But they're less boring than the Russian ones, and not seldom one finds in them the main element of creative work––a sense of personal freedom, which Russian authors don't have.
“I'm not saying that French books are talented, and intelligent, and noble. "It's that kind of night, sir! At other times you don't pay attention to rockets, but now any vain thing makes you glad. "It's even impossible to say how beautiful!" sighed Ieronym. On the bank a noise was heard resembling a distant "hoorah." Suddenly slashing it open, the golden ribbon of a rocket soared skywards it described an arc and, as if shattering against the sky, burst and came sifting down in sparks. The burning barrels threw light on their own smoke and on the long human shadows that flitted about the fire but further to the sides and behind them, where the velvet ringing rushed from, was the same impenetrable darkness. Their reflection, crimson as the rising moon, crept to meet us in long, wide stripes. At the water's edge, barrels of pitch blazed like huge bonfires. There the "lumination" which the peasant had been waiting for was already beginning. We were silent and looked at the bank towards which we were now moving. Soon Ieronym straightened up and began working with one hand. The silhouette of the peasant in the tall hat slowly began to recede from me-which meant that the ferry was moving. Urn:oclc:813206527 Republisher_date 20120530145105 Republisher_operator Scandate 20120528025611 Scanner .“Ieronym took hold of the cable with both hands, curved himself into a question mark, and grunted. Internetarchivebookdrive External-identifier
Access-restricted-item true Addeddate 17:19:13 Boxid IA180901 Camera Canon EOS 5D Mark II City New York Donor
0 kommentar(er)
