsure why she came to the town, and what precisely was expected of her. The days were lazy, time liquid and without direction, and the purpose to all things in existence was all but lost. Perhaps—and this must, in the end, be the only rationale—I just struggled to find an external explanation for the strange emptiness that grew in me over the sad, depressing winter months. But, quite possibly, there simply wasn’t one.

I found that a strange inertia was carrying me through the spring with the same irresponsible ease as before, during that lightless winter of death. I thought I owed it to myself, if not to the world at large, to go out and live big, enjoy how the day grew, and communicate with people—certainly not just sit lazily in my room or saunter around with a detached air of a morphine addict. But I did not want to. I wanted to entomb myself in my dark cosy quarters, depart from the diurnal cycle, and wake up in the middle of the day and go to bed in the little hours of the morning. This didn’t alleviate my usual anxiety in any way—if anything, this mode of existence only made it worse. And though I knew that this time would end, too, now I was as uncorrelated with the forward dashes of bold spring as any living being could possibly be.

Instead I read books—many historical and romantic ones among them—and, of course, now as I put things in perspective, it dawns on me that one of these books, though it told of a story long, long past, was about Gerard Rukenau. Only he went by another name back then, and was my namesake. I know this because he said once—Davenport was full of children, and the coloured bands… It is, therefore, this story that I will now retell you; I once discussed it with Rukenau himself and asked if it was indeed about him, but he laughed and didn’t say much by way of an answer.

Sometimes I think he just likes to show off. That irritates me.

It all happened in Davenport, which, as some of you may know, was nearly destroyed during the Trade War one hundred thirty years ago, and never truly recovered. The man’s name was Anton Fethweyre and he lived in a country house at the outskirts of Davenport with his two children, a boy of 14, Kay, and a girl of 9, Elia. I don’t think the names of these two children matter much to the posterity (you will shortly learn why), even though they are important to my story. Neither, I should judge, matter the specific circumstances of Fethweyre’s family life, that is to say, why exactly he lived alone and had no mistress to tend to his needs or those of his children. I have known men before who at some points in their lives elected, all of their own accord, to halt their love lives quite decisively, to move forward with some ghostly purposes in their minds—purposes not discernible by casual observers. Forgive me this little detour… It is just that with women, these things seem slightly more natural, yet when a man volunarily encloses himself in a paddock-like world where besides him and his children human presence is scant, you feel instantly that there a heavy sadness must be weighing him down, and perhaps a longing for something this world cannot supply. But surely I must take care not to imbue Fethweyre, who for all I know may have never even existed, with a mindset of my own: this is easily the lowliest thing a storyteller may do to his character. I will only remark that the children were, it seemed, from different mothers.

Davenport was a port, as the name suggests. Nested on a dark cold river, in a bay opening onto the Sea of Amalt, it supplied most of the east of The Country with goods as diverse as bread and cannons, and all along was, of course, an eyesore to the Harragian Empire. Initially nobody expected the Trade War to unroll beyond a couple of skirmishes on the southern border of The Country—the Harragian Emperor was ever on very friendly, even loving terms with the King (they had to them one common ancestor, lost in the endless records of royal genealogies), and so both the Emperor and the King would always deny the merest speck of suspicion that any full-fledged war between the two great powers was possible. And yet the following correspondence survives to this day, perhaps to demonstrate how comfortable and short is the road to hell.

It all began when the Emperor of Harrag wrote thus to the King of The Country:

Faafnir,
The Almighty Himself must be wearied by now. For Lo, nightly we pray that thou and thy family may be healthy, prosperous, and that the winds of this gruesome age do not visit thy face too roughly.

What unseemly rumours have reached us! How it pains us to hear that our borders were violated, and in a manner so incompatible with a neighbour as dearly and deeply loved as thou! For we are told, my brother, that thy troops (well organised, it seems) did pillage and plunder some of our poor villages, where already life is but stalled by the onset of the furious winter. I am convinced, O Faafnir, that this is a gruesome mistake, and that thy brief inquiry will quickly right these sad and troublesome matters. Affectionately expecting your response I am

Your brother
Sceallig

The King then responded to the Emperor a bit impatiently…

Sceallig,
Thy prayers have not gone un-answered; indeed I, as all of my household, are well. The same, I hope, is true about thee.

