Austen’s wit is unbeatable, lol.

Austen admired Richardson to the extent of knowing whole scenes of his last novel, Sir Charles Grandison, off by heart. She was also a devotee of Frances Burney. Yet she betrayed, at times, her own impatience with courtship plots that are seemingly protracted solely in order to generate more pages. In 1796 she sent her best wishes via her sister, Cassandra, to a mutual friend, and in the process wryly alluded to Burney’s Camilla: “tell her I wish whenever she is attached to a young Man, some respectable Dr Marchmont might keep them apart for five Volumes”. ©

Постирония вышла невеселой, что уж.

Старое издание «Теоремы» — ничуть не биографию, конечно, а сборник разных пазолиниевских работ, вышедший в ранние двухтысячные*, нужно беречь как зеницу ока.

И отдельно замечу: как же хорошо, что В.В. Забродин всего это безобразия уже не увидит.

___________

* В 2000 г. в Ладомире.

Рабочее-текущее (пунктиром: устала)

Пишу статью на саффолкскую конфу об М.Р. Джеймсе, веду переписку с потенциальными участниками Армитаджа, переживаю ремонт кухни (почти закончился!) и чувствую, что я устала так, что не могу ни читать, ни смотреть фильмы, список которых у меня растет в геометрической прогрессии. Фоном слушаю судебные заседания по делу сектанта Чада Дейбелла (мормоны, Судный день, препперство, и на фоне всего этого — брак с такой же сумасшедшей Лори Валлоу, убийства ее детей, его жены и проч.), и думаю о том, что одноэтажная псевдоевангелическая Америка в ее сектоидным мышлением устраивает странные потлачи, густо замешанные на южной готике, поп-культурных шаблонах и Второй Поправке к американской конституции.

“Ageing gracefully” means that

1. You still remember the name of your significant other. You ALWAYS remember all the names (including the obscene ones) of your cat.

2. You still (vaguely) remember the title of the paper you are about to write. Oh wait! You wrote it last month! Damn.

3. You confuse your dentist appointment with your optometrist appointment only three times. Progress!

4. You smile politely at a person whom you, as you might think, met at the conference last May*.

5. You still remember words such as “eschatology” and “propinquity,” but are in blissful oblivion what this damn thing in the kitchen is called (you know, that shiny utensil... no, not this one, another one!).

What “ageing gracefully” has no connection with:

1. Your appearance.

2. Your clothing choices.

3. Your daily life preferences.

If someone tries to shame you for the above mentioned things, calling you an old hag and a Karen, smile and politely** ask them to fuck off.

_________________

* Spoiler: you were wrong, but, hopefully, your weird smile and awkward gestures weren’t mistaken for something creepy you dweeb

** The level of politeness may vary

Набоков: 125

И по поводу другого* сегодняшнего юбиляра: нам, живущим в условиях выбранного-вынужденного дву-/трехъязычия, следует проявлять умеренную деликатность и осторожность в утверждениях вроде недавнего «[...] по-английски он всегда думал и писал с некоторым акцентом» [sic!], потому что за оценку (не-)естественности макаронической набоковской прозы с точки зрения ее билингвальной адекватности мог бы взяться кто-нибудь соразмерного Н. таланта, а этого не наблюдается и близко.

Есть номера у фонарей

И тот, с девяткой троекратной,

Лучист и зелен средь ветвей, —

Возможно, друг мой невозвратный.

И в час, как ярый ураган

Ветвится молнией, быть может,

Томится в туче Тамерлан,

И рев тиранов Ад тревожит.

Кстати, наука утверждает, что Земля не просто развалится на части, но исчезнет, как призрак, если из мира вдруг пропадет Электричество. ©

вот тут до нас ильич доехал
прошу пройти к котлу сто семь
там троцкий каутский эсеры
бревно кипящее в смоле

- Ваша светлость, младшие де Гизы уже в Блуа: вас ждут в Пуатье. Простолюдины в трактирах смогут принять вас за своего, но камзол и шпагу лучше держать поближе.

