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- Джон Стейнбек
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- Гроздья гнева
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I
like
to
git
away
from
it
.
Sure
—
if
you
can
believe
it
.
So
they
got
married
,
an
’
they
foun
’
out
,
an
’
all
them
people
that
’
s
treated
’
em
mean
.
They
was
a
fella
had
been
uppity
,
an
’
he
nearly
fainted
when
this
fella
come
in
with
a
plug
hat
on
.
Jes
’
nearly
fainted
.
An
’
they
was
a
newsreel
with
them
German
soldiers
kickin
’
up
their
feet
—
funny
as
hell
.
And
always
,
if
he
had
a
little
money
,
a
man
could
get
drunk
.
The
hard
edges
gone
,
and
the
warmth
.
Then
there
was
no
loneliness
,
for
a
man
could
people
his
brain
with
friends
,
and
he
could
find
his
enemies
and
destroy
them
.
Sitting
in
a
ditch
,
the
earth
grew
soft
under
him
.
Failure
dulled
and
the
future
was
no
threat
.
And
hunger
did
not
skulk
about
,
but
the
world
was
soft
and
easy
,
and
a
man
could
reach
the
place
he
started
for
.
The
stars
came
down
wonderfully
close
and
the
sky
was
soft
.
Death
was
a
friend
,
and
sleep
was
death
’
s
brother
.
The
old
times
came
back
—
a
girl
with
pretty
feet
,
who
danced
one
time
at
home
—
a
horse
—
a
long
time
ago
.
A
horse
and
a
saddle
.
And
the
leather
was
carved
.
When
was
that
?
Ought
to
find
a
girl
to
talk
to
.
That
’
s
nice
.
Might
lay
with
her
,
too
.
But
warm
here
.
And
the
stars
down
so
close
,
and
sadness
and
pleasure
so
close
together
,
really
the
same
thing
.
Like
to
stay
drunk
all
the
time
.
Who
says
it
’
s
bad
?
Who
dares
to
say
it
’
s
bad
?
Preachers
—
but
they
got
their
own
kinda
drunkenness
.
Thin
,
barren
women
,
but
they
’
re
too
miserable
to
know
.
Reformers
—
but
they
don
’
t
hit
deep
enough
into
living
to
know
.
No
—
the
stars
are
close
and
dear
and
I
have
joined
the
brotherhood
of
the
worlds
.
And
everything
’
s
holy
—
everything
,
even
me
.
A
harmonica
is
easy
to
carry
.
Take
it
out
of
your
hip
pocket
,
knock
it
against
your
palm
to
shake
out
the
dirt
and
pocket
fuzz
and
bits
of
tobacco
.
Now
it
’
s
ready
.
You
can
do
anything
with
a
harmonica
:
thin
reedy
single
tone
,
or
chords
,
or
melody
with
rhythm
chords
.
You
can
mold
the
music
with
curved
hands
,
making
it
wail
and
cry
like
bagpipes
,
making
it
full
and
round
like
an
organ
,
making
it
as
sharp
and
bitter
as
the
reed
pipes
of
the
hills
.
And
you
can
play
and
put
it
back
in
your
pocket
.
It
is
always
with
you
,
always
in
your
pocket
.
And
as
you
play
,
you
learn
new
tricks
,
new
ways
to
mold
the
tone
with
your
hands
,
to
pinch
the
tone
with
your
lips
,
and
no
one
teaches
you
.
You
feel
around
—
sometimes
alone
in
the
shade
at
noon
,
sometimes
in
the
tent
door
after
supper
when
the
women
are
washing
up
.
Your
foot
taps
gently
on
the
ground
.
Your
eyebrows
rise
and
fall
in
rhythm
.
And
if
you
lose
it
or
break
it
,
why
,
it
’
s
no
great
loss
.
You
can
buy
another
for
a
quarter
.
A
guitar
is
more
precious
.
Must
learn
this
thing
.
Fingers
of
the
left
hand
must
have
callous
caps
.
Thumb
of
the
right
hand
a
horn
of
callous
.
Stretch
the
left
-
hand
fingers
,
stretch
them
like
a
spider
’
s
legs
to
get
the
hard
pads
on
the
frets
.
This
was
my
father
’
s
box
.
Wasn
’
t
no
bigger
’
n
a
bug
first
time
he
give
me
C
chord
.
An
’
when
I
learned
as
good
as
him
,
he
hardly
never
played
no
more
.
Used
to
set
in
the
door
,
an
’
listen
an
’
tap
his
foot
.
I
’
m
tryin
’
for
a
break
,
an
’
he
’
d
scowl
mean
till
I
get
her
,
an
’
then
he
’
d
settle
back
easy
,
an
’
he
’
d
nod
.
«
Play
,
"
he
’
d
say
.
«
Play
nice
.
»
It
’
s
a
good
box
.
See
how
the
head
is
wore
.
They
’
s
many
a
million
songs
wore
down
that
wood
an
’
scooped
her
out
.
Some
day
she
’
ll
cave
in
like
a
egg
.
But
you
can
’
t
patch
her
nor
worry
her
no
way
or
she
’
ll
lose
tone
.
Play
her
in
the
evening
,
an
’
they
’
s
a
harmonica
player
in
the
nex
’
tent
.
Makes
it
pretty
nice
together
.
The
fiddle
is
rare
,
hard
to
learn
.
No
frets
,
no
teacher
.
Jes
’
listen
to
a
ol
’
man
an
’
try
to
pick
it
up
.
Won
’
t
tell
how
to
double
.
Says
it
’
s
a
secret
.
But
I
watched
.
Here
’
s
how
he
done
it
.
Shrill
as
a
wind
,
the
fiddle
,
quick
and
nervous
and
shrill
.
She
ain
’
t
much
of
a
fiddle
.
Give
two
dollars
for
her
.
Fella
says
they
’
s
fiddles
four
hundred
years
old
,
and
they
git
mellow
like
whisky
.
Says
they
’
ll
cost
fifty
-
sixty
thousan
’
dollars
.
I
don
’
t
know
.
Soun
’
s
like
a
lie
.
Harsh
ol
’
bastard
,
ain
’
t
she
?
Wanta
dance
?
I
’
ll
rub
up
the
bow
with
plenty
rosin
.
Man
!
Then
she
’
ll
squawk
.
Hear
her
a
mile
.