With all my sympathy for thy plight, mayn’t it be that it was thy stray warlord who, unleashing a whim or fancy of his, broke into my realm and caused much distress to my subjects? For such is the story here… I do not mean, of course, to distrust thee—I merely humbly suppose that thou could entertain an investigation into thy own affairs concurrently with me.

Should thou learn anything, alert your most considerate and respectful brother
Faafnir

To which the Emperor replied:

My dear Faafnir,

Think thou we would have troubled such an esteemed and glorious statesman as thy shining self without first checking if our own departments were in order? For we did inquire; so great was our wrath with this wrongdoing that, should we have found the guilty—a wretch impudent enough to dare strike a wedge between our Houses, joined together by centuries of friendship—none of his blood would have been left to tread the snows. We found naught, however; and yester eve, sad tidings have reached us. It seems thy troops have raided more of our villages, and left many families without shelter or or [sic!] protector.

We pray, Faafnir, that this sad and shameful business is brought to end quickly and without further pain.

Sceallig

The King seemed equally magnanimous:

Sceallig,

My dear brother—what is this if not some monstrous confusion? The few of my ministers that dared slander thy good name I had imprisoned. Yet what news comes from the South brings little relief. It is rumoured, and my intelligence reports do this affirm, that thy armies march lawlessly across my lands. Pray pull them back before it is too late.

Your brother
Faafnir

What happened in between we do not really know. But it is very probable that the warmongering clique in Harragian Empire was lucky enough to meet its kind’s match in The Country, with the effect that their murderous greeds united in a paroxysm of death and devastation. The correspondence ended thus:

Faafnir,

Our troops are merely protecting against the godless assaults of your banditry. Please, brother, do not expect us to watch helplessly as your assassins lay waste to our country; but may The Almighty instead give you wisdom enough to put an end to this misery and retire from our dominions.

Your ally in hope—
Sceallig

The King did not reply. Instead, an envoy arrived to the court of the Harrag with the following letter:

To the Imperial Court of Sceallig III the Illustrious, Emperor of Harrag

Your Imperial Majesty,

We are deeply saddened and grieved at heart to advise you that,
Because your troops have violated the sanctity of the borders between our two States, and
Because your regiments have inflicted massive damage on the South of our country, and
Because your aggression has caused great displacement of people in our realm, as it did cause deaths, hunger, and disease,

The Country is now in a state of War with the Empire of Harrag.

I have the honour to remain your obedient servant,
Alfred W. Scatterwaite
Prime Minister

And then, of course, things were instantly in a greater disarray than anyone could have imagined. Harragian troops proceeded up north swiftly: at least initially, they met with little resistance. And so it happened that in several months’ time, they laid siege to Davenport.

Davenport was a big city, easily numbering two million inhabitants. It was impossible, therefore, to evacuate all people at once, and preference was given to old people, women and children. At the same time, because back in the peaceful days The Country was quite advanced in all aspects of social life, the newest population census was only three years old. That was what helped the thankful government to hold, at each assembly point, enough policemen and inspectors with lists of people eligible to be evacuated, to make sure that the quotas (which established precisely how many people were supposed to leave the city) were not exceeded. After all, they only had so many trucks.

Many people fled Davenport on foot. But it was an almost hopeless undertaking: the awful frost arrested the warm beat of the blood, the dispassionate wind cut the skin as a razor, and the nearest town was no nearer than a hundred miles away. Yet people preferred to drive themselves to an almost inevitable death in the winter’s loveless embrace than to stay and wait till their kin arrived to enslave them.

Fethweyre stayed. He wanted to make sure his children were evacuated and were taken away in a warm car. He knew how to make use of a gun, and thought he could take care of himself in the sieged city, and didn’t worry much.

But one night—that was immediately on the eve of the first day of Evacuation—he woke up because he felt something was terribly wrong. He went down to the children’s bedroom, and there was nobody there. He looked in all the other rooms, in the cellar, in the attic, all around the house, in the shed… The place was quite deserted, and betrayed no signs of life. Fethweyre knew then what happened (he knew instantly, in fact, when he saw one of the windows was swinging wildly, inviting cold to take possession of the house)—the children escaped because they didn’t want to go away from him.

Fethweyre’s hair became gray very quickly. He grabbed a light, a rifle, and went out in search of his fourteen-year-old boy and his nine-year-old girl. He didn’t find them.

