Roadside Picnic Quotes

Мы будем делать Добро из Зла, потому что его больше не из чего делать.

The hypothesis of God, for instance, gives an incomparably absolute opportunity to understand everything and know absolutely nothing. Give man an extremely simplified system of the world and explain every phenomenon away on the basis of that system. An approach like that doesn't require any knowledge. Just a few memorized formulas plus so-called intuition and so-called common sense.

HAPPINESS FOR EVERYBODY, FREE, AND NO ONE WILL GO AWAY UNSATISFIED!

intelligence is the ability of a living creature to perform pointless or unnatural acts.

СЧАСТЬЕ ДЛЯ ВСЕХ, ДАРОМ, И ПУСТЬ НИКТО НЕ УЙДЕТ ОБИЖЕННЫЙ!

Xenology is an unnatural mixture of science fiction and formal logic. At its core is a flawed assumption—that an alien race would be psychologically human.

You need money so you don’t have to think about money.

A picnic. Picture a forest, a country road, a meadow. Cars drive off the country road into the meadow, a group of young people get out carrying bottles, baskets of food, transistor radios, and cameras. They light fires, pitch tents, turn on the music. In the morning they leave. The animals, birds, and insects that watched in horror through the long night creep out from their hiding places. And what do they see? Old spark plugs and old filters strewn around... Rags, burnt-out bulbs, and a monkey wrench left behind... And of course, the usual mess—apple cores, candy wrappers, charred remains of the campfire, cans, bottles, somebody’s handkerchief, somebody’s penknife, torn newspapers, coins, faded flowers picked in another meadow.

The problem is we don’t notice the years pass, he thought. Screw the years—we don’t notice things change. We know that things change, we’ve been told since childhood that things change, we’ve witnessed things change ourselves many a time, and yet we’re still utterly incapable of noticing the moment that change comes—or we search for change in all the wrong places.

Look into my soul, I know - everything you need is in there. It has to be. Because I've never sold my soul to anyone! It's mine, it's human! Figure out yourself what I want - because I know it can't be bad! The hell with it all, I just can't think of a thing other than those words of his - HAPPINESS, FREE, FOR EVERYONE, AND LET NO ONE BE FORGOTTEN!

Man is born in order to think (there he is, Kirill, finally!). Except that I don't believe that. I've never believed it, and I still don't believe it, and what man is born for -I have no idea. He's born, that's all. Scrapes by as best he can.

All these conversations had left a certain sediment in his soul, and he didn’t know what it was. It wasn’t dissolving with time, but instead kept accumulating and accumulating.

Or how about this hypothetical definition. Reason is a complex type of instinct that has not yet formed completely. This implies that instinctual behavior is always purposeful and natural. A million years from now our instinct will have matured and we will stop making the mistakes that are probably integral to reason. An then, if something should change in the universe, we will all become extinct - precisely because we will have forgotten how to make mistakes, that is, to try various approaches not stipulated by an inflexible program of permitted alternatives.

In some sense, we’re all cavemen—we can’t imagine anything more frightening than a ghost or a vampire. But the violation of the principle of causality—that’s actually much scarier than a whole herd of ghosts… or Rubinstein’s monsters… or is that Wallenstein?” “Frankenstein.

How can I give up stalking when I have a family to feed? Get a job? I don't want to work for you, your work makes me puke, do you understand? This is the way I figure it: if a man works with you, he is always working for one of you, he is a slave and nothing else. And I always wanted to be myself, on my own, so that I could spit at you all, at your boredom and despair.

Want a drink?" "Thank you, I don't drink" "How about a smoke?" "Sorry, I don't smoke either." "God damn it!" I say. "Then what do you need money for?

Humanity as a whole is too stable a system, nothing upsets it.

Sometimes I ask myself, what the hell are we all running around for, anyway? To make money? But what the hell do we need money for if all we do is run around making it?

a man who is well brought-up may read anything. The only people who boggle at what is perfectly natural are those who are the worst swine and the finest experts in filth. In their utterly contemptible pseudo-morality they ignore the contents and madly attack individual words.

