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.

День начался отлично — радостно и солнечно, а к вечеру погрузился в уныние: всплыла одна проблема по работе, которую срочно нужно решить. Пытаюсь сделать все от меня зависящее, чтобы каким-то образом с ней управиться, но прогнозы пока что туманны, и в краткосрочной перспективе, похоже, понадобится какая-никакая внешняя сила, которая будет способна все уладить. Нервничаю.

HPL died on this day 87 years ago.

Murray: What year was this?

Brobst: This was about February 1937. He died on the 17th [i.e. 15th] of March, 1937. Anyway, the doctor had given him some medicine that was an iron compound, because he was somewhat anemic. But his condition gradually deteriorated. I remember that Mrs. Gamwell had told me he had been admitted to the Jane Brown hospital; so the very next day my wife and I went over to see him. And there he was, like a cadaver; the sheets were over him, of course. [...] He seemed to react; he didn’t seem to be cheerful, but he didn’t seem to be sad. He seemed—well, not too responsive, but I didn’t notice any depression or any fear or anything of that kind. I asked him how he felt, and, well, he said: “The pain is unbearable.” I presumed they were giving him medication for it, but in those days they didn’t quite use the drugs they do today, and he may have been under morphia and still had pain. But anyway, he had great pain in his abdominal region. Well, we talked for a little while, and I saw it was kind of hard on him to carry on much of a conversation. I told him to remember the ancient philosophers, and then he shook his head and smiled vigorously—that was the only reaction I got. Then we departed, and that was the last time I saw him.

Люди присылают мне заявки на Армитадж! Ура! С удовольствием их сортирую и складываю в папку «симпозиум».

(Одновременно с работой слушаю и смотрю много всяких подкастов по социальной проблематике на ютьюбе, но писать об этом сейчас, пожалуй, не ко времени, поэтому подожду немного).

A young woman posted a photo with her children.

The Internet (media, glamour/gossip tiktoks, social commentary youtube channels, the true crime community, twitter meme lords) is going nuts.

I was avoiding the recent shenanigans due to its sheer idiocy and petulance, but the last straw for me was when I spotted the *news* on this non-subject on my feed 11 times (yes, I went to the trouble to count) within a few minutes: I shut them all down, but I doubt it will help.

The amount of the lamest vitriolic misogyny topped up with the weirdest conspiracy theories has become overwhelming. Yet again, the mere idea that someone famous owes the public their body and soul feels ghastly—hell no. Go away.

А у нас же тут, наконец-то, почти что завершили реновацию Клэр, которая продолжалась с конца 2019 г.*, но речь дальше пойдет не о ее технических деталях**: газета «Саратовский рабочий» гардиан по случаю открытия нового холла-кафетерия с роскошным видом на речку Кем (The River Room Cafe) на днях выпустила хвалебную статью, суммируя позитивные итоги реконструкции, и вышло... Ну, в общем, все как мы любим.

В авторы выбрали какого-то маститого архитектурного критика, который решил не терять даром времени, описывая инновационные строительные решения, а вместо этого сразу, с места в карьер, заклеймить в первом же параграфе пафосных пожилых мущин (наверняка еще и престарелых инцелов-cупремасистов, само собой), у которых одно на уме — фрустрировать на тему «а вот в наше-то время оооо» вместо того, чтобы в едином [со всем адекватным человечеством] порыве воспевать идеи прогресса, пятилетки за три года, «люди мира, на минуту встаньте» и проч.

И вообще, резюмирует автор, вы только представьте на секунду, как в воспаленном мозгу наших идеологических врагов внезапно возникла чуждая нашей счастливой советской действительности мысль о том, что университетские здания в исторической части города с какого-то бодуна должны иметь классический облик, приведенный в соответствие с христианскими традициями! Ну не идиоты ли, лол.

“Prisoners of Zembla: What Nabokov teaches us about scholars and writers” by Irina Dumitrescu (TLS)

Very lepidopteric of him:

Under such a deluge of cleverness it is easy to miss that Nabokov also includes a few genuine reflections on the writer’s craft in the novel. In Canto Four of the poem Shade contrasts “two methods of composing”. The easier, more controlled way to write poetry is with a pen in hand, which, by cutting and revising, “physically guides the phrase … through the inky maze”. But one can also compose in the mind. The poet often does this unwittingly, during moments of distraction such as “soaping a third time one leg”. Shade calls this way of writing verse “agony”. It’s a three-handed mode, as he puts it, since the poet has to find a rhyme, remember the line he has just composed and compare it to previous attempts. Then again, like his editor, the poet also grows weary at times. He leaves his pen, walks around, “and by some mute command / The right word flutes and perches on my hand”. ©

Mothering Sunday

I love this photo.

