January 27th, 2014

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Хинди-русси-итальяно-веро!

Mare bella donna,
Che un bel canzone,
Sai che ti amo sempre amo
Donna bella mare.
Credere cantare
Dammi il momento
Che mi piace piu'.

Uno uno uno un momento,
Uno uno uno sentimento,
Uno uno uno complimento,
E sacramento sacramento sacramento.

Это песня о бедном рыбаке, который попал из Неаполя в бурное море.
А его бедная девушка ждала на берегу. Ждала-ждала, пока не дождалась...
Тогда сбросив с себя последнюю одежду,она тоже бросилась в бурное море
И сия пучина поглотила ея в один момент. В общем, все умерли!


"Формула любви" (фильм, в пьесе несколько иначе)




It was the story of a poor girl who is forced to marry a fisherman from a neighboring beach, though she loves someone else. When the fisherman finds out about his new wife’s old lover, he sets out to sea in his little boat though he knows that a storm is brewing. It’s dark, and the wind rises. A whirlpool spins up from the ocean bed.

There is storm-music, and the fisherman drowns, sucked to the bottom of the sea in the vortex of the whirlpool.

The lovers make a suicide pact, and are found the next morning, washed up on the beach with their arms around each other. So everybody dies. The fisherman, his wife, her lover, and a shark that has no part in the story, but dies anyway. The sea claims them all.

Pandoru mukkuvan muthinupoyi,
(Once a fisherman went to sea,)
Padinjaran katarbu mungipoyi,
(The west wind blew and swallowed his boat,)
Arayathi pennu pizhachu poyi,
(His wife on the shore went astray,)
Kadalamma avaney kondu poyi.
(So Mother Ocean rose and took him away.)


Arundhati Roy "The God of Small Things"

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сушина-а-а

Estha had always been a quiet child, so no one could pinpoint with any degree of accuracy exactly when (the year, if not the month or day) he had stopped talking. Stopped talking altogether, that is. The fact is that there wasn’t an “exactly when.” It had been a gradual winding down and closing shop. A barely noticeable quietening. As though he had simply run out of conversation and had nothing left to say. Yet Estha’s silence was never awkward. Never intrusive. Never noisy. It wasn’t an accusing, protesting silence as much as a sort of estivation, a dormancy, the psychological equivalent of what lungfish do to get themselves through the dry season, except that in Estha’s case the dry season looked as though it would last forever.

Arundhati Roy "The God of Small Things"

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