Начинать надо с малого. И тогда, может быть, мы научимся творить настоящие чудеса.

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Отель "У озера"
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Место действия - небольшой отель в Швейцарских Альпах, главная героиня - писательница Эдит Хоуп, публикующая любовные романы под псевдонимом Ванесса Уайльд. На тихом курорте ей хотелось бы не только поработать над очередной книгой, но и обрести душевное спокойствие. Однако новый и оригинальный "роман" неожиданно начинает "сочиняться" самой жизнью.

"Отель "У озера"" популярной английской писательницы Аниты Брукнер (р. 1928) был признан критиками одной из самых читаемых среди всех книг, удостоенных Букеровской премии за три десятилетия ее существования.


1986 - Hotel du Lac

Season 2 | Episode 8, TV Series "Screen Two"


В моем представлении идеальное счастье-это весь день сидеть на солнце в саду, читать или писать в полной и безусловной уверенности, что тот, кого я люблю, вечером вернется домой. Ко мне. И так каждый вечер.

... хорошие женщины всегда считают, что виноваты, когда им грубят. Плохие всегда ни при чем.

Художественная литература, это освященное веками прибежище всех неприкаянных...

Quarrels can be made up; embarrassment can never quite be forgotten.

Ссору можно забыть; чувство неловкости никогда не забывается.

Вы не представляете, какой многообещающей становится жизнь, как только решишь жить исключительно для себя. И насколько здравыми становятся решения, когда их подсказывает эгоизм. На свете нет ничего проще — решить, что вы хотите или, скорее, чего вам не хочется, и действовать соответственно.

'My dear, I'm the one with all the stories,' she was in time to hear Penelope say. 'I wonder she doesn't put me in a book.' I have, thought Edith. You did not recognize yourself.

Some women raise altars to themselves, thought Edith. And they are right to do so. Although I doubt if I could carry it off.

Good women always think it is their fault when someone else is being offensive. Bad women never take the blame for anything.

My idea of absolute happiness is to sit in a hot garden all day, reading, or writing, utterly safe in the knowledge that the person I love will come home to me in the evening. Every evening.

I have been too harsh on women, she thought, because I understand them better than I understand men. I know their watchfulness, their patience, their need to advertise themselves as successful. Their need never to admit to a failure. I know all that because I am one of them.

I too have a past, she thought, with an uncharacteristic spurt of indignation. I too have had my deaths and my departures, some of them quite recent. But I have learned to shield them, to hide them from sight, to keep them at bay. To exhibit my wounds would, for me, denote an emotional incontinence of which I might later be ashamed.

'No, no. I don't perceive you as a distracted being. I mean that if I were younger

and more trendy I should probably say that I could deconstruct the signifiers of

your discourse.'

She was a handsome woman of forty-five and would remain so for many years.

Seated at a silent table, Edith closed her eyes momentarily in a shaft of sunlight and tasted pure pleasure. Time dissolved; sensations expanded.

She crossed the foyer, still mildly anaesthetized by her labours, and stepped again through the revolving door into an afternoon of such mature beauty that she wondered how she could possibly have missed it. An autumn sun, soft as honey, gilded the lake; tiny waves whispered onto the shore; a white steamer passed noiselessly off in the direction of Ouchy; and at her feet, on the sandy path, she saw the green hedgehog shape of a chestnut, split open to reveal the brown gleam of its fruit.

And to Edith, at this strange juncture in her life. there was something soothing in the very existence of Mrs Pusey, a woman so gentle, so greedy, so tranquil, so utterly fulfilled in her desires that she encouraged daring thoughts of possession, of accumulation, in others. She was, Edith thought an embodiment of the ' kind of propaganda no contemporary woman could, stoop to countenance, for Mrs Pusey was not only an enchantress in her own right, she was also appreciative of such propensities in others.

The facts of life are too terrible to go into my kind of fiction. And my readers certainly do not want them there.

Her walk along the lake shore reminded her of nothing so much as those silent walks one takes in dreams, and in which unreason and inevitability go hand in hand. As in dreams she felt both despair and a sort of doomed curiosity, as if she must pursue this path until its purpose were revealed to her.

And there is a lot to find out, for someone of my benighted persuasion, although of course none of those people would fit into the sort of fiction I write.

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