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I notice that people always make gigantic arrangements for bathing when they are going anywhere near the water, but that they don’t bathe much when they are there. It is the same when you go to the sea-side. I always determine—when thinking over the matter in London—that I’ll get up early every morning, and go and have a dip before breakfast, and I religiously pack up a pair of drawers and a bath towel. I always get red bathing drawers. I rather fancy myself in red drawers. They suit my complexion so. But when I get to the sea I don’t feel somehow that I want that early morning bathe nearly so much as I did when I was in town. On the contrary, I feel more that I want to stop in bed till the last moment, and then come down and have my breakfast. Once or twice virtue has triumphed, and I have got out at six and half-dressed myself, and have taken my drawers and towel, and stumbled dismally off. But I haven’t enjoyed it. They seem to keep a specially cutting east wind, waiting for me, when I go to bathe in the early morning; and they pick out all the three-cornered stones, and put them on the top, and they sharpen up the rocks and cover the points over with a bit of sand so that I can’t see them, and they take the sea and put it two miles out, so that I have to huddle myself up in my arms and hop, shivering, through six inches of water. And when I do get to the sea, it is rough and quite insulting. One huge wave catches me up and chucks me in a sitting posture, as hard as ever it can, down on to a rock which has been put there for me. And, before I’ve said “Oh! Ugh!” and found out what has gone, the wave comes back and carries me out to mid-ocean. I begin to strike out frantically for the shore, and wonder if I shall ever see home and friends again, and wish I’d been kinder to my little sister when a boy (when I was a boy, I mean). Just when I have given up all hope, a wave retires and leaves me sprawling like a star-fish on the sand, and I get up and look back and find that I’ve been swimming for my life in two feet of water. I hop back and dress, and crawl home, where I have to pretend I liked it.
379. Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog), Jerome K. Jerome, 1889 Ещё одна книжка по принципу “потому что выбрали в книжном клубе”. Я бы не взялась — в конце концов, я уже прочитала Бритт-Мари! — если бы не вспомнила, что есть аудиоверсия в исполнении Хью Лори. В 2013-м это была моя первая в сознательной жизни аудиокнига, и мне так понравилось, что дальше сразу пошёл весь Гарри Поттер, уже в исполнении Стивена Фрая; а там и бумажные книги на английском перестали быть такими страшными. Сериалы в оригинале я когда-то тоже начала смотреть с “House, M.D.”, а ещё случайно переехала в Петербург после того, как побывала там на концерте The Copper Bottom Band. То есть как-то так вышло, что Хью Лори повлиял на мою жизнь со всех сторон сразу. Вот и с “Тремя в лодке” — вообще не планировала, но раз такое дело, то отчего ж не переслушать. Отдам должное Джерому К. Джерому, пара шуток мне понравилась, но в целом, на мой взгляд, чтец жнец и на дуде игрец эту историю значительно улучшил. PS после книги мне вспомнилась фраза Вив Гроскоп из “Саморазвития по Толстому” Мне кажется довольно важным, что пьеса называется «Три сестры», а не «Три брата». Если бы она называлась «Три брата», то братья могли бы просто переехать в Москву. Это была бы очень короткая пьеса, действие которой происходило бы в основном в Москве. Я очень хорошо понимаю, о чём здесь говорит Вив, но мне кажется, после “Троих в лодке” можно представить себе эту пьесу о трёх братьях намного более реалистично.
You’re never quite alone when you can stand on a balcony – you have all the cars and houses and the people in the streets. You’re among them, but also not. That’s the best thing about balconies. To begin with, Britt-Marie slept all night through, which was the first time since she had come to Borg. She slept the unreflective sleep of a child, and she woke up in great spirits. Another day. This alone should immediately have made her suspicious, because little good can come of waking up all enthusiastic like that. Sven presents Dino’s uncle in an English marred by a heavy accent, but Britt-Marie doesn’t criticise; she’s not the sort of person that criticises. ‘Hello,’ says Britt-Marie, this being about the long and short of the conversation for her part. It’s not that Britt-Marie can’t speak English. It’s just that she doesn’t know how to speak it without feeling like an utter prat. She wouldn’t even know how to say ‘utter prat’ in English. As far as she’s concerned this illustrates her point very well.