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Фантастика. Фэнтези
   Зарубежная фантастика
      Вильям Берроуз. Голый завтрак (engl) -
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es blank with an insect's unseeing calm. Behind them, through open doors, tables and booths and bars, and kitchens and baths, copulating couples on rows of brass beds, crisscross of a thousand ham- mocks, junkies tying up for a shot, opium smokers, hashish smokers, people eating talking bathing back into a haze of smoke and steam. Gaming tables where the games are played for in- credible stakes. From time to time a player leaps up with a despairing cry, having lost his youth to an old man or become Latah to his opponent. But there are higher stakes than youth or Latah, games where only two players in the world know what the stakes are. All houses in the City are joined. Houses of sod -- high mountain Mongols blink in smokey doorways -- houses of bamboo and teak, houses of adobe, stone and red brick, South Pacific and Maori houses, houses in trees and river boats, wood houses one hundred feet long sheltering entire tribes, houses of boxes and corrugated iron where old men sit in rotten rags cooking down canned heat, great rusty iron racks rising two hundred feet in the air from swamps and rubbish with perilous partitions built on multi-levelled platforms, and ham- mocks swinging over the void. Expeditions leave for unknown places with unknown purposes. Strangers arrive on rafts of old packing crates tied together with rotten rope, they stagger in out of the jungle their eyes swollen shut from insect bites, they come down the mountain trails on cracked bleed- ing feet through the dusty windy outskirts of the city, where people defecate in rows along adobe walls and vultures fight over fish heads. They drop down into parks in patched parachutes,... They are escorted by a drunken cop to register in a vast public lavatory. The data taken down is put on pegs to be used as toilet paper. Cooking smells of all countries hang over the City, a haze of opium, hashish, the resinous red smoke of Yage, smell of the jungle and salt water and the rotting river and dried excrement and sweat and genitals. High mountain flutes, jazz and bebop, one-stringed Mongol instruments, gypsy xylophones, African drums, Arab bagpipes... The City is visited by epidemics of violence, and the untended dead are eaten by vultures in the streets. Albinos blink in the sun. Boys sit in trees, languidly masturbate. People eaten by unknown diseases watch the passerby with evil, knowing eyes. In the City Market is the Meet Cafe. Followers of ob- solete, unthinkable trades doodling in Etruscan, addicts of drugs not yet synthesized, pushers of souped-up Har- maline, junk reduced to pure habit offering precarious vegetable serenity, liquids to induce Latah, Tithonian longevity serums, black marketeers of World War III, excisors of telepathic sensitivity, osteopaths of the spirit, investigators of infractions denounced by bland para- noid chess players, servers of fragmentary warrants taken down in hebephrenic shorthand charging un- speakable mutilations of the spirit, bureaucrats of spec- tral departments, officials of unconstituted police states, a Lesbian dwarf who has perfected operation Bang- utot, the lung erection that strangles a sleeping enemy, sellers of orgone tanks and relaxing machines, brokers of exquisite dreams and memories tested on the sensi- tized cells of junk sickness and bartered for raw mate- rials of the will, doctors skilled in the treatment of diseases dormant in the black dust of ruined cities, gathering virulence in the white blood of eyeless worms feeling slowly to the surface and the human host, mala- dies of the ocean floor and the stratosphere, maladies of the laboratory and atomic war.... A place where the unknown past and the emergent future meet in a vi- brating soundless hum... Larval entities waiting for a Live One... (Section describing The City and the Meet Cafe written in state of Yage intoxication... Yage, Ayua- huasca, Pilde, Nateema are Indian names for Banni- steria Caapi, a fast growing vine indigenous to the Amazon region. See discussion of Yage in Appendix. ) Notes from Yage state: Images fall slow and silent like snow.... Serenity... All defenses fall... every- thing is free to enter or to go out.... Fear is simply impossible.... A beautiful blue substance Hows into me.... I see an archaic grinning face like South Pacific mask.... The face is blue purple splotched with gold.... The room takes on aspect of Near East whorehouse with blue