All the first day, as other parents were evacuating their children and their old ones, Fethweyre spent looking for his Elia and his Kay. He didn’t have anyone else to think of; in fact, he simply didn’t have anyone else. And so he looked for them all day, and all night, and the beginning of the next day, too. He didn’t find them. He was finally so exhausted that he came home, collapsed to the floor, cried, and then fell asleep. When he woke up, he realised it was the third and the last day of Evacuation. So he equipped himself as best he could with warm clothes, put on the most cold-proof boots he had, stuck a flask of brandy in one of his pockets and and ventured forth in search of his children. He looked everywhere. He thought of every place where they could possibly go: the school, friends, grandmother’s forsaken flat. And still he didn’t find them.

Fethweyre knew then that his children were dead. Perhaps they weren’t even dead as he continued looking for them. But even if they returned to him, and attempted to survive the blockade, they would die then—from hunger, cold, tiredness, tedium and dread.

Then Fethweyre shrugged his shoulders and went on. He wandered in the streets a bit longer, and finally found a boy who was almost green with cold. Fethweyre saw this boy for the first time in his life, but without saying anything, he caught him by the hand, made him drink some brandy and dragged him onwards. The boy was so weak and frightened that he didn’t even resist. An hour passed. In two hours, assembly points for Evacuation would close. The boy was almost dead. Then Fethweyre took off his coat and put it on the boy, thinking what to do next. They were in a little side-street, all by themselves, with only the cold wind gushing in hungrily from time to time. And then a girl came by. She was a rather unearthly presence: quite unperturbed and docile, she looked as though she had just taken a mathematics test and wasn’t quite sure what the answer to question 5 was.

‘Do you need help, sir?’ she said.
‘Why are you here?’ asked Anton harshly. ‘Tell your parents to take you to the assembly point.’
‘There’s no-one to escort me there, sir,’ said the girl, ‘and I have memory lapses—I know neither my name, nor where I live, nor where my parents are. I don’t think they would take me.’
‘Very well,’ said Anton.

He then took both the boy and the girl by their hands and walked with them to the nearest Evacuation checkpoint. The officer eyed them suspiciously.
‘Names, please,’ he said.
‘Boy, by the name of Kay Fethweyre,’ replied Anton. ‘Girl, by the name of Elia Fethweyre.’
‘Fine,’ shrugged the officer. ‘In the truck, please.’

The children got inside the truck. Anton didn’t even bother to give them a symbolic kiss, nobody was looking anyway, and he didn’t feel it was proper. It was warm inside the truck, warm from the heater but also the young bodies, and nobody spoke, people only breathed. It was a rather ghastly sound, and Anton Fethweyre stepped back. Half an hour passed, and then the truck drove off. It had brightly coloured bands on it, so that the enemy's warplanes would know the vehicle carried civilians, and wouldn't shoot. The children (whose real names Fethweyre never learned) didn’t say anything to him.

Anton came back to his house, and the siege began the next day.

It is not clear if Anton’s children survived the blockade. We only know that they never came back to him. Perhaps his initial thoughts were quite wrong, and they never loved him enough—and just used the chaos to run away. But I don’t believe this; grown people could have done so, not a fourteen-year-old Kay and a nine-year-old Elia. I think it is far likelier that they got lost in all the mud, blood and fear of the war… perhaps got killed or froze to death. What I do know for a fact, though, is that on the outskirts of Davenport there still survives a tombstone with a strange inscription on it:

HERE LIES ANTON. HE LOST HIS HEAD.

There are no remains in the tomb, though—it is a cenotaph.

О разложении и делении столбиком, или Hoofbeats in Texas. Занудно и непонятно зачем

Wed, 19 Nov 2008 09:24:16 GMT

Одно из катастрофически распространенных неумений – неумение мыслить системно и формулировать проблемы или задачи. Это довольно странно, так как совершенно не обязательно быть блестящим логиком и питомцем Сорбонны, чтобы находить и артикулировать причинно-следственные связи между явлениями. Анализ практически всех феноменальных последовательностей (мой язык, как хочу, так и использую) упирается в два банальных правила:

1. Понять, что из чего следует (а это часто непросто, конечно – тут тебе и проблема корреляции, не являющейся причинно-следственной связью, и ошибка post hoc ergo propter hoc, и прочее);
2. Приоритизировать причины по их вероятности (как выясняется, медиков учат следующему прекрасному клише: When you hear hoofbeats in Texas, think horses, not zebras; также уместно вспомнить знаменитое When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth).

