Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра

Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра

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He was ready when dusk came. There were plenty of ladders around, and the golems had managed to shore up the floors even up here. Soot covered everything and some rooms opened on to blackness, but he climbed ever up.

He struggled through what remained of the attics, and clambered through a hatch and on to the roof.

There wasn’t much of it. The descent of the rainwater tank had brought down a lot of burning roof with it, and barely a third remained over the great hall. But the fire had hardly touched one of the legs of the U, and the roof there looked sound.

There was one of the old postal pigeon lofts there, and someone had been living in it. That wasn’t too surprising. Far more people wanted to live in Ankh-Morpork than there was Ankh-Morpork for them to live in. There was a whole sub-civilization at rooftop level, up here among the towers and ornamental domes and cupolas and chimneys and—

—clacks towers. That’s right. He’d seen the clacks tower, and someone up here, just before his life had taken a turn for the strange. Why would a loft built for carrier pigeons have a semaphore tower? Surely the pigeons didn’t use it?

Three gargoyles had colonized this one. They liked clacks towers anyway - being up high was what being a gargoyle was all about - and they’d fitted into the system easily. A creature that spent all its time watching and was bright enough to write down a message was a vital component. They didn’t even want paying, and they never got bored. What could possibly bore a creature that was prepared to stare at the same thing for years at a time?

Around the city, the clacks towers were lighting up. Only the University, the Palace, the Guilds and the seriously rich or very nervous ran their towers at night, but the big terminal tower on the Tump blazed like a Hogswatch tree. Patterns of yellow squares ran up and down the main tower. Silent at this distance, winking their signals above the rising mists, outlining their constellations against the evening sky, the towers were more magical than magic, more bewitching than witchcraft.

Moist stared.

What was magic, after all, but something that happened at the snap of a finger? Where was the magic in that? It was mumbled words and weird drawings in old books and in the wrong hands it was dangerous as hell, but not one half as dangerous as it could be in the right hands. The universe was full of the stuff; it made the stars stay up and the feet stay down.

But what was happening now... this was magical. Ordinary men had dreamed it up and put it together, building towers on rafts in swamps and across the frozen spines of mountains. They’d cursed and, worse, used logarithms. They’d waded through rivers and dabbled in trigonometry. They hadn’t dreamed, in the way people usually used the word, but they’d imagined a different world, and bent metal round it. And out of all the sweat and swearing and mathematics had come this... thing, dropping words across the world as softly as starlight.

The mist was tilling the streets now, leaving the buildings like islands in surf.

Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра

Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра

Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра

Читала Going Postal.

Darkness and silence squeezed him in a fist.
Moist von Lipwig knelt with his head resting on his arms. There was air here but it was warm and stale and wouldn’t last long. He couldn’t move more than a finger.
He could die here. He would die here. There must be tons of mail around him.
‘I commend my soul to any god who can find it,’ he mumbled, in the stifling air.
A line of blue danced across his inner vision.
It was handwriting. But it spoke.
‘Dear Mother, I have arived safely and found good lodgings at...
The voice sounded like a country boy but it had a... a scritchy quality to it. If a letter could talk, it would sound like that. The words rambled on, the characters curving and slanting awkwardly under the pen of a reluctant writer—
—and as it ran on another line also began to write across the dark, crisply and neatly:
Dear Sir, I have the honour to inform you that I am the sole executer of the estate of the late Sir Davie Thrill, of The Manor, Mixed Blessings, and it appears that you are the sole...’
The voice continued in words so clipped that you could hear the shelves full of legal books behind the desk, but a third line was beginning.
Dear Mrs Clarck, I much regret to inform you that in an engagement with the enemy yesterday your husband, C. Clark, fought valiantly but was...
And then they all wrote at once. Voices in their dozens, their hundreds, their thousands, filled his ears and squiggled across his inner vision. They didn’t shout, they just unrolled the words until his head was full of sound, which formed new words, just as all the instruments of an orchestra tinkle and scrape and blast to produce one climax—
Moist tried to scream, but envelopes filled his mouth.

Ночью мне снилось, что я Мойст со всеми его приключениями. Я едва не обос... очень испугалась, когда полетела с 5-го этажа.

Была последняя пара по немецкому.
Пили чай с тортиком, разговаривали. Конечно, еще впереди сессия и госы, но уже говорили в прошедшем времени "вы были такими-то" и т.д. Наверное, кто-нибудь да расстроился, мол, все равно не все так плохо было, а я сидела и радовалась! Ура! Осторчертел уже университет, сил нет. "Вы такая сильная группа, когда я только вас встретила, я думала, как это вы будете госы сдавать. А сейчас вы все так подтянулись, молодцы..." Ага, конечно, Филиппова на прошлой паре не могла вспомнить артикль женского рода.
Да и мне университет дал немного. Я совсем не знала немецкого после 2 курса, потому что наша преподавательница беспокоилась больше о том, чтобы собрать документы на стипендию DAAD, чем о том, чтобы чему-то учить. Я улыбаюсь и искренне хочу, чтобы такие люди горели в адском пламени.
Но.
Все начинается с себя. И сколько бы я ни ныла, что мне не дали то, что должны были дать на парах, это полностью моя вина. Потому что все начинается с себя. Пока сам не захочешь, ничего не достигнешь. Никто не выучит за тебя грамматику, не научится разговаривать на языке.

Ниточки начали рваться. Я иду вперед.

Очень негативно отношусь к Витинари/Ваймс или Витинари/Стукпостук.
Вообще к слэшу по ПМ в принципе.

Не в обзоры.