are doar 4:44 dar merita decat ultimele 2 - "a short video summarizing some of the most important characteristics of students today - how they learn, what they need to learn, their goals, hopes, dreams, what their lives will be like, and what kinds of changes they will experience in their lifetime. Created by Michael Wesch in collaboration with 200 students at Kansas State University."
luni, 30 iunie 2008
melodia zilei.... cand nu facem concesii
astazi.... erykah badu - on and on
asta daca iti place jazz-ul a la "Baduizm" <- that's the album
P.S. exista o romanca care incearca sa "imite" cea ce face erykah badu... bine... poate face cover-uri la melodiile ei: Luiza Zan
mai sus e versiunea de la Erykah Badu si aici e versiunea de la "Slang"... trupa Luizei Zan, iar pt melodia de mai devreme asta e este cover-ul
... pt mai multe melodii de pe "Baduizm"... in interpretarea Luizei Zan/Slang, intrati aici
... motto-ul trupei.... "noi nu facem concesii"... sau asa spera ei
asta daca iti place jazz-ul a la "Baduizm" <- that's the album
P.S. exista o romanca care incearca sa "imite" cea ce face erykah badu... bine... poate face cover-uri la melodiile ei: Luiza Zan
mai sus e versiunea de la Erykah Badu si aici e versiunea de la "Slang"... trupa Luizei Zan, iar pt melodia de mai devreme asta e este cover-ul
... pt mai multe melodii de pe "Baduizm"... in interpretarea Luizei Zan/Slang, intrati aici
... motto-ul trupei.... "noi nu facem concesii"... sau asa spera ei
duminică, 29 iunie 2008
naspa rau
... io am examen la pneumo.... si va arat ceea ce am invatat:
Chestia e cat se poate de reala!!!... si ma cam sperie... Majoritatea fumatorilor ar zice, ca nu o pice ei in aia 50% dar din pacate se insala amarnic. si faza mai trista e ca procentul creste vertiginos dupa 60 de ani.... adica nu prea exista scapare usoara.... decat sa te loveasca tirul
Am citit pe un blog, a unei tanti care spunea ca in romania, fumatorii incep sa fie persecutati pentru viciul lor, dar faza e k viciul lor creaza o "sansa" si second-hand smokerilor la acei 50%.
Asa k in final, eu fumator, recunosc, k gresesc si k imi pun sanatatea in joc dar si a celor din jurul meu... dar este atat de bine sa fumezi... :))
Faza si mai ironica este k daca tu citesti acest blog si pe deasupra esti si fumator, ideea se rezuma la o sansa.... ori tu, ori eu... iar daca imi/iti zici k "io/tu oricum n-am cum sa apuc 60 de ani"... esti total inconstient.
Chestia e cat se poate de reala!!!... si ma cam sperie... Majoritatea fumatorilor ar zice, ca nu o pice ei in aia 50% dar din pacate se insala amarnic. si faza mai trista e ca procentul creste vertiginos dupa 60 de ani.... adica nu prea exista scapare usoara.... decat sa te loveasca tirul
Am citit pe un blog, a unei tanti care spunea ca in romania, fumatorii incep sa fie persecutati pentru viciul lor, dar faza e k viciul lor creaza o "sansa" si second-hand smokerilor la acei 50%.
Asa k in final, eu fumator, recunosc, k gresesc si k imi pun sanatatea in joc dar si a celor din jurul meu... dar este atat de bine sa fumezi... :))
Faza si mai ironica este k daca tu citesti acest blog si pe deasupra esti si fumator, ideea se rezuma la o sansa.... ori tu, ori eu... iar daca imi/iti zici k "io/tu oricum n-am cum sa apuc 60 de ani"... esti total inconstient.
sâmbătă, 28 iunie 2008
reclame beton
....nu stiu altii cum sunt dar mie imi plac reclamele de la "american apparel"
morala e la ultima poza....
pt mai multe poze intra aici
morala e la ultima poza....
pt mai multe poze intra aici
american comercials
acum cateva zile cautam.... ceva..?!.. si am dat peste asta:
... pe domnisoara din imagine o cheama Lauren Phoenix si a primit o suma (mare) de bani k sa fie imaginea "American Apparel"... o firma de sosete.
Acum, problema mea este, k la americani star-urile porno incep, treptat, sa capete imaginea unor rock-star-uri si sa primeasca un respect mai mult decat cuvenit (in anumite circumstante).
Nu uita de unde a pornit analogia "Rockstar"... Pornstar.... in fine... intelegi unde bat...
Asa k m-am gandit io... sa fac o reclama.... tot cu o actrita de filme xxx. Ce-a iesit?.... Spune-mi ce parere ai:
P.S. in reclama cu lauren phoenix scrie undeva k "she loves her socks"..... pentru "incepatori"... as vrea sa inlocuiasca "s" cu "c"
... pe domnisoara din imagine o cheama Lauren Phoenix si a primit o suma (mare) de bani k sa fie imaginea "American Apparel"... o firma de sosete.
Acum, problema mea este, k la americani star-urile porno incep, treptat, sa capete imaginea unor rock-star-uri si sa primeasca un respect mai mult decat cuvenit (in anumite circumstante).
Nu uita de unde a pornit analogia "Rockstar"... Pornstar.... in fine... intelegi unde bat...
Asa k m-am gandit io... sa fac o reclama.... tot cu o actrita de filme xxx. Ce-a iesit?.... Spune-mi ce parere ai:
P.S. in reclama cu lauren phoenix scrie undeva k "she loves her socks"..... pentru "incepatori"... as vrea sa inlocuiasca "s" cu "c"
melodia zilei
definition of sound - pass the vibe
P.S. Refrenu' nu e cu "pass the bottle, take it easy" :)).... ci cu pass the vibe :))
P.S. Refrenu' nu e cu "pass the bottle, take it easy" :)).... ci cu pass the vibe :))
vineri, 27 iunie 2008
poveste scurta in 2 acte
Giulesti intersectie cu Orhideelor, vara torida a la Bucuresti. Actiunea are loc in Brico in jurul orelor 18:00
I
Am fost la Brico sa-mi iau fainta si gresie. "Little did i know" k nu e nevoie sa-mi folosesc masina personala k sa o car acasa si k pot sa folosesc masina Brico.... adica home delivery.
Si pt k moka e bun si moka e gratis, a trebuit sa fac cumparaturi de o anumita suma (...pana la urma nimic nu e gratis :)) ).
II
Intreband pe acolo cum e cu transportu si unde tre' sa ma duc si cu cine sa vb, in spatele meu se strecoara un domn care ma intreaba politicos: "Dom'le, lasa-i p'astia k le ia 3 zile! hai cu mine! O rezolvam noi la pret.".... ?!?! la care io, la fel de politicos: "Ce puteti sa-mi oferiti mai ieftin ca gratis si maine la ora 9?" (.... pt k bajetii de la Brico au zis k mai devreme (adica azi) nu pot sa vina). Stupoare pe fata interlocutorului.
Cortina se lasa... ceata si dezorientare... groaza si mister... din public se aude: "Si-a luat mah gresie?!" "Nu stiu frate?! Cred k da?!!".... da mah, mi-am luat (se aude de la tastatura :)) )
P.S. As vrea sa multumesc familiei... care m-a crescut... si m-a sustinut (pe fundal se "aud" lacrimi si suspine)
I
Am fost la Brico sa-mi iau fainta si gresie. "Little did i know" k nu e nevoie sa-mi folosesc masina personala k sa o car acasa si k pot sa folosesc masina Brico.... adica home delivery.
