σκατοψυχιά (sic)

[tamagothi]

Λοιπόν. Εδώ βάζουμε ό,τι θα μπορούσε να χαρακτηριστεί σκατόψυχο. Ό,τι διαβάσαμε και μας ξέσκισε την καρδιά. Ό,τι μας έκανε να θέλουμε να χρησιμοποιήσουμε τις σελίδες του για να κόψουμε τις φλέβες μας.

πι-χι:

Μπλοκ
Night, street, lamp, drugstore...
Night, street, lamp, drugstore,
A dull and meaningless light.
Go on and live another quarter century -
Nothing will change. There's no way out.

You'll die, then start from the beginning,
It will repeat, just like before:
Night, icy ripples on a canal,
Drugstore, street, lamp.

10 October 1912
[spoiler:41gmypzp]Ночь, улица, фонарь, аптека...
Ночь, улица, фонарь, аптека,
Бессмысленный и тусклый свет.
Живи еще хоть четверть века -
Все будет так. Исхода нет.

Умрешь - начнешь опять сначала
И повторится все, как встарь:
Ночь, ледяная рябь канала,
Аптека, улица, фонарь.

10 октября 1912[/spoiler:41gmypzp]

[tamagothi]

Επίσης, ο Βάνκα του Τσέχωφ είναι άνετα ό,τι πιο σκατόψυχο έχω διαβάσει ποτέ.

NINE-YEAR-OLD Vanka Zhukov, who had been apprenticed three months ago to Alyakhin the shoemaker, did not go to bed on Christmas eve. He waited till his master and mistress and the senior apprentices had gone to church, and then took from the cupboard a bottle of ink and a pen with a rusty nib, spread out a crumpled sheet of paper, and was all ready to write. Before tracing the first letter he glanced several times anxiously at the door and window, peered at the dark icon, with shelves holding cobbler's lasts stretching on either side of it, and gave a quivering sigh. The paper lay on the bench, and Vanka knelt on the floor at the bench.

"Dear Grandad Konstantin Makarich," he wrote. "I am writing a letter to you. I send you Christmas greetings and hope God will send you his blessings. I have no Father and no Mummie and you are all I have left."

[spoiler:3iwb4l76]Vanka raised his eves to the dark window-pane, in which the reflection of the candle flickered, and in his imagination distinctly saw his grandfather, Konstantin Makarich, who was night watchman on the estate of some gentlefolk called Zhivarev. He was a small, lean old man about sixty-five. but remarkably lively and agile, with a smiling face and eves bleary with drink. In the daytime he either slept in the back kitchen, or sat joking with the cook and the kitchen-maids, and in the night, wrapped in a great sheepskin coat, he walked round and round the estate, sounding his rattle. After him, with drooping heads, went old Kashtanka and another dog, called Eel, on account of his black coat and long, weasel-like body. Eel was wonderfully respectful and insinuating, and turned the same appealing glance on friends and strangers alike, but he inspired confidence in no one. His deferential manner and docility were a cloak for the most Jesuitical spite and malice. He was an adept at stealing up, to snap at a foot, creeping into the ice-house, or snatching a peasant's chicken. His hind-legs had been slashed again and again, twice he had been strung up, he was beaten within an inch of his life every week, but he survived it all.

Grandad was probably standing at the gate at this moment, screwing up his eves to look at the bright red light coming from the church windows, or stumping about in his felt boots, fooling with the servants. His rattle would be fastened to his belt. He would be throwing out his arms and hugging himself against the cold, or, with his old man's titter, pinching a maid, or one of the cooks. "Have a nip," he would say, holding out his snuffbox to the women.

The women would take a pinch and sneeze. Grandfather would be overcome with delight, breaking out into jolly laughter, and shouting:

"Good for frozen noses!"

