-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
-
- По эту сторону рая
-
- Стр. 181/348
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
For
an
instant
the
voices
of
freshman
year
surged
around
them
and
then
they
looked
at
each
other
with
faint
tears
in
their
eyes
"
Damn
!
"
"
Damn
!
"
The
last
light
fades
and
drifts
across
the
land
--
the
low
,
long
land
,
the
sunny
land
of
spires
;
the
ghosts
of
evening
tune
again
their
lyres
and
wander
singing
in
a
plaintive
band
down
the
long
corridors
of
trees
;
pale
fires
echo
the
night
from
tower
top
to
tower
:
Oh
,
sleep
that
dreams
,
and
dream
that
never
tires
,
press
from
the
petals
of
the
lotus
flower
something
of
this
to
keep
,
the
essence
of
an
hour
.
No
more
to
wait
the
twilight
of
the
moon
in
this
sequestered
vale
of
star
and
spire
,
for
one
eternal
morning
of
desire
passes
to
time
and
earthy
afternoon
.
Here
,
Heraclitus
,
did
you
find
in
fire
and
shifting
things
the
prophecy
you
hurled
down
the
dead
years
;
this
midnight
my
desire
will
see
,
shadowed
among
the
embers
,
furled
in
flame
,
the
splendor
and
the
sadness
of
the
world
.
A
letter
dated
January
,
1918
,
written
by
Monsignor
Darcy
to
Amory
,
who
is
a
second
lieutenant
in
the
171st
Infantry
,
Port
of
Embarkation
,
Camp
Mills
,
Long
Island
.
MY
DEAR
BOY
:
All
you
need
tell
me
of
yourself
is
that
you
still
are
;
for
the
rest
I
merely
search
back
in
a
restive
memory
,
a
thermometer
that
records
only
fevers
,
and
match
you
with
what
I
was
at
your
age
.
But
men
will
chatter
and
you
and
I
will
still
shout
our
futilities
to
each
other
across
the
stage
until
the
last
silly
curtain
falls
plump
!
upon
our
bobbing
heads
.
But
you
are
starting
the
spluttering
magic-lantern
show
of
life
with
much
the
same
array
of
slides
as
I
had
,
so
I
need
to
write
you
if
only
to
shriek
the
colossal
stupidity
of
people
...
This
is
the
end
of
one
thing
:
for
better
or
worse
you
will
never
again
be
quite
the
Amory
Blaine
that
I
knew
,
never
again
will
we
meet
as
we
have
met
,
because
your
generation
is
growing
hard
,
much
harder
than
mine
ever
grew
,
nourished
as
they
were
on
the
stuff
of
the
nineties
.
Amory
,
lately
I
reread
Aeschylus
and
there
in
the
divine
irony
of
the
"
Agamemnon
"
I
find
the
only
answer
to
this
bitter
age
--
all
the
world
tumbled
about
our
ears
,
and
the
closest
parallel
ages
back
in
that
hopeless
resignation
.
There
are
times
when
I
think
of
the
men
out
there
as
Roman
legionaries
,
miles
from
their
corrupt
city
,
stemming
back
the
hordes
...
hordes
a
little
more
menacing
,
after
all
,
than
the
corrupt
city
...
another
blind
blow
at
the
race
,
furies
that
we
passed
with
ovations
years
ago
,
over
whose
corpses
we
bleated
triumphantly
all
through
the
Victorian
era
...