Si pt k moka e bun si moka e gratis, a trebuit sa fac cumparaturi de o anumita suma (...pana la urma nimic nu e gratis :)) ).
II
Intreband pe acolo cum e cu transportu si unde tre' sa ma duc si cu cine sa vb, in spatele meu se strecoara un domn care ma intreaba politicos: "Dom'le, lasa-i p'astia k le ia 3 zile! hai cu mine! O rezolvam noi la pret.".... ?!?! la care io, la fel de politicos: "Ce puteti sa-mi oferiti mai ieftin ca gratis si maine la ora 9?" (.... pt k bajetii de la Brico au zis k mai devreme (adica azi) nu pot sa vina). Stupoare pe fata interlocutorului.
Cortina se lasa... ceata si dezorientare... groaza si mister... din public se aude: "Si-a luat mah gresie?!" "Nu stiu frate?! Cred k da?!!".... da mah, mi-am luat (se aude de la tastatura :)) )
P.S. As vrea sa multumesc familiei... care m-a crescut... si m-a sustinut (pe fundal se "aud" lacrimi si suspine)
joi, 26 iunie 2008
filme de canicula
... am zis io, odata, cuiva... nu-mi aduc aminte cui?... k Wesley Snipes a facut filme mai misto in "tineretea" lui decat in ultimii 10 ani. De ce am zis asta?!..... pt k printre primele filme care le-am vazut cu el exista unul care se numeste "Jungle Fever" in regia lui Spike Lee. Acum daca stii cine e Spike Lee si-ti mai zic k actiunea are loc in New York intr-una din cele mai toride veri "ale lor" de pana la ora aia (filmu' e din '91) si implica interactiile unui grup de prieteni "surrounding" .... "a young black architect", poate te fac interesat, sa-l cauti si poate chiar sa te si uiti la el.
pana una alta melodia zilei (care are treaba cu filmu... cel putin subtilitatile din versuri):
The Zombies - Time Of The Season:
P.S. O canicula frumoasa tuturor!...
pana una alta melodia zilei (care are treaba cu filmu... cel putin subtilitatile din versuri):
The Zombies - Time Of The Season:
P.S. O canicula frumoasa tuturor!...
Alfred Hitchcock a zis la viata lui... urmatoarele...
There is a dreadful story that I hate actors. Imagine anyone hating Jimmy Stewart . . . Jack L. Warner. I can't imagine how such a rumor began. Of course it may possibly be because I was once quoted as saying that actors are cattle. My actor friends know I would never be capable of such a thoughtless, rude and unfeeling remark, that I would never call them cattle . . . What I probably said was that actors should be treated like cattle.
[on his cameos] One of the earliest of these was in The Lodger (1927), the story of Jack the Ripper. My appearance called for me to walk up the stairs of the rooming house. Since my walk-ons in subsequent pictures would be equally strenuous - boarding buses, playing chess, etc. - I asked for a stunt man. Casting, with an unusual lack of perception, hired this fat man!
The length of a film should be directly related to the endurance of the human bladder
There is no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation of it.
To me Psycho (1960) was a big comedy. Had to be.
Even my failures make money and become classics a year after I make them.
Always make the audience suffer as much as possible
Drama is life with the dull bits left out.
[His entire acceptance speech for the Irving Thalberg Memorial Award] "Thank you."
[when accepting the American Film Institute Life Achievement award] I beg permission to mention by name only four people who have given me the most affection, appreciation, and encouragement, and constant collaboration. The first of the four is a film editor, the second is a scriptwriter, the third is the mother of my daughter Pat [Patricia Hitchcock], and the fourth is as fine a cook as ever performed miracles in a domestic kitchen. And their names are Alma Reville.
[about Dario Argento and his film Profondo rosso (1975)] This young Italian guy is starting to worry me.
Some films are slices of life, mine are slices of cake.
I enjoy playing the audience like a piano.
[to Ingrid Bergman when she told him that she couldn't play a certain character the way he wanted because "I don't feel like that, I don't think I can give you that kind of emotion."] Ingrid - fake it!
I was an uncommonly unattractive young man.
It's only a movie, and, after all, we're all grossly overpaid.
There is nothing quite so good as a burial at sea. It is simple, tidy, and not very incriminating.
Man does not live by murder alone. He needs affection, approval, encouragement and, occasionally, a hearty meal.
Cartoonists have the best casting system. If they don't like an actor, they just tear him up.
[about Claude Jade, who starred in Topaz (1969)] Claude Jade is a brave nice young lady. But I don't give any guarantee what she will do on a taxi's back seat.
[on directing Charles Laughton] You can't direct a Laughton picture. The best you can hope for is to referee.
The paperback is very interesting but I find it will never replace the hardcover book -- it makes a very poor doorstop.
Film your murders like love scenes, and film your love scenes like murders.
I am a typed director. If I made Cinderella (1937), the audience would immediately be looking for a body in the coach.
If it's a good movie, the sound could go off and the audience would still have a perfectly clear idea of what was going on.
A good film is when the price of the dinner, the theatre admission and the babysitter were worth it.
In feature films the director is God; in documentary films God is the director.
[regarding The Birds (1963)] You know, I've often wondered what the Audubon Society's attitude might be to this picture.
Cary Grant is the only actor I ever loved in my whole life.
[Walt Disney] has the best casting. If he doesn't like an actor he just tears him up.
Blondes make the best victims. They're like virgin snow that shows up the bloody footprints.
I am scared easily, here is a list of my adrenaline-production: 1: small children, 2: policemen, 3: high places, 4: that my next movie will not be as good as the last one.
When an actor comes to me and wants to discuss his character, I say, "It's in the script"/ If he says, "But what's my motivation?", I say, "Your salary".
I don't understand why we have to experiment with film. I think everything should be done on paper. A musician has to do it, a composer. He puts a lot of dots down and beautiful music comes out. And I think that students should be taught to visualize. That's the one thing missing in all this. The one thing that the student has got to do is to learn that there is a rectangle up there - a white rectangle in a theater - and it has to be filled.
To make a great film you need three things - the script, the script and the script.
[on North by Northwest (1959)] Our original title, you know, was "The Man in Lincoln's Nose". Couldn't use it, though. They also wouldn't let us shoot people on Mount Rushmore. Can't deface a national monument. And it's a pity, too, because I had a wonderful shot in mind of Cary Grant hiding in Lincon's nose and having a sneezing fit.
I made a remark a long time ago. I said I was very pleased that television was now showing murder stories, because it's bringing murder back into its rightful setting - in the home.
[on his lifelong fear of eggs ("ovophobia")] I'm frightened of eggs, worse than frightened, they revolt me. That white round thing without any holes . . . have you ever seen anything more revolting than an egg yolk breaking and spilling its yellow liquid? Blood is jolly, red. But egg yolk is yellow, revolting. I've never tasted it.
Fear isn't so difficult to understand. After all, weren't we all frightened as children? Nothing has changed since Little Red Riding Hood faced the big bad wolf. What frightens us today is exactly the same sort of thing that frightened us yesterday. It's just a different wolf. This fright complex is rooted in every individual.
