Book: A book for people like me

By and large, "iconic writer" would have to change the life of a human, not a list of topics liquor talks on Saturday evening. But it does not happen.
Well, almost...

One has only to decide if the task is important, as everything goes wrong, the usual operations run outrageous stunts. The mind has performed an illegal operation and will be closed. Excellent stop in the midst of a responsible examination and stupidly staring at the table, unable even to remember the name and patronymic of the examiner, lucky in love for the third month in a row taldychit: "let's Go to the movies" instead of "marry me", reliable car stalls on the exam in the SAI, and an experienced entomologist for the first time, misses, trying to cover the net swallowtail of your dreams... this place could be thousands of less obvious examples, but perhaps enough.

In childhood, we are particularly aware that in addition to the ordinary, visible world there is the invisible world. Vague confidence this gives us a sincere love for "horror movies" any of the content and quality; it also becomes the source of our inspiration when we create our own "copyright" scary stories, no matter how naive and clumsy they may be.
Fear becomes an integral part of the wonderful, the main mood of any mysterious stories, an indispensable attribute of mystery.

To meet a friend (of a friend / just a friend / somewhere I saw that face) by chance on the street, in a coffee shop in the subway (happened to me and such) - this is something real, "right". If your hearing is sensitive, can distinguish a weightless rustling of starched skirts of fate. A chance meeting on the street is not the gesture of her, but smile out of the corner of his mouth.
I trust random encounters more than planned: my plans concocted by me (people are stupid by definition; I am human, therefore...) - and the unintentional collision is made without human intervention.

To look at native (probably pretty hateful) city surprised eyes of a traveler - the art difficult. Here all the time, you should be alert because not only the daily idling in traffic jams, and a weekly visit to the wholesale market, but even a little thing like getting new design books in the dispensation, it may deprive us of the right mood for the whole week (month, year?). Or even forever - if not to be vigilant, of course. But I remain vigilant, it's worth it: naive, impractical enthusiasm of the tourist (uninvited, all foreign guests) treasure from among those with whom voluntary do not leave.

My strange solitaire converged; ears buzzed whispers: I was born at the end of the New time, shortly before the first take of the return of the middle ages, I from grandmother left, I from the grandfather left, and nicer everything else seemed to me the occupation of the magician, deepest, inmost aspiration of my instincts urged me not to settle for what is called "reality" and what at times seemed a foolish fantasy adults; I have used it with terror, then with a sneer to reject this reality, and I burned with the desire to cast a spell on her to transform, to bring her own limits and from you, Fox, not cunning to leave, because I'm quite advanced on the Eastern path Lao Tzu and "And the Jing" to clearly recognize a random, but because of the malleable nature of so-called reality...
You can change the world, not having even the proverbial "fulcrum" of pure foppery.

Desperate, stubborn resistance to the world - the most rare and precious kind of foppery; the most dangerous, but the only promising hope for.

Sunday morning promises a freedom that is impossible to use... No, not even that. Freedom, which is not. Freedom, which is actually only a short respite. Sunday morning is much more false than morning any other day of the week. Plans born by the light of a Sunday morning, is not to be. I will say more: in my childhood I found that Sunday is much shorter than any weekday. This is contrary to the laws of nature, however it is. On Sunday, the running time is felt almost physically. It takes to hold on to him to keep in the hands of the wind. And again. Every Sunday night is a bit like a funeral, but it is less painful than Sunday morning: waiting for the verdict is always more difficult than to put up with him.

One of my friends came up with funny and sad idea: as a particular book is read by people, unable to understand it, the book gradually loses its meaning. Eventually, when the number of incompetent readers reaches a certain critical point, the book completely loses any deep meanings ("premyslov", "hypermile" - whatever you call it) and becomes plain text, an ordered collection of words, phrases, and logical constructions. Thus, we can speak about the phenomenon "castration" of sacred texts in the process of long-term use.

Wonderful does not tarnish, becoming a background for the everyday bestiality.

The time supposedly allotted to us, is the greatest illusion. We 'released' him. Given the power of carrying us and stream blinded by the illusion of self-navigation. Of course, eight days of life allotted to the ruthless heroes of ray Bradbury - term, bordering on the absurd. But the illusions on this score they, unlike us, do not cherish. Perhaps that is why the story of ray Bradbury concludes with the sentence: "the Nightmare is finally over."
This finale is unlikely to Shine.

So simple - the mind boggles! People are not divided into smart and stupid, not to thin and thick, not black and white. Not even on men and women. And for those who chooses which of the dreams is to Wake up those who waking up too. Second, clear the stump, more. We all second.

To live in pain; I suppose it can testify to everyone who tried to be alive.

Many of us are not ready to accept his fate; even less enthusiasm in the us is what it turns into our own capable hands.