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:
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
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
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