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Эх, писала длиннопост про разные виды книжек. Но компьютер решил, что нужно перезагрузиться и стереть все это, так что так тому и быть.

Если кратко, то я прочитала Perks of Being a Wallflower. Я не очень поняла конец и к чему вообще там такой конец, но сама книжка заставила меня думать. А я уже очень давно не думаю, к слову. Только если вдруг в одинокий вечер ятницы всплакну и немножко пострадаю, что я одинокая и все такое. А уж книжек нормальных я уже больше года не читала. Последняя была Анна Каренина. Я, конечно, честно пыталась начать To Kill a Mockingbird, но она для меня пока сложновата в оригинале.

В общем, если посчитать только то, что я отмечала в goodreads, то там уже 73 книги накапало всякого развлекательного и отвлекательного. Нет, там есть очень хорошие серии, но все это так, чтобы думать поменьше.

В общем, о Perks of Being a Wallflower.

Мне было и легко, и тяжело одновременно. Я очень люблю английский язык, действительно люблю. Меня завораживает, как они строят фразы. Наверно, со стороны это странно, потому что нет в них ничего особенного, но для меня это волшебство.

"Do you always think this much, Charlie?"

"Is that bad?" I just wanted someone to tell me the truth.

"Not necessarily. It's just that sometimes people use thought to not participate in life."

"Is that bad?"

"Yes."

Participate in life. Я не знаю, как это делать, не знаю. Но надо же, правда? Там еще была история с I can die for you, but I don't want to live for you. Потому что сложно прожить свою жзнь, действительно прожить. Мне кажется, часто мы просто делаем все на автомате, не регистрируя происходящее вокруг по-настоящему, не замечая, что жизнь идет мимо. Я даже начинаю понимать, что значит, когда про кого-то говорят so full of life и почему мы тянемся к таким людям. Потому что тяжело жить, тяжело participate in life. Ну, по крайней мере, мне это не дается само собой.

My point is that everybody has life, but we often do not live our life. And I think that it is very important to live your own life and share it with other people, to "participate in life". Because only where you trully are, where you live fully, only then you can feel infinite and it is all that life is about. Something like that, huh.

Когда-нибудь я буду не только читать по-анлийски и немножко думать корявыми фразами. Когда-нибудь я смогу думать на этом языке и писать на этом языке в этом дневничке, потому что я очень его люблю.

А сюда я положу цитаты.

"Charlie's Poem for Patrick

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines

he wrote a poem

And he called it "Chops"

because that was the name of his dog

And that's what it was all about

And his teacher gave him an A

and a gold star

And his mother hung it on the kitchen door

and read it to his aunts

That was the year Father Tracy

took all the kids to the zoo

And he let them sing on the bus

And his little sister was born

with tiny toenails and no hair

And his mother and father kissed a lot

And the girl around the corner sent him a

Valentine signed with a row of X's

and he had to ask his father what the X's meant

And his father always tucked him in bed at night

And was always there to do it

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines

he wrote a poem

And he called it "Autumn"

because that was the name of the season

And that's what it was all about

And his teacher gave him an A

and asked him to write more clearly

And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door

because of its new paint

And the kids told him

that Father Tracy smoked cigars

And left butts on the pews

And sometimes they would burn holes

That was the year his sister got glasses

with thick lenses and black frames

And the girl around the corner laughed

when he asked her to go see Santa Claus

And the kids told him why

his mother and father kissed a lot

And his father never tucked him in bed at night

And his father got mad

when he cried for him to do it.

Once on a paper torn from his notebook

he wrote a poem

And he called it "Innocence: A Question"

because that was the question about his girl

And that's what it was all about

And his professor gave him an A

and a strange steady look

And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door

because he never showed her

That was the year that Father Tracy died

And he forgot how the end

of the Apostle's Creed went

And he caught his sister

making out on the back porch

And his mother and father never kissed

or even talked

And the girl around the corner

wore too much makeup

That made him cough when he kissed her

but he kissed her anyway

because that was the thing to do

And at three a.m. he tucked himself into bed

his father snoring soundly

That's why on the back of a brown paper bag

he tried another poem

And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"

Because that's what it was really all about

And he gave himself an A

and a slash on each damned wrist

And he hung it on the bathroom door

because this time he didn't think

he could reach the kitchen.

I just wish that God or my parents or Sam or my sister or someone would just tell me what's wrong with me. Just tell me how to be different in a way that makes sense. To make this all go away.

.. this is the worse that feels too big.

But even if we don't have the power to choose where we come from, we can still choose where we go from there. We can still do things. And we can try to feel okay about them.