"George R. R. Martin - Portraits of His Children" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

Portraits of His Children
GEORGE R. R. MARTIN

George R. R. Martin received the Nebula Award in 1979 for his novelette "Sandkings." His books
include Dying of the Light, The Armageddon Rag, Fever Dream, Songs of Stars and Shadows, A
Song for Lya, and Nightflyers. He lives in New Mexico.

About this year's winning novelette, he writes: "The truth of it is, writers do have peculiar
relationships with their characters. They are our children in more senses than one. They are born
of our imaginations, carry much of ourselves in them, and embody whatever dreams we dream of
immortality.

"I can't claim to be an exception. Abner Marsh and Joshua York, Sandy and Maggy and Froggy,
Val One-Wing and half-faced Bretan Braith, Kenny with his monkey, poor wasted Melody, the
improved model Melantha Jhirl, and the callous Simon Kress, and of course my lost Lya. When I
type I can see their faces.

"This is a writer's story, yes, and more true than some of us would care to admit."



Richard Cantling found the package leaning up against his front door, one evening in late October when
he was setting out for his walk. It annoyed him. He had told his postman repeatedly to ring the bell when
delivering anything too big to fit through the mail slot, yet the man persisted in abandoning the packages
on the porch, where any passerby could simply walk off with them. Although, to be fair, Cantling's house
was rather isolated, sitting on the river bluffs at the end of a cul-de-sac, and the trees effectively screened
it off from the street. Still, there was always the possibility of damage from rain or wind or snow.

Cantling's displeasure lasted only an instant. Wrapped in heavy brown paper and carefully sealed with
tape, the package had a shape that told all. Obviously a painting. And the hand that had block-printed his
address in heavy green marker was unmistakably Michelle's. Another self-portrait then. She must be
feeling repentant.

He was more surprised than he cared to admit, even to himself. He had always been a stubborn man. He
could hold grudges for years, even decades, and he had the greatest difficulty admitting any wrong. And
Michelle, being his only child, seemed to take after him in all of that. He hadn't expected this kind of
gesture from her. It wasтАж well, sweet.

He set aside his walking stick to lug the package inside, where he could unwrap it out of the damp and
the blustery October wind. It was about three feet tall, and unexpectedly heavy. He carried it awkwardly,
shutting the door with his foot and struggling down the long foyer toward his den. The brown drapes
were tightly closed; the room was dark, and heavy with the smell of dust. Cantling had to set down the
package to fumble for the light.

He hadn't used his den much since that night, two months ago, when Michelle had gone storming out. Her
self-portrait was still sitting up above the wide slate mantle. Below, the fireplace badly wanted cleaning,
and on the built-in bookshelves his novels, all bound in handsome dark leather, stood dusty and
disarrayed. Cantling looked at the old painting and felt a brief wash of anger return to him, followed by
depression. It had been such a nasty thing for her to do. The portrait had been quite good, really. Much
more to his taste than the tortured abstractions that Michelle liked to paint for her own pleasure, or the