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The Mysterious Flame Of Queen Loana :: Эко Умберто
Страница: 2 из 286Maigret? Elementary, my dear Watson, there are ten little Indians, andthe hound of the Baskervilles vanishes into the fog.
The gray vapor was gradually losing its grayness of tint , the heat of the water was extreme , and its milky hue was more evident than ever … And now we rushed into the embraces of the cataract , where a chasm threw itself open to receive us.
I heard people talking around me, wanted to shout to let them know I was there. There was a continuous drone, as though I were being devoured by celibate machines with whetted teeth. I was in the penal colony. I felt a weight on my head, as if they had slipped the iron mask onto my face. I thought I saw sky blue lights.
"There’s asymmetry of the pupillary diameters."
I had fragments of thoughts, clearly I was waking up, but I could not move. If only I could stay awake. Was I sleeping again? Hours, days, centuries?
The fog was back, the voices in the fog, the voices about the fog. Seltsam , im Nebel zu wandern! What language is that? I seemed to be swimming in the sea, I felt I was near the beach but was unable to reach it. No one saw me, and thdrawing by the authore tide was carrying me away again.
Please tell me something, please touch me. I felt a hand on my forehead. Such relief. Another voice: "Signora, there are cases of patients who suddenly wake up and walk away under their own power."
Someone was disturbing me with an intermittent light, with the hum of a tuning fork. It was as if they had put a jar of mustard under my nose, then a clove of garlic. The earth has the odor of mushrooms.
Other voices, but these from within: long laments of the steam engine , priests shapeless in the fog walking single file toward San Michele in Bosco.
The sky is made of ash. Fog up the river , fog down the river , fog biting the hands of the little match girl. Chance people on the bridges to the Isle of Dogs look into a nether sky of fog , with fog all round them , as if they were up in a balloon and hanging under the brown fog… I had not thought death had undone so many. The odor of train station and soot.
Another light, softer. I seem to hear , through the fog , the sound of bagpipes starting up again on the heath.
Another long sleep, perhaps. Then a clearing, like being in a glass of water and anisette…
He was right in front of me, though I still saw him as a shadow. My head felt muddled, as if I were waking up after having drunk too much.
The gray vapor was gradually losing its grayness of tint , the heat of the water was extreme , and its milky hue was more evident than ever … And now we rushed into the embraces of the cataract , where a chasm threw itself open to receive us.
I heard people talking around me, wanted to shout to let them know I was there. There was a continuous drone, as though I were being devoured by celibate machines with whetted teeth. I was in the penal colony. I felt a weight on my head, as if they had slipped the iron mask onto my face. I thought I saw sky blue lights.
"There’s asymmetry of the pupillary diameters."
I had fragments of thoughts, clearly I was waking up, but I could not move. If only I could stay awake. Was I sleeping again? Hours, days, centuries?
The fog was back, the voices in the fog, the voices about the fog. Seltsam , im Nebel zu wandern! What language is that? I seemed to be swimming in the sea, I felt I was near the beach but was unable to reach it. No one saw me, and thdrawing by the authore tide was carrying me away again.
Please tell me something, please touch me. I felt a hand on my forehead. Such relief. Another voice: "Signora, there are cases of patients who suddenly wake up and walk away under their own power."
Someone was disturbing me with an intermittent light, with the hum of a tuning fork. It was as if they had put a jar of mustard under my nose, then a clove of garlic. The earth has the odor of mushrooms.
Other voices, but these from within: long laments of the steam engine , priests shapeless in the fog walking single file toward San Michele in Bosco.
The sky is made of ash. Fog up the river , fog down the river , fog biting the hands of the little match girl. Chance people on the bridges to the Isle of Dogs look into a nether sky of fog , with fog all round them , as if they were up in a balloon and hanging under the brown fog… I had not thought death had undone so many. The odor of train station and soot.
Another light, softer. I seem to hear , through the fog , the sound of bagpipes starting up again on the heath.
Another long sleep, perhaps. Then a clearing, like being in a glass of water and anisette…
He was right in front of me, though I still saw him as a shadow. My head felt muddled, as if I were waking up after having drunk too much.