"Ian Watson - The Embedding" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watson Ian)

the fruits of the Frenchman's ideas? Or to prove that the ideas were more important—and compete with the evidence
of love Eileen had, in the shape of Peter?
"Eileen?"
"I can't concentrate right now. He's getting milk all over the place. Read it yourself—I'll finish it later—"
Wiping the boy's mouth with a tissue, she stared at his features intently, then guided his hand on the spoon, picking
stray cornflakes up with her other hand and dropping them into her saucer.
Sole cradled his hand round the letter guiltily, like a schoolboy not wanting his answers to be copied, and read.


"You may wonder why I'm using yourselves, Chris and Eileen, to vent my anger on? After so long too! But perhaps
you, Chris, will understand when I say that there are some curious threads that lead through years and countries,
linking dissimilar people, places and events—is this too mystical a thought for a marxist to entertain ?—-and that in
this case it is that zany surrealist poem of Raymond Roussel's that we talked about so often in Africa that is the link
between yourselves and my own discoveries here and now among one particular Amazon tribe.
"These people have Hobson's choice—doomed to be drowned if they stay where they are—or else destroyed by a
life of tin huts, rum, prostitution and illness, if they're 'sensible' enough to move out of the way of the flood that is
even now covering up the whole surface of their world. Need I say nobody cares which option they choose.
"Issues seemed so simple in Africa, compared with here in the heart of Brazil. It was so easy to find an honourable
and recognizable role to play in the Mozambique bush. Even the remotest Makonde tribesman knew what the political
issues were, was aware of 'Polities' as such ..."
Damn it, he thought, apprehensive at the mention of Roussel's name. Let Pierre get on trying to reform the world.
Just leave me alone to discover what the world really is, how the mind of Man sees the world!
"But how can these Indians perceive any difference between the other Caraiba—that bastard Portuguese word the
Indians use for any foreigners, including the European-descended Brazilians themselves—and myself? We're all
outsiders, aliens. Frenchmen, Americans. Right Wing, Left Wing. It's all the same. Caraiba.
"Those who are aware of Politics, and the Politics of the Amazon Flood, seem so far away, city men occupied with
city struggles. Even when they move out into the countryside to fight, what have they got to do with the Indians in
their forests? What can they have to do, till the Indians have been destroyed as Indians and become poverty-stricken
civilizados?
"So should I be in favour of a human zoo where these 'quaint savages' can linger on in their interesting savagery?
How much it goes against the grain to say, yes maybe—for the Indians there can be no political reply!
"How glad the Brazilian regime is of this distraction foisted on them by the Americans!—the glory of building the
greatest inland sea on Earth, the only one of Man's works visible from the Moon.
"It is a political project, though its victims know nothing of politics—and cannot be made aware of politics without
introducing a kind of virus that destroys them. That's the paradox that sickens me: my own impotence here. I can only
record the death of this unique people. Mark up the indictment for the future. And to console myself, listen to my tape of
Roussel's crazy poem . . ."


Sole shuddered. A hot African sun used to warm their talk of Roussel and it had seemed so innocent and exciting then,
the dawning idea of his own research. He remembered the view of red corrugated roofs from a rooftop bar. Shining white
plaster walls. Flame trees. A mosque. Peugeots and Volkswagens parked in the dusty street below. The sellers of carvings
squatting in shorts and torn shirts while Moslem women passed by on flip-flop sandals, their bodies wrapped in black
shrouds, with parcels balanced on their heads. The beer bottles on the tin table slimy with condensation, as Pierre and he
talked about a poem that was practically impossible for the human brain to process—which a machine would have to be
built to read . . .
 Warm and innocent then—but now that Vidya, Vasilki, Rama and Gulshen and the others were learning their lessons in
the Special Environments at the Hospital. Pierre's triggering of memories of that happy mood came with an accusing force.
As though Eileen had read his thoughts she looked up from the boy and said sharply:
"Chris, there's something I wanted to ask you. You can finish reading the letter later on."