Even the dogs would be given snuff. Kashtanka would sneeze, shake her head and walk away, offended. But Eel, too polite to sneeze, would wag his tail. And the weather was glorious. The air still, transparent. fresh. It was a dark night, but the whole village with its white roofs, the smoke rising from the chimneys, the trees, silver with rime, the snow-drifts, could be seen distinctly. The sky was sprinkled with gaily twinkling stars, and the Milky Way stood out as clearly as if newly scrubbed for the holiday and polished with snow....

Vanka sighed, dipped his pen in the ink, and went on writing:

"And yesterday I had such a hiding. The master took me by the hair and dragged me out into the yard and beat me with the stirrup-strap because by mistake I went to sleep rocking their baby. And one day last week the mistress told me to gut a herring and I began from the tail and she picked up the herring and rubbed my face with the head. The other apprentices make fun of me, they send me to the tavern for vodka and make me steal the masters cucumbers and the master beats me with the first thing he finds. And there is nothing to eat. They give me bread in the morning and gruel for dinner and in the evening bread again but I never get tea or cabbage soup they gobble it all rip themselves. And they make me sleep in the passage and when their baby cries I dont get any sleep at all I have to rock it. Dear Grandad for the dear Lords sake take me away from here take me home to the village I cant bear it any longer. Oh Grandad I beg and implore you and I will always pray for you do take me away from here or I'll die. . . ."

Vanka's lips twitched, he rubbed his eyes with a black fist and gave a sob.

"I will grind your snuff for you," he went on. "I will pray for you and you can flog me as hard as you like if I am naughty. And if you think there is nothing for me to do I will ask the steward to take pity on me and let me clean the boots or I will go as a shepherd-boy instead of Fedya. Dear Grandad I cant stand it it is killing me. I thought I would run away on foot to the village but I have no boots and I was afraid of the frost. And when I grow up to be a man I will look after you and I will not let anyone hurt you and when you die I will pray for your soul like I do for my Mummie.

"Moscow is such a big town there are so many gentlemens houses and such a lot of horses and no sheep and the dogs are not a bit fierce. The boys dont go about with the star at Christmas and they dont let you sing in church and once I saw them selling fish-hooks in the shop all together with the lines and for any fish you like very good ones and there was one would hold a sheat-fish weighing thirty pounds and I have seen shops where there are all sorts of guns just like the master has at home they must cost a hundred rubles each. And in the butchers shops there are grouse and wood-cock and hares but the people in the shop dont say where they were shot.

"Dear Grandad when they have a Christmas tree at the big house take a gilded nut for me and put it away in the green chest. Ask Miss Olga Ignatvevna tell her its for Vanka."

Vanka gave a sharp sigh and once more gazed at the windowpane. He remembered his grandfather going to get a Christmas tree for the gentry, and taking his grandson with him. Oh, what happy times those had been! Grandfather would give a chuckle, and the frost-bound wood chuckled, and Vanka, following their example, chuckled, too. Before chopping down the fir-tree, Grandfather would smoke a pipe, take a long pinch of snuff, and laugh at the shivering Vanka. . . . The young fir-trees, coated with frost, stood motionless, waiting to see which one of them was to die. And suddenly a hare would come leaping over a snow-drift, swift as an arrow.. .. Grandfather could never help shouting:

"Stop it, stop it . . . stop it! Oh, you stub-tailed devil!"

Grandfather would drag the tree to the big house, and they would start decorating it. . . . Miss Olga Ignatyevna, Vanka's favorite, was the busiest of all. While Pelageva, Vanka's mother, was alive and in service at the big house, Olga Ignatyevna used to give Vanka sweets, and amuse herself by teaching him to read, write and count to a hundred, and even to dance the quadrille. But when Pelageya died, the orphaned Vanka was sent down to the back kitchen to his grandfather, and from there to Moscow, to Alyakhin the shoemaker. . . .