[When asked by a member of the press why, at his advanced age, it took so long for the Queen of England to grant him the title of Knight] "I think it's just a matter of carelessness."
[Part of publicity campaign prior to release of Psycho (1960)] It has been rumored that "Psycho" is so terrifying that it will scare some people speechless. Some of my men hopefully sent their wives to a screening. The women emerged badly shaken but still vigorously vocal.
miercuri, 25 iunie 2008
The Most Dangerous Game
Filmul de mai jos este adaptarea cinematografica a nuvelei cu acelasi titlu, scrisa de Richard Connell.
Un vanator faimos (si fara scrupule) naufragiaza pe o insula unde-l intalneste pe contele Zaroff, de asemenea un avid vanator. Diferenta este de vanatul fiecaruia...
filmuletul are 62 de min... ceea ce e cam mult, dar daca sunteti un "movie-buff" ca mine, merita tot timpul. daca nu aveti rabdare mai jos e "transcrisa" si nuvela care dureaza cam 10 min s-o cititi.
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The Most Dangerous Game
by Richard Connell
"OFF THERE to the right--somewhere--is a large island," said Whitney." It's rather a mystery--"
"What island is it?" Rainsford asked.
"The old charts call it `Ship-Trap Island,"' Whitney replied." A suggestive name, isn't it? Sailors have a curious dread of the place. I don't know why. Some superstition--"
"Can't see it," remarked Rainsford, trying to peer through the dank tropical night that was palpable as it pressed its thick warm blackness in upon the yacht.
"You've good eyes," said Whitney, with a laugh," and I've seen you pick off a moose moving in the brown fall bush at four hundred yards, but even you can't see four miles or so through a moonless Caribbean night."
"Nor four yards," admitted Rainsford. "Ugh! It's like moist black velvet."
"It will be light enough in Rio," promised Whitney. "We should make it in a few days. I hope the jaguar guns have come from Purdey's. We should have some good hunting up the Amazon. Great sport, hunting."
"The best sport in the world," agreed Rainsford.
"For the hunter," amended Whitney. "Not for the jaguar."
"Don't talk rot, Whitney," said Rainsford. "You're a big-game hunter, not a philosopher. Who cares how a jaguar feels?"
"Perhaps the jaguar does," observed Whitney.
"Bah! They've no understanding."
"Even so, I rather think they understand one thing--fear. The fear of pain and the fear of death."
"Nonsense," laughed Rainsford. "This hot weather is making you soft, Whitney. Be a realist. The world is made up of two classes--the hunters and the huntees. Luckily, you and I are hunters. Do you think we've passed that island yet?"
"I can't tell in the dark. I hope so."
"Why? " asked Rainsford.
"The place has a reputation--a bad one."
"Cannibals?" suggested Rainsford.
"Hardly. Even cannibals wouldn't live in such a God-forsaken place. But it's gotten into sailor lore, somehow. Didn't you notice that the crew's nerves seemed a bit jumpy today?"
"They were a bit strange, now you mention it. Even Captain Nielsen--"
"Yes, even that tough-minded old Swede, who'd go up to the devil himself and ask him for a light. Those fishy blue eyes held a look I never saw there before. All I could get out of him was `This place has an evil name among seafaring men, sir.' Then he said to me, very gravely, `Don't you feel anything?'--as if the air about us was actually poisonous. Now, you mustn't laugh when I tell you this--I did feel something like a sudden chill.
"There was no breeze. The sea was as flat as a plate-glass window. We were drawing near the island then. What I felt was a--a mental chill; a sort of sudden dread."
"Pure imagination," said Rainsford.
"One superstitious sailor can taint the whole ship's company with his fear."
"Maybe. But sometimes I think sailors have an extra sense that tells them when they are in danger. Sometimes I think evil is a tangible thing--with wave lengths, just as sound and light have. An evil place can, so to speak, broadcast vibrations of evil. Anyhow, I'm glad we're getting out of this zone. Well, I think I'll turn in now, Rainsford."
"I'm not sleepy," said Rainsford. "I'm going to smoke another pipe up on the afterdeck."
"Good night, then, Rainsford. See you at breakfast."
"Right. Good night, Whitney."
There was no sound in the night as Rainsford sat there but the muffled throb of the engine that drove the yacht swiftly through the darkness, and the swish and ripple of the wash of the propeller.
Rainsford, reclining in a steamer chair, indolently puffed on his favorite brier. The sensuous drowsiness of the night was on him." It's so dark," he thought, "that I could sleep without closing my eyes; the night would be my eyelids--"
An abrupt sound startled him. Off to the right he heard it, and his ears, expert in such matters, could not be mistaken. Again he heard the sound, and again. Somewhere, off in the blackness, someone had fired a gun three times.
Rainsford sprang up and moved quickly to the rail, mystified. He strained his eyes in the direction from which the reports had come, but it was like trying to see through a blanket. He leaped upon the rail and balanced himself there, to get greater elevation; his pipe, striking a rope, was knocked from his mouth. He lunged for it; a short, hoarse cry came from his lips as he realized he had reached too far and had lost his balance. The cry was pinched off short as the blood-warm waters of the Caribbean Sea dosed over his head.
He struggled up to the surface and tried to cry out, but the wash from the speeding yacht slapped him in the face and the salt water in his open mouth made him gag and strangle. Desperately he struck out with strong strokes after the receding lights of the yacht, but he stopped before he had swum fifty feet. A certain coolheadedness had come to him; it was not the first time he had been in a tight place. There was a chance that his cries could be heard by someone aboard the yacht, but that chance was slender and grew more slender as the yacht raced on. He wrestled himself out of his clothes and shouted with all his power. The lights of the yacht became faint and ever-vanishing fireflies; then they were blotted out entirely by the night.
Rainsford remembered the shots. They had come from the right, and doggedly he swam in that direction, swimming with slow, deliberate strokes, conserving his strength. For a seemingly endless time he fought the sea. He began to count his strokes; he could do possibly a hundred more and then--
Rainsford heard a sound. It came out of the darkness, a high screaming sound, the sound of an animal in an extremity of anguish and terror.
He did not recognize the animal that made the sound; he did not try to; with fresh vitality he swam toward the sound. He heard it again; then it was cut short by another noise, crisp, staccato.
"Pistol shot," muttered Rainsford, swimming on.
Ten minutes of determined effort brought another sound to his ears--the most welcome he had ever heard--the muttering and growling of the sea breaking on a rocky shore. He was almost on the rocks before he saw them; on a night less calm he would have been shattered against them. With his remaining strength he dragged himself from the swirling waters. Jagged crags appeared to jut up into the opaqueness; he forced himself upward, hand over hand. Gasping, his hands raw, he reached a flat place at the top. Dense jungle came down to the very edge of the cliffs. What perils that tangle of trees and underbrush might hold for him did not concern Rainsford just then. All he knew was that he was safe from his enemy, the sea, and that utter weariness was on him. He flung himself down at the jungle edge and tumbled headlong into the deepest sleep of his life.
When he opened his eyes he knew from the position of the sun that it was late in the afternoon. Sleep had given him new vigor; a sharp hunger was picking at him. He looked about him, almost cheerfully.
"Where there are pistol shots, there are men. Where there are men, there is food," he thought. But what kind of men, he wondered, in so forbidding a place? An unbroken front of snarled and ragged jungle fringed the shore.
He saw no sign of a trail through the closely knit web of weeds and trees; it was easier to go along the shore, and Rainsford floundered along by the water. Not far from where he landed, he stopped.
