Удивительно, насколько расширяется круг общения после того, как понимаешь: нужно читать между строк, слышать в паузах между словами. Контакт, понимание, искренность, искорка - редки, это каждый раз подарок Космоса, а нужно просто играть, варьировать слова, сканировать искажённый рядовыми фразами поток импульсов-откликов-чувств. Нужно делать хорошую мину при плохой игре. И будет день. И будет пища для размышлений. И будет радостно, что пишешь.
The Joy of Writing
Wislawa Szymborska
Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?
For a drink of written water from a spring
whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?
Why does she lift her head; does she hear something?
Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth,
she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips.
Silence — this word also rustles across the page
and parts the boughs
that have sprouted from the word “woods.”
Lying in wait, set to pounce on the blank page,
are letters up to no good,
clutches of clauses so subordinate
they’ll never let her get away.
Each drop of ink contains a fair supply
of hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights,
prepared to swarm the sloping pen at any moment,
surround the doe, and slowly aim their guns.
They forget that what’s here isn’t life.
Other laws, black on white, obtain.
The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say,
and will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities,
full of bullets stopped in mid-flight.
Not a thing will ever happen unless I say so.
Without my blessing, not a leaf will fall,
not a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof’s full stop.