"Come to me dear Grandad," continued Vanka. "I beg you for Christs sake take me away from here. Pity me unhappy orphan they beat me all the time and I am always hungry and I am so miserable here I cant tell you I cry all the time. And one day the master hit me over the head with a last and I fell down and thought I would never get rip again. I have such a miserable life worse than a dogs. And I send my love to Alyona one-eyed Yegor and the coachman and dont give my concertina to anyone. I remain your grandson Ivan Zhukov dear Grandad do come."

Vanka folded the sheet of paper in four and put it into an envelope which he had bought the day before for a kopek. ... Then he paused to think, dipped his pen into the ink-pot, wrote: "To Grandfather in the village," scratched his head, thought again, then added:

"TO KONSTANTIN MAKARICH"

Pleased that no one had prevented him from writing, he put on his cap and ran out into the sheet without putting his coat on over his shirt.

The men at the butcher's told him, when he asked them the day before, that letters are put into letter-boxes, and from these boxes sent all over the world on mail coaches with three horses and drunken drivers and jingling bells. Vanka ran as far as the nearest letter-box and dropped his precious letter into the slit. . .

An hour later, lulled by rosy hopes, he was fast asleep. . . . He dreamed of a stove. On the stove-ledge sat his grandfather, his bare feet dangling, reading the letter to the cooks. . . . Eel was walking backwards and forwards in front of the stove, wagging his tail. . .[/spoiler:3iwb4l76]

[tamagothi]

Μια που ενθουσιάστηκαν τα πλήθη, συνεχίζω.

Μαξιμ Γκόρκι - Η φλογερή καρδιά του Ντάνκο (ακα η γριά Ιζεργκίλ).

- Do you see those sparks? - asked me Izergil.
- Those over there, the light blue ones? – pointing to the steppe, I said.
- Light blue? Yes, those are they. So they’re still flying! Well-Well… I can’t see them anymore. I can’t see a lot nowadays.
- Where are these sparks from? - I asked the old woman. I heard something before about the origin of those sparks, but I wanted to hear about what old Izergil would say about them.
- These are the sparks from the burning heart of Danko. There used to be a heart in this world that once ignited with a fire… And from that fire are these sparks. I will tell you about this…

