"Barker, Clive - Books of Blood 02" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barker Clive)

Steve didnТt resist QuaidТs generosity. A pint and a half of lager in his unfed system would help no end in dulling the tedium of his oncoming seminars on СCharles Dickens as a Social AnalystТ. He yawned just to think of it.
СSomebody ought to write a thesis on drinking as a social activity.Т
Quaid studied his brandy a moment, then downed it.
СOr as oblivion,Т he said.
Steve looked at the man. Perhaps five years older than SteveТs twenty. The mixture of clothes he wore was confusing. Tattered running shoes, cords, a grey-white shirt that had seen better days: and over it a very expensive black leather jacket that hung badly on his tall, thin frame. The face was long and unremarkable; the eyes milky-blue, and so pale that the colour seemed to seep into the whites, leaving just the pin-pricks of his irises visible behind his heavy glasses. Lips full, like a Jagger, but pale, dry and un-sensual. Hair, a dirty blond.
Quaid, Steve decided, could have passed for a Dutch dope-pusher.
He wore no badges. They were the common currency of
a studentТs obsessions, and Quaid looked naked without
something to imply how he took his pleasures. Was he
a gay, feminist, save-the-whale campaigner; or a fascist
vegetarian? What was he into, for GodТs sake?
СYou should have been doing Old Norse,Т said Quaid.
СWhy?Т
СThey donТt even bother to mark the papers on that course,Т said Quaid.

Steve hadnТt heard about this. Quaid droned on.
СThey just throw them all up into the air. Face up, an A. Face down, a B.Т
Oh, it was a joke. Quaid was being witty. Steve attemp-ted a laugh, but QuaidТs face remained unmoved by his own attempt at humour.
СYou should be in Old Norse,Т he said again. СWho needs Bishop Berkeley anyhow. Or Plato. Or -С
СOr?Т
СItТs all shit.Т
СYes.Т
СIТve watched you, in the Philosophy Class -СSteve began to wonder about Quaid.
С- You never take notes do you?Т СNo.Т
СI thought you were either sublimely confident, or you simply couldnТt care less.Т
СNeither. IТm just completely lost.Т
Quaid grunted, and pulled out a pack of cheap cigarettes. Again, that was not the done thing. You either smoked Gauloises, Camel or nothing at all.
СItТs not true philosophy they teach you here,Т said Quaid, with unmistakable contempt.
СOh?Т
СWe get spoon-fed a bit of Plato, or a bit of Bentham -no real analysis. ItТs got all the right markings of course. It looks like the beast: it even smells a bit like the beast to the uninitiated.Т
УWhat beast?Т
СPhilosophy. True Philosophy. ItТs a beast, Stephen. DonТt you think?Т
СI hadnТt -С
СItТs wild. It bites.Т

He grinned, suddenly vulpine. СYes. It bites,Т he replied. Oh, that pleased him. Again, for luck: СBites.Т
Stephen nodded. The metaphor was beyond him. СI think we should feel mauled by our subject.Т Quaid
was warming to the whole subject of mutilation by education. СWe should be frightened to juggle the ideas we should talk about.Т
Why?Т
СBecause if we were philosophers worth we wouldnТt be exchanging academic pleasantries. We wouldnТt be talking semantics; using linguistic trickery to cover the real concerns.Т
СWhat would we be doing?Т
Steve was beginning to feel like QuaidТs straight man. except that Quaid wasnТt in a joking mood. His face was set: his pinprick irises had closed down to tiny dots
We should be walking close to the beast, Steve, donТt you think? Reaching out to stroke it, pet it, milk it-'
СWhat . . . er . . . what is the beast?Т
Quaid was clearly a little exasperated by the pragmatism of the enquiry.
СItТs the subject of any worthwhile philosophy, Stephen. itТs the things we fear, because we donТt understand them. itТs the dark behind the door.Т
Steve thought of a door. Thought of the dark. He began to see what Quaid was driving at in his labyrinthine fashion. Philosophy was a way to talk about fear.
СWe should discuss whatТs intimate to our psyches,Т said Quaid. СIf we donТt.. . we risk...Т
QuaidТs loquaciousness deserted him suddenly.