walls and red tasseled lamps.... I feel myself turning into a Negress, the black color silently invading my flesh.... Convulsions of lust... My legs take on a well rounded Polynesian substance.... Everything stirs with a writhing furtive life.... The room is Near East, Negro, South Pacific, in some familiar place I cannot locate.... Yage is space-time travel.... The room seems to shake and vibrate with motion.... The blood and substance of many races, Negro, Polynesian, Moun- tain Mongol, Desert Nomad, Polyglot Near East, In- dian, races as yet unconceived and unborn, passes through the body.... Migrations, incredible journeys through deserts and jungles and mountains (stasis and death in closed mountain valley where plants grow out of genitals, vast crustaceans hatch inside and break the shell of body) across the Pacific in an outrigger canoe to Easter Island,... (It occurs to me that preliminary Yage nausea is motion sickness of transport to Yage state....) "All medicine men use it in their practice to foretell the future, locate lost or stolen objects, to diagnose and treat illness, to name the perpetrator of a crime." Since the Indian ( straitjacket for Herr Boas -- trade joke -- noth- ing so maddens an anthropologist as Primitive Man) does not regard any death as accidental, and they are unacquainted with their own self-destructive trends re- ferring to them contemptuously as "our naked cousins," or perhaps feeling that these trends above all are sub- ject to the manipulation of alien and hostile wills, any death is murder. The medicine man takes Yage and the identity of the murderer is revealed to him. As you may imagine, the deliberations of the medicine man during one of these jungle inquests give rise to certain feelings of uneasiness among his constituents. "Let's hope Old Xiuptutol don't wig and name one of the boys." "Take a curare and relax. We got the fix in..." "But if he wig? Picking up on that Nateema all the time he don't touch the ground in twenty years.... I tell you, Boss, nobody can hit the stuff like that.... It cooks the brains...." "So we declare him incompetent...." So Xiuptutol reels out of the jungle and says the boys in the Lower Tzpino territory done it, which surprises no one.... Take it from an old Brujo, dearie, they don't like surprises.... A funeral passes through the market. Black coffin -- Arabic inscriptions in filigreed silver -- carried by four pallbearers. Procession of mourners singing the funeral song... Clem and Jody fall in beside them carrying coffin, the corpse of a hog bursts out of it.... The hog is dressed in a jellaba, a keif pipe juts from its mouth, one hoof holds a packet of feelthy pictures, a mezuzzoth hangs about its neck.... Inscribed on the coffin: "This was the noblest Arab of them all." They sing hideous parody of the funeral song in false Arabic. Jody can do a fake Chinese spiel that'll just kill you -- like a hysterical ventriloquist's dummy. In fact, he precipitated an anti-foreign riot in Shanghai that claimed 3,000 casualties. "Stand up, Gertie, and show respect for the local gooks." "I suppose one should." "My dear, I'm working on the most marvelous inven- tion... a boy who disappears as soon as you come leaving a smell of burning leaves and a sound effect of distant train whistles." "Ever make sex in no gravity? Your jism just floats out in the air like lovely ectoplasm, and female guests are subject to immaculate or at least indirect concep- tion.... ъeminds me of an old friend of mine, one of the handsomest men I have ever known and one of the maddest and absolutely ruined by wealth. He used to go about with a water pistol shooting jism up career women at parties. Won all his paternity suits hands down. Never use his own jism you understand." Fadeout... "Order in the Court." Attorney for A. J., "Conclusive tests have established that my client has no uh personal connection with the uh little accident of the charming plaintiff.... Perhaps she is preparing to emulate the Virgin Mary and conceive immaculately naming my client as a hurumph ghostly pander.... I am reminded of a case in fifteenth-century Holland where a young woman accused an elderly and respect- able sorcerer of conjuring up a succubus who then had uh carnal knowledge of the young person in question with the under the circumstances regrettable result of pregnancy. So the sorcerer was indicted as an accom- plice and rampant voyeur before during and after the fact. However, gentlemen of the jury, we no longer credit such uh legends; and a young woman attributing her uh interesting condition to the attentions