"James Tiptree Jr. - Love is the Plan the Plan is Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tiptree James Jr)

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JAMES TIPTREE, JR.

Love Is the Plan
the Plan Is Death

"Why do mankind flatter themselves that they alone are gifted with a spiritual
and immortal principle? . . . I am persuaded that if a peacock could speak he
would boast of his soul, and would affirm that it inhabited his magnificent
tail," (Voltaire). "My first act of free will is to believe in free will,"
said William James. Illusions, a Skinnerian might reply. The perfect joy, the
perfect love will ensue only if one accepts and embraces one's .destiny. I
choose-because I must. This is a story of joy and love and destiny.
Remembering-Do you hear, my little red?
Hold me softly. The cold grows.
I remember:
-I am hugely black and hopeful, I bounce on six legs along the mountains
in the new warm! . . . Sing the changer, Sing the stranger! Will the changes
change forever? . . . All my hums have words now. Another change!
Eagerly I bound on sunward following the tiny thrill in the air. The
forests have been shrinking again. Then I see. It is me! Me Myself,
MOGGADEET-I have grown bigger more in the winter cold! I astonish myself,
Moggadeet-the-small!
Excitement, enticement shrilling from the sun-side of the world. I come!
. . . The sun is changing again, too. Sun is walking in the night! Sun is
walking back to Summer in the warming of the light! . . . Warm is Me Moggadeet
Myself. Forget the bad-time winter.
Memory quakes me.
The Old One.
I stop, pluck up a tree. So much I wanted to ask the Old One. No time.
Cold. Tree goes end over end down cliff, I watch the fat climbers tumble out.
Not hungry.
The Old One warned me of the cold-I didn't believe him. I move on,
grieving . . . Old One told you, The cold, the cold will hold you. Chill cold!
Kill cold. In the cold I killed you.
But it's warm now, all different. I'm Moggadeet again.

I bound over a hill and see my brother Frim.
At first I don't know him. A big black old one! I think. And in the
warm, we can speak!
I surge toward him bashing trees. The big black is crouched over a
ravine, peering down. Black back has shiny ripples like-It IS Frim!
Frim-I-hunted-for, Frim-run-away! But he's so big now! Giant Frim! A stranger,
a changer-
"Frim!"
He doesn't hear me; all his eye-turrets are under the trees. His end is
sticking up odd like, all atremble. What's he hunting?