Этот принцип (естественно, я его упрощаю) лежит, в частности, в основе дифференциальной диагностики, которую так любит д-р Хаус, а также, собственно, в основе дедуктивного метода его литературного прототипа – Холмса. И в целом систематически-аналитический подход, конечно, весьма продуктивен – знающий человек ценен не столько знаниями как таковыми, сколько умением эти знания идентифицировать, упаковывать и выстраивать из них осадные машины.

Однако, как часто бывает, анализ явлений иногда становится целью в себе, побеждающей исходные задачи – а это весьма губительно. У меня именно поэтому весьма большие вопросы вызывает психоанализ вообще как комплекс терапевтических практик. Естественно, на 90% это происходит от незнания, но вообще-то мне не даёт покоя кое-какое соображение.

Мне кажется, что анализ разнообразных манифестаций работы человеческой психики в определенной степени непременно обречен на неудачу хотя бы потому, что психика, пускай лишь только в той части, где её дисфункции обусловлены физиологией (обратным захватом серотонина, например [простите, кто уже слышал, за автоцитату]) – вещь-то довольно иррациональная. Ясное дело, простейшие явления типа "заходите к начальнику после обеда, а не до" вполне просчитываемы и, м-м-м, алгоритмизируемы. Но вещи более сложные?.. Любовь, ненависть, фобии, зависть – и особенно их многогранные пермутации?

По-моему, довольно наивно полагать, будто измерение и даже идентификация психологического явления вместе с его root causes непременно влечет за собой полное понимание и возможность исцеления. Для того чтобы из человека, которому острый край жизни отрезал энергетическую голову, получился беззаботный жуир, требуется не просто сказать: "Это вас, батенька, гильотиной так удружило", но пришить ему эту голову обратно.

И вот тут-то, как показывает практика, человек сам по себе мало на что способен. Он бы и рад воздействовать на свои реакции и брать их в узду, но не так-то он властен над ними, как можно подумать... Потому что реакции есть не просто сложение исходных компонентов, которые могут быть вполне очевидны, но сложная и эволюционирующая система, предсказать развитие которой – да еще если это развитие произошло в прошлом – практически невозможно, т.к. она по умолчанию стремится к увеличению энтропии.

И именно поэтому я всегда с некоторым недоверием относился... даже не к людям, но к ситуациям, в которых после каких-то триггерных событий (тренинга, разговора, обучения) "становится понятно". Гомеостаз – слишком сильное и фундаментальное свойство человека, он не может позволить себе небрежно оставлять неиспользованными по углам разума и существа большие резервы энергии; так, я уверен, не бывает – в противном случае это всё равно как если бы у больного гемофилией по крепкому размышлению прекратилось бы кровотечение. Следовательно, говорю я, то, что психоанализирующиеся люди принимают за исцеление, есть не исцеление как таковое, но, пожалуй, черпание из какого-то другого колодца. Из какого?..

В общем, общайтесь и любите друг друга, и не анализируйте чрезмерно. Хе-хе.

(x-posted to/from http://www.baburi.ru/forum/blog.php?b=48)

Yay, like, and stuff

Wed, 05 Nov 2008 05:24:43 GMT

Ну, вот, отлично, похоже, Обама победил. Экзит-поллы интересные, кстати: получается, что Обаме победу принесли женщины и молодость. Экий кросавчег!

А между тем т.н. "законы Джима Кроу" были в целом отменены лишь сорок три года назад. То есть сегрегация на государственном уровне закончилась в США на памяти того же Обамы.

В общем, очень круто. Америка - молодец. Опять хочу туда!

Политическое

Tue, 04 Nov 2008 12:43:42 GMT

Я очень сильно надеюсь, что в США на выборах победит Обама. Вот динамически обновляющаяся карта с результатами. Если я правильно понимаю, первые участки (Индиана, Кентукки, Вирджиния и т.п.) закроются в три часа ночи по Москве - будем с интересом наблюдать.