Пусна ме Зоната. Пусна ме подлата. Мръсница. Жив съм. Новаците не могат да разберат това. Никой освен сталкера не може да го разбере. И по бузите ми текат сълзи — от алкохола ли, от друго ли, не знам.

That's the Zone for you: come back with swag, a miracle; come back alive, success; come back with a patrol bullet in your ass, good luck; and everything else - that's fate.

„Аз съм животно, нали виждаш, животно съм. Дума не мога да обеля, не ме научиха да приказвам, не умея да мисля, тези гадове не ми дадоха да се науча да мисля. Но ако ти наистина всичко можеш и всичко знаеш, и всичко разбираш… намери му цаката! Надникни в душата ми, знам, че там е всичко, което ти трябва. Сигурен съм! Та нали никога и на никого не съм продавал душата си! Тя си е моя, човешка! Ти, само изцеди от мене каквото искам, нали е изключено да искам нещо лошо!… Проклето да е дано, та аз нищо не мога да измисля освен тези неговите, детските думи: «Щастие за всички даром и нека никой да не бъде пренебрегнат!

Intelligence is the ability to harness the powers of the surrounding world without destroying the said world.

A picnic. Imagine: a forest, a country road, a meadow. A car pulls off the road into the meadow and unloads young men, bottles, picnic baskets, girls, transistor radios, cameras … A fire is lit, tents are pitched, music is played. And in the morning they leave. The animals, birds, and insects that were watching the whole night in horror crawl out of their shelters. And what do they see? An oil spill, a gasoline puddle, old spark plugs and oil filters strewn about … Scattered rags, burnt-out bulbs, someone has dropped a monkey wrench. The wheels have tracked mud from some godforsaken swamp … and, of course, there are the remains of the campfire, apple cores, candy wrappers, tins, bottles, someone’s handkerchief, someone’s penknife, old ragged newspapers, coins, wilted flowers from another meadow …” “I get it,” said Noonan. “A roadside picnic.

Щастие за всички даром и нека никой да не бъде пренебрегнат!

I get it,” said Noonan. “A roadside picnic.

Ето например вече от доста години усещам едно такова притеснение, някак си не се чувствувам уютно. Добре, те дойдоха и веднага си заминаха. А ако дойдат отново и им скимне да останат?

There’s a need to understand, but that doesn’t require knowledge. The God hypothesis, for example, allows you to have an unparalleled understanding of absolutely everything while knowing absolutely nothing … Give a man a highly simplified model of the world and interpret every event on the basis of this simple model. This approach requires no knowledge. A few rote formulas, plus some so-called intuition, some so-called practical acumen, and some so-called common sense.

We know that things change, we’ve been told since childhood that things change, we’ve witnessed things change ourselves many a time, and yet we’re still utterly incapable of noticing the moment that change comes

Человек, во всяком случае массовый человек, с легкостью преодолевает эту свою потребность в знаниях. По-моему, у него такой потребности и вовсе нет. Есть потребность понять, а для этого знаний не надо. Гипотеза о Боге, например, дает ни с чем не сравнимую возможность абсолютно все понять, абсолютно ничего не узнавая

You’re absolutely right. Our little town is a hole. It always has been and still is. But now it is a hole into the future. We’re going to dump so much through this hole into your lousy world that everything will change in it. Life will be different. It’ll be fair. Everyone will have everything that he needs. Some hole, huh? Knowledge comes through this hole. And when we have the knowledge, we’ll make everyone rich, and we’ll fly to the stars, and go anywhere we want. That’s the kind of hole we have here

I lock myself in the stall, take out the flask, unscrew it, and attach myself to it like a leech. I’m sitting on the bench, my heart is empty, my head is empty, my soul is empty, gulping down the hard stuff like water. Alive. I got out. The Zone let me out. The damned hag. My lifeblood. Traitorous bitch. Alive. The novices can’t understand this. No one but a stalker can understand. And tears are pouring down my face—maybe from the booze, maybe from something else. I suck the flask dry; I’m wet, the flask is dry. As usual, I need just one more sip. Oh well, we’ll fix that. We can fix anything now. Alive. I light a cigarette and stay seated. I can feel it—I’m coming around.