Some wounded thing--by the evidence, a large animal--had thrashed about in the underbrush; the jungle weeds were crushed down and the moss was lacerated; one patch of weeds was stained crimson. A small, glittering object not far away caught Rainsford's eye and he picked it up. It was an empty cartridge.
"A twenty-two," he remarked. "That's odd. It must have been a fairly large animal too. The hunter had his nerve with him to tackle it with a light gun. It's clear that the brute put up a fight. I suppose the first three shots I heard was when the hunter flushed his quarry and wounded it. The last shot was when he trailed it here and finished it."
He examined the ground closely and found what he had hoped to find--the print of hunting boots. They pointed along the cliff in the direction he had been going. Eagerly he hurried along, now slipping on a rotten log or a loose stone, but making headway; night was beginning to settle down on the island.
Bleak darkness was blacking out the sea and jungle when Rainsford sighted the lights. He came upon them as he turned a crook in the coast line; and his first thought was that be had come upon a village, for there were many lights. But as he forged along he saw to his great astonishment that all the lights were in one enormous building--a lofty structure with pointed towers plunging upward into the gloom. His eyes made out the shadowy outlines of a palatial chateau; it was set on a high bluff, and on three sides of it cliffs dived down to where the sea licked greedy lips in the shadows.
"Mirage," thought Rainsford. But it was no mirage, he found, when he opened the tall spiked iron gate. The stone steps were real enough; the massive door with a leering gargoyle for a knocker was real enough; yet above it all hung an air of unreality.
He lifted the knocker, and it creaked up stiffly, as if it had never before been used. He let it fall, and it startled him with its booming loudness. He thought he heard steps within; the door remained closed. Again Rainsford lifted the heavy knocker, and let it fall. The door opened then--opened as suddenly as if it were on a spring--and Rainsford stood blinking in the river of glaring gold light that poured out. The first thing Rainsford's eyes discerned was the largest man Rainsford had ever seen--a gigantic creature, solidly made and black bearded to the waist. In his hand the man held a long-barreled revolver, and he was pointing it straight at Rainsford's heart.
Out of the snarl of beard two small eyes regarded Rainsford.
"Don't be alarmed," said Rainsford, with a smile which he hoped was disarming. "I'm no robber. I fell off a yacht. My name is Sanger Rainsford of New York City."
The menacing look in the eyes did not change. The revolver pointing as rigidly as if the giant were a statue. He gave no sign that he understood Rainsford's words, or that he had even heard them. He was dressed in uniform--a black uniform trimmed with gray astrakhan.
"I'm Sanger Rainsford of New York," Rainsford began again. "I fell off a yacht. I am hungry."
The man's only answer was to raise with his thumb the hammer of his revolver. Then Rainsford saw the man's free hand go to his forehead in a military salute, and he saw him click his heels together and stand at attention. Another man was coming down the broad marble steps, an erect, slender man in evening clothes. He advanced to Rainsford and held out his hand.
In a cultivated voice marked by a slight accent that gave it added precision and deliberateness, he said, "It is a very great pleasure and honor to welcome Mr. Sanger Rainsford, the celebrated hunter, to my home."
Automatically Rainsford shook the man's hand.
"I've read your book about hunting snow leopards in Tibet, you see," explained the man. "I am General Zaroff."
Rainsford's first impression was that the man was singularly handsome; his second was that there was an original, almost bizarre quality about the general's face. He was a tall man past middle age, for his hair was a vivid white; but his thick eyebrows and pointed military mustache were as black as the night from which Rainsford had come. His eyes, too, were black and very bright. He had high cheekbones, a sharpcut nose, a spare, dark face--the face of a man used to giving orders, the face of an aristocrat. Turning to the giant in uniform, the general made a sign. The giant put away his pistol, saluted, withdrew.
"Ivan is an incredibly strong fellow," remarked the general, "but he has the misfortune to be deaf and dumb. A simple fellow, but, I'm afraid, like all his race, a bit of a savage."
"Is he Russian?"
"He is a Cossack," said the general, and his smile showed red lips and pointed teeth. "So am I."
"Come," he said, "we shouldn't be chatting here. We can talk later. Now you want clothes, food, rest. You shall have them. This is a most-restful spot."
Ivan had reappeared, and the general spoke to him with lips that moved but gave forth no sound.
"Follow Ivan, if you please, Mr. Rainsford," said the general. "I was about to have my dinner when you came. I'll wait for you. You'll find that my clothes will fit you, I think."
It was to a huge, beam-ceilinged bedroom with a canopied bed big enough for six men that Rainsford followed the silent giant. Ivan laid out an evening suit, and Rainsford, as he put it on, noticed that it came from a London tailor who ordinarily cut and sewed for none below the rank of duke.
The dining room to which Ivan conducted him was in many ways remarkable. There was a medieval magnificence about it; it suggested a baronial hall of feudal times with its oaken panels, its high ceiling, its vast refectory tables where twoscore men could sit down to eat. About the hall were mounted heads of many animals--lions, tigers, elephants, moose, bears; larger or more perfect specimens Rainsford had never seen. At the great table the general was sitting, alone.
"You'll have a cocktail, Mr. Rainsford," he suggested. The cocktail was surpassingly good; and, Rainsford noted, the table apointments were of the finest--the linen, the crystal, the silver, the china.
They were eating borsch, the rich, red soup with whipped cream so dear to Russian palates. Half apologetically General Zaroff said, "We do our best to preserve the amenities of civilization here. Please forgive any lapses. We are well off the beaten track, you know. Do you think the champagne has suffered from its long ocean trip?"
"Not in the least," declared Rainsford. He was finding the general a most thoughtful and affable host, a true cosmopolite. But there was one small trait of .the general's that made Rainsford uncomfortable. Whenever he looked up from his plate he found the general studying him, appraising him narrowly.
"Perhaps," said General Zaroff, "you were surprised that I recognized your name. You see, I read all books on hunting published in English, French, and Russian. I have but one passion in my life, Mr. Rainsford, and it is the hunt."
"You have some wonderful heads here," said Rainsford as he ate a particularly well-cooked filet mignon. " That Cape buffalo is the largest I ever saw."
"Oh, that fellow. Yes, he was a monster."
"Did he charge you?"
"Hurled me against a tree," said the general. "Fractured my skull. But I got the brute."
"I've always thought," said Rainsford, "that the Cape buffalo is the most dangerous of all big game."
For a moment the general did not reply; he was smiling his curious red-lipped smile. Then he said slowly, "No. You are wrong, sir. The Cape buffalo is not the most dangerous big game." He sipped his wine. "Here in my preserve on this island," he said in the same slow tone, "I hunt more dangerous game."
Rainsford expressed his surprise. "Is there big game on this island?"
The general nodded. "The biggest."
"Really?"
"Oh, it isn't here naturally, of course. I have to stock the island."
"What have you imported, general?" Rainsford asked. "Tigers?"
The general smiled. "No," he said. "Hunting tigers ceased to interest me some years ago. I exhausted their possibilities, you see. No thrill left in tigers, no real danger. I live for danger, Mr. Rainsford."
The general took from his pocket a gold cigarette case and offered his guest a long black cigarette with a silver tip; it was perfumed and gave off a smell like incense.
"We will have some capital hunting, you and I," said the general. "I shall be most glad to have your society."
