Настроение:	melancholy
Музыка:	Belomors - KTO VINOVAT

John Crowley, "Little, Big"
Книжка, конечно, говно (а кто бы сомневался),
практически без сюжета как такового, с неясными
(и довольно невежественными) намеками на алхимию
и со спонтанной концовкой в духе "надоели
все эти персонажи дураки ублюдки давайте их
убьем". То есть трудно с этим не согласиться,
однако 600 страниц мелким шрифтом.

Зато в середине там абзац, убийственной красоты.

When the moon smoothly shifted the shadows from
one side of the Edgewood to the other, Daily Alice
dreamed that she stood in a flower-starred field
where on a hill there grew an oak tree and a
thorn in deep embrace, their branches intertwined
like fingers. Far down the hall, Sophie dreamed that
there was a tiny door at her elbow, open a crack,
through which the wind blew, blowing on her heart.
Doctor Drinkwater dreamed he sat before his
typewriter and wrote this: "There is an aged,
aged insect who lives in a hole in the ground.
One June he puts on his summer straw, and takes
his pipe and his staff and his lamp in half
his hands, and follows the worm and the root
to the stair that leads up to the door into
blue summer". This seemed immensely significant
to him, but when he awoke he wouldn't be able
to remember a word of it, try as he might.
Mother beside him dreamed her husband wasn't
in his study at all, but with her in the kitchen,
where she drew tin cookie-sheets endlessly out
of the oven; the baked things on them were brown
and round, and when he asked her what they were,
she said "Years."

Да.