We can’t stop it, we can’t slow it down! No force in the world could contain this blight, he thought in horror. It’s not because we do bad work. And it’s not because they are more clever and cunning than we are. The world is just like that. Man is like that. If it wasn’t the Visit, it would have been something else. Pigs can always find mud.

but strangely enough, his eyebrows and eyebrows were intact.

خیلی وقته از بشریت به عنوان یه کلیت واحد حرف نزدم. بشریت به عنوان یه کلیت نظام باثباتیه. هیچی نمی تونه اون رو به هم بریزه.

Pigs can always find mud.

It was once said, and very rightly, that a man who is well brought-up may read anything.

Porque nosotros no entendemos nada, pero ellos al menos entienden hasta qué punto no entienden nada.

Because the pale horse has been saddled, and the rider has put a foot in the stirrup.

He had never experienced anything like this before outside the Zone. And it had happened in the Zone only two or three times. It was as though he were in a different world. A million odors cascaded in on him at once—sharp, sweet, metallic, gentle, dangerous ones, as crude as cobblestones, as delicate and complex as watch mechanisms, as huge as a house and as tiny as a dust particle. The air became hard, it developed edges, surfaces, and corners, like space was filled with huge, stiff balloons, slippery pyramids, gigantic prickly crystals, and he had to push his way through it all, making his way in a dream through a junk store stuffed with ancient ugly furniture … It lasted a second. He opened his eyes, and everything was gone. It hadn't been a different world—it was this world turning a new, unknown side to him. This side was revealed to him for a second and then disappeared, before he had time to figure it out.

— Може да ви се стори смешно, но доста малко. Открихме много чудеса. В някои случаи се научихме дори да използваме тези чудеса за своите нужди. Даже свикнахме с тях… Маймуната натиска червеното копче и получава банан, натиска бялото и получава портокал, но без копчетата тя не знае как да се сдобие с банани и портокали. И не разбира какво отношение имат копчетата към бананите и портокалите.

I'm an animal, you can see that I'm an animal. I have no words, they haven't taught me the words; I don't know how to think, those bastards didn't let me learn how to think. But if you really are-all powerful, all knowing, all understanding-figure it out! Look into my soul, I know-everything you need is in there. It has to be. Because I've never sold my soul to anyone! It's mine, it's human! Figure out yourself what I want because I know it can't be bad! The hell with it all, I just can't think of a thing other than those words of his- HAPPINESS, FREE, FOR EVERYONE, AND LET NO ONE BE FORGOTTEN!

— Пикник! Представете си гора, междуселски път, полянка. Автомобилът се отбива от междуселския път на полянката, от автомобила слизат младежи, които свалят бутилки, кошници с храна, момичета, транзистори, фото– и кинокамери… Палят огън, разпъват палатки, пускат музика. А на сутринта си заминават. Зверовете, птиците и насекомите, които цяла нощ с ужас са наблюдавали случилото се, изпълзяват от своите скривалища. И какво виждат? На тревата локва от автомобилно масло, разлят бензин, разхвърлени негодни свещи и маслени филтри. Търкалят се парцали, изгорели крушки, някой е изтървал френски ключ. От протекторите на гумите е останала кал, полепнала от някакво неизвестно блато… е, и, сам разбирате, следи от огъня, огризки от ябълки, обвивки от бонбони, консервени кутии, празни бутилки, нечия носна кърпа, нечие джобно ножче, стари изпокъсани вестници, монети, увяхнали цветя от други поляни…