"But what game--" began Rainsford.
"I'll tell you," said the general. "You will be amused, I know. I think I may say, in all modesty, that I have done a rare thing. I have invented a new sensation. May I pour you another glass of port?"
"Thank you, general."
The general filled both glasses, and said, "God makes some men poets. Some He makes kings, some beggars. Me He made a hunter. My hand was made for the trigger, my father said. He was a very rich man with a quarter of a million acres in the Crimea, and he was an ardent sportsman. When I was only five years old he gave me a little gun, specially made in Moscow for me, to shoot sparrows with. When I shot some of his prize turkeys with it, he did not punish me; he complimented me on my marksmanship. I killed my first bear in the Caucasus when I was ten. My whole life has been one prolonged hunt. I went into the army--it was expected of noblemen's sons--and for a time commanded a division of Cossack cavalry, but my real interest was always the hunt. I have hunted every kind of game in every land. It would be impossible for me to tell you how many animals I have killed."
The general puffed at his cigarette.
"After the debacle in Russia I left the country, for it was imprudent for an officer of the Czar to stay there. Many noble Russians lost everything. I, luckily, had invested heavily in American securities, so I shall never have to open a tearoom in Monte Carlo or drive a taxi in Paris. Naturally, I continued to hunt--grizzliest in your Rockies, crocodiles in the Ganges, rhinoceroses in East Africa. It was in Africa that the Cape buffalo hit me and laid me up for six months. As soon as I recovered I started for the Amazon to hunt jaguars, for I had heard they were unusually cunning. They weren't." The Cossack sighed. "They were no match at all for a hunter with his wits about him, and a high-powered rifle. I was bitterly disappointed. I was lying in my tent with a splitting headache one night when a terrible thought pushed its way into my mind. Hunting was beginning to bore me! And hunting, remember, had been my life. I have heard that in America businessmen often go to pieces when they give up the business that has been their life."
"Yes, that's so," said Rainsford.
The general smiled. "I had no wish to go to pieces," he said. "I must do something. Now, mine is an analytical mind, Mr. Rainsford. Doubtless that is why I enjoy the problems of the chase."
"No doubt, General Zaroff."
"So," continued the general, "I asked myself why the hunt no longer fascinated me. You are much younger than I am, Mr. Rainsford, and have not hunted as much, but you perhaps can guess the answer."
"What was it?"
"Simply this: hunting had ceased to be what you call `a sporting proposition.' It had become too easy. I always got my quarry. Always. There is no greater bore than perfection."
The general lit a fresh cigarette.
"No animal had a chance with me any more. That is no boast; it is a mathematical certainty. The animal had nothing but his legs and his instinct. Instinct is no match for reason. When I thought of this it was a tragic moment for me, I can tell you."
Rainsford leaned across the table, absorbed in what his host was saying.
"It came to me as an inspiration what I must do," the general went on.
"And that was?"
The general smiled the quiet smile of one who has faced an obstacle and surmounted it with success. "I had to invent a new animal to hunt," he said.
"A new animal? You're joking." "Not at all," said the general. "I never joke about hunting. I needed a new animal. I found one. So I bought this island built this house, and here I do my hunting. The island is perfect for my purposes--there are jungles with a maze of traits in them, hills, swamps--"
"But the animal, General Zaroff?"
"Oh," said the general, "it supplies me with the most exciting hunting in the world. No other hunting compares with it for an instant. Every day I hunt, and I never grow bored now, for I have a quarry with which I can match my wits."
Rainsford's bewilderment showed in his face.
"I wanted the ideal animal to hunt," explained the general. "So I said, `What are the attributes of an ideal quarry?' And the answer was, of course, `It must have courage, cunning, and, above all, it must be able to reason."'
"But no animal can reason," objected Rainsford.
"My dear fellow," said the general, "there is one that can."
"But you can't mean--" gasped Rainsford.
"And why not?"
"I can't believe you are serious, General Zaroff. This is a grisly joke."
"Why should I not be serious? I am speaking of hunting."
"Hunting? Great Guns, General Zaroff, what you speak of is murder."
The general laughed with entire good nature. He regarded Rainsford quizzically. "I refuse to believe that so modern and civilized a young man as you seem to be harbors romantic ideas about the value of human life. Surely your experiences in the war--"
"Did not make me condone cold-blooded murder," finished Rainsford stiffly.
Laughter shook the general. "How extraordinarily droll you are!" he said. "One does not expect nowadays to find a young man of the educated class, even in America, with such a naive, and, if I may say so, mid-Victorian point of view. It's like finding a snuffbox in a limousine. Ah, well, doubtless you had Puritan ancestors. So many Americans appear to have had. I'll wager you'll forget your notions when you go hunting with me. You've a genuine new thrill in store for you, Mr. Rainsford."
"Thank you, I'm a hunter, not a murderer."
"Dear me," said the general, quite unruffled, "again that unpleasant word. But I think I can show you that your scruples are quite ill founded."
"Yes?"
"Life is for the strong, to be lived by the strong, and, if needs be, taken by the strong. The weak of the world were put here to give the strong pleasure. I am strong. Why should I not use my gift? If I wish to hunt, why should I not? I hunt the scum of the earth: sailors from tramp ships--lassars, blacks, Chinese, whites, mongrels--a thoroughbred horse or hound is worth more than a score of them."
"But they are men," said Rainsford hotly.
"Precisely," said the general. "That is why I use them. It gives me pleasure. They can reason, after a fashion. So they are dangerous."
"But where do you get them?"
The general's left eyelid fluttered down in a wink. "This island is called Ship Trap," he answered. "Sometimes an angry god of the high seas sends them to me. Sometimes, when Providence is not so kind, I help Providence a bit. Come to the window with me."
Rainsford went to the window and looked out toward the sea.
"Watch! Out there!" exclaimed the general, pointing into the night. Rainsford's eyes saw only blackness, and then, as the general pressed a button, far out to sea Rainsford saw the flash of lights.
The general chuckled. "They indicate a channel," he said, "where there's none; giant rocks with razor edges crouch like a sea monster with wide-open jaws. They can crush a ship as easily as I crush this nut." He dropped a walnut on the hardwood floor and brought his heel grinding down on it. "Oh, yes," he said, casually, as if in answer to a question, "I have electricity. We try to be civilized here."
"Civilized? And you shoot down men?"
A trace of anger was in the general's black eyes, but it was there for but a second; and he said, in his most pleasant manner, "Dear me, what a righteous young man you are! I assure you I do not do the thing you suggest. That would be barbarous. I treat these visitors with every consideration. They get plenty of good food and exercise. They get into splendid physical condition. You shall see for yourself tomorrow."
"What do you mean?"
"We'll visit my training school," smiled the general. "It's in the cellar. I have about a dozen pupils down there now. They're from the Spanish bark San Lucar that had the bad luck to go on the rocks out there. A very inferior lot, I regret to say. Poor specimens and more accustomed to the deck than to the jungle." He raised his hand, and Ivan, who served as waiter, brought thick Turkish coffee. Rainsford, with an effort, held his tongue in check.
"It's a game, you see," pursued the general blandly. "I suggest to one of them that we go hunting. I give him a supply of food and an excellent hunting knife. I give him three hours' start. I am to follow, armed only with a pistol of the smallest caliber and range. If my quarry eludes me for three whole days, he wins the game. If I find him "--the general smiled--" he loses."
