Ладошки, у меня РАНЧИК РОДИЛСЯ! :-)
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Уважаемые давние поклонники и посетители Ладошек!
Я запускаю коммьюнити-сайт, новый проект, а вы все, будучи
https://www.facebook.com/run4iq
Бег для интеллектуалов.
Бег для интеллекта.
Бег "за" интеллектом. Он сам не придёт ;-)
Ранчик родился!
Андрей AKA Andrew Nugged
Ладошки служат как архив программ для Palm OS и Poclet PC / Windows Mobile
и разрешённых книг с 15 окрября 2000 года.
Писатель родился в Киеве. Окончив медицинский факультет Киевского университета, некоторое время работал земским врачом. В 1920 году начал сотрудничать с газетой «Накануне», выходившей в Берлине. В 1925 году вышли два его сборника — «Дьяволиада» и «Роковые яйца». На следующий год по мотивам романа «Белая Гвардия» Булгаков пишет пьесу «Дни Турбиных», поставленную МХАТом. Булгаков много сотрудничал с театром, вслед за пьесой «Дни Турбиных», появляются пьесы «Зойкина Квартира» (поставлена в 1926), «Мольер» (поставлена в 1936), «Последние Дни» (поставлена в 1940), «Бег». Над романом «Мастер и Маргарита», Булгаков начал работать в 1921 году и продолжал писать его до самой смерти. Эта работа стала главным делом его жизни, но так и не была полностью завершена. Умер Михаил Афансьевич Булгаков 10 марта 1940 года в Москве.
отрывок из произведения:
...My side hurts like hell and I can see just what's going to become of me. Tomorrow it will break out in ulcers and then how can I make them heal? In summer you can go and roll in Sokolniki Park where there's a special grass that does you good. Besides, you can get a free meal of sausage-ends and there's plenty of greasy bits of food-wrappings to lick. And if it wasn't for some old groaner singing '0 celeste Aida' out in the moonlight till it makes you sick, the place would be perfect. But where can I go now? Haven't I been kicked around enough? Sure I have. Haven't I had enough bricks thrown at me? Plenty . . . Still, after what I've been through, I can take a lot. I'm only whining now because of the pain and cold — though I'm not licked yet ... it takes a lot to keep a good dog down.
But my poor old body's been knocked about by people once too often. The trouble is that when that cook doused me with boiling water it scalded through right under my fur and now there's nothing to keep the cold out on my left side. I could easily get pneumonia — and if I get that, citizens, I'll die of hunger. When you get pneumonia the only thing to do is to lie up under someone's front doorstep, and then who's going to run round the dustbins looking for food for a sick bachelor dog? I shall get a chill on my lungs, crawl on my belly till I'm so weak that it'll only need one poke of someone's stick to finish me off. And the dustmen will pick me up by the legs and sling me on to their cart . . .
Dustmen are the lowest form of proletarian life. Humans' rubbish is the filthiest stuff there is. Cooks vary — for instance, there was Vlas from Prechistenka, who's dead now. He saved I don't know how many dogs' lives, because when you're sick you've simply got to be able to eat and keep your strength up. And when Vlas used to throw you a bone there was always a good eighth of an inch of meat on it. He was a great character. God rest his soul, a gentleman's cook who worked for Count Tolstoy's family and not for your stinking Food Rationing Board. As for the muck they dish out there as rations, well it makes even a dog wonder. They make soup out of salt beef that's gone rotten, the cheats. The poor fools who eat there can't tell the difference. It's just grab, gobble and gulp...
«хуже ваша оценка лучше»
...My side hurts like hell and I can see just what's going to become of me. Tomorrow it will break out in ulcers and then how can I make them heal? In summer you can go and roll in Sokolniki Park where there's a special grass that does you good. Besides, you can get a free meal of sausage-ends and there's plenty of greasy bits of food-wrappings to lick. And if it wasn't for some old groaner singing '0 celeste Aida' out in the moonlight till it makes you sick, the place would be perfect. But where can I go now? Haven't I been kicked around enough? Sure I have. Haven't I had enough bricks thrown at me? Plenty . . . Still, after what I've been through, I can take a lot. I'm only whining now because of the pain and cold — though I'm not licked yet ... it takes a lot to keep a good dog down.