Is that what we do? We pitch our tents, do our little clown shows, and then take off up the road to the next town ahead? Leaving our science-fictional debris on the blasted dirt to poison the minds of future generations, like the alien litter in STALKER and ROADSIDE PICNIC. Flying cars rusting out like Saturn Five rockets propped up as roadkill talismans at Kennedy, leaking toxins into the soil. Jetpacks oozing fuel from cracks in their tanks and poisoning the grass. Three-ring moonbases crumbling in the solar wind. Birdshit on the time machines. Big fat rats scavenging broken packs of food capsules, Best Before Date of 1971. A Westinghouse Robot Smoking Companion, vintage of 1931, slumped up against a tree, tin fingers still twitching for a cigarette. Vines growing through a busted cyberspace deck. The shreds of inflatable furniture designed for the space hospitals of 1955. Lizards perched atop a weather control cannon. Atomic batteries mouldering inside the grips of laser pistols abandoned in the weeds.

I am an animal, you see that. I don't have the words, they didn't teach me the words. I don't know how to think, the bastards didn't let me learn how to think. But if you really are… all-powerful… all-knowing… then you figure it out! Look into my heart. I know that everything you need is in there. It has to be. I never sold my soul to anyone! It's mine, it's human! You take from me what it is I want… it just can't be that I would want something bad! Damn it all, I can't think of anything, except those words of his… 'HAPPINESS FOR EVERYBODY, FREE, AND NO ONE WILL GO AWAY UNSATISFIED!

Science fiction lends itself readily to imaginative subversion of any status quo. Bureaucrats and politicians, who can’t afford to cultivate their imaginations, tend to assume it’s all ray-guns and nonsense, good for children. A writer may have to be as blatantly critical of utopia as Zamyatin in We to bring the censor down upon him. The Strugatsky brothers were not blatant, and never (to my limited knowledge) directly critical of their government’s policies. What they did, which I found most admirable then and still do now, was to write as if they were indifferent to ideology—something many of us writers in the Western democracies had a hard time doing. They wrote as free men write.

Сволочные холмики, стоят, гниды, торчат, как стервячьи ягодицы, а эта лощинка между ними… Он ухмыльнулся. Известно, что между ягодицами бывает. Ах, сволочная лощинка, вот она-то самая сволочь и есть. Сука.

Keep your head high,” I tell Tender. “Suck in your gut, Soldier! A grateful humanity wont forget you!” He gives me a look, and I see that he’s in no mood for jokes. He’s right–this is no joke. But when you’re leaving for the Zone, it’s one of two things: you start bawling, or you crack jokes–and I’m sure as hell not crying. I take a look at Kirill. He’s holding up OK, only mouthing something silently, as if praying. “Praying?” I ask. “Pray, pray! The farther into the Zone, the closer to heaven.” “What?” He says. “Pray!” I yell. “Stalkers cut in line at the gates of heaven!” And he suddenly smiles and pats me on the back, as if to say, “Nothing will happen as long as you are with me, and if it does, well, we only die once.” God, he’s a funny guy.

مشکل اینجاست که گذر سال ها رو متوجه نمی شیم. لعنت به گذر زمان. متوجه نمی شیم همه چی چطور تغییر می کنه. می دونیم تغییر اتفاق می افته، از بچگی تو گوشمون کردن همه چی در حال تغییره؛ خودمون هم تغییر پیدا کردن خیلی چیزها رو به چشم دیدیم. با این حال، درک کردن لحظه ای که تغییر اتفاق می افته، کاملا از توانمون خارجه. شاید هم تو جاهای اشتباه دنبال پیدا کردن تغییر می گردیم.

معلوم شد دانشمندها هم می ترسن. شاید بهتره همین طور باشه. اون ها باید از کل ما آدم های عادی هم بیشتر بترسن. چون ما کلا نمی فهمیم، ولی اون ها حداقل می فهمن که چقدر نمی فهمن. اون ها یه نگاه به گودال بی انتها می ندازن و می دونن آخرش باید ازش برن پایین. شاید از این کار قلبشون به تپش بیفته، ولی باید انجامش بدن. مشکل اینجاست که نمی دونن ته گودال چی منتظرشونه و از اون مهم تر، آیا می تونن برگردن بالا؟ در این بین، ما گناهکارها به قول معروف رومون رو می کنیم اونور... شاید درستش هم همینه، نه؟ بذار همه چی مسیر طبیعی خودش رو طی کنه؛ ما هم راه خودمون رو به هر زحمتی شده پیدا می کنیم. ولی یه چیزی رو راست گفت: بزرگ ترین دستاورد بشر اینه که با وجود تمام اتفاق هایی که براش افتاده، زنده مونده و قصد زنده موندن داره.