"Suppose he refuses to be hunted?"
"Oh," said the general, "I give him his option, of course. He need not play that game if he doesn't wish to. If he does not wish to hunt, I turn him over to Ivan. Ivan once had the honor of serving as official knouter to the Great White Czar, and he has his own ideas of sport. Invariably, Mr. Rainsford, invariably they choose the hunt."
"And if they win?"
The smile on the general's face widened. "To date I have not lost," he said. Then he added, hastily: "I don't wish you to think me a braggart, Mr. Rainsford. Many of them afford only the most elementary sort of problem. Occasionally I strike a tartar. One almost did win. I eventually had to use the dogs."
"The dogs?"
"This way, please. I'll show you."
The general steered Rainsford to a window. The lights from the windows sent a flickering illumination that made grotesque patterns on the courtyard below, and Rainsford could see moving about there a dozen or so huge black shapes; as they turned toward him, their eyes glittered greenly.
"A rather good lot, I think," observed the general. "They are let out at seven every night. If anyone should try to get into my house--or out of it--something extremely regrettable would occur to him." He hummed a snatch of song from the Folies Bergere.
"And now," said the general, "I want to show you my new collection of heads. Will you come with me to the library?"
"I hope," said Rainsford, "that you will excuse me tonight, General Zaroff. I'm really not feeling well."
"Ah, indeed?" the general inquired solicitously. "Well, I suppose that's only natural, after your long swim. You need a good, restful night's sleep. Tomorrow you'll feel like a new man, I'll wager. Then we'll hunt, eh? I've one rather promising prospect--" Rainsford was hurrying from the room.
"Sorry you can't go with me tonight," called the general. "I expect rather fair sport--a big, strong, black. He looks resourceful--Well, good night, Mr. Rainsford; I hope you have a good night's rest."
The bed was good, and the pajamas of the softest silk, and he was tired in every fiber of his being, but nevertheless Rainsford could not quiet his brain with the opiate of sleep. He lay, eyes wide open. Once he thought he heard stealthy steps in the corridor outside his room. He sought to throw open the door; it would not open. He went to the window and looked out. His room was high up in one of the towers. The lights of the chateau were out now, and it was dark and silent; but there was a fragment of sallow moon, and by its wan light he could see, dimly, the courtyard. There, weaving in and out in the pattern of shadow, were black, noiseless forms; the hounds heard him at the window and looked up, expectantly, with their green eyes. Rainsford went back to the bed and lay down. By many methods he tried to put himself to sleep. He had achieved a doze when, just as morning began to come, he heard, far off in the jungle, the faint report of a pistol.
General Zaroff did not appear until luncheon. He was dressed faultlessly in the tweeds of a country squire. He was solicitous about the state of Rainsford's health.
"As for me," sighed the general, "I do not feel so well. I am worried, Mr. Rainsford. Last night I detected traces of my old complaint."
To Rainsford's questioning glance the general said, "Ennui. Boredom."
Then, taking a second helping of crêpes Suzette, the general explained: "The hunting was not good last night. The fellow lost his head. He made a straight trail that offered no problems at all. That's the trouble with these sailors; they have dull brains to begin with, and they do not know how to get about in the woods. They do excessively stupid and obvious things. It's most annoying. Will you have another glass of Chablis, Mr. Rainsford?"
"General," said Rainsford firmly, "I wish to leave this island at once."
The general raised his thickets of eyebrows; he seemed hurt. "But, my dear fellow," the general protested, "you've only just come. You've had no hunting--"
"I wish to go today," said Rainsford. He saw the dead black eyes of the general on him, studying him. General Zaroff's face suddenly brightened.
He filled Rainsford's glass with venerable Chablis from a dusty bottle.
"Tonight," said the general, "we will hunt--you and I."
Rainsford shook his head. "No, general," he said. "I will not hunt."
The general shrugged his shoulders and delicately ate a hothouse grape. "As you wish, my friend," he said. "The choice rests entirely with you. But may I not venture to suggest that you will find my idea of sport more diverting than Ivan's?"
He nodded toward the corner to where the giant stood, scowling, his thick arms crossed on his hogshead of chest.
"You don't mean--" cried Rainsford.
"My dear fellow," said the general, "have I not told you I always mean what I say about hunting? This is really an inspiration. I drink to a foeman worthy of my steel--at last." The general raised his glass, but Rainsford sat staring at him.
"You'll find this game worth playing," the general said enthusiastically." Your brain against mine. Your woodcraft against mine. Your strength and stamina against mine. Outdoor chess! And the stake is not without value, eh?"
"And if I win--" began Rainsford huskily.
"I'll cheerfully acknowledge myself defeat if I do not find you by midnight of the third day," said General Zaroff. "My sloop will place you on the mainland near a town." The general read what Rainsford was thinking.
"Oh, you can trust me," said the Cossack. "I will give you my word as a gentleman and a sportsman. Of course you, in turn, must agree to say nothing of your visit here."
"I'll agree to nothing of the kind," said Rainsford.
"Oh," said the general, "in that case--But why discuss that now? Three days hence we can discuss it over a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, unless--"
The general sipped his wine.
Then a businesslike air animated him. "Ivan," he said to Rainsford, "will supply you with hunting clothes, food, a knife. I suggest you wear moccasins; they leave a poorer trail. I suggest, too, that you avoid the big swamp in the southeast corner of the island. We call it Death Swamp. There's quicksand there. One foolish fellow tried it. The deplorable part of it was that Lazarus followed him. You can imagine my feelings, Mr. Rainsford. I loved Lazarus; he was the finest hound in my pack. Well, I must beg you to excuse me now. I always' take a siesta after lunch. You'll hardly have time for a nap, I fear. You'll want to start, no doubt. I shall not follow till dusk. Hunting at night is so much more exciting than by day, don't you think? Au revoir, Mr. Rainsford, au revoir." General Zaroff, with a deep, courtly bow, strolled from the room.
From another door came Ivan. Under one arm he carried khaki hunting clothes, a haversack of food, a leather sheath containing a long-bladed hunting knife; his right hand rested on a cocked revolver thrust in the crimson sash about his waist.
Rainsford had fought his way through the bush for two hours. "I must keep my nerve. I must keep my nerve," he said through tight teeth.
He had not been entirely clearheaded when the chateau gates snapped shut behind him. His whole idea at first was to put distance between himself and General Zaroff; and, to this end, he had plunged along, spurred on by the sharp rowers of something very like panic. Now he had got a grip on himself, had stopped, and was taking stock of himself and the situation. He saw that straight flight was futile; inevitably it would bring him face to face with the sea. He was in a picture with a frame of water, and his operations, clearly, must take place within that frame.
"I'll give him a trail to follow," muttered Rainsford, and he struck off from the rude path he had been following into the trackless wilderness. He executed a series of intricate loops; he doubled on his trail again and again, recalling all the lore of the fox hunt, and all the dodges of the fox. Night found him leg-weary, with hands and face lashed by the branches, on a thickly wooded ridge. He knew it would be insane to blunder on through the dark, even if he had the strength. His need for rest was imperative and he thought, "I have played the fox, now I must play the cat of the fable." A big tree with a thick trunk and outspread branches was near by, and, taking care to leave not the slightest mark, he climbed up into the crotch, and, stretching out on one of the broad limbs, after a fashion, rested. Rest brought him new confidence and almost a feeling of security. Even so zealous a hunter as General Zaroff could not trace him there, he told himself; only the devil himself could follow that complicated trail through the jungle after dark. But perhaps the general was a devil--
An apprehensive night crawled slowly by like a wounded snake and sleep did not visit Rainsford, although the silence of a dead world was on the jungle. Toward morning when a dingy gray was varnishing the sky, the cry of some startled bird focused Rainsford's attention in that direction. Something was coming through the bush, coming slowly, carefully, coming by the same winding way Rainsford had come. He flattened himself down on the limb and, through a screen of leaves almost as thick as tapestry, he watched. . . . That which was approaching was a man.
