"Джек Керуак. Big Sur (engl)" - читать интересную книгу автора

dreaming? can anybody be that strong? " they even ask me and my big Zen
answer is "You only think I'm strong" and I go on down the road carrying my
tree - This has me laughing in clover fields for hours... I pass a cow
which turns to look at me as it takes a big dreamy crap - Back in the cabin
I light the fire and sit sighing and there are leaves skittering on the tin
roof, it's August in Big Sur - I fall asleep in the chair and when I wake
up I'm facing the thick little tangled woods outside the door and I suddenly
remember them from long ago, even to the particular clumpness of the
thickets, stem by stem, the twist of them, like an old home place, but just
as I'm wondering what all this mess is, bang, the wind closes the cabin door
on my sight of it! So I conclude "I see as much as doors'll allow, open or
shut" - Adding, as I get up, in a loud English Lord voice nobody can hear
anyway, "An issue broached is an issue smote, Sire, " pronouncing 'issue"
like "iss-yew" - And this has me laughing all through supper - Which is
potatoes wrapped in foil and thrown on the fire, and coffee, and hunks of
Spam roasted on a spit, and applesauce and cheese - And when I light the
lamp of after-supper reading, here comes the nightly moth to his nightly
death at my lamp... After I put out the lamp temporarily, there's the moth
sleeping on the wall not realizing I've put it on again. Meanwhile by the
way and however, every day is cold and cloudy, or damp, not cold in the
eastern sense, and every night is absolutely fog: no stars whatever to be
seen... But this too turns out to be a marvelous circumstance as I find out
later, it's the "damp season" and the other dwellers (weekenders) of the
canyon don't come out on weekends, I'm absolutely alone for weeks on end
(because later in August when the sun conquered the fog suddenly I was
amazed to hear laughing and scratching all up and down the valley which had
been mine only mine, and when I tried to go to the beach to squat and write
there were whole families having outings, some of them younger people who'd
simply parked their cars up on the high bridge bluff and climbed down) (some
of them in fact gangs of yelling hoodlums)... So the rainforest summer fog
was grand and besides when the sun prevailed in August a horrible
development took place, huge blasts of frightening gale like wind came
pouring into the canyon making all the trees roar with a really frightening
intensity that sometimes built up to a booming war of trees that shook the
cabin and woke you up - And was in fact one of the things that contributed
to my mad fit.
But the most marvelous day of all when I completely forgot who I was
where I was or the time of day just with my pants rolled up above my knees
wading in the creek rearranging the rocks and some of the snags so that the
water where I stooped (near the sandy shore) to get jugfuls would, instead
of just sluggishly passing by shallow over mud, with bugs in it, now come
rushing in a pure gurgly clear stream and deep too - I dug into the white
sand and arranged underground rocks so now I could stick a jug in there and
tilt the opening to the stream and it would fill up instantly with clear
rushing unstagnated bugless drinking water - Making a mill race, is what
it's called - And because now the water rushed so fast and deep right by
the sandy stooping place I had to build a kind of seawall of rocks against
that rush so that the shore would not be silted away by the race - Doing
that, fortifying the outside of the seawall with smaller rocks and finally
at sundown with bent head over my sniffling endeavors (the way a kid