Най-добрите книги, които никой не е чел...

Литературни критики и възхвали. Всичко, което винаги сте искали да знаете за Даниел Стийл и Нора Робъртс, а ви е било срам да попитате :р
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Roland
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Най-добрите книги, които никой не е чел...

Post by Roland » Sat May 10, 2008 10:53 pm

Не знам дали няма да си пиша сам тук, но отварям тази тема с идеята всеки да препоръча най-добрите неща, за които знае, че или никой друг тук не ги е чел, или съвсем малко хора.

Ето моите:

Where Late the Sweet Birds Sang на Kate Wilhelm
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The Sumner family can read the signs: the droughts and floods, the blighted crops, the shortages, the rampant diseases and plagues, and, above all, the increasing sterility all point to one thing. Their isolated farm in the Appalachian Mountains gives them the ideal place to survive the coming breakdown, and their wealth and know-how gives them the means. Men and women must clone themselves for humanity to survive. But what then?
Великолепна и силно атмосферична история, разделена на три части, които се развиват по различно време (с доста големи времеви скокове една от друга) и заедно описват картината първо на краха на човешката раса, а после на новото изолирано общество, което възниква от клонингите на първоначалните оцелели. Страхотна книга, тъпкана с идеи - както психологически, така и сюжетни.


The Road на Кормак Макарти
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An extraordinary, compelling and frightening novel examining the relationship between a father and son wandering a post-apocalyptic world in search of sanctuary. It's stark and bleak, even by McCarthy standards, and yet is probably the most emotionally raw of all his novels.
Мисля, че достатъчно съм говорил за книгата в ТОЗИ ТОПИК, няма нужда да се повтарям.


Stand on Zanzibar на Джон Брънър
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Thirty-year old predictions have a habit of going stale, but not John Brunner's startling panoramic view of the year 2010. Even where he got the future we almost inhabit wrong, he understood where things were oing--"Conincidence You weren't paying attention to the other half of what was going on"--and his world of Artificial Intelligence, gene-engineering, psychedelics, government-sponsored murder and brainwashing is frighteningly enough like our own. Constantly panning from a few individuals and their stories to the chatter of the media and sudden chunks of crucial text, Stand on Zanzibar was a ground-breaking novel in which Brunner broke wide open the stylistic and narrative conventions of SF, and set the agenda for the next decades. Packed with memorable characters--the computer Shalmaneser, the incestuous racist Clodard family, Presidents and newscasters--and sudden flashes of insight from rebel sociologist Chad Mulligan. "Rumour Believe all you hear. Your world may not be a better one than the one the blocks live in but it'll be a sight more vivid." Stand on Zanzibar is a masterpiece of speculative sociological SF, which some have described as a nightmare vision and others as a possible world better than what we are likely to get.
За този пък чудовищен шедьовър съм писал в рубриката Непреведено в последния брой, така че също няма да се повтарям.



Добавям и две поредици, от които едната към момента тук сме я чели само аз и Емо, а другата - май само аз, поне в оригинал (Емо я цикли в момента):

The Prince of Nothing Trilogy на R. Scott Bakker
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A score of centuries has passed since the First Apocalypse and the thoughts of men have turned, inevitably, to more worldly concerns...A veteran sorcerer and spy seeks news of an ancient enemy. A military genius plots to conquer the known world for his Emperor but dreams of the throne for himself. The spiritual leader of the Thousand Temples seeks a Holy War to cleanse the land of the infidel. An exiled barbarian chieftain seeks vengeance against the man who disgraced him. And into this world steps a man like no other, seeking to bind all - man and woman, emperor and slave - to his own mysterious ends. But the fate of men - even great men - means little when the world itself may soon be torn asunder. Behind the politics, beneath the religious fervour, a dark and ancient evil is reawakening. After two thousand years, the No-God is returning. The Second Apocalypse is nigh. And one cannot raise walls against what has been forgotten...
Едно от най-интелигентните и смислени епични фентъзита, които съм чел, но и едно от по-трудно достъпните, защото авторът използва доста философия и интроспекции на героите. Историята обаче е феноменална (за съжаление обхваща и трите книги - нито една не може да се чете самостоятелно), а сцените с магия са хендс даун най-добре написаните във фентъзи изобщо. Плюс, че е класическо епик фентъзи, където лошите са извънземни генетици с космически кораб :)