مردی که درست تربیت شده، شاید حاضر باشد هر چیزی بخواند. کسانی که با مشاهده ی چیزی که کاملا طبیعی است، وحشت زده و ناراحت می شوند، خودشان بدترین خوک ها و متخصص انحراف های جورواجور هستند. آن ها به بهانه ی اخلاق گرایی ساختگی و نفرت انگیزشان، محتوا را به کل نادیده می گیرند و دیوانه وار به واژه ها حمله می کنند.

Fort is amongst the most rare category of writers who are "political" because they make us aware of what is happening to us in the deepest sense. He points to a rediscovery of the waY THat fantasy -processes dtermine the perception of time, change, and indeed the creation and growth of fact and product in themselves. Thus he demonstrates the workings of that operational cargo cult which is modern techno-capitalism, and whose fuel is engineered mystique. The belief that the new experiments in the new laboratories will be an improvement on the old experiments in the old laboratories is a millenial promise worthy of any island cult of New Guinea, worshipping, as many there do, the skeletal rusting parts of the corpse of the American military machine of over fifty years ago. In this sense, Fort cautions us about scientific promises and expectations. No matter how hard the islanders try visualising the world that manufactured their "magical" bits of B-29 wings, they cannot visualise technological time and it's cost/resources spectrum. For them, any day scores of B-29s will land on the long-overgrown strip with tins of hamburgers for free. But the apple pie America that made the B-29 is gone with Glen Miller's orchestra , the Marshall Plan, and General McArthur's return to Bataan, while the far fewer (and much more expensive) B-52s of our own day are only seen as sky-trails in the high Pacific blue. In any case, landing on a grass strip in a B-52 would be suicide for the crew, and certain death also for many fundamentalist believers. If such a thing did happen, it would seem to be a wounded bird in great trouble, and if the watchers below were saying their prayers as it approached, so too would be the captain and his crew. As for the hamburgers, well, there might be some scorched USAF lunch-tins available after the crash, and when they were found, whole cycles of belief could be rejuvenated: McDonald's USAF compo-packs might become a techno-industrial packaged sacrament, indicating that whilst times might be hard, at least the gods were trying. Little do the natives know that some members of the crews of the godlike silver vehicles wonder what transformation mysteries the natives are guarding in their turn. The crews have some knowledge that is thousands of years ahead of the natives, yet the primitives probably have some knowledge that the crews have lost thousands of years ago, and they might wonder why these gods need any radio apparatus to communicate over great distances. Both animals, in their dreaming, are searching for one another

...And what if I turn out to be completely superfluous in their system?" He livened up. "What if we are superfluous?

How about a picture?" he said, winding on the spool of film. "A little memento of your seaside rendezvous, Miss Smitham?" She perked up, just as he'd hoped she would- Dolly loved having her photograph taken- and Jimmy glanced about for the sun's position. He walked to the far side of the small field in which they'd had their picnic. Dolly had pushed herself up to a sitting position and was stretching like a cat. "Like this?" she said. Her cheeks were flushed from the sun, her bow lips plump and red from the strawberries he'd bought at a roadside stall. "Perfect," he said, and she really was.

No way," I say. "This is no picnic

it seemed that a hundred thousand smashed rotten eggs, poured over a hundred thousand spoiled fish heads and dead cats, couldn’t have reeked they way it reeked here.

The God hypothesis, for example, allows you to have an unparalleled understanding of absolutely everything while knowing absolutely nothing . . . Give a man a highly simplified model of the world and interpret every event on the basis of this simple model. This approach requires no knowledge. A few rote formulas, plus some so-called intuition, some so-called practical acumen, and some so-called common sense.

