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12. Jun 2017|00:01 |
hm, šūpoties gan man patīk, ļoti ļoti, ļoti ļoti
bet tas prieks druksu par augstu, par daudz, nav vārdiem vietas, tomēr gribas tā pieklājīgāk uzvesties
Slow Sculpture by Theodore Sturgeon, 1971 Hugo Award
"Were you looking for something?" he asked her.
"No," she said. "Yes."
He could smile. Though it did not last long she found the expression surprising in a face like his.
"That's not what is called, in a court of law, a responsive answer."
She glanced across the hillside, metallic in that late light. There wasn't much on it—rocks, weeds the summer was done with, a tree or so, the orchard. Anyone present had come a long way to get here.
"It wasn't a simple question," she said, tried to smile and burst into tears.
She was sorry and said so.
"Why?" he asked.
This was the first time she was to experience this ask-the-next-question thing of his. It was unsettling. It always would be—never less, sometimes a great deal more.
"Well—one doesn't have emotional explosions in public."
"You do. I don't know this one you're talking about."
"I guess I don't either, now that you mention it."
"Tell the truth then. No sense in going around and around about it: He'll think that I... and the like. I'll think what I think, whatever you say. Or—go down the mountain and just don't say any more." She did not turn to go, so he added: "Try the truth, then. If it's important, it's simple. And if it's simple it's easy to say."
"I'm going to die!" she cried.
"So am I."
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