The Book of the New Sun на Джийн Улф
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[imghttp://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41dnB5ANyiL._SS500_.jpg[/img]
Recently voted the greatest fantasy of all time, after The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit, Gene Wolfe's The Book of the New Sun is an extraordinary epic, set a million years in the future, on an Earth transformed in mysterious and wondrous ways, in a time when our present culture is no longer even a memory. Severian, the central character, is a torturer, exiled from his guild after falling in love with one of his victims, and journeying to the distant city of Thrax, armed with his ancient executioner's sword, Terminus Est.
Една от най... "специалните" поредици, които съм чел, написана от поне в моя читателски опит най-добрият стилист в жанра, че и извън него. Трудно е да се опише кое точно е великото тук - историята е едновременно нищо особено, но и страхотно заплетена и интересна. Светът е зашеметяващ - едновременно чужд и далечен, но и нашият си, дори със забравеното му име. Усещането за древност, което Улф създава (червеното умиращо слънце, заради което небето дори денем е индигово синьо и покрито със звезди, руините, пръснати навсякъде, космическите кораби, върнали се след хилядолетия, за да открият свят, където вече липсва технологията, нужна за приземяванео им...) е почти физически осезаемо. Фантастичните идеи, използвани в чеирите книги, могат да ти кръстосат погледа, а езикът, на който е написана поредицата, е нещо... значимо. Но може би най-невероятното качество на Книга на новото слънце е фактът, че Севериан води повествованието от първо лице, но ти никога не си сигурен дали наистина той ти казва всичко и дали не те лъже в прав текст. Смесицата между сън и реалност, лъжа и истина е страхотна.


------

Толкоз засега, надявам се да има и други участници тук, освен мен :)
And you can't dance with a devil on your back...

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Grumpi
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Post by Grumpi » Sat May 10, 2008 11:41 pm

Всичко на Бърнард Корнуел (Bernard Cornwell)

The Prince of Nothing съм чел първите две книги на руски, като излезе третата ще продължа. Епична.
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Muad_Dib
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Post by Muad_Dib » Sun May 11, 2008 2:23 am

Страхотна тема, Prince of Nothing особено ме заинтригува след тази хвалба.

Искам да помоля Мат или Дем да постнат един стабилен надъхващ постец (по възможност с някоя корица) за Чайна Миевил, след кратко разглеждане на страница на света му от Пердидо Стрийт Стейшън съм адски впечатлен. Само дето Симеон навремето ме обезкуражи, защото било трудно за четене на английски...А така ми се чете нещо такова стиймпънкоподобно (съдейки по това-онова насам-натам в нета).

Бтв някой да е чел поредицата за Гарет на Глен Кук (детектив във фентъзи-сетинг)? И дали е издавана на БГ?

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Post by Grumpi » Sun May 11, 2008 7:03 am

Muad_Dib wrote:Бтв някой да е чел поредицата за Гарет на Глен Кук (детектив във фентъзи-сетинг)? И дали е издавана на БГ?
Мда, чел съм ги всичките. Доста добре написани в стила на Реймънд Чандлър. Гълтат се много бързо, аз повечето ги четох по летища и маршрутки.

За съжаление обаче не са издавани на български още, нямам идея дали някое издателство ги планира, май "Лира Принт" досега са издавали Кук.
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Post by Stoly » Sun May 11, 2008 10:43 am

Сказание за Сарамир

Въпреки, че я четох доста отдавна, това е една от книгите от които съм останал с най- добри спомени. Трилогия е, и е пълна с обрати, магия, бруталност.
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Post by Roland » Sun May 11, 2008 10:55 am

И освен това тук са я чели куп хора, доколкото знам.
And you can't dance with a devil on your back...

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Random
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Post by Random » Sun May 11, 2008 11:20 am

Да, темата е много хубава, ама айде не я разводнявайте. Рол си е написал какво очаква - книги, които не са толкова популярни и са наистина много добри.
Искам да помоля Мат или Дем да постнат един стабилен надъхващ постец (по възможност с някоя корица) за Чайна Миевил, след кратко разглеждане на страница на света му от Пердидо Стрийт Стейшън съм адски впечатлен.
Има две непреведени в списанието.