[spoiler:kfh0rv2u]“A long time ago, there lived a people. Impassable forests surrounded their herds from three sides, and on the fourth side was the steppe. These were happy, strong and brave people. And so once there came a hard time. Other tribes showed up from somewhere and chased the previous ones into the depth of the forest. There, there were swamps and darkness, because the forest was old, and its branches tangled so thickly that through them you could not see the sky and the rays of the sun could barely break through to the swamps through the thick leaves. And when its rays fell onto the water of the swamps, the stench would rise and from it people would die one after the other. Then the wives and children began to cry, and the fathers became pensive and fell into a depression. You needed to leave the forest and for that there were two paths: one – back – where there were powerful and evil enemies, another – forward – where there stood giant trees, tightly embracing one another with mighty branches, lowering their knotted roots deep into the clinging mire of the swamp. These stonelike trees stood silently and motionless during the day, in the grey twilight and would come together even tighter around the people in the evenings when the bonfires were lit. And always, day and night, around those people was a ring of strong darkness. It seemed like it was going to crush them, and they were used to the spaciousness of the steppe. And it was even more frightening when the wind would hit against the tops of the trees and the whole forest would make a dull hum, as if it were threatening them, and sang a funeral dirge for those people. And nonetheless these were strong people and they could have gone into a mortal battle with those that once defeated them, but they could not die in battles because they had certain precepts, and if they’d died then their precepts would dissapear with them. And so they sat and thought through the long nights, in the dull noise of the forest, in the poisonous stench of the swamp. They sat, and the shadows from the bonfires danced around them in a silent dance, and it seemed to everyone that it was not the shadows that were dancing, but triumphant evil spirits of the forest and swamp. The people just sat and thought. But nothing, not labor, not women, so wear out the bodies and souls of people as do depressing thoughts. And the people became weak from thoughts… Fear was born among them, bound their powerful arms. The women created terror with their weeping over the bodies of those dead from the stench and over the fate of the living, paralyzed by fear. And fearful words were heard in the forest, first unsure and quiet and then louder and louder… Already they wanted to go to the enemy and give them a gift of their freedom, and no one, frightened by death, was afraid of a slave’s life. But here appeared Danko and alone saved everyone.”
The old woman clearly often told the story of the burning heart of Danko. She spoke melodiously, and her voice, squeaky and dull, vividly drew in front of me the noise of the forest, inside which were dying from the poisonous breath of the swamp the unlucky, run-down people…
“Danko – is one of those people, a young, handsome man. The handsome ones are always brave. And so he tells them, his friends:
- You cannot move a rock from your path by thinking. One who does nothing, nothing will happen to him. Why do we waste our strength thinking and being depressed. Arise, lets go into the forest, and walk through it. It must have an end – everything in the world has an end! Let’s go! Well! Hey!…
They looked at him and saw that he is the best among them, because in his eyes glowed lots of strength and living fire.
- You lead us! - they said.
Then he led…”
The old woman stayed silent for a while and looked at the steppe where the darkness was stil getting thicker. The little sparks of Danko’s burning heart flared up somewhere far away and seemed like blue airborne flowers, blossoming just for an instant.
“Danko led them. Everyone went cheerfully – they believed in him. It was a hard path! It was dark and at every step the swamp opened its greedy rotting maw, swallowing people, and the trees blocked the way with a mighty wall. All their branches intertwined; like serpents the roots stretched everywhere, and each step cost a lot of sweat and blood to those people. They walked a long time… The forest got thicker and thicker. Their strength was waning! And so they started to complain about Danko, saying that it was in vain that he, young and inexperienced led them somewhere. But he walked ahead of them and was fresh and clear.
But once, a storm struck over the forest. The trees began to whisper quietly, ominously. And then it became so dark in the forest as if inside it gathered all the nights that have existed in the world since it was born. The little people walked among the big trees and in the terrible noise of the lightning, they walked, and swaying, the giant trees creaked and hummed angry songs, and the lightning bolts, flying over the tops of the forest, lit it for a minute with a blue, cold fire and disappeared as quickly as they appeared, frightening people. And the trees, lit up by the cold fire of the lightning, seemed alive, stretching among the people escaping from the captivity of the darkness. Crooked, long arms, weaving into a thick net, trying to stop the people. And from the darkness of the branches something frightening, dark and cold was staring at those walking. It was a difficult path, and the people exhausted by it lost their spirit. But they were embarrassed to admit their powerlessness and so in their anger and hatred they fell upon Danko, the man who walked in front of them. And they began to accuse him of his incompetence in leading them – that’s how it was!
They stopped and over the triumphant noise of the forest, among the trembling darkness, tired and angry, they began to judge Danko.
You – they said – are a worthless and harmful man for us! You led us and tired us out, and for this you will perish!
You said: “Lead!” and so I led – shouted Danko, squaring himself against them. - I have the courage to lead, that is why I led you! And you? What have you done to help yourself? You only walked and could not save your strength for a longer way! You only walked, walked like a herd of sheep!
But these words only angered them more.
- You will die! You will die! - they roared. And the forest hummed and hummed, echoing their cries and the lightning bolts ripped the darkness into shreds. Danko looked at those for whose sake he took on this burden and saw that they were like animals. Many people stood around him, but in their faces there was no nobility, and he could not expect mercy from them. Then in his heart boiled indignation, but because of pity toward the people it died out. He loved the people and thought that, maybe, without him they would perish. And so his heart flared up with the fire of the desire to save them, lead them to an easy path, and then in his eyes sparkled the rays of that mighty fire… And they, seeing this, thought that he was filled with ferocity, why else would his eyes burn so brightly, and they became cautious like wolves, expecting that he would struggle with them and they began to surround him more tightly so that it would be easier for them to grab and kill Danko. And he understood their thoughts already, and it made his heart burn even brighter, since this thought made him sad.
And the forest kept singing its dark song, and the thunder rolled, and the rain poured…
-What will I do for the people?! – louder than thunder shouted Danko.
And suddenly he ripped apart his chest with his hands and ripped out from it his own heart and raised it high over his head.
It burned as bright as the sun, and brighter than the sun, and the entire forest became silent, lit up by this torch of the great love towards the people, and the darkness flew away from its light and there, deep in the forest, trembling, fell into the rotting maw of the swamp. The people, amazed, stood like stones.
- Let’s go! – shouted Danko and rushed ahead to his place, holding the burning heart high and lighting the way with it for the people.
They rushed after him, mesmerized. Then the forest began to make noise again, amazed, rocking the tops of the trees, but its noise was drowned out by the footsteps of the running people. They ran quickly and bravely, pulled by the amazing sight of the burning heart.
And though they were still dying, they were dying without complaints and tears. And Danko was still in front, and his heart was still burning, burning!
And so suddenly the forest came apart in front of them, came apart and remained behind, dense and mute, and Danko and all these people immediately dove into a sea of sunlight and clean air, washed by the rain. The storm was there, behind them, over the forest, but here the sun was shining, the steppe was breathing, the grass sparkled with the diamonds of the rain and the river shone like gold. It was evening and from the rays of the sunset it seemed red, like the blood that spurted in a hot stream from the torn chest of Danko.
The proud and brave Danko took a look in front of him along the width of the steppe – took a happy look at the free land and proudly laughed. And then fell – and died.
But the people, happy and full of hope did not notice his death and did not see that next to Danko’s body his brave heart was still burning. Only one cautious person noticed this and afraid of something, stepped on the proud heart with his foot. And falling apart into sparks it went out….”
This is where they come from, the blue sparks of the steppe that appear before a storm![/spoiler:kfh0rv2u]