Кстати, я тут недавно узнал довольно интересную вещь, которую, наверное, многие и так знают. Оказывается, Огайо - это такой штат-лакмусовая бумажка по президентским выборам: в США не было ни одного президента-республиканца, которого не поддержал бы этот штат, а демократов таких было всего два (в частности, в 1960 Огайо проголосовало за Никсона, а победил Кеннеди). Очевидно, что прошлое у нас в данном контексте обладает ограниченной предсказательной силой, но тем не менее это полезно.

Teeth

Tue, 04 Nov 2008 12:31:01 GMT

С удивлением узнали, что у distan зубов менее, чем у меня, на пару.

Причем у меня зубяно-мудрое превосходство располагается слева.

Надо что-то с этими зубами сделать - зря они, что ли.

Стану клацать.

Sun, 07 Sep 2008 12:35:05 GMT

distan, он же Мать.

Wally Walker

Tue, 19 Aug 2008 18:37:12 GMT

Хорошее интервью с Валерием Борчиным, олимпийским чемпионом по спортивной ходьбе. Колесников.

http://kommersant.ru/doc.aspx?DocsID=1012841&NodesID=9

Ανάθεμα

Wed, 13 Aug 2008 22:46:56 GMT

Ниже - одна из любимых мною цитат, как нельзя больше подходящих к ситуации. Были с distan в осетинском центре (завтра вернемся с грузом, сегодня как-то не сориентировались и пришли поздно), видели там poletov'а и поговорили с женщиной, принимающей передачи для вынужденных переселенцев из Цхинвали. Она в чёрном, волосы у неё красивые. Северная осетинка. Пересказывать разговор не имеет смысла, т.к. обсуждавшееся будет очевидно людям, которые меня ещё не расфрендили. Кстати, было бы интересно поговорить о "расфренживании", если б не то, насколько все эти выясненьица отношеньиц прямо-таки болезненно безвкусны сейчас - в одном месте люди сотнями гибнут под ураганным обстрелом из "Градов", а в другом - услышав, что Буш и Саакашвили нехорошие, фыркают и хлопают дверью.

Я вот правда не понимаю кое-чего (это уже такой возглас в воздух скорее). Ведь я далёк от квасного патриотизма. Я сам первый бегу теплых метротолп и единения с народом. Я далёк от осуждения либеральных взглядов и безоглядного прозападничества в равной степени; во многих отношениях большего сноба, чем я, ещё поискать. И я очень люблю Америку - её хайвеи, её приветливый народ, её белую аристократию и то, насколько хорошо в ней жить. А уж про Европу я не говорю. Кроме того, я по крови на 1/8, а по темпераменту, наверное, на 1/3 грузин, был в Грузии несколько раз, и никаких впечатлений, кроме самых лучших, из неё не вывез.

Но я не понимаю при всём том, до какой степени должен, мягко говоря, избирательно работать мозг, чтоб оправдывать массовые убийства невинных людей? Или не замечать их? Чтобы полностью отождествлять страны с их правительствами? Почему "демократия" - это синоним "марионеточного режима США"? Как все эти апологеты невмешательства или обвинительной риторики Буша-Райс-Чени могут спокойно пролистывать новостные сайты, пестрящие - теперь уже на всех языках, кажется - сообщениями о том, сколько десятков тысяч людей из Южной Осетии были displaced? о том, в каких условиях работают хирурги в Цхинвали, где были разрушены больницы? о том, что делали грузинские солдаты с осетинами?..

Do you not weep?
Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out.
The element of water moistens the earth,
But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens.

The Duchess of Malfi
John Webster

Wed, 13 Aug 2008 17:17:59 GMT

The sooner Bush's bloodthirsty war-mongering clique gets ousted out of the White House, the better for this poor world.

Hate

Fri, 08 Aug 2008 08:45:51 GMT

Надеюсь, что у нашего правительства хватит мужества и решительности уничтожить этих уродов без жалости и рефлексий.

Как я уже говорил раньше, Грузию надо аннексировать (так будет лучше для всех). Саакашвили я предлагал сделать политзаключенным и послать в Сибирь, но теперь думаю, что его и весь его гнусный выводок нужно просто раздавить тапком, как отвратительных ядовитых тараканов.

Чтоб вы сдохли, чертовы лицемерные сволочи, шизофренические убийцы.