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Alone. Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym. ...
... And you couldn't explain that to your mother and father, who were creatures of the light. No more than you could explain to them how, at the age of three, the spare blanket at the foot of the crib turned into a collection of snakes that lay staring at you with flat and lidless eyes. No child ever conquers those fears... If a fear cannot be articulated, it can't be conquered. And the fears locked in small brains are much too large to pass through the orifice of the mouth. Sooner or later you found someone to walk past all the deserted meeting houses you had to pass between grinning babyhood and grunting senility. Until tonight. Until tonight when you found out that none of the old fears had been staked - only tucked away in their tiny, child-sized coffins with a wild rose on top. |
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Просто тупой трэш! Такое мог написать любой писатель средней руки - жирный и обнажённый газонокосильщик, поедание травы вместе с кротами, атмосфера маразма. Словом, рассказ на единицу...
НО! Как ни страшно это прозвучит, лучше уж такой рассказ, чем унылая серость, которую Кинг пишет сейчас (да-да, я про "После заката"). Вендиго
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