Английский язык
Поэзия:
Mother earth
To our dear mother earth,
who gave to all of us birth:
your fever we want to cure.
Will we succeed? Not so sure!
Some of our sisters and brothers
seem not to care for any others.
Apparently blinded by money and wealth,
they seem not worried about your health.
When pushed on the topic of your fever,
they will make any kind of endeavour
to deny it and claim nothing is wrong;
a lack of emotion, their greed much too strong.
I still hope, our dear mother earth,
holding
all treasures of incredible worth,
that we will find people in numbers
enough
to treat your disease with utmost caring love.
Let us work all together to find a solution,
stop
all the waste and unnecessary pollution,
reduce carbon emission,
preserve our trees,
keep clean our earth, our oceans and seas.
Now is the time to move and act.
The
disease of our mother is a certain fact
No man with a bit of intellect,
a bit of a brain
can be allowed to ignore your fever again.
*Aufie Zophy*
Проза:
I had no desire to wade through his notes; I already knew what
Diomedes thought; I needed to find out what I thought. But nonetheless I
accepted it politely.
“Thank you. That will be such a help.”
My
office was small and sparsely furnished, tucked away at the back of the
building, by the fire escape. I looked out the window. A little black
bird was pecking at a patch of frozen grass on the ground outside,
dispiritedly and without much hope.
I shivered. The room was
freezing. The small radiator under the window was broken—Yuri said he’d
try to get it fixed, but that my best bet was to talk to Stephanie or,
failing that, bring it up in Community. I felt a sudden pang of empathy
with Elif and her battle to get the broken pool cue replaced.
I
looked through Alicia’s file without much expectation. The majority of
the information I needed was in the online database. Diomedes, however,
like a lot of older staff members, preferred to write his reports by
hand and (ignoring Stephanie’s nagging requests to the contrary)
continued to do so—hence the dog-eared file in front of me.
I
flicked through Diomedes’s notes, ignoring his somewhat old-fashioned
psychoanalytic interpretations, and focused on the nurses’ handover
reports of Alicia’s day-to-day behavior. I read through those reports
carefully. I wanted facts, figures, details—I needed to know exactly
what I was getting into, what I’d have to deal with, and if any
surprises were in store.
The file revealed little. When she was
first admitted, Alicia slashed her wrists twice and self-harmed with
whatever she could get her hands on. She was kept on two-on-one
observation for the first six months—meaning two nurses watched over her
at all times—which was eventually relaxed to one-on-one. Alicia made no
effort to interact with patients or staff, remaining withdrawn and
isolated and for the most part, the other patients had left her alone.
If people don’t reply when you speak to them and never initiate
conversation, you soon forget they’re there. Alicia had quickly melted
into the background, becoming invisible.
Only one incident stood
out. It took place in the canteen, a few weeks after Alicia’s admission.
Elif accused Alicia of taking her seat. What exactly had happened was
unclear, but the confrontation escalated rapidly. Apparently Alicia
became violent—she smashed a plate and tried to slash Elif’s throat with
the jagged edge. Alicia had to be restrained, sedated, and placed in
isolation.
I wasn’t sure why this incident drew my attention. But
it didn’t feel right to me. I decided to approach Elif and ask her
about it.
I tore off a sheet of paper from a pad and reached for
my pen. An old habit, formed at university—something about putting pen
to paper helps me organize my mind. I’ve always had difficulty
formulating an opinion until I’ve written it down.
I began
scribbling ideas, notes, goals—devising a plan of attack. To help
Alicia, I needed to understand her, and her relationship with Gabriel.
Did she love him? Hate him? What happened to make her kill him? Why had
she refused to speak about the murder—or anything else? No answers, not
yet—just questions.
I wrote down a word and underlined it: ALCESTIS.
The
self-portrait—it was important, somehow, I knew that, and understanding
why would be central to unlocking this mystery. This painting was
Alicia’s sole communication, her only testimony. It was saying something
I had yet to comprehend. I made a note to revisit the gallery to look
at the painting again.
I wrote down another word: CHILDHOOD. If I
was to make sense of Gabriel’s murder, I needed to understand not only
the events of the night Alicia killed him, but also the events of the
distant past. The seeds of what happened in those few minutes when she
shot her husband were probably sown years earlier. Murderous rage,
homicidal rage, is not born in the present. It originates in the land
before memory, in the world of early childhood, with abuse and
mistreatment, which builds up a charge over the years, until it
explodes—often at the wrong target. I needed to find out how her
childhood had shaped her, and if Alicia couldn’t or wouldn’t
tell
me, I had to find someone who would. Someone who knew Alicia before the
murder, who could help me understand her history, who she was, and how
she ended up this way.
In the file, Alicia’s next of kin was
listed as her aunt—Lydia Rose—who brought her up, following the death of
Alicia’s mother in a car accident. Alicia had also been in the car
crash, but survived. That trauma must have affected the little girl
profoundly. I hoped Lydia would be able to tell me about it.
The
only other contact was Alicia’s lawyer: Max Berenson. Max was Gabriel
Berenson’s brother. He was perfectly placed to observe their marriage
intimately. Whether Max Berenson would confide in me was another matter.
An unsolicited approach to Alicia’s family by her psychotherapist was
unorthodox to say the least. I had a dim feeling Diomedes would not
approve. Better not ask his permission, I decided, in case he refused.
