grass [Theme] Page 1

The grass is still green.

He who feeds on acorns picked up under an oak tree, or apples plucked from trees in the forest, undoubtedly made them his own. No one can deny that this food belongs to him. I ask, when did they start to be his? when did he digest them? or when did you eat? or when did you cook? or when did you bring them home? or when did he pick them up? And it is quite clear that if they did not belong to him at the moment when he collected them, then they will no longer be able to belong to him due to anything. His work created a distinction between them and the general; he added to them something beyond what nature, the common mother of all, had created, and thus they became his private right. And who can say that he had no right to these acorns or apples, which he thus appropriated, since he did not have the consent of all mankind to make them his own? Was it a theft to take for oneself in this way what belonged to all together? If such consent were necessary, then the person would die of hunger, despite the abundance that God gave him. We see in cases of common ownership, which remains such by contract, that it is the withdrawal of a part of what is common, and its withdrawal from the state in which nature left it, that initiates property, without which everything common is not useful. And the withdrawal of one or the other part does not depend on the clearly expressed consent of all joint owners. Thus, the grass that my horse nibbled, the sod that my servant cut, and the ore that I mined in any place where I have in common with others, become my property without the prescription or consent of anyone. The labor that was mine, bringing them out of the state of common possession in which they were, established my ownership of them.

Eh, nettle! ... Both betrayed.

... the law always grazes on flooded meadows, where the grass is lush, and predators are not found, and the weather is always even, sunny, but life is different, in it there are wolves with jackals and hyenas, and a swamp bog, and potholes, and thunderstorms with hail. In sacking competitions, the winner is not the one who runs faster, but the one who knows how to run better in sacks.

I'm coming back.

The night smelled of smoke. In early spring, when last year's grass and garbage accumulated over the winter are raked up and burned everywhere, this is not uncommon, but in mid-May, when new grass had already grown, and all the garbage was burned back on April Saturday clean-ups, the smell of smoke in the middle of the night caused alarm.

But especially fiction and truth merged when I found our old house in the Wazir Akbar Khan area, the house I grew up in, just as Amir grew up in the house next door. It took me three days of searching, I did not remember the address, and everything around me changed beyond recognition. But I searched and searched until I came across a familiar arch.
I entered the house and the soldiers who lived there now were kind enough to allow me my nostalgic tour. And I saw that the paint on my house, as well as on the house of Amir, peeled off, the grass withered, the trees in the courtyard were no more, and the wall that enclosed the yard almost collapsed. Like Amira, I was struck by how small my house was compared to what lived in my memory. And - I swear! - when I went outside the gate, I saw on the asphalt the same tar spot in the form of a Rorschach blon, which Amir also saw. I said goodbye to the soldiers and walked away, and there was a growing feeling in me that if I hadn't written The Wind Runner, my encounter with my stepfather's house would have shocked me much more. After all, I've already experienced it - in the book. I stood next to Amir at the gate of his house and with him I experienced the loss. I saw him put his hands on the rusty pins of the fence and we peered together into the sagging roof and crumbled porch.
You'd say fiction stole life, well, that's probably how it is.

Explanation of the quote:

2013 edition
The story takes place in pre-war Kabul of the 1970s. In this magical city, shimmering with all shades of gold and azure, live two weather boys, Amir and Hassan. One belonged to the local aristocracy, the other to a despised minority. One father was handsome and important, the other was chrome and pathetic. Master and servant, prince and beggar, handsome and crippled. But there were no people in the world closer than these two boys. Soon the Kabul idyll will be replaced by terrible storms.

After Alaska was gone, I didn't think about how it smelled. But when the Colonel opened the door, the nose was hit by this aroma: wet earth, grass, tobacco smoke, and above all this - notes of vanilla milk for the body. She flooded my present again, and it was only out of a sense of tact that I didn't put my head in her overflowing tank of dirty laundry standing by the dresser. Everything was exactly as I remembered: hundreds of books in stacks stand along the walls, a crumpling light purple blanket lying at the feet of the bed, a rickety tower of books and on a small table, a volcano candle sticking out from under the bed. Everything looked as I expected, but the smell, which undoubtedly belonged to Alaska itself, shocked me. I stopped in the middle of the room, closed my eyes, and slowly inhaled through my nose: vanilla, an unmowed autumn grass, but with each slow breath the aroma became weaker as I got used to it, and soon Alaska disappeared again.

The beauty of our universe.

And the wolf began to eat grass only because the grass is silent.

Bamboo trees break under a strong storm, but the grass always rises no matter how hard the wind blows. You can behave like a bamboo tree, but your heart should be like grass rising again and again.

Like grasses in a river,
that are hidden from the eyes of the stream
on the river stirrup, -
so love in my heart is secure
from idle gossip is hidden!..

Wildflowers -
purple, white spots
lost in the grass.
Their coloring is sad,
similar to the color of summer twilight...

Grass,