lolique | текст на англ

все таки выложу немного уоллеса тут. тони краус наркоман, извращенец и воришка прячется в мужской публичной уборной, тк. он до этого украл сумочку у одной тетки, а оказалось там было ее искусственное сердце и она погибла через десять минут, задыхаясь в агонии. в туалете ночью отключают свет, по стенке ползут муравьи, которых он ненавидел с детства (как уинстон из оруэлла всегда ненавидел крыс) и ему больше никто не дает кокаин, он пытается выжить на сиропе от кашля Coldex Plus, стремительно худеет, дичает и сходит с ума

Time began to take on new aspects for him, now, as Withdrawal progressed. Time began to pass with sharp edges. Its passage in the dark or dimlit stall was like time was being carried by a procession of ants, a gleaming red martial column of those militaristic red Southern.U.S. ants that build hideous tall boiling hills; and each vile gleaming ant wanted a miniscule little portion of Poor Tony's flesh in compensation as it helped bear time slowly forward down the corridor of true Withdrawal. By the second week in the stall time itself seemed the corridor, lightless at either end. After more time time then ceased to move or to be moved or be move-throughable and assumed a shape above and apart, a huge, musty-feathered, orange-eyed wingless fowl hunched incontinent atop the stall, with a kind of watchful but deeply uncaring personality that didn't seem keen on Poor Tony Krause as a person at all, or to wish him well. Not one little bit. It spoke to him from atop the stall, the same things, over and over. They were unrepeatable. Nothing in even Poor Tony's grim life-experience prepared him for the experience of time with a shape and an odor, squatting; and the worsening physical symptoms were a spree at Bonwit's compared to time's black assurances that the symptoms were merely hints, signposts pointing up at a larger, far more dire set of Withdrawal phenomena that hung just overhead by a string that unravelled steadily with the passage of time. It would not keep still and would not end; it changed shape and smell. It moved in and out of him like the very most feared prison-shower assailant. Poor Tony had once had the hubris to fancy he'd had occasion really to shiver, ever, before. But he had never truly really shivered until time's cadences -- jagged and cold and smelling oddly of deodarant -- entered his body via several openings -- cold the way only damp cold is cold -- the phrase he'd had the gall to have imagined he understood was the phrase chilled to the bone -- shard-studded columns of chill entering to fill his bones with ground glass, and he could hear his joints' glassy crunch with every slightest shift at of hunched position, time ambient and in the air and entering and exiting at will, coldly; and the pain of his breath against his teeth. Time came to him in the falcon black of the library night in an orange mohawk and Merry Widow w/ tacky Amalfo pumps and nothing else. Time spread him and entered him roughly and had its way and left him again in the form of endless gushing liquid shit that he could not flush enough to keep up with. HE spent the longest morbid time trying to fathom whence all the shit came from when he was ingesting nothing at all but Codinex Plus. Then at some point he realized: time had become the shit itself: Poor Tony had became an hourglass: time moved through him now; he ceased to exist apart from its jagged-edged flow. He now weighed more like 45 kg. His legs were the size his comely arms had been, before Withdrawal. He was haunted by the word Zuckung, a foreign and possibly Yiddish word he did not recall ever before hearing. The word kept echoing in quick-step cadence through his head without meaning anything. He'd naivly assumed that going mad meant you were not aware of going mad; he'd naively pictured madmen as forever laughing. He kept seeing his sonless father again ....

ну и так далее. там дальше, поверьте, не слабее текст, даже, может быть, и сильнее, тк climax и читатель уже подпал под это настроение.