Иначе в момента се сещам за:

Lanark: A Life in Four Books на Алистър Грей
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"Lanark", a modern vision of hell, is set in the disintegrating cities of Unthank and Glasgow, and tells the interwoven stories of Lanark and Duncan Thaw. A work of extraordinary imagination and wide range, its playful narrative techniques convey a profound message, both personal and political, about humankind's inability to love, and yet our compulsion to go on trying. Widely recognised as a modern classic, Alasdair Gray's magnum opus was first published in 1981 and immediately established him as one of Britain's leading writers. Comparisons have been made to Dante, Blake, Joyce, Orwell, Kafka, Huxley and Lewis Carroll. This new edition should cement his reputation as one of our greatest living writers.
Адски силна книга, която едно време ме остави без думи и сигурно е книгата, която най-силно ми е повлияла със силата на идеите и визията си. Постмодернизъм до дупка, страхотно писане, фантазия без граници.

Prometheus Rising и повечето неща на Робърт Антон Уилсън, писал съм Профил + Непреведено в някой от броевете. Книги, след които няма как мислиш по същия начин.
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Imagine trying to make sense of Timothy Leary's eight neurological circuits, G.I. Gurdjieff's self-observations exercises, Alfred Korzybski's general semantics, Aleister Crowley's magical theorems, and the several disciplines of Yoga; not to mention Christian Science, relativity, quantum mechanics and many other approaches to understanding the world around us. That is exactly what Wilson does in "Prometheus Rising". In short, it is a book about how the human mind works and what you can do to make the most of yours. Readers have been known to get angry, cry, laugh, and even change their entire lives. It has practical techniques to break free of your "reality tunnels".
Villa Incognito на Том Робинс. Страхотно шарено приключение, което осмива безмилостно всякакви институции и ограничения в обществото. Издадена е на български. Стилът на писане на Робинс е неповторим, борави с езика като магьосник. Чел съм малко на английски от Jitterbug Perfume и ми се струва, че вилата даже май ще се окаже от най-слабите му книги.

Хакери на човешките души на Иван Попов. Българска фантастика, която като сила на идеите си и успеваемост на защитаването им може спокойно да смели по-голямата част от западната фантастика. Доста странна литературна форма, но въпреки това си заслужава отвсякъде. Абсолютен word virus.
Random's 23 cents.
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Post by Demandred » Sun May 11, 2008 12:58 pm

Много хубава тема.

Riddle-Master Trilogy by Patricia A. McKillip
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Morgon, Prince of Hed, wants only to rule and work the land of his birth as best he can, but he is faced by a very different challenge from that of his ancestors. The stars have marked him out and he must wander strange, foreign lands full of untamed magic, and confront riddling wraiths and mysterious harpists at the behest of the all-knowing High One. But his is a perilous quest, involving grave danger, to himself, his promised bride, his land and his people.
Tрилогията е едно от най-добрите фентъзита, които съм чел. Ако трябва да я наподобя на някоя по-известна поредица, това ще е "Землемория", но това е само като усещане и атмосфера, иначе Riddle-Master е съвсем самостоятелна. Основни достойнства:

- прекрасен лиричен стил, изпълнен с красиви метафори, който с малко думи успява да въздейства много силно и да създаде атмосфера на магичност и да потопи читателя в света.
- оригинален сетинг, развит в дълбочина и ставащ близък на читателя, без да има нужда от 10 тома и безкрайни описания (цялата трилогия е само 600 страници).
- пълен с обрати и изненади сюжет, като тези обрати са едновременно труднопредвидими и съвсем логични в ретроспекция.
- герои, които са интересни, пълнокръвни образи и действат по логичен начин, а не като малолетни идиотчета или тотално непогрешими гении, както в повечето фентъзита. Въобще препоръчвам горещо, особено ако харесвате автори като Ле Гуин и Гай Кей.

The Crystal World by James Ballard
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J. G. Ballard’s fourth novel, which established his reputation as a writer of extraordinary talent and imaginative powers, tells the story of a physician specializing in the treatment of leprosy who is invited to a small outpost in the interior of Africa. Finding the roadways blocked, he takes to the river, and embarks on a frightening journey through a strange petrified forest whose area expands daily, affecting not only the physical environment but also its inhabitants.
Нетрадиционна научна фантастика, чиито основни достойнства са оригиналния сюжет, прекрасния стил и завладяващата атмосфера. Балард описва невероятните събития и явления толкова майсторски, че те веднага стават убедителни и въздейтващи за читателя.