(А также скитания в окрестностях Монсегюра)

The Dropout (Hulu/BBC1)

Ok, we have watched “The Dropout” recently (more than a week ago, to be precise: our working schedules are a bit scrambled at the moment due to various ordeals, so neither of us have enough time to watch the newest things, such as “Ripley,” for instance), and my very first thought was: too long and overdone, especially the first three or so episodes. The entire thing should’ve been reduced to three parts maximum, and that would’ve been more than enough.

Other than that, it was well done, with my only one yet significant pet peeve: it felt as if the filmmakers were trying to whitewash the Theranos downfall, minimising Holmes’s wrongdoings, almost forcing the audience to sympathise with the young woman, whose confusion and frustration (perhaps neurodivergent, as it was suggested) has to be at least partially excused. Her portrayal by Seyfried doesn’t help here either: it’s the exact case when the actor is too good looking for a prototype (apologies for a shallow remark, but Seyfried’s beauty was a bit distracting throughout the whole plot). I didn’t want to feel sorry for a cinematic version of Elizabeth, and all the attempts to “understand her motives” seemed contrary to the premise of the show: “fake it till you make it” most likely would end up in a clusterfuck.

Фейсбучное-внезапное

Me to L., after morning coffee: “I forgot which states were in New England—Rhode island, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Maine, Connecticut...”

L.: “...and Vermont.”

Me: “Ah, Vermont... Ok, got it.”

FB bots (overhearing; with immediate curiosity): “Why are you asking? Wanna go to Vermont? Wanna live in Vermont by any chance? Vermont is waiting for you! We also have s o c k s.”

Внезапное-классическое

Никто:

Абсолютно никто:

Л. в полночь: «А хорошо было бы сделать парк аттракционов «Мертвые души»»

Я: «Эээээ»

Л.: «…и чтобы каждая карусель — как бы поместье эсквайра, которого навещал Чичиков по списку»

Я: «Помещика»

Л.: «Да, и чтобы там кормили, как во втором томе, когда один из них предлагал Чичикову поросенка»

Я:

Неожиданно обнаружила новые correspondances между одной из работ позднего Уайета (начало 2000-х: On the Edge) и картиной Даду Шина — одиночество, о(т)странение, созерцательная и глубокая печаль.

Периодически у меня случаются такие дни, когда я чувствую неконтролируемую тревогу, которая мешает мне работать и концентрироваться на серьезных вещах. Поводом для беспокойства может стать что угодно, и в конце дня это давящее тоскливое ощущение погружения на дно крепнет и разрастается, да так, что я с трудом потом возвращаюсь в нормальное русло. Может, возраст тому виной и накопившаяся за многие месяцы усталость от внешних ужасов (нет смысла уточнять, каких именно: и так понятно), но стряхнуть с себя это липкую давящую тоску бывает труднее, чем написать несколько страниц статьи в дедлайновом цейтноте. 

А вот и постер НекрономиКона-2024 подоспел — совершенно роскошный, практически ар нуво:

Текущее-рабочее (телетайп)

Забукировали билеты в Бостон и обратно, а еще мне пришел традиционный некрономиконовский опросник по участию в круглых столах (пдф с примерными темами для дискуссий тоже был прикреплен к письму). Решила, что в этом году с меня хватит Армитаджа, и в секциях принимать участие не буду: каждый раз очень сильно нервничаю и не всегда уверена в фидбеке аудитории (зря, наверное, потому что публика обычно очень дружелюбная и понимающая).

The previous week was somewhat overwhelming for a variety of reasons; the weather added to the entire ordeal. That’s why, when we noticed the odd golden orb in the sky, we didn’t hesitate to go for a lengthy walk, choosing Chesterton as one of the destinations (one of L.’s first Cambridge locations was there: it’s amusing to think that he went to the Lab and Clare from the opposite side of Cambridge 40 years ago).

The city does feel strange these days: it’s still not sunny enough for proper spring yet it’s warm(-ish), and, despite the muted colours, everything is blooming and looking lovely.

So there—Orchard Close (one of the most picturesque central streets), Midsummer Common with young calves chewing dandelions, that weird Michelin star restaurant by the river (still haven’t been in and am not sure if I want to), the bridge, and then Chesterton’s oldest St. Andrew’s church that I love dearly for its silence, magnificent Victorian stained glass, gargoyles and decrepit gravestones in the abandoned cemetery. That was a nice walk.

