Пользователь {{GameInvite.invite.invited_by.login}} приглашает вас присоединиться к открытой игре игре с друзьями .
The Martian Chronicles
(5)       Используют 44 человека


Ямастер 26 июля 2016
Ямастер 26 июля 2016
Увсё хорошо, набирайте с удовольствием :laugh:
Ямастер 13 июля 2016
shiver. The Martians were there - in the canal - reflected
shiver. Thee
Проблема начинается от этого места, и движется до самого конца, мне удалось преодолеть ее только в однострочном режиме, а в конце где написано ...ENDD. вообще застрял, всяко пытался пока видимо не угадал как надо.
Как я и говорил меня ничто не остановит
но для людей лучше исправить этот голимый косяк
Ямастер 13 июля 2016
Привет, посмотри пожалуйста последний отрывок, чего-то с ним не так. Второе предложение смещается и возникает какой-то косяк, что не даёт печатать дальше....
Ямастер 7 июля 2016
Наверное самая сложная книга по печати. Очень много знаков "?'!, ... так много что аж мозг закипает. Но ничего, меня это не остановит...
Написать тут
by Ray Bradbury
15 сентября 2015 в 11:09 (текущая версия от 11 августа 2017 в 17:37)
Тип словаря:
Последовательные отрывки из загруженного файла.
From “Rocket Summer” to “The Million-Year Picnic,” Ray Bradbury’s stories of the colonization of Mars form an eerie mesh of past and future. Written in the 1940s, the chronicles drip with nostalgic atmosphere-shady porches with tinkling pitchers of lemonade, grandfather clocks, chintz-covered sofas. But longing for this comfortable past proves dangerous in every way to Bradbury’s characters-the golden-eyed Martians as well as the humans. Starting in the far-flung future of 1999, expedition after expedition leaves Earth to investigate Mars. The Martians guard their mysteries well, but they are decimated by the diseases that arrive with the rockets. Colonists appear, most with ideas no more lofty than starting a hot-dog stand, and with no respect for the culture they’ve displaced.

Bradbury’s quiet exploration of a future that looks so much like the past is sprinkled with lighter material. In “The Silent Towns,” the last man on Mars hears the phone ring and ends up on a comical blind date. But in most of these stories, Bradbury holds up a mirror to humanity that reflects a shameful treatment of “the other,” yielding, time after time, a harvest of loneliness and isolation. Yet the collection ends with hope for renewal, as a colonist family turns away from the demise of the Earth towards a new future on Mars. Bradbury is a master fantasist and The Martian Chronicles are an unforgettable work of art.
768 отрывков, 354160 символов
For my wife MARGUERITE with all my love
"It is good to renew one's wonder," said the philosopher.
"Space travel has again made children of us all."
January 1999: ROCKET SUMMER
One minute it was Ohio winter, with doors closed, windows locked, the panes blind with frost, icicles fringing every roof, children skiing on slopes, housewives lumbering like great black bears in their furs along the icy streets.
2 And then a long wave of warmth crossed the small town. A flooding sea of hot air; it seemed as if someone had left a bakery door open. The heat pulsed among the cottages and bushes and children. The icicles dropped, shattering, to melt. The doors flew open. The windows flew up. The children worked off their wool clothes. The housewives shed their bear disguises. The snow dissolved and showed last summer's ancient green lawns.
3 Rocket summer. The words passed among the people in the open, airing houses. Rocket summer. The warm desert air changing the frost patterns on the windows, erasing the art work. The skis and sleds suddenly useless. The snow, falling from the cold sky upon the town, turned to a hot rain before it touched the ground.
Rocket summer. People leaned from their dripping porches and watched the reddening sky.
4 The rocket lay on the launching field, blowing out pink clouds of fire and oven heat. The rocket stood in the cold wintar morning, making summer with every breath of its mighty exhausts. The rocket made climates, and summer lay for a brief moment upon the land...
February 1999: YLLA
They had a house of crystal pillars on the planet Mars by the edge of an empty sea, and every morning you could see Mrs.
5 K eating the golden fruits that grew from the crystal walls, or cleaning the house with handfuls of magnetic dust which, taking all dirt with it, blew away on the hot wind. Afternoons, when the fossil sea was warm and motionless, and the wine trees stood stiff in the yard, and the little distant Martian bone town was all enclosed, and no one drifted out their doors, you could see Mr. K himself in his room, reading from a metal book with raised hieroglyphs over which he brushed his hand, as one might play a harp.
6 And from the book, as his fingers stroked, a voice sang, a soft ancient voice, which told tales of when the sea was red steam on the shore and ancient men had carried clouds of metal insects and electric spiders into battle.
Mr. and Mrs. K had lived by the dead sea for twenty years, and their ancestors had lived in the same house, which turned and followed the sun, flower-like, for ten centuries.
7 and Mrs. K were not old. They had the fair, brownish skin of the true Martian, the yellow coin eyes, the soft musical voices. Once they had liked painting pictures with chemical fire, swimming in the canals in the seasons when the wine trees filled them with green liquors, and talking into the dawn together by the blue phosphorous portraits in the speaking room.
They were not happy now.
This morning Mrs.
8 K stood between the pillars, listening to the desert sands heat, melt into yellow wax, and seemingly run on the horizon.
Something was going to happen.
She waited.
She watched the blue sky of Mars as if it might at any moment grip in on itself, contract, and expel a shining miracle down upon the sand.
Nothing happened.
Tired of waiting, she walked through the misting pillars. A gentle rain sprang from the fluted pillar tops, cooling the scorched air, falling gently on her.
9 On hot days it was like walking in a creek. The floors of the house glittered with cool streams. In the distance she heard her husband playing his book steadily, his fingers never tired of the old songs. Quietly she wished he might one day again spend as much time holding and touching her like a little harp as he did his incredible books.
But no. She shook her head, an imperceptible, forgiving shrug.
10 Her eyelids closed softly down upon her golden eyes. Marriage made people old and familiar, while still young.
She lay back in a chair that moved to take her shape even as she moved. She closed her eyes tightly and nervously.
The dream occurred.
Her brown fingers trembled, came up, grasped at the air. A moment later she sat up, startled, gasping.
She glanced about swiftly, as if expecting someone there before her.

Выделите фрагменты страницы, относящиеся к вашему сообщению
Скрыть сведения
Скрыть всю личную информацию