Толкова засега, после ще добавям.
Sure your parents might think you're a failure
But no one's ever said: "First, let's kill all the tailors"
Don't be a lawyer!

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Roland
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Post by Roland » Sun May 11, 2008 1:01 pm

Много ми е итнересен Балард. Мислех да си търся The Drowned World...
And you can't dance with a devil on your back...

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Post by passer-by » Sun May 11, 2008 4:33 pm

Ще си позволя да изразя една мощна подкрепа за препоръките на Stand on Zanzibar на Джон Брънър и Prometheus Rising на Робърт Антон Уилсън. Втората е преведена на български - "Въстаналият Прометей".
The Best of Mozart
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rb0UmrCXxVA
Moridin wrote:Нещо хайпът във форума силно намаля :)

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Post by Itilon » Sun May 11, 2008 4:47 pm

Като стана дума за Том Робинс - Still Life With The Woodpecker и Even Cowgirls Get The Blues. Първата със сигурност е преведена на български (казва се Бърди Кълвача), но не мога да си представя, че много хора я притежават, тъй като, ако се съди по цените на Славейков, е библиографска рядкост. За втората не мога да кажа. Аз сега правя отчаяни опити да я до(про)чета на английски.

Останах с идеята и че почти никой не е чувал за Падането на нощта (книгата, не разказа) на Азимов и Силвърбърг, която също е библиографска рядкост, но определено си заслужава.
Last edited by Itilon on Sun May 11, 2008 7:49 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Post by Scourge » Sun May 11, 2008 5:32 pm

спомням си, че веднъж съм го рекламирал, но едва ли е било тук:
James Morrow - Only Begotten Daughter

учудващо неизвестен у нас автор като се вземе предвид, че е с две World Fantasy Awards (една от които за въпросната книга) + некви небюли. това е вероятно най-добрата антирелигиозна сатира, която съм чел - интелигентна и безкомпромисна. започва като модерно фентъзи и завършва като фундаменталистка анти-утопия, като пътьом отговаря на някои екзистенциални въпроси (има ли науката всички отговори, какви са изискванията да се попадне в ада, колко души има в рая). не е за easily offended читатели и е дълбоко скарана с политическата коректност.
сюжетът се гради върху живота на (не?)порочно заченатата дъщеря на евреин и Бог (тук предполагаемо от женски пол), която упорито не ще да месианства, включва фундаменталистка група (със звучното име First Ocean City Church of St John's Vision), която цели да докара апокалипсиса, и, разбира се, в поддържаща роля - луцифер. ако случайно ви напомня на "добри поличби", то е защото няма нищо общо. :)

ако някой се прелъже и му хареса, може да пробва и следващата книга от същия автор Towing Jehovah (също с World Fantasy Award), в която Бог е мъртъв, трупът му (2 miles long) е паднал в океана, с всички последствия, до които води това. :)

Grumpi wrote:
Muad_Dib wrote:Бтв някой да е чел поредицата за Гарет на Глен Кук (детектив във фентъзи-сетинг)? И дали е издавана на БГ?
Мда, чел съм ги всичките. Доста добре написани в стила на Реймънд Чандлър. Гълтат се много бързо, аз повечето ги четох по летища и маршрутки.

За съжаление обаче не са издавани на български още, нямам идея дали някое издателство ги планира, май "Лира Принт" досега са издавали Кук.
също така, според мен са по-добри от серията за черния отряд.

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Post by Бобсън » Mon May 12, 2008 7:19 am

"James Tiptree Jr., Thе double life of Alice B. Sheldon"
автор Julie Phillips

Това е една много изчерпателна биография на един от Най-именитите писатели фантасти в СаЩ до момента. Книгата е много добра. Миналото лято като я прочетох си рекох, че на тази трябва да и дадат Hugo, понеже за Нобелова награда трябва като че ли авторът да е написал и още нещо... Пък те к'во -- дадоха 'и Hugo.
She was born in Chicago in 1915. As a child, she crossed Africa with her explorer parents. As an adult, she became a painter, a military intelligence officer, a CIA agent, an experimental psychologist. At age 51, Alice Bradley Sheldon made yet another change of career.