*Reading the Atlantic article about the issues that the young people who grew up with social media experiencing* 

This is truly horrifying but blatantly obvious: that’s what happened when oversharing has become not only a personal problem, but also an issue for your loved ones, especially children. Coincidentally, I recently started noticing that human exhaustion from socials—at least, among adults: people are less sharing their “what’s on your mind” content, and rightfully so, as being instantly misunderstood, misinterpreted and ostracised became the very idea of online interactions. Hence Reddit and all the AITA shenanigans.

As many of you may already know, we here, in England, haven’t had that odd yellow orb in the sky for many months, hence everything looks much gloomier than usual, despite the (supposedly) awakening season. But what never ceases to amaze me is our garden: it’s bleak, and grey, and overall melancholic yet more and more flowers are emerging from the remnants of rainy March, and even without sunlight they look magical.

(The views from the windows)

“Scoop” (Netflix)

Ok, I watched the Netflix “Scoop.”

In short: it was bad. My first, and immediate, question before even starting was, “What is the point to make something sensational and bombastic about such a recent event?”, but after the first opening remarks I sort of figured it out: of course, it was that unstoppable desire to praise the “impartial BBC” just like some people chant on social media about “our precious NHS*” etc.

So, basically, the entire movie turned into a lengthy self-assuring and self-righteous stance about interviewing a revolting individual and all the fuss that had surrounded the notorious interview with the aforementioned individual. It was full of a glee-filled cackle from the attention-seeking wassocks—some, lithe and dulcet, with whippets in their workplace (ah, that unimaginable for hoi polloi luxury of swanning around a studio with the superior motto “because I can”), the others in expensive pumps with a leopard print (“because I’ve been paid good money to look that cheap” etc.), and all that for the mere “Tu l’as voulu, Georges Dandin!”

Как-то неожиданно срезонировало (ну и традиционное сюда же — «как все злые люди, я сентиментален»):

Jamesian conference: soon!

So, three weeks from now, yours truly will be having a bit of fun in Suffolk, delivering a talk about all things M.R. James and uncanny.

Let’s hope I do it right.

Forgive me for sharing from the Guardian (yikes), but the article is indeed stating the obvious: pet care has got completely out of hand and is in a disastrous state. As a pet owner, you feel trapped: you’ve been manipulated to the point that you can’t even discuss cheaper options for treating your animal, as it sounds crass and somehow disrespectful (?!) to the vet.

In one case, the vet charged for “a phone conversation, even though I couldn’t hear what he was saying. ©

I never forget the moment when we were connected by phone with one of the junior vets after Pickle had been diagnosed with sarcoma, and how this guy was constantly avoiding our direct questions—simply stalling for time: afterwards we were charged for a “consultation” (it wasn’t that) a ginormous amount of money, well over £150. He waffled, and waffled, and we learned nothing.

Me: still follow the case of a “false prophet,” Chad Daybell (LDS, Doomsday, preppers, all that stuff)

An email I got: “Oh hello, Brigham Young University is extending the deadline for abstracts for [...] conference. Please, consider submitting an abstract so you can join us for an intellectually stimulating conference in the beautiful mountains of Utah!”

Me: “Thank you! I’d rather not”

Краткое-ретроспективное

Встретились сегодня с друзьями, и я узнала, что сегодня закончился BASEES. Еще года три назад одна мысль о том, что я могу его пропустить, вызвала бы у меня шок, а сейчас ничего внутри не шевельнулось. Иных уж нет, а те далече, в общем. 

So, we’re sitting in a pub, L. is having his half pint of “Ghost Ship,” and a waiter, a young lad, walks towards us with a question “Sausages and mash?” and after “Nope, not ours” proceeds further mumbling “Oh! I got really confused.”

But this sausage part: really? What happened to the oldie but goodie “Bangers & mash?” How did a young Brit manage to scramble a legendary name? I’m baffled, truly baffled.

After months of never-ending rain, bleakness and misery (it even took a toll on me, although I’m usually not the one who objects to gloomy weather), we’ve finally got something that remotely resembles true spring, and our front garden continues to bloom: in all honesty, its tulip phase is one of the prettiest.

