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All this day of fog I sat in the house remembering the way a
man's life goes one way and all the other lives another, each of
them going its own way, and a certain number of young people
dying all the time. A certain number of them going along and
dying. If you don't see them again they are dead even if it is a
small world: even if you go back and look for each of them
and find them you find them dead because any way any of
them go is a way that kills.
The bus came to Topeka and she got off and walked around a
corner and I never saw her again. I saw many others, many
many of them as lovely as she, but never another like her,
never another with that sadness and loveliness of voice and
never another who wept as she wept. There never will be an-
other with her sadness. There never will be an American night
like that again. She herself may be lovelier now than then but
there will never be another sadness of night like that and never
again will she or anyone else weep that way and no man who
kisses her will grow sick with the sickness of the love of that
night. All of it belongs to a night in America which is lost and
can never be found. All of it belongs to the centuries of small
accidents, all trivial, all insignificant, which brought her to the
seat beside me, and all the small accidents which placed me
there, waiting for her.
She came and sat beside me, and I knew the waiting of all the
years had been for her, but when she got off the bus in Topeka
I stayed on and three days later I reached New York.
That's all that happened except that something of myself is still
there in that warm, faraway American night.
When the darkness of day became the darkness of night I put
on my hat and left the house I walked through the fog to the
city, my heart following me like a big patient dog, and in the
city I found some of the dead who are my friends, and in
laughter more deathly and grievous than the bitterest weeping
80
we ate and drank and talked and sang and all that I remem-
bered was the loveliness of her weeping because the years of
small accidents had brought us together, and the foolishness of
my heart telling me to stay with her and go nowhere, telling
me there was nowhere to go.
FOLLOW-UP ACTIVITY
Come up with ideas of differences between literary and non-
literary texts in terms of text categories and means of their realiza-
tion. Discuss all functional styles in this respect.
Технический редактор Н.В. Москвичёва
Редактор Л.М. Кицина
Подписано в печать 17.02.05. Формат бумаги 60х84 1/16.
Печ. л. 5,0. Уч.-изд. л. 4,2. Тираж 100 экз. Заказ 58.
Издательство Омского государственного университета
644077, г. Омск-77, пр. Мира, 55а, госуниверситет
All this day of fog I sat in the house remembering the way a we ate and drank and talked and sang and all that I remem-
man's life goes one way and all the other lives another, each of bered was the loveliness of her weeping because the years of
them going its own way, and a certain number of young people small accidents had brought us together, and the foolishness of
dying all the time. A certain number of them going along and my heart telling me to stay with her and go nowhere, telling
15 dying. If you don't see them again they are dead even if it is a me there was nowhere to go.
small world: even if you go back and look for each of them
and find them you find them dead because any way any of FOLLOW-UP ACTIVITY
them go is a way that kills. Come up with ideas of differences between literary and non-
The bus came to Topeka and she got off and walked around a literary texts in terms of text categories and means of their realiza-
20 corner and I never saw her again. I saw many others, many tion. Discuss all functional styles in this respect.
many of them as lovely as she, but never another like her,
never another with that sadness and loveliness of voice and
never another who wept as she wept. There never will be an-
other with her sadness. There never will be an American night
25 like that again. She herself may be lovelier now than then but
there will never be another sadness of night like that and never
again will she or anyone else weep that way and no man who
kisses her will grow sick with the sickness of the love of that
night. All of it belongs to a night in America which is lost and
30 can never be found. All of it belongs to the centuries of small
accidents, all trivial, all insignificant, which brought her to the
seat beside me, and all the small accidents which placed me
there, waiting for her.
She came and sat beside me, and I knew the waiting of all the
35 years had been for her, but when she got off the bus in Topeka
I stayed on and three days later I reached New York.
That's all that happened except that something of myself is still
there in that warm, faraway American night.
Технический редактор Н.В. Москвичёва
When the darkness of day became the darkness of night I put
on my hat and left the house I walked through the fog to the Редактор Л.М. Кицина
city, my heart following me like a big patient dog, and in the
Подписано в печать 17.02.05. Формат бумаги 60х84 1/16.
city I found some of the dead who are my friends, and in Печ. л. 5,0. Уч.-изд. л. 4,2. Тираж 100 экз. Заказ 58.
laughter more deathly and grievous than the bitterest weeping Издательство Омского государственного университета
644077, г. Омск-77, пр. Мира, 55а, госуниверситет
79 80