[tamagothi]

Καιιιιιιιιιιιι...

Νικολάι Γκόγκολ - Το παλτό

In the department of—but it is better not to mention the department. There is nothing more irritable than departments, regiments, courts of justice, and, in a word, every branch of public service. Each individual attached to them nowadays thinks all society insulted in his person. Quite recently a complaint was received from a justice of the peace, in which he plainly demonstrated that all the imperial institutions were going to the dogs, and that the Czar’s sacred name was being taken in vain; and in proof he appended to the complaint a romance in which the justice of the peace is made to appear about once every ten lines, and sometimes in a drunken condition. Therefore, in order to avoid all unpleasantness, it will be better to describe the department in question only as a certain department.

So, in a certain department there was a certain official—not a very high one, it must be allowed—short of stature, somewhat pock-marked, red-haired, and short-sighted, with a bald forehead, wrinkled cheeks, and a complexion of the kind known as sanguine. The St. Petersburg climate was responsible for this. As for his official status, he was what is called a perpetual titular councillor, over which, as is well known, some writers make merry, and crack their jokes, obeying the praiseworthy custom of attacking those who cannot bite back.

His family name was Bashmatchkin. This name is evidently derived from “bashmak” (shoe); but when, at what time, and in what manner, is not known. His father and grandfather, and all the Bashmatchkins, always wore boots, which only had new heels two or three times a year. His name was Akakiy Akakievitch. It may strike the reader as rather singular and far-fetched, but he may rest assured that it was by no means far-fetched, and that the circumstances were such that it would have been impossible to give him any other.

