These days it’s naïve to assume that a person would accept something from a stranger. This might never work on the street in daylight. But there’s something about the empty subway platform at night that makes Marcus believe she’ll take the note. Then it will be up to the words. They have to work. They must.
There are people who await their ending, in their own beds, ready for the dust to sneak into their rooms and pantries, bedrooms and basements, to lie upon the old blankets, to fill their nostrils, to clog their lungs; to die of suffocation. But there are others, diligent people, who fight against the sky’s will, who put cars and machines to work and gather the unstoppable ash.
«Так. Во первых меня зовут Марик и ни каких вариантов.
Бабушка инагда зовёт меня Марочкой. Звучит наркомански и я угораю когда Ба так говорит. Одно временно меня выбешивает, что Марочка звучит как Ларочка. Девчачье имя.
Я могбы запретить ей. Сказать не делай так Ба никогда незови меня этим наркоманским девчачьим именем. Но немогу. Она стирала мои засратые пелёнки и ночей неспала. Она лично забрала меня у аиста. Отчистила меня от капустных листьев.
Это я только начал перичеслять.
Ещё, много чего, думаю понятно.
С каким лицом я пришёлбы ей чтото запрещать. Только просить. Попросил не звать меня Марочкой «в обществе» (так говорит Ба: в обществе).…
He turned his gaze to the sculpted figures above the building’s entrance—mutilated and broken segments of human bodies—but no matter where he looked the dream was still inside him, he couldn’t get rid of it, it was like an aftertaste or a bright light burned into your eye, leaving behind a dark spot in your field of vision.
Every time I fall asleep, the blue horse enters my dream and summons me to go. I follow it, and we run together; for this old body of mine to feel that light, floating step is exhilarating almost to the point of terror.
The bomb detonated silently, coating the street with a brief yellow burst like the mother of all paintball hits. As far as I could see, everything and everybody bloomed yellow, the cars, the houses, the early shoppers.
Sunt oameni care-și așteaptă finalul nestingheriți, în patul lor, așteaptă ca praful să se strecoare în camere și cămări, dormitoare sau beciuri, să se așeze peste păturile lor învechite de vreme și de nevoi, să le astupe nările, să li se-năclăiască plămânii, să moară sufocați. Dar mai sunt alții, suflete destoinice, care luptă cu voia cerului, care mobilizează mașini și utilaje, care adună cenușa ce cade fără oprire.
Toen de bom ontplofte, was ik bijna binnen in de dameskledingwinkel waar ik werk. Als ik die leuke jongen op zijn scooter niet had nagekeken was ik al veilig geweest.
Short stories tend to have much shorter lifespans than novels do. As such, a translation is a form of reincarnation. The end result is the same story, but also a completely different one at the same time. The first level of changes is due to the different language operating under another structure, a different set of ties binding the abstract with the specific. But there's also the second level, a more intimate level where the story surreptitiously obtains new properties after it’s been processed through the mind of the translator.