James Tiptree Jr. began writing science fiction in 1967. His stories were fast-paced and hard-boiled, his letters funny, frank, and sensitive. No one had ever seen him. No one knew his true identity. There were rumors he was a government spy. It wasn't until 1976 that the cover was blown on his alter ego: Alli Sheldon, a complex woman with an unusual past.

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Post by Lubimetz13 » Wed May 14, 2008 5:09 pm

Не знам дали следното произведение спада към категорията книги, които никой друг не е чел, тъй като май беше споменато в някаква тема във форума, но доколкото говорим за адски добри книги, които очевидно не са попаднали във фокуса на форумната общественост така, както заслужават, мястото му определено е тук:

The Terror by Dan Simmons
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The fate of Sir John Franklin's last expedition remains one of the great mysteries of Arctic exploration. What we know, more or less, is this: In the balmy days of May 1845, 129 officers and men aboard two ships -- Erebus and Terror -- departed from England for the Canadian Arctic in search of a Northwest Passage to the Pacific. They were never heard from again. Between 1847 and 1859, Franklin's wife pushed for and funded various relief missions, even as the expectation of finding survivors was replaced by the slim hope for answers.

It's a story perfectly suited for fiction, if only because we have so little else to go on. Dan Simmons's new novel, The Terror, dives headlong into the frozen waters of the Franklin mystery, mixing historical adventure with gothic horror -- a sort of Patrick O'Brian meets Edgar Allan Poe against the backdrop of a J.M.W. Turner icescape. Meticulously researched and brilliantly imagined, The Terror won't satisfy historians or even Franklin buffs, but as a literary hybrid, the novel presents a dramatic and mythic argument for how and why Franklin and his men met their demise.

The book opens well into the middle of things, at the onset of the ships' third winter beset in sea ice. Months after Franklin's own death, his second-in-command is now in charge. Gothic imagery pervades, as "Captain Crozier comes up on deck to find his ship under attack by celestial ghosts." This "attack" turns out to be an artful description of the aurora borealis, though Simmons never tells us that directly. Indeed, the power of his metaphoric language comes from the archetypal superstitions of the crew, who, despite their anchor of Protestant Christianity, are a pagan lot deep down.

But the crew's belief in witches and magic may or may not explain their main fear: a "Thing on the ice" that stalks, beheads, eviscerates and otherwise kills off crewmen one by one. For 200 pages or so, we aren't sure if this beast is a figment of their overactive imaginations, maybe a giant polar bear or a yeti of Northern lore, a monster suggesting the "beastie" of Golding's Lord of the Flies -- the terror within -- or Beowulf's Grendel, not to say Grendel's mother -- a preternatural, evil intelligence bent on destruction.

Faced with mutinous threats, general starvation, intense cold and something wrong with their tinned food supply (scurvy and lead poisoning appear rampant), Crozier provides leadership without arrogance. As the novel's protagonist, he is a man of the people, a realist, unlucky in love. As an Irishman in the British Royal Navy, he has been largely ignored by the Admiralty despite his stoic competence.

By contrast, Franklin represents most of what was wrong in early British Arctic exploration. His prior expeditions had met with minimal success, making him best known in England as "the man who ate his shoes," though given all the other things men ate to stay alive on Arctic expeditions, it's unclear why shoe leather would be singled out for ignominy. Goaded by his very public failings, Franklin retained his penchant for arrogant idealism and wasteful ritual. He brought along fine china and monogrammed silverware, among other "necessities." In the end, his primary mistake is cultural: Out of xenophobia he refuses to adopt local methods of travel, shelter and hunting. Yet to say that Sir John gets his just deserts is unfair if only because 128 others suffer the same fate.

Crozier recognizes the captain's weaknesses, and therein lies the novel's poignant sense of loss. He dispenses shipboard justice out of practical necessity rather than lofty idealism. In their desperate hours, he preaches not from the Bible favored by Franklin but from the "Book of Leviathan" -- his own recitations from Thomas Hobbes, which, among other things, explains the birth of superstition and religion: "There was nothing which a Poet could introduce as a person in his Poem, which [man] did not make into either a God or a Divel." As the novel descends toward its hellish climax, the "Divel" chasing our crew -- that "Thing on the ice" -- transcends its monstrous nature and becomes the manifestation of earthly retribution, wild payback for the hubris of Western civilization.