The only people who boggle at what is perfectly natural are those who are the worst swine and the finest experts in filth. In their utterly contemptible pseudo-morality they ignore the contents and madly attack individual words. Years

For some reason he suddenly remembered that Hamfist Kitty’s real name was Raphael. The nickname Hamfist came from his monstrous bony fists, bluish red and bare, that protruded from the thick fur covering his arms as if from a pair of sleeves. And he named himself Kitty in complete confidence that this was the traditional name of the great Mongolian kings. Raphael.

He gives me a look, and I see that he’s in no mood for jokes. He’s right—this is no joke. But when you’re leaving for the Zone, it’s one of two things: you start bawling, or you crack jokes—and I’m sure as hell not crying. I take a look at Kirill. He’s holding up OK, only mouthing something silently, as if praying. “Praying?” I ask. “Pray, pray! The farther into the Zone, the closer to heaven.” “What?” he says. “Pray!” I yell. “Stalkers cut in line at the gates of heaven!

This use of ordinary people as the principal characters was fairly rare in science fiction when the book came out, and even now the genre slips easily into elitism—superbrilliant minds, extraordinary talents, officers not crew, the corridors of power not the working-class kitchen.

INTERVIEWER: You probably mean stalkers? DR. PILLMAN: I’m not familiar with the term. INTERVIEWER: That’s what the residents of Harmont call the desperate young men who, despite the grave risks, sneak into the Zone and smuggle out whatever they find. It’s quite the new career.

and above them all—an immense banner, already faded: WELCOME TO EARTH, DEAR ALIENS!

That’s exactly right. A man needs money in order to never think about it

HAPPINESS, FREE, FOR EVERYONE, AND LET NO ONE BE FORGOTTEN!

Science fiction lends itself readily to imaginative subversion of any status quo.

Los halagos son el bálsamo de los complejos.

Que cada cual cuide de sí mismo y Dios de todos. Total, en este mundo lo que sobran son idiotas.

There wasn’t a single thought in his head, and he had somehow stopped sensing himself.

he had some thinking to do. An unaccustomed exercise, thinking, that was the trouble. What was "thinking" anyway? Thinking meant finding a loophole, pulling a bluff, pulling the wool over someone’s eyes -- but all that was out of place here.

I mean, that is it, but what does it mean? What do I need? That’s cursing, not thinking. A terrible presentiment chilled him, and quickly skipping over the many arguments that were still ahead of him, he told himself angrily: this is how it is, Red, you won’t leave here until you figure it out, you’ll drop dead here next to the ball, burn to death and rot, but you won’t leave.

He sat there, covering his eyes with his hands, and he was trying -- not to understand, not to think, but merely to see something of how things should be, but all he saw were the faces, faces, faces, and more faces... and greenbacks, bottles, bundles of rags that were once people, and columns of figures. He knew that it all had to be destroyed, and he wanted to destroy it, but he guessed that if it all disappeared there would be nothing left but the flat, bare earth. His frustration and despair made him want to lean back against the ball. He got up, automatically brushed off his pants, and started down into the quarry.

Wait,” said Valentine. “Listen. ‘You ask: what makes man great?’” he quoted. “‘Is it that he re-created nature? That he harnessed forces of almost-cosmic proportions? That in a brief time he has conquered the planet and opened a window onto the universe? No! It is that despite all this, he has survived, and intends to continue doing so. Excerpt From Roadside Picnic Arkady Strugatsky, Boris Strugatsky Olena Bormashenko translator This material may be protected by copyright.

Всё правильно: деньги нужны человеку для того, чтобы никогда о них не думать...