This is how it came about. (http://etext.library.adelaide.edu.au/g/gogol/nikolai/g61cl/)

[Ingolemo]

C-C-C-COMBO BREAKER!!!`11

[metamelia3]

Δεν ξέρω πως θα φανεί έξω απ' το υπόλοιπο κείμενο αλλά οκ:

- Ο νέος απόστολος για τους εθνικούς, λέει ο πολίτης. Παγκόσμια αγάπη.
- Γιατί; λέει ο Τζον Γουάιζ. Μήπως αυτό δεν μας εδίδαξαν; Αγάπα τον πλησίον σου.
- Αυτός εδώ; λέει ο πολίτης. Μάδα τον πλησίον μου, αυτό είναι το έμβλημά του. Αγάπη προσοδοφόρος! Είναι ένα ωραίο υπόδειγμα Ρωμαίου και Ιουλιέτας.
Η αγάπη αγαπάει ν' αγαπάει την αγάπη. Η νοσοκόμα αγαπάει το νεαρό φαρμακοποιό. Ο αστυφύλακας 14Α αγαπάει τη Μαίρη Κέλλυ. Η Γκέρτυ ΜακΝτάουελλ αγαπάει το νεαρό ποδηλάτη. Η Μ. Μπ. αγαπάει έναν ξανθό κύριο. Ο Λι Τζι Χαν αγαπάει την αξιοφίλητη Τσα Φου Τσάου. Ο Τζάμπο, ο ελέφανταςμ αγαπάει την Αλίκη, την ελεφαντίνα. Ο ηλικιωμένος κύριος Βερσχούλ, με το ακουστικό κέρας, αγαπάει την ηλικιωμένη κυρία Βερσχούλ με τ' αλλήθωρα μάτια. Ο άνθρωπος με το καφέ αδιάβροχο αγαπάει την κυρία που πέθανε. Η Αυτού Μεγαλειότης ο Βασιλεύς αγαπάει την Αυτής Μεγαλειότητα την Βασίλισσα. Η κυρία Νόρμαν Γ. Τάπερ αγαπάει τον αξιωματικό Τέιλορ. Εσείς αγαπάτε κάποιο πρόσωπο. Και αυτό το πρόσωπο αγαπάει εκείνο το άλλο πρόσωπο, επειδή ο καθένας αγαπάει κάποιον, όμως ο Θεός τους αγαπάει όλους.

<~~

[X]

Καιιιιιιιιιιιι...

Νικολάι Γκόγκολ - Το παλτό

In the department of—but it is better not to mention the department. There is nothing more irritable than departments, regiments, courts of justice, and, in a word, every branch of public service. Each individual attached to them nowadays thinks all society insulted in his person. Quite recently a complaint was received from a justice of the peace, in which he plainly demonstrated that all the imperial institutions were going to the dogs, and that the Czar’s sacred name was being taken in vain; and in proof he appended to the complaint a romance in which the justice of the peace is made to appear about once every ten lines, and sometimes in a drunken condition. Therefore, in order to avoid all unpleasantness, it will be better to describe the department in question only as a certain department.

So, in a certain department there was a certain official—not a very high one, it must be allowed—short of stature, somewhat pock-marked, red-haired, and short-sighted, with a bald forehead, wrinkled cheeks, and a complexion of the kind known as sanguine. The St. Petersburg climate was responsible for this. As for his official status, he was what is called a perpetual titular councillor, over which, as is well known, some writers make merry, and crack their jokes, obeying the praiseworthy custom of attacking those who cannot bite back.

His family name was Bashmatchkin. This name is evidently derived from “bashmak” (shoe); but when, at what time, and in what manner, is not known. His father and grandfather, and all the Bashmatchkins, always wore boots, which only had new heels two or three times a year. His name was Akakiy Akakievitch. It may strike the reader as rather singular and far-fetched, but he may rest assured that it was by no means far-fetched, and that the circumstances were such that it would have been impossible to give him any other.

This is how it came about. (http://etext.library.adelaide.edu.au/g/gogol/nikolai/g61cl/)

Ax ksupnas mnhmes.. agapame to palto.

On topic to zhteitai elpis k to gramma s'ena paidi pou de gennhthhke pote.

[carheart]

But in the end one needs more courage to live than to kill himself.

[Weiss]

ε τώρα αυτό είναι υπό συζήτηση.

[LokiTricksterGod]

στον τίτλο.