"Ursula K. LeGuin - Solitude" - читать интересную книгу автора (Le Guin Ursula K)

Aha! said my mother to herself, looking at Borny and me. And
she requested a family transfer to Eleven-Soro with Observer
status. The Stabiles interviewed her extensively by ansible, and
talked with Borny and even with meтАФI donтАЩt remember it, but she
told me I told the Stabiles all about my new stockingsтАФand agreed
to her request. The ship was to stay in close orbit, with the previous
Observers in the crew, and she was to keep radio contact with it,
daily if possible.
I have a dim memory of the tree-city, and of playing with what
must have been a kitten or a ghole-kit on the ship; but my first
clear memories are of our house in the auntring. It is half
underground, half aboveground, with wattle-and-daub walls.
Mother and I are standing outside it in the warm sunshine.
Between us is a big mudpuddle, into which Borny pours water from
a basket; then he runs off to the creek to get more water. I muddle
the mud with my hands, deliciously, till it is thick and smooth. I
pick up a big double handful and slap it onto the walls where the
sticks show through. Mother says, тАЬThatтАЩs good! ThatтАЩs right!тАЭ in
our new language, and I realize that this is work, and I am doing it.
I am repairing the house. I am making it right, doing it right. I am
a competent person.
I have never doubted that, so long as I lived there.
We are inside the house at night, and Borny is talking to the ship
on the radio, because he misses talking the old language, and
anyway he is supposed to tell them stuff. Mother is making a
basket and swearing at the split reeds. I am singing a song to
drown out Borny so nobody in the auntring hears him talking
funny, and anyway I like singing. I learned this song this afternoon
in HyuruтАЩs house. I play every day with Hyuru. тАЬBe aware, listen,
listen, be aware,тАЭ I sing. When Mother stops swearing she listens,
and then she turns on the recorder. There is a little fire still left
from cooking dinner, which was lovely pigi root, I never get tired of
pigi. It is dark and warm and smells of pigi and of burning duhur,
which is a strong, sacred smell to drive out magic and bad feelings,
and as I sing тАЬListen, be aware,тАЭ I get sleepier and sleepier and lean
against Mother, who is dark and warm and smells like Mother,
strong and sacred, full of good feelings.
Our daily life in the auntring was repetitive. On the ship, later, I
learned that people who live in artificially complicated situations
call such a life тАЬsimple.тАЭ I never knew anybody, anywhere I have
been, who found life simple. I think a life or a time looks simple
when you leave out the details, the way a planet looks smooth, from
orbit.
Certainly our life in the auntring was easy, in the sense that our
needs came easily to hand. There was plenty of food to be gathered
or grown and prepared and cooked, plenty of temas to pick and rett
and spin and weave for clothes and bedding, plenty of reeds to make
baskets and thatch with; we children had other children to play
with, mothers to look after us, and a great deal to learn. None of
this is simple, though itтАЩs all easy enough, when you know how to