"Ursula K. LeGuin - The New Atlantis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Le Guin Ursula K)

"We could completely decentralize industry and agriculture. Technology could serve life instead of serving
capital. We could each run our own life. Power is power!тАж The State is a machine. We could unplug
the machine, now. Power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely. But that's true only when there's
a price on power. When groups can keep the power to themselves; when they can use physical
power-to in order to exert spiritual power-over; when might makes right. But if power is free? If
everybody is equally mighty? Then everybody's got to find a better way of showing that he's rightтАж"

"That's what Mr. Nobel thought when he invented dynamite," I said. "Peace on earth."

He slid down the sunlit slope a couple of thousand feet and stopped beside me in a spray of snow,
smiling. "Skull at the banquet," he said, "finger writing on the wall. Be still! Look, don't you see the sun
shining on the Pentagon, all the roofs are off, the sun shines at last into the corridors of powerтАж And
they shrivel up, they wither away. The green grass grows through the carpets of the Oval Room, the Hot
Line is disconnected for nonpayment of the bill. The first thing we'll do is build an electrified fence outside
the electrified fence around the White House. The inner one prevents unauthorized persons from getting
in. The outer one will prevent authorized persons from getting outтАж"

Of course he was bitter. Not many people come out of prison sweet.

But it was cruel, to be shown this great hope, and to know that there was no hope for it. He did know
that. He knew it right along. He knew that there was no mountain, that he was skiing on the wind.

***

The tiny lights of the lantern-creatures died out one by one, sank away. The distant lonely voices
were silent. The cold, slow currents flowed, vacant, only shaken from time to time by a shifting in
the abyss.
It was dark again, and no voice spoke. All dark, dumb, cold.

Then the sun rose.

It was not like the dawns we had begun to remember: the change, manifold and subtle, in the
smell and touch of the air; the hush that, instead of sleeping, wakes, holds still, and waits; the
appearance of objects, looking gray, vague, and new, as if just createdтАФdistant mountains

against the eastern sky, one's own hands, the hoary grass full of dew and shadow, the fold in the
edge of a curtain hanging by the windowтАФand then, before one is quite sure that one is indeed
seeing again, that the light has returned, that day is breaking, the first, abrupt, sweet stammer of
a waking bird. And after that the chorus, voice by voice: This is my nest, this is my tree, this is my
egg, this is my day, this is my life, here I am, here I am, hurray for me! I'm here!тАФNo, it wasn't
like that at all, this dawn. It was completely silent, and it was blue.

In the dawns that we had begun to remember, one did not become aware of the light itself, but of
the separate objects touched by the light, the things, the world. They were there, visible again, as
if visibility were their own property, not a gift from the rising sun.

In this dawn, there was nothing but the light itself. Indeed there was not even light, we would
have said, but only color: blue.