I guess, it can be considered “not flattering” by modern standards (not polished and glamorous etc.), but Mum’s pensive gaze here is beautiful. I wish I could take her places today—and talk endlessly, and show her my favourite spots in the city, and whatever mothers-daughters are doing on this day, all those beautiful and silly things. I have memories instead: they tend to shrink, as I grow older, but I prevent them from fading away as much as I can.

Oddly enough, I completely forgot about this bunch of photos that L. took last July in Cromer, which is a shame, because they are beautiful, in my opinion. That was a long rainy day, and we were the only people on the beach. Then L. took the camera out and started photographing. Love the result, and boy oh boy, do I miss Cromer, gloomy or not.

In today’s iteration of ageist sexism, ’complaining to the manager’ and ’being entitled’ have been identified as the key sins committed by middle-aged women [...].

Middle-aged women are, apparently, ’the worst online trolls’, ’the worst drunks’ or simply ’the worst’.

Naturally I have asked myself whether this is just one of these things that happens as you get older and find yourself out of touch with the Youth of Today. You no longer like the right music, your taste in clothing offends, people make Halloween masks based on your face and carry effigies of women like you being guillotined on protest marches.

[...]

The H.P. Lovecraft Centennial Conference Proceedings: in Cambridge (En)

Finally got my hands on this treasure: I should’ve done it much earlier, of course, but didn’t have a chance. And now it’s here—with the entries that came from the conference talks and presentations that were delivered by Frank Belknap Long, David E. Schultz, Jason Eckhardt and other legends; S.T. wrote the foreword and edited the volume. In March 1991, when The H.P. Lovecraft Centennial Conference Proceedings were released by Necronomicon Press, I was 15 year-old Soviet schoolgirl who didn’t know who HPL was.

Пафюмерное-сногсшибательное (pun intended)

А помните, как лет 25-30 назад «тяжелыми» считались всякие Amarige, First от Van Cleef & Arpels или там Gucci Rush? Забудьте, как это сделала я. Пройдя по парфюмерному отделу Джона Льюиса, я получила ольфакторный удар под дых такой силы, что прочихалась только на выходе, и все для того, чтобы получить окончательный хук в многострадальный нос от Lush.

Тэг: спой мне песню, диор

Thomas Hardy and his shenanigans (TLS)

Don’t want to sound superficial, but the utter hypocrisy of all those literary geniuses is quite tiresome: the same “seeking-for-inspiration-romance” all over again. Can’t read him anyway: too pompous for my liking.

By the end of the century Emma – deeply hurt by Hardy’s critique of marriage in Jude the Obscure (1895), which she read as a personal attack – was “keeping separate” in two rooms in the attic. Here she would spend the rest of her life writing poetry and prose of an increasingly mystical bent. The couple had no children; though they continued to occupy the same house, they hardly spoke.

What was worse, while dismissing Emma’s writing, the middle-aged Hardy had developed a wounding habit of falling for younger women whose artistic ambitions he encouraged. ©

Я сегодня «почти что» молодец: сделала рассылку для возможных участников Armitage Symposium, списалась с двумя авторами Proceedings (Дэвид попросил уточнить номера страниц в нескольких местах), ответила на вопросы по поводу симпозиума, апдейтнула еще раз cfp в фейсбуке, и при этом у меня такое ощущение, что я разгружала вагоны с углем. Хотела поваляться с книжкой, но хочется только одного — спать.

On this day 100 years ago HPL married Sonia Greene.

Anything addressed to “H.P. Lovecraft” or (miraculous and unpredictable appellation) “Mrs. H.P. Lovecraft” will henceforward reach its recipient without additional formalities. ©

The Armitage Symposium: officially live!

Итак, анонс приема заявок на the Armitage Symposium-2024 официально открыт, и ваша покорная слуга их ждет с нетерпением и готовится к августовскому Провиденсу. Ура! 

But, March, forgive me —
And all those hills
You left for me to hue;
There was no purple suitable,
You took it all with you. ©