The vehicle of that transcendence is Lady Silence, a mute Inuit girl who lives on the ship and goes at her own whim, providing a portal to Eskimo mythology and shamanism. Northern spiritual philosophy gives the world -- and this novel -- its ultimate balance, predicting the coming of kabloona ("pale people"), whose arrival brings "drunkenness and despair," melts the sea ice, kills off the white bear and calls forth the "End of Times." While Franklin's men are unable to escape the realities of starvation, brutal cold and the violent urge, Crozier's instinct for survival pushes the novel to its ethereal end.

This mix of historical realism, gothic horror and ancient mythology is a difficult walk on fractured ice, and anyone without Simmons's mastery of narrative craft would have undoubtedly fallen through. Despite its Leviathan length, The Terror proves a compelling read, while making the average meal consumed by the average American seem a precious gift from warm-weather gods.

Reviewed by David Masiel
Знам, че ревюто горе е доста дълго, но просто не ми се ще да се впускам във възторжени дитирамби, когато някой вече го е направил вместо мен. Накратко, книгата е не просто добра, ами прекалено добра. Атмосферата е плътна, гадна, студена, поглъщаща, безнадеждна, клаустрофобична, задушаваща и побъркваща. Поне за мен беше невероятно обсебващо четене. Ако можете, прочетете я на плажа със сок от портокал в ръка и вестник до хавлията, защото определено не е добра идея да се задълбаваш в подобна по дълбочина книга, без да си здраво закотвен към нещо жизнерадостно.

Много, много добра.

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Matrim
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Post by Matrim » Wed May 14, 2008 7:07 pm

Никола - не знам каква страница си разлеждал от Perdido Street Station, но прочитането на пролога е може би най-добрия способ да решиш дали книгата е по вкуса ти:
Spoiler: show
Veldt to scrub to fields to farms to these first tumbling houses that rise from the earth. It has been night for a long time. The hovels that encrust the river’s edge have grown like mushrooms around me in the dark.
We rock. We pitch in a deep current.
Behind me the man tugs uneasily at his rudder and the barge corrects. Light lurches as the lantern swings. The man is afraid of me. I lean out from the prow of the small vessel across the darkly moving water.
Over the engines oily rumble and the caresses of the river small sounds, house sounds, are building. Timbers whisper and the wind strokes thatch, walls settle and floors shift to fill space; the tens of houses have become hundreds, thousands; they spread backwards from the banks and shed light from all across the plain.
They surround me. They are growing. They are taller and fatter and noisier, their roofs are slate, their walls are strong brick.
The river twists and turns to face the city. It looms suddenly, massive, stamped on the landscape. Its light wells up around the surrounds, the rock hills, like bruise-blood. Its dirty towers glow. I am debased. I am compelled to worship this extraordinary presence that has silted into existence at the conjunction of two rivers. It is a vast pollutant, a stench, a klaxon sounding. Fat chimneys retch dirt into the sky even now in the deep night. It is not the current which pulls us but the city itself, its weight sucks us in. Faint shouts, here and there the calls of beasts, the obscene clash and pounding from the factories as huge machines rut. Railways trace urban anatomy like protruding veins. Red brick and dark walls, squat churches like troglodytic things, ragged awnings flickering, cobbled mazes in the old town, culs-de-sac, sewers riddling the earth like secular sepulchres, a new landscape of wasteground, crushed stone, libraries fat with forgotten volumes, old hospitals, towerblocks, ships and metal claws that lift cargoes from the water.
How could we not see this approaching? What trick of topography is this, that lets the sprawling monster hide behind corners to leap out at the traveller?
It is too late to flee.