It was General Zaroff. He made his way along with his eyes fixed in utmost concentration on the ground before him. He paused, almost beneath the tree, dropped to his knees and studied the ground. Rainsford's impulse was to hurl himself down like a panther, but he saw that the general's right hand held something metallic--a small automatic pistol.
The hunter shook his head several times, as if he were puzzled. Then he straightened up and took from his case one of his black cigarettes; its pungent incenselike smoke floated up to Rainsford's nostrils.
Rainsford held his breath. The general's eyes had left the ground and were traveling inch by inch up the tree. Rainsford froze there, every muscle tensed for a spring. But the sharp eyes of the hunter stopped before they reached the limb where Rainsford lay; a smile spread over his brown face. Very deliberately he blew a smoke ring into the air; then he turned his back on the tree and walked carelessly away, back along the trail he had come. The swish of the underbrush against his hunting boots grew fainter and fainter.
The pent-up air burst hotly from Rainsford's lungs. His first thought made him feel sick and numb. The general could follow a trail through the woods at night; he could follow an extremely difficult trail; he must have uncanny powers; only by the merest chance had the Cossack failed to see his quarry.
Rainsford's second thought was even more terrible. It sent a shudder of cold horror through his whole being. Why had the general smiled? Why had he turned back?
Rainsford did not want to believe what his reason told him was true, but the truth was as evident as the sun that had by now pushed through the morning mists. The general was playing with him! The general was saving him for another day's sport! The Cossack was the cat; he was the mouse. Then it was that Rainsford knew the full meaning of terror.
"I will not lose my nerve. I will not."
He slid down from the tree, and struck off again into the woods. His face was set and he forced the machinery of his mind to function. Three hundred yards from his hiding place he stopped where a huge dead tree leaned precariously on a smaller, living one. Throwing off his sack of food, Rainsford took his knife from its sheath and began to work with all his energy.
The job was finished at last, and he threw himself down behind a fallen log a hundred feet away. He did not have to wait long. The cat was coming again to play with the mouse.
Following the trail with the sureness of a bloodhound came General Zaroff. Nothing escaped those searching black eyes, no crushed blade of grass, no bent twig, no mark, no matter how faint, in the moss. So intent was the Cossack on his stalking that he was upon the thing Rainsford had made before he saw it. His foot touched the protruding bough that was the trigger. Even as he touched it, the general sensed his danger and leaped back with the agility of an ape. But he was not quite quick enough; the dead tree, delicately adjusted to rest on the cut living one, crashed down and struck the general a glancing blow on the shoulder as it fell; but for his alertness, he must have been smashed beneath it. He staggered, but he did not fall; nor did he drop his revolver. He stood there, rubbing his injured shoulder, and Rainsford, with fear again gripping his heart, heard the general's mocking laugh ring through the jungle.
"Rainsford," called the general, "if you are within sound of my voice, as I suppose you are, let me congratulate you. Not many men know how to make a Malay mancatcher. Luckily for me I, too, have hunted in Malacca. You are proving interesting, Mr. Rainsford. I am going now to have my wound dressed; it's only a slight one. But I shall be back. I shall be back."
When the general, nursing his bruised shoulder, had gone, Rainsford took up his flight again. It was flight now, a desperate, hopeless flight, that carried him on for some hours. Dusk came, then darkness, and still he pressed on. The ground grew softer under his moccasins; the vegetation grew ranker, denser; insects bit him savagely.
Then, as he stepped forward, his foot sank into the ooze. He tried to wrench it back, but the muck sucked viciously at his foot as if it were a giant leech. With a violent effort, he tore his feet loose. He knew where he was now. Death Swamp and its quicksand.
His hands were tight closed as if his nerve were something tangible that someone in the darkness was trying to tear from his grip. The softness of the earth had given him an idea. He stepped back from the quicksand a dozen feet or so and, like some huge prehistoric beaver, he began to dig.
Rainsford had dug himself in in France when a second's delay meant death. That had been a placid pastime compared to his digging now. The pit grew deeper; when it was above his shoulders, he climbed out and from some hard saplings cut stakes and sharpened them to a fine point. These stakes he planted in the bottom of the pit with the points sticking up. With flying fingers he wove a rough carpet of weeds and branches and with it he covered the mouth of the pit. Then, wet with sweat and aching with tiredness, he crouched behind the stump of a lightning-charred tree.
He knew his pursuer was coming; he heard the padding sound of feet on the soft earth, and the night breeze brought him the perfume of the general's cigarette. It seemed to Rainsford that the general was coming with unusual swiftness; he was not feeling his way along, foot by foot. Rainsford, crouching there, could not see the general, nor could he see the pit. He lived a year in a minute. Then he felt an impulse to cry aloud with joy, for he heard the sharp crackle of the breaking branches as the cover of the pit gave way; he heard the sharp scream of pain as the pointed stakes found their mark. He leaped up from his place of concealment. Then he cowered back. Three feet from the pit a man was standing, with an electric torch in his hand.
"You've done well, Rainsford," the voice of the general called. "Your Burmese tiger pit has claimed one of my best dogs. Again you score. I think, Mr. Rainsford, Ill see what you can do against my whole pack. I'm going home for a rest now. Thank you for a most amusing evening."
At daybreak Rainsford, lying near the swamp, was awakened by a sound that made him know that he had new things to learn about fear. It was a distant sound, faint and wavering, but he knew it. It was the baying of a pack of hounds.
Rainsford knew he could do one of two things. He could stay where he was and wait. That was suicide. He could flee. That was postponing the inevitable. For a moment he stood there, thinking. An idea that held a wild chance came to him, and, tightening his belt, he headed away from the swamp.
The baying of the hounds drew nearer, then still nearer, nearer, ever nearer. On a ridge Rainsford climbed a tree. Down a watercourse, not a quarter of a mile away, he could see the bush moving. Straining his eyes, he saw the lean figure of General Zaroff; just ahead of him Rainsford made out another figure whose wide shoulders surged through the tall jungle weeds; it was the giant Ivan, and he seemed pulled forward by some unseen force; Rainsford knew that Ivan must be holding the pack in leash.
They would be on him any minute now. His mind worked frantically. He thought of a native trick he had learned in Uganda. He slid down the tree. He caught hold of a springy young sapling and to it he fastened his hunting knife, with the blade pointing down the trail; with a bit of wild grapevine he tied back the sapling. Then he ran for his life. The hounds raised their voices as they hit the fresh scent. Rainsford knew now how an animal at bay feels.
He had to stop to get his breath. The baying of the hounds stopped abruptly, and Rainsford's heart stopped too. They must have reached the knife.
He shinned excitedly up a tree and looked back. His pursuers had stopped. But the hope that was in Rainsford's brain when he climbed died, for he saw in the shallow valley that General Zaroff was still on his feet. But Ivan was not. The knife, driven by the recoil of the springing tree, had not wholly failed.