of a suc- cubus would be accounted, in these enlightened days, a romanticist or in plain English a God damned liar hehe hehe heh...." And now The Prophet's Hour: "Millions died in the mud fiats. Only one blast free to lungs. " 'Eye Eye, Captain,' he said, squirting his eyes out on the deck.... And who would put on the chains to- night? It is indicate to observe some caution in the up-wind approach, the down wind having failed to turn up anything worth a rusty load.... Senoritas are the wear this season in Hell, and I am tired with the long climb to a pulsing Vesuvius of alien pricks." Need Orient Express out of here to no hide place(r) mines are frequent in the area.... Every day dig a little it takes up the time.... Jack off phantoms whisper hot into the bone ear.... Shoot your way to freedom. "Christ?" sneers the vicious, fruity old Saint applying pancake from an alabaster bowl.... "That cheap ham! You think I'd demean myself to commit a miracle?... That one should have stood in carny.... "'Step right up, Marquesses and Marks, and bring the little Marks too. Good for young and old, man and beast.... The one and only legit Son of Man will cure a young boy's clap with one hand -- by contact alone, folks -- create marijuana with the other, whilst walking on water and squirting wine out his ass.... Now keep your distance, folks, you is subject to be irradiated by the sheer charge of this character.' "And I knew him when, dearie.... I recall we was doing an Impersonation Act -- very high class too -- in Sodom, and that is one cheap town.... Strictly from hunger... Well, this citizen, this fucking Philistine wandered in from Podunk Baal or some place, called me a fuckin fruit right on the floor. And I said to him: 'Three thousand years in show business and I always keep my nose clean. Besides I don't hafta take any shit off any uncircumcised cocksucker.'...Later he come to my dressing room and made an apology.... Turns out he is a big physician. And he was a lovely fellah, too.... "Buddha? A notorious metabolic junky... Makes his own you dig. In India, where they got no sense of time, The Man is often a month late.... 'Now let me see, is that the second or the third monsoon? I got like a meet in Ketchupore about more or less.' "And all them junkies sitting around in the lotus posture spitting on the ground and waiting on The Man. "So Buddha says: 'I don't hafta take this sound. I'll by God metabolize my own junk.' "'Man, you can't do that. The ъevenooers will swarm all over you.' "'Over me they won't swarm. I gotta gimmick, see? I'm a fuckin Holy Man as of right now.' "'Jeez, boss, what an angle.' "'Now some citizens really wig when they make with the New ъeligion. These frantic individuals do not know how to come on. No class to them... Besides, they is subject to be lynched like who wants somebody hanging around being better'n other folks? "What you trying to do, Jack, give people a bad time?..." So we gotta play it cool, you dig, cool.... We got a take it or leave it proposition here, folks. We don't shove any- thing up your soul, unlike certain cheap characters who shall be nameless and are nowhere. Clear the cave for action. I'm gonna metabolize a speed ball and make with the Fire Sermon.' "Mohammed? Are you kidding? He was dreamed up by the Mecca Chamber of Commerce. An Egyptian ad man on the skids from the sauce write the continuity. " 'I'll have one more, Gus. Then, by Allah, I will go home and receive a Surah.... Wait'll the morning edi- tion hits the souks. I am blasting Amalgamated Images wide open.' "The bartender looks up from his racing form. 'Yeah. And theirs will be a painful doom.' " 'Oh... uh... quite. Now, Gus, I'll write you a check.' "'You are only being the most notorious paper hanger in Greater Mecca. I am not a wall, Mr. Mohammed.' " 'Well, Gus, I got like two types publicity, favorable and otherwise. You want some otherwise already? I am subject to receive a Surah concerning bartenders who extendeth not credit to those in a needy way.' " 'And theirs will be a painful doom. Sold Arabia.' He vaults over the bar. 'I'm not taking any more, Ahmed. Pick up thy Surahs and walk. In fact, I'll help you. And stay out.' "'I'll fix your wagon good, you unbelieving cock- sucker. I'll close you up tight and dry as a junky's ass- hole. I'll by Allah dry up the Peninsula.' " 'It's a continent already....' "Leave what Confucius say stand with Little Audrey and the shaggy dogs. Lao-Tze? They scratch him al- ready...'. And enough of these gooey saints with a look of pathic dismay as if they getting fucked up the ass and try not to pay it any mind. And why should we let some old brokendown ham tell us what wisdom is? 