As
I look back, this was my first professional transgression in dealing
with Alicia—setting an unfortunate precedent for what followed. I should
have stopped there. But even then it was too late to stop. In many ways
my fate was already decided—like in a Greek tragedy.
I reached
for the phone. I called Max Berenson at his office, using the contact
number listed in Alicia’s file. It rang several times before it was
answered. “The offices of Elliot, Barrow, and Berenson,” said a
receptionist with a bad cold. “Mr. Berenson, please.”
Немецкий язык
Поэзия:
Nelly Wacker
Das Gedicht aus der Legende vom Heidenkraut
... Vater
undSohn –beide standen
schweigend am Steiluferrand.
Heidekraut raunte und rauschte,
Sturmwogen brausten am Strand...
'Bindet dem
Jungen die
Hände...
Werft in den Strudel ihn rein...
Dann will
ich lehren
die Schotten
brauen den
uralten Wein.
'Fest band ein
schottischer Krieger
Hände und Füße dem
Knab'.
Stieß ihn vom festigen Abhang
roh in
die Tiefe
hinab...
Wellen erfassten das Opfer.
Notrufe starben
im Meer...
Wehschreien hallen
als Echo
gellend vom
Steilufer her...
'Schotten, nun
hört meine Wahrheit:
Unheil dem
Kind blieb erspart...
Standhaft im Feuer verbrennen
können nur Männer mit Bart!
Mir ist kein Feuer gefährlich...
Sterben mit mir wirst du, mein
heiliges teueres Geheimnis –
uralter Erika-Wein!'
Проза:
https://vk.com/doc55688345_540769872?hash=960e11e924c5840392&dl=b1762d1517ca71494c
Французский язык
Поэзия:
https://vk.com/doc55688345_540770462?hash=7d3647136b244c06ec&dl=4378b669bfe1a50360
Проза:
Ce que le jour doit à la nuit
Mon père était heureux. Je ne
l’en croyais pas capable. Par moments, sa mine délivrée de ses
angoisses me troublait. Accroupi sur un amas de pierraille, les bras
autour des genoux, il regardait la brise en lacer la sveltesse des
chaumes, se coucher dessus, y fourrager avec fébrilité. Les champs de
blé ondoyaient comme la crinière de milliers de chevaux galopant à
travers la plaine. C’était une vision identique à celle qu’offre la mer
quand la houle l’engrosse. Et mon père souriait. Je ne me souviens pas
de l’avoir vu sourire ; il n’était pas dans ses habitudes de laisser
transparaître sa satisfaction – en avait-il eu vraiment ?… Forgé parles
épreuves, le regard sans cesse aux abois, sa vie n’était qu’une
interminable enfilade de déconvenues ; il se méfiait comme d’une teigne
des volte-face d’un lendemain déloyal et insaisissable. Je ne lui
connaissais pas d’amis. Nous vivions reclus sur notre lopin de terre,
pareils à des spectres livrés à euxmêmes, dans le silence sidéral de
ceux qui n’ont pas grand-chose à se dire : ma mère à l’ombre de son
taudis, ployée sur son chaudron, remuant machinalement un bouillon à
base de tubercules aux saveurs discutables ; Zahra, ma cadette de trois
ans, oubliée au fond d’une encoignure, si discrète que souvent on ne
s’apercevait pas de sa présence ; et moi, garçonnet malingre et
solitaire, à peine éclos que déjà fané, portant mes dix ans comme autant
de fardeaux. Ce n’était pas une vie ; on existait, et c’est tout. Le
fait de se réveiller le matin relevait du miracle, et la nuit, lorsqu’on
s’apprêtait à dormir, on se demandait s’il n’était pas raisonnable de
fermer les yeux pour de bon, convaincus d’avoir fait le tour des choses
et qu’elles ne valaient pas la peine que l’on s’attardât dessus. Les
jours se ressemblaient désespérément ; ils n’apportaient jamais rien, ne
faisaient, en partant, que nous déposséder de nos rares illusions qui
pendouillaient au bout de notre nez, semblables aux carottes qui font
avancer les baudets. En ces années 1930, la misère et les épidémies
décimaient les familles et le cheptel avec une incroyable perversité,
contraignant les rescapés à l’exode, sinon à
la clochardisation.
Nos rares parents ne donnaient plus signe de vie.Quant aux loques qui se
silhouettaient au loin, nous étions certains qu’elles ne faisaient que
passer en coup de vent, le sentier qui traînait ses ornières jusqu’à
notre gourbi était en passe de s’effacer. Mon père n’en avait cure. Il
aimait être seul, arc-bouté contre sa charrue, les lèvres blanches
d’écume. Parfois, je le confondais avec quelque divinité réinventant son
monde et je restais des heures entières à l’observer, fasciné par sa
robustesse et son acharnement. Lorsque ma mère me chargeait de lui
porter son repas, je n’avais pas intérêt à traîner. Mon père mangeait à
l’heure, frugalement, pressé de se remettre au travail. Moi, j’aurais
aimé qu’il me dît un mot affectueux ou qu’il me prêtât attention une
minute ; mon père n’avait d’yeux que pour ses terres. Ce n’était qu’à
cet endroit, au milieu de son univers blond, qu’il était dans son
élément. Rien ni personne, pas même ses êtres les plus chers, n’était en
mesure de l’en distraire.
YASMINA KHADRA