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- Нил Гейман
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- Американские боги
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- Стр. 339/641
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No
man
,
proclaimed
Donne
,
is
an
Island
,
and
he
was
wrong
.
If
we
were
not
islands
,
we
would
be
lost
,
drowned
in
each
others
’
tragedies
.
We
are
insulated
(
a
word
that
means
,
literally
,
remember
,
made
into
an
island
)
from
the
tragedy
of
others
,
by
our
island
nature
,
and
by
the
repetitive
shape
and
form
of
the
stories
.
We
know
the
shape
,
and
the
shape
does
not
change
.
There
was
a
human
being
who
was
born
,
lived
,
and
then
,
by
some
means
or
other
,
died
.
There
.
You
may
fill
in
the
details
from
your
own
experience
.
As
unoriginal
as
any
other
tale
,
as
unique
as
any
other
life
.
Lives
are
snowflakes
—
unique
in
detail
,
forming
patterns
we
have
seen
before
,
but
as
like
one
another
as
peas
in
a
pod
(
and
have
you
ever
looked
at
peas
in
a
pod
?
I
mean
,
really
looked
at
them
?
There
’
s
not
a
chance
you
’
d
mistake
one
for
another
,
after
a
minute
’
s
close
inspection
.
)
We
need
individual
stories
.
Without
individuals
we
see
only
numbers
:
a
thousand
dead
,
a
hundred
thousand
dead
,
"
casualties
may
rise
to
a
million
.
"
With
individual
stories
,
the
statistics
become
people
—
but
even
that
is
a
lie
,
for
the
people
continue
to
suffer
in
numbers
that
themselves
are
numbing
and
meaningless
.
Look
,
see
the
child
’
s
swollen
,
swollen
belly
,
and
the
flies
that
crawl
at
the
corners
of
his
eyes
,
his
skeletal
limbs
:
will
it
make
it
easier
for
you
to
know
his
name
,
his
age
,
his
dreams
,
his
fears
?
To
see
him
from
the
inside
?
And
if
it
does
,
are
we
not
doing
a
disservice
to
his
sister
,
who
lies
in
the
searing
dust
beside
him
,
a
distorted
,
distended
caricature
of
a
human
child
?
And
there
,
if
we
feel
for
them
,
are
they
now
more
important
to
us
than
a
thousand
other
children
touched
by
the
same
famine
,
a
thousand
other
young
lives
who
will
soon
be
food
for
the
flies
’
own
myriad
squirming
children
?
We
draw
our
lines
around
these
moments
of
pain
,
and
remain
upon
our
islands
,
and
they
cannot
hurt
us
.
They
are
covered
with
a
smooth
,
safe
,
nacreous
layer
to
let
them
slip
,
pearl
-
like
,
from
our
souls
without
real
pain
.
Fiction
allows
us
to
slide
into
these
other
heads
,
these
other
places
,
and
look
out
through
other
eyes
.
And
then
in
the
tale
we
stop
before
we
die
,
or
we
die
vicariously
and
unharmed
,
and
in
the
world
beyond
the
tale
we
turn
the
page
or
close
the
book
,
and
we
resume
our
lives
.
A
life
,
which
is
,
like
any
other
,
unlike
any
other
.
And
the
simple
truth
is
this
:
there
was
a
girl
and
her
uncle
sold
her
.
This
is
what
they
used
to
say
,
where
the
girl
came
from
:
no
man
may
be
certain
who
fathered
a
child
,
but
the
mother
,
ah
,
that
you
could
be
certain
of
.
Lineage
and
property
was
something
that
moved
in
the
matrilineal
line
,
but
power
remained
in
the
hands
of
the
men
:
a
man
had
complete
ownership
of
his
sister
’
s
children
.
There
was
a
war
in
that
place
,
and
it
was
a
small
war
,
no
more
than
a
skirmish
between
the
men
of
two
rival
villages
.
It
was
almost
an
argument
.
One
village
won
the
argument
,
one
village
lost
it
.
Life
as
a
commodity
,
people
as
possessions
.
Enslavement
had
been
part
of
the
culture
of
those
parts
for
thousands
of
years
.
The
Arab
slavers
had
destroyed
the
last
of
the
great
kingdoms
of
East
Africa
,
while
the
West
African
nations
had
destroyed
each
other
.