'Three thousand years in show business and I always keep my nose clean....' "First, every Fact is incarcerate along with the male hustlers and those who desecrate the gods of commerce by playing ball in the streets, and some old white- haired fuck staggers out to give us the benefits of his ripe idiocy. Are we never to be free of this grey-beard loon lurking on every mountain top in Tibet, subject to drag himself out of a hut in the Amazon, waylay one in the Bowery? 'I've been expecting you, my son,' and he make with a silo full of corn. 'Life is a school where every pupil must learn a different lesson. And now I will unlock my Word Hoard....' " 'I do fear it much.' " 'Nay, nothing shall stem the rising tide.' " 'I can't stem him, boys. Sauve qui peut.' " 'I tell you when I leave the Wise Man I don't even feel like a human. He converting my live orgones into dead bullshit.' "So I got an exclusive why don't I make with the live word? The word cannot be expressed direct.... It can perhaps be indicated by mosaic of juxtaposition like articles abandoned in a hotel drawer, defined by nega- tives and absence.... "Think I'll have my stomach tucked.... I may be old, but I'm still desirable." (The Stomach Tuck is surgical intervention to re- move stomach fat at the same time making a tuck in the abdominal wall, thus creating a flesh corset, which is, however, subject to break and spurt your horrible old guts across the Boor.... The slim and shapely F.C. models are, of course, the most dangerous. In fact, some extreme models are known as O.N.S.-- One Night Stands -- in the industry. Doctor "Doodles" ъindfest states bluntly: "Bed is the most dangerous place for an F.C. man." The F.C. theme song is "Believe Me If All These Endearing Young Charms." An F.C. partner is indeed subject to "fleet from your arms like fairy gifts fading away.") In a white museum room full of sunlight pink nudes sixty feet high. Vast adolescent muttering. Silver guard rail... chasm a thousand feet down into the glittering sunlight. Little: green plots of cabbage and lettuce. Brown youths with adzes spied by the old queen across a sewage canal. "Oh dear, I wonder if they fertilize with human ex- crement.... Maybe they'll do it right now." He Hips out mother of pearl opera glasses -- Aztec mosaic in the sun. Long line of Greek lads march up with alabaster bowls of shit, empty into the limestone marl hole. Dusty poplars shake across the red brick Plaza de Toros in the afternoon wind. Wooden cubicles around a hot spring... rubble of ruined walls in a grove of cottonwoods... the benches worn smooth as metal by a million masturbating boys. Greek lads white as marble fuck dog style on the portico of a great golden temple... naked Mugwump twangs a lute. Walking down by the tracks in his red sweater met Sammy the Dock Keeper's son with two Mexicans. "Hey, Skinny," he said, "want to get screwed?" "Well... Yeah." On a ruined straw mattress the Mexican pulled him up on all fours -- Negro boy dance around them beating out the strokes... sun through a knot hole pink spot- lights his cock. A waste of raw pink shame to the pastel blue horizon where vast iron mesas crash into the shattered sky, "It's all right." The God screams through you three thousand year rusty load.... Hail of crystal skulls shattered the greenhouse to slivers in the winter moon.... The American woman has left a whiff of poison be- hind in the dank St. Louis garden party. Pool covered with green slime in a ruined French garden. Huge pathic frog rises slowly from the water on a mud platform playing the clavichord. A Sollubi rushes into the bar and starts polishing The Saint's shoes with the oil on his nose.... The Saint kicks him petulantly in the mouth. The Sollubi screams, whirls around and shits on the Saint's pants. Then he dashes into the street. A pimp looks after him specula- tively.... The Saint calls the manager: "Jesus, Al, what kinda creep joint you running here? My brand new fishskin Degagees..." "I'm sorry, Saint. He slipped by me." (The Sollubi are an untouchable caste in Arabia noted for their abject vileness. De luxe cafes are equipped with Sollubi who rim the guests while they eat -- holes in the seating benches being provided for this purpose. Citizens who want to be utterly humiliated and de- graded -- so many people do, nowadays, hoping to jump the gun -- over themselves up for passive homosexual intercourse to an encampment of Sollubis.... Nothing lik

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