"Zelazny, Roger - DIVINE~2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zelazny Roger)

an attempted rationalization.
Nothing had happened.

...Shouldn't be drinking, he decided. It might bring on a seizure.
He laughed.
Crazy, though, the whole thing...
Remembering, he drank.

In the morning he skipped breakfast, as usual, noted that it would
soon stop being morning, took two aspirins, a lukewarm shower, a cup
of coffee, and a walk.
The park, the fountain, the children with their boats, the grass,
the pond, he hated them; and the morning, and the sunlight, and the
blue moats around the towering clouds.
Hating, he sat there. And remembering.
If he was on the verge of a crackup, he decided, then the thing he
wanted most was to plunge ahead into it, not to totter halfway out,
halfway in.
He remembered why.
But it was clear, so clear, the morning, and everything crisp and
distinct and burning with the green fires of spring, there in the sign
of the Ram, April.
He watched the winds pile up the remains of winter against the far
gray fence, and he saw them push the boats across the pond, to some to
rest in shallow mud the children tracked.
The fountain jetted its cold umbrella above the green-tinged
copper dolphins. The sun ignited it whenever he moved his head. The
wind rumpled it.
Clustered on the concrete, birds pecked at part of a candy bar
stuck to a red wrapper.
Kites swayed on their tails, nosed downward, rose again, as
youngsters tugged at invisible strings. Telephone lines were tangled
with wooden frames and torn paper, like broken G clefs and smeared
glissandos.
He hated the telephone lines, the kites, the children, the birds.
Most of all, though, he hated himself.
How does a man undo that which has been done? He doesn't. There
is no way under the sun. He may suffer, remember, repeat, curse, or
forget. Nothing else. The past, in this sense, is inevitable.
A woman walked past. He did not look up in time to see her face,
but the dusky blonde fall of her hair to her collar and the swell of
her sure, sheer-netted legs below the black hem of her coat and above
the matching click of her heels heigh-ho, stopped his breath behind
his stomach and snared his eyes in the wizard-weft of her walking and
her posture and some more, like a rhyme to the last of his thoughts.

He half-rose from the bench when the pink static struck his eyeballs,
and the fountain became a volcano spouting rainbows.
The world was frozen and server up to him under a glass.
...The woman passed back before him and he looked down too soon to