Nothings and triviality (En)

Am I the only person who has never checked her IQ nor is going to do so? Because the results could be *potentially* frustrating, and I don’t want to add the sprinklers to the pile of misery, lol.

Повседневное (брифли)

Memo of the day: я уже давно так физически не уставала. Буквально, еле доношу голову до подушки и сразу проваливаюсь в сон, и так почти неделю подряд. Все подробности позже, а пока что готовимся к изменениям.

Эта музыка будет вечной: задолбали меня соцсети хуже горькой редьки. Ничего не меняется: на ровном месте устраивают склоки с тою только лишь разницей, что ты в арбитры уже не идешь, потому что не сторож ты другу своему. Сами-сами-сами, без меня: ни запала уже нет, ни желания вмешиваться.

Да и остальное тоже так себе — одни и те же кухонные споры, шутки и графомания. Надоело. Почти ничего не пишу уже там. Видимо, все закончится старым добрым «писать в стол».

TWIMC. I am pleased to announce that I’ve successfully deciphered the Voynich manuscript (of course, my results are the most compelling, as you will see: forget all the previous attempts) and will publish it in the next Lovecraftian Proceedings. “Whomst Why?” you might ask. Well, because, as it turns out, the largest part of the content is a diary of Yog-Sothoth.

I am very humbled and proud of my achievements.

Вот так начнешь разбирать книжный шкаф, до которого все не доходили руки, и обнаружишь привет из прошлого.

What makes King so real is his ability to be uneven in his prose and, simultaneously, so uniquely versatile. He is one of those writers who is not afraid to tackle a new genre that isn’t horror, and to navigate it perfectly. His Duma Key, the novel about the real pain and challenge of being talented, is a great example of that.

King has referred to “The Stand” as his attempt to do an American version of “The Lord of the Rings.” But his seven-book “Dark Tower” series (an eighth book was published after the story proper concluded) is King’s truest Tolkien analogue.

Indeed, it’s one of the great American genre series — an epic in multiple modes (horror, sci-fi, fantasy, Western) about a gunslinger-knight who is trying to save his world and ours from complete destruction by his foe, the Man in Black. Published over the course of 20 years, the series has become the center of a King extended universe, with multiple novels and stories connecting to its characters and locations. The first volume, “The Gunslinger” (1982) is the shortest, and it will give you a tiny taste of how weird and inventive the series gets. ©

Found these gems online (vintage books websites, my sincerest kudos to you all), and Maurice Sendak’s collection looks absolutely wonderful: waiting for the time I will read it to Sashen’ka.

Nothings and triviality

During my lunch break I got a knock on the door. It was the postman: the weather was dismal, it was raining quite hard, and his face was barely visible from underneath the hood of his waterproof jacket. He gave me a brief look.
P.: “Hello!”
Me: “Hi.”
P.: “Élena or Eléna?”
Me: “The second.”
P. (giving me a package; looking at my tee with Robert Smith’s face): “Great choice! Have you been?..”
Me: “...at the concert? Not yet.”
P.: “But you should! Tuesday’s grey and Wednesday too!”
Me: “Thursday doesn’t even start—at least, properly.”
He greeted me, and I shut the door. I’ve been singing the song inside my head since then.

Вообще, конечно, количество урбанины разной степени тошнотворности на квадратный метр в Кембридже в последнее время сильно напрягает. Это началось не вчера: тенденции загаживать архитектурное пространство всякими маловразумительными арт-концептами уже под сотню лет (когда ты сам себе Тцара, Дюшан, Брак и Джакометти, кто ж тебя стреножит), и при этом манифесты, объясняющие почтенной публике, почему «так надо», становятся все длиннее, контекст™ — все забористее (pun intended), а авторская спесь — все очевиднее.

С другой стороны, ежели кому так уж хочется «деконструировать симплифицированную банальность городской среды» с фигой в кармане лукавым двуличием (простакам — чучелко, мне — статтю в артжурнале, славу и бабло), пусть бы делали это в строго отведенных местах, и желательно подальше от жилых кварталов, а то каждый раз натыкаешься на очередной кусок металлического говна и думаешь: то ли стройку затеяли, то ли на новую премию Тернера претендуют. Тертиум, как говорится, нон датур.