Rainsford had hardly tumbled to the ground when the pack took up the cry again.
"Nerve, nerve, nerve!" he panted, as he dashed along. A blue gap showed between the trees dead ahead. Ever nearer drew the hounds. Rainsford forced himself on toward that gap. He reached it. It was the shore of the sea. Across a cove he could see the gloomy gray stone of the chateau. Twenty feet below him the sea rumbled and hissed. Rainsford hesitated. He heard the hounds. Then he leaped far out into the sea. . . .
When the general and his pack reached the place by the sea, the Cossack stopped. For some minutes he stood regarding the blue-green expanse of water. He shrugged his shoulders. Then be sat down, took a drink of brandy from a silver flask, lit a cigarette, and hummed a bit from Madame Butterfly.
General Zaroff had an exceedingly good dinner in his great paneled dining hall that evening. With it he had a bottle of Pol Roger and half a bottle of Chambertin. Two slight annoyances kept him from perfect enjoyment. One was the thought that it would be difficult to replace Ivan; the other was that his quarry had escaped him; of course, the American hadn't played the game--so thought the general as he tasted his after-dinner liqueur. In his library he read, to soothe himself, from the works of Marcus Aurelius. At ten he went up to his bedroom. He was deliciously tired, he said to himself, as he locked himself in. There was a little moonlight, so, before turning on his light, he went to the window and looked down at the courtyard. He could see the great hounds, and he called, "Better luck another time," to them. Then he switched on the light.
A man, who had been hiding in the curtains of the bed, was standing there.
"Rainsford!" screamed the general. "How in God's name did you get here?"
"Swam," said Rainsford. "I found it quicker than walking through the jungle."
The general sucked in his breath and smiled. "I congratulate you," he said. "You have won the game."
Rainsford did not smile. "I am still a beast at bay," he said, in a low, hoarse voice. "Get ready, General Zaroff."
The general made one of his deepest bows. "I see," he said. "Splendid! One of us is to furnish a repast for the hounds. The other will sleep in this very excellent bed. On guard, Rainsford." . . .
He had never slept in a better bed, Rainsford decided.
Un vanator faimos (si fara scrupule) naufragiaza pe o insula unde-l intalneste pe contele Zaroff, de asemenea un avid vanator. Diferenta este de vanatul fiecaruia...
filmuletul are 62 de min... ceea ce e cam mult, dar daca sunteti un "movie-buff" ca mine, merita tot timpul. daca nu aveti rabdare mai jos e "transcrisa" si nuvela care dureaza cam 10 min s-o cititi.
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The Most Dangerous Game
by Richard Connell
"OFF THERE to the right--somewhere--is a large island," said Whitney." It's rather a mystery--"
"What island is it?" Rainsford asked.
"The old charts call it `Ship-Trap Island,"' Whitney replied." A suggestive name, isn't it? Sailors have a curious dread of the place. I don't know why. Some superstition--"
"Can't see it," remarked Rainsford, trying to peer through the dank tropical night that was palpable as it pressed its thick warm blackness in upon the yacht.
"You've good eyes," said Whitney, with a laugh," and I've seen you pick off a moose moving in the brown fall bush at four hundred yards, but even you can't see four miles or so through a moonless Caribbean night."
"Nor four yards," admitted Rainsford. "Ugh! It's like moist black velvet."
"It will be light enough in Rio," promised Whitney. "We should make it in a few days. I hope the jaguar guns have come from Purdey's. We should have some good hunting up the Amazon. Great sport, hunting."
"The best sport in the world," agreed Rainsford.
"For the hunter," amended Whitney. "Not for the jaguar."
"Don't talk rot, Whitney," said Rainsford. "You're a big-game hunter, not a philosopher. Who cares how a jaguar feels?"
"Perhaps the jaguar does," observed Whitney.
"Bah! They've no understanding."
"Even so, I rather think they understand one thing--fear. The fear of pain and the fear of death."
"Nonsense," laughed Rainsford. "This hot weather is making you soft, Whitney. Be a realist. The world is made up of two classes--the hunters and the huntees. Luckily, you and I are hunters. Do you think we've passed that island yet?"
"I can't tell in the dark. I hope so."
"Why? " asked Rainsford.
"The place has a reputation--a bad one."
"Cannibals?" suggested Rainsford.
"Hardly. Even cannibals wouldn't live in such a God-forsaken place. But it's gotten into sailor lore, somehow. Didn't you notice that the crew's nerves seemed a bit jumpy today?"
"They were a bit strange, now you mention it. Even Captain Nielsen--"
"Yes, even that tough-minded old Swede, who'd go up to the devil himself and ask him for a light. Those fishy blue eyes held a look I never saw there before. All I could get out of him was `This place has an evil name among seafaring men, sir.' Then he said to me, very gravely, `Don't you feel anything?'--as if the air about us was actually poisonous. Now, you mustn't laugh when I tell you this--I did feel something like a sudden chill.
"There was no breeze. The sea was as flat as a plate-glass window. We were drawing near the island then. What I felt was a--a mental chill; a sort of sudden dread."
"Pure imagination," said Rainsford.
"One superstitious sailor can taint the whole ship's company with his fear."
"Maybe. But sometimes I think sailors have an extra sense that tells them when they are in danger. Sometimes I think evil is a tangible thing--with wave lengths, just as sound and light have. An evil place can, so to speak, broadcast vibrations of evil. Anyhow, I'm glad we're getting out of this zone. Well, I think I'll turn in now, Rainsford."
"I'm not sleepy," said Rainsford. "I'm going to smoke another pipe up on the afterdeck."
"Good night, then, Rainsford. See you at breakfast."
"Right. Good night, Whitney."
There was no sound in the night as Rainsford sat there but the muffled throb of the engine that drove the yacht swiftly through the darkness, and the swish and ripple of the wash of the propeller.
Rainsford, reclining in a steamer chair, indolently puffed on his favorite brier. The sensuous drowsiness of the night was on him." It's so dark," he thought, "that I could sleep without closing my eyes; the night would be my eyelids--"
An abrupt sound startled him. Off to the right he heard it, and his ears, expert in such matters, could not be mistaken. Again he heard the sound, and again. Somewhere, off in the blackness, someone had fired a gun three times.
Rainsford sprang up and moved quickly to the rail, mystified. He strained his eyes in the direction from which the reports had come, but it was like trying to see through a blanket. He leaped upon the rail and balanced himself there, to get greater elevation; his pipe, striking a rope, was knocked from his mouth. He lunged for it; a short, hoarse cry came from his lips as he realized he had reached too far and had lost his balance. The cry was pinched off short as the blood-warm waters of the Caribbean Sea dosed over his head.
He struggled up to the surface and tried to cry out, but the wash from the speeding yacht slapped him in the face and the salt water in his open mouth made him gag and strangle. Desperately he struck out with strong strokes after the receding lights of the yacht, but he stopped before he had swum fifty feet. A certain coolheadedness had come to him; it was not the first time he had been in a tight place. There was a chance that his cries could be heard by someone aboard the yacht, but that chance was slender and grew more slender as the yacht raced on. He wrestled himself out of his clothes and shouted with all his power. The lights of the yacht became faint and ever-vanishing fireflies; then they were blotted out entirely by the night.
