"Roger Zelazny - Divine Madness" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zelazny Roger)

Nothing had happened.

...Shouldn't be drinking, he decided. It might bring on a seizure.
He laughed.
Crazy, though, the whole thing...
Remembering, he drank.

In the morning he skipped breakfast, as usual, noted that it would soon
stop being morning, took two aspirins, a lukewarm shower, a cup of coffee,
and a walk.
The park, the fountain, the children with their boats, the grass, the
pond, he hated them; and the morning, and the sunlight, and the blue moats
around the towering clouds.


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Hating, he sat there. And remembering.
If he was on the verge of a crackup, he decided, then the thing he
wanted most was to plunge ahead into it, not to totter halfway out, halfway
in.
He remembered why.
But it was clear, so clear, the morning, and everything crisp and
distinct and burning with the green fires of spring, there in the sign of
the Ram, April.
He watched the winds pile up the remains of winter against the far gray
fence, and he saw them push the boats across the pond, to come to rest in
shallow mud the children tracked.
The fountain jetted its cold umbrella above the green-tinged copper
dolphins. The sun ignited it whenever he moved his head. The wind rumpled
it.
Clustered on the concrete, birds pecked at part of a candy bar stuck to
a red wrapper.
Kites swayed on their tails, nosed downward, rose again, as youngsters
tugged at invisible strings. Telephone lines were tangled with wooden frames
and torn paper, like broken G clefs and smeared glissandos.
He hated the telephone lines, the kites, the children, the birds.
Most of all, though, he hated himself.
How does a man undo that which has been done? He doesn't. There is no
way under the sun. He may suffer, remember, repeat, curse, or forget.
Nothing else. The past, in this sense, is inevitable.
A woman walked past. He did not look up in time to see her face, but
the dusky blonde fall of her hair to her collar and the swell of her sure,
sheer-netted legs below the black hem of her coat and above the matching
click of her heels heigh-ho, stopped his breath behind his stomach and
snared his eyes in the wizard-weft of her walking and her posture and some
more, like a rhyme to the last of his thoughts.

He half-rose from the bench when the pink static struck his eyeballs,