As I’ve mentioned recently, it’s not easy to take the usual seasonal photos of the front and back garden, as we pretty much don’t have consistently sunny weather, but finally I managed to catch the moment when the sun remained in place for more than ten minutes and used it for my own benefit. The hyacinths are slowly fading and looking glorious: more and more tulips of different sorts are emerging, which is always very exciting to observe.

Dad had always been a great cook: he loved guests and loved throwing massive opulent feasts that consisted of many courses—each with its own suitable drink. His stroganina* was divine: every time I visited him, I was anticipating it, and he had never disappointed. I still hear his slightly grumpy (in a jokey way) voice in my mind—Lenka, don’t bother me, wait for a second, we will start soon.

He cooked deer meat; his soups were incredible. His salads were always absolutely delicious, and his crepes (bliny) were the thinnest and a pure marvel.

I cooked borsch and piroshki (fried buns) with meat today: he would’ve liked it. And he adored Georgian wine, and I was happy that we brought several bottles from our trip to Tbilisi in 2022.

We drank Kindzmarauli in his honour. Most likely, he would smile awkwardly and say, “Lenka, stop it.” But today I won’t: it’s for you, Dad.

_______________

* Raw, thinly sliced frozen fish, mostly from Omul and Nelma, white salmon—northern Arctic specialty

Vigil for Dad.

Папа. Сегодня год. +

Какой страшный день. Теперь Крокус Сити, и десятки погибших. Господи, спаси и помилуй.

Запоріжжя сьогодні вранці. Дніпрогес.

Дід бачив, як його будували.

По ньому сьогодні їхав тролейбус з людьми; він згорів вщент. Також зруйновані будинки в приватному секторі; є загиблі.

Не пробачати.

День Поэзии

Стихотворение, чаще других приходящее на ум в последнее время*:
В грозные, знойные
Летние дни —
Белые, стройные
Те же они.
Призраки вешние
Пусть сожжены, -
Здесь вы нездешние,
Верные сны.
Зло пережитое
Тонет в крови, -
Всходит омытое
Солнце любви.
Замыслы смелые
В сердце больном, -
Ангелы белые
Встали кругом.
Стройно-воздушные
Те же они —
В тяжкие, душные,
Грозные дни. ©
________________
* Если думаю по-русски: бывает и так, что сразу три языка осаждают голову, и тогда получается в зависимости от обстоятельств — то симфония, то какофония

Рабочее-воодушевляющее (пунктиром)

Итак, финальная часть паззла в наших Proceedings была добавлена сегодня вечером, и есть надежда, что публикация не за горами! Сдержанное ура! 

 36 лет, как не стало мамы. Помню и люблю.

“Poor things”

What I’ve been noticing recently is that every pretentious film these days, in order to be regarded as ‘art house,’ must be intricately revolting—with lots of hideous full frontal nudity, boring porn flicks masked as “Victorian indecency” (sorry, Lanthimos, but Balabanov did it much earlier in his genius “On freaks and men”) and the Adorno-esque message about “successfully sublimated rage,” when the main character found Socialism, while puking oysters.

Nah, a big pass from me, despite the endless attempts to play camp and the cute monsters in the Professor’s garden (by the way, is it possible that Dafoe’s character ended up in this Steampunk London after he was consumed by the elements in The Eggers’s Lighthouse? Idk, maybe).

Tl;dr: Mary Shelley shrugs, Bulgakov’s “Heart of a Dog” needs a re-read

As a Slav, I simply cannot miss the last day of Maslenitsa/Masnytsia, as tomorrow the Great Orthodox Lent starts: once I was a person who held it for the full forty days, until Pascha (Easter), but I am not the greatest Eastern Orthodox Christian now and stopped going for it a while ago. Well, anyway, you simply cannot go out and about today without pancakes (my bliny are more like crepes) served with salmon (I cured it the day before, myself) and with something sweet, too (orange marmalade, you are the best). Today is also Forgiveness Sunday, but I am the person who holds grudges (I have a long-lasting memory), so there.