*******

The man murmurs to me, tells me where we are. I do not turn to him.
This is Raven’s Gate, this brutalized warren around us. The rotting buildings lean against each other, exhausted. The river smears slime on its brick banks, city walls risen from the depths to hold the water at bay. There is a vile stink here.
(I wonder how this looks from above, no chance for the city to hide then, if you came at it on the wind you would see it from miles and miles away like a dirty smear, like a slab of carrion thronging with maggots, I should not think like this but I cannot stop now, I could ride the updrafts that the chimneys vent, sail high over the proud towers and shit on the earthbound, ride the chaos, alight where I choose, I must not think like this, I must not do this now, I must stop, not now, not this, not yet.)
Here there are houses which dribble pale mucus, an organic daubing that smears base façades and oozes from top windows. Extra storeys are rendered in the cold white muck which fills gaps between houses and dead-end alleys. The landscape is defaced with ripples as if wax has melted and set suddenly across the rooftops. Some other intelligence has made these human streets their own.
Wires are stretched tight across the river and the eaves, held fast by milky aggregates of phlegm. They hum like bass strings. Something scuttles overhead. The bargeman hawks foully into the water.
His gob dissipates. The mass of spittle-mortar above us ebbs. Narrow streets emerge.
A train whistles as it crosses the river before us on raised tracks. I look to it, to the south and the east, seeing the line of little lights rush away and be swallowed by this nightland, this behemoth that eats its citizens. We will pass the factories soon. Cranes rear from the gloom like spindly birds; here and there they move to keep the skeleton crews, the midnight crews, in their work. Chains swing deadweight like useless limbs, snapping into zombie motion where cogs engage and flywheels turn.
Fat predatory shadows prowl the sky.
There is a boom, a reverberation, as if the city has a hollow core. The black barge putters through a mass of its fellows weighed down with coke and wood and iron and steel and glass. The water here reflects the stars through a stinking rainbow of impurities, effluents and chymical slop, making it sluggish and unsettling.
(Oh, to rise above this to not smell this filth this dirt this dung to not enter the city through this latrine but I must stop, I must, I cannot go on, I must.)
The engine slows. I turn and watch the man behind me, who averts his eyes and steers, affecting to look through me. He is taking us in to dock, there behind the warehouse so engorged its contents spill out beyond the buttresses in a labyrinth of huge boxes. He picks his way between other craft. There are roofs emerging from the river. A line of sunken houses, built on the wrong side of the wall, pressed up against the bank in the water, their bituminous black bricks dripping. Disturbances beneath us. The river boils with eddies from below. Dead fish and frogs that have given up the fight to breathe in this rotting stew of detritus swirl frantic between the flat side of the barge and the concrete shore, trapped in choppy turmoil. The gap is closed. My captain leaps ashore and ties up. His relief is draining to see. He is wittering gruffly in triumph and ushering me quickly ashore and away and I alight, as slowly as if onto coals, picking my way through the rubbish and the broken glass.
He is happy with the stones I have given him. I am in Smog Bend, he tells me, and I make myself look away as he points my direction so he will not know I am lost, that I am new in the city, that I am afraid of these dark and threatening edifices of which I cannot kick free, that I am nauseous with claustrophobia and foreboding.
A little to the south two great pillars rise from the river. The gates to the Old City, once grandiose, now psoriatic and ruined. The carved histories that wound about those obelisks have been effaced by time and acid, and only roughcast spiral threads like those of old screws remain. Behind them, a low bridge (Drud Crossing, he says). I ignore the man’s eager explanations and walk away through this lime-bleached zone, past yawning doors that promise the comfort of true dark and an escape from the river stench. The bargeman is just a tiny voice now and it is a small pleasure to know I will never see him again.
It is not cold. A city light is promising itself in the east.

*******

I will follow the trainlines. I will stalk in their shadow as they pass by over the houses and towers and barracks and offices and prisons of the city, I will track them from the arches that anchor them to the earth. I must find my way in.
My cloak (heavy cloth unfamiliar and painful on my skin) tugs at me and I can feel the weight of my purse. That is what protects me here; that and the illusion I have fostered, the source of my sorrow and my shame, the anguish that has brought me to this great wen, this dusty city dreamed up in bone and brick, a conspiracy of industry and violence, steeped in history and battened-down power, this badland beyond my ken.
New Crobuzon.
Иначе, то аз книгите, които ми се струват недооценени съм ги тикал здраво в Непреведеното, затова няма да се впускам в подробности и само ще ги спомена - Liveship Traders (Хоб), The Baroque Cycle (Стивънсън), The Scar (Миевил).
Да добавим и A Song For Arbonne на Кай, може би най-добрата му книга, която кой знае защо още не е издадена у нас.
Ridcully: "A few twenty-mile runs and the Dean'd be a different man."
Bursar: "Well, yes. He'd be dead."
Ridcully: "He'd be healthy."
Bursar: "Yes, but still dead."

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