A picnic. Picture a forest, a country road, a meadow. A car drives off the country road into the meadow, a group of young people get out of the car carrying bottles, baskets of food, transistor radios, and cameras. They light fires, pitch tents, turn on the music. In the morning they leave. The animals, birds, and insects that watched in horror through the long night creep out from their hiding places. And what do they see? Gas and oil spilled on the grass. Old spark plugs and old filters strewn around. Rags, burnt-out bulbs, and a monkey wrench left behind. Oil slicks on the pond. And of course, the usual mess -- apple cores, candy wrappers, charred remains of the campfire, cans, bottles, somebody’s handkerchief, somebody’s penknife, torn newspapers, coins, faded flowers picked in another meadow." "I see. A roadside picnic.

I remember I was drunk at the time, I’d been binging all week. I was really depressed . . . Aw, damn it, what does it matter!

Man is born in order to think (there he is, old Kirill at last!).

Redrick was not listening. What that thing was saying no longer had any meaning. It had no meaning before, either, but before it was a person at least. And now, it was like a talking key, a key to open the way to the Golden Ball. Let it talk.

The slime was warm and sticky. At first they walked erect, waist-deep in the slime. Luckily the bottom was rocky and rather even. But soon Redrick heard the familiar rumble from both sides. There was nothing on the left hill except the intense sunlight, but on the right slope, in the shade, pale purple lights were fluttering. "Bend low!" he whispered and bent over himself. "Lower, stupid!" Arthur bent over in fright, and a clap of thunder shattered the air. Right over their heads an intricate lightning bolt danced furiously, barely visible against the bright sky. Arthur sat down, shoulder deep in the slime. Redrick, ears clogged by the noise, turned and saw a bright red spot quickly melting in the shade among the pebbles and rocks, and there was another thunderclap.

He would have withstood it, and everything would have passed quietly and well, they would have gotten by with a lot of sweat, but Arthur couldn't take it. Either he had not heard Redrick's shout, or he became scared out of his wits, or maybe, he had been baked more strongly than Redrick—anyway he lost control and ran off blindly, with a scream deep in his throat, following his instinct—backward. The very direction they couldn't take. Redrick barely managed to rise and grab his ankle with both hands. Arthur fell down with the full weight of his body, raising a cloud of ashes, squealed in an unnatural voice, kicked Redrick in the face with his other foot, and struggled wildly. Redrick, not thinking clearly any more through the pain, crawled on top of him, touching the leather jacket with his burned face, trying to press the boy into the ground, holding his long hair with both hands and desperately kicking his feet and knees at Arthur's legs and his rear end and at the dirt. He could barely hear the muffled moans coming from beneath him and his own hoarse shouts: "Lie there, you toad, lie still, or I'll kill you." Tons and tons of hot coals were pouring over him, and his clothing was in flames and the leather of his shoes and jacket was blistering and cracking, and Redrick, his head mashed into the gray ash, his chest trying to keep the damn boy's head down, could not stand it. He yelled his lungs out.

The fog was disappearing before their eyes. It was completely gone from the embankment and in the distance it was thinning, melting away and showing the rounded bristly peaks of the hills. Here and there between the hills could be seen the mottled surface of the stagnant swamps, covered with sparse thickets of willows, and the horizon, beyond the hills, was filled with bright yellow explosions of mountain peaks, and the sky above them was clear and blue. Arthur looked back and gasped with awe. Redrick looked too. In the east the mountains looked black, and over them the familiar green wash of color billowed and shone iridescently—the Zone's green dawn.

But the stupid orderlies, who had spent their time during the preliminary negotiations gawking at Guta washing the kitchen windows, grabbed the old man like a log when they were called in—and dropped him on the floor. Redrick went crazy. Then the jerk of a doctor volunteered an explanation of what was going on. Redrick listened for a minute or two and suddenly exploded without any warning like a hydrogen bomb. The assistant who told the story did not remember how he ended up on the street. The red devil got them all down the stairs, all five of them, and not one left under his own power. They all shot out of the foyer like cannonballs. Two ended up unconscious on the sidewalk and Redrick chased the other three for four blocks. Then he returned and bashed in all the windows on the institute car—the driver had made a run for it when he saw what was happening.

I looked up and felt a catch in my throat. I couldn't utter a sound. I wanted to shout 'Stop! Freeze!' but I couldn't. And I probably wouldn't have had time, anyway, it all happened so fast. Kirill stepped over the empty, turned his back to the canisters, and got his whole back into the silver web. I shut my eyes. I went numb and the only thing I heard was the web tearing. It was a weak crackly noise. I was crouched there with my eyes shut, unable to feel my arms or my legs, when Kirill spoke. 'Well, shall we get on with it?

Well, you're right about all that," said Dick. "But you see, I'd hate to be found one morning in bed having committed suicide. I'm not a stalker, but I am a practical person anyway, and I like living, you know. I've been doing it for a long time and I've gotten into the habit.

We don’t belong here. There’s no good in the Zone.

It was once said, and very rightly, that a man who is well brought-up may read anything. The only people who boggle at what is perfectly natural are those who are the worst swine and the finest experts in filth. In their utterly contemptible pseudo-morality they ignore the contents and madly attack individual words.

No és mi arról a véleménye, hogy az ember az állatoktól eltérően olyan élőlény, mely állandó tudásvágyat érez? Valahol olvastam erről. – Én is – tette hozzá Valentin. – Azonban a baj gyökere nem ott van, hogy az ember, legalábbis az átlagember, könnyedén leküzdi ezt a tudásvágyat. Szerintem ilyen vágy egyáltalán nem létezik. Él bennünk viszont egy olyan vágy, mely arra ösztönöz, hogy igyekezzünk mindent megérteni, ehhez viszont nincs szükség tudásra. A feltételezés, hogy van isten, semmihez nem mérhető, nagyszerű lehetőséget nyújt arra, hogy mindent tökéletesen megértsünk, anélkül, hogy mindent tökéletesen megismernénk… Vázoljon az ember előtt egy végtelenül leegyszerűsített világmodellt, s magyarázzon minden eseményt ennek a leegyszerűsített modellnek a segítségével. Ehhez a megközelítéshez semmiféle ismeretre nincs szükség. Elég néhány betanult képlet, valamint az, amit intuíciónak nevezünk, gyakorlati érzék és az úgynevezett józan ész.

Life is no finishing school for young ladies. Everyone speaks the way he is made. The protocol chief, Dr. Guth, speaks differently from Palivec, the landlord of The Chalice, and this novel is neither a handbook of drawing-room refinement nor a teaching manual of expressions to be used in polite society. . . . It was once said, and very rightly, that a man who is well brought-up may read anything. The only people who boggle at what is perfectly natural are those who are the worst swine and the finest experts in filth. In their utterly contemptible pseudo-morality they ignore the contents and madly attack individual words.

Trebuie să schimbe totul. Nu o viață, nu două, nu un destin sau două destine. Trebuie schimbat fiecare șurub al acestei lumi infecte.

The guys behind his back snickered, and the UN soldier snorted spitefully. “Don’t snort!” said Redrick. “What are you, a horse?

It’s not because we do bad work. And it’s not because they are more clever and cunning than we are. The world is just like that.

Właśnie. Piknik na skraju jakiejś kosmicznej drogi. A ty mnie pytasz, czy oni wrócą, czy nie?

Ama mesele şu ki, insan, her halükarda ortalama insan, bu bilgi ihtiyacını kolaylıkla tatmin ediyor. Bana kalırsa böyle bir ihtiyacı da yok zaten. Anlama ihtiyacı var, ama bunun için bilgiye gerek yok. Örneğin Tanrı hipotezi, hiçbir şeyi kesinlikle bilmeden her şeyi kesinlikle anlamak yönünde başka hiçbir şeyle karşılaştırılamayacak bir olanak sunar

Screw you, you old unshaven hag, and same to you, coughing cretin, and you, you reeking broad with your snotty, chocolate-covered punk, go to hell!

This wasn’t another world—it was his same old world turning an unfamiliar side toward him, revealing it for an instant, then immediately sealing it off, before he even had the chance to investigate.

He who makes no mistakes does not exist, that is, does not work.