"Kim Newman - Andy Warhol's Dracula" - читать интересную книгу автора (Newman Kim)

monotone of the whispery voice and the pared-down, kindergarten
vocabulary; the covert religiosity, the prizing of sacred or silver
objects; the squirrelling-away of money and possessions in a
centuried lair; even the artificial shocks of grey-white-silver
hair. Are these not the attributes of a classical vampire, Dracula
himself? Look at photographs taken before or after June 1968, and
you can't tell whether he is or isn't. Like the Murgatroyds of the
1890s, Andy was a disciple before he became a vampire. For him,
turning was dropping the seventh veil, the last chitinous scrap of
chrysalis, a final stage in becoming what he had always meant to be,
an admittal that this was indeed what was inside him.
His whole life had revolved around the dead.

Ч Kathleen Conklin, "Destroying Drella"
Paper delivered at "Warhol's Worlds," inaugural conference of The
Andy Warhol Museum (April 21-23, 1995); revised for publication as
"Warhola the Vampyre" in Who is Andy Warhol?, edited by Colin
MacCabe with Mark Francis and Peter Wollen
(The British Film Institute and The Andy Warhol Museum, 1997)

He stepped out of the Chelsea Hotel onto the sidewalk of West 23rd Street,
and tasted New York. It was the dead time, the thick hours before dawn,
when all but the most committed night owls were home abed, or at least
crashed out on a floor, blood sluggish with coffee, cigarettes or drugs.
This was the vampire afternoon, and Johnny understood how alone he was.
There were other vampires in this city, and he was almost ready to seek
them out, but none like him, of his line.
America was vast, bloated with rich, fatty blood. The fresh country
supported only a few ticks that tentatively poked proboscises through
thick hide, sampling without gorging. By comparison, Johnny was a hungry
monster. Minutes after taking Nancy, he could have fed again, and again.
He had to take more than he needed. He could handle dozens of warm bodies
a night without bursting, without choking on the ghosts. Eventually, he
would make children-in-darkness, slaves to serve him, to shield him. He
must pass on the bloodline of the Father. But not yet.
He hadn't intended to come to this city of towers, with its moat of
running water. His plan was to stick to the film people he had hooked up
with in the Old Country, and go to fabled Hollywood on the Pacific. But
there was a mix-up at JFK and he was detained in Immigration while the
rest of the company, American passports brandished like protective
banners, were waved on to catch connecting flights to Los Angeles or San
Francisco. He was stuck at the airport in a crowd of overeager
petitioners, dark-skinned and warm, as dawn edged threateningly closer.
The Father was with him then, as he slipped into a men's room and bled a
Canadian flight attendant who gave him a come-on, invigorating himself
with something new and wild. Buzzing with fresh blood, first catch of this
new land, he concentrated his powers of fascination to face down the
officials who barred his way. It was beneath him to bribe those who could
be overpowered by force of will.
America was disorienting. To survive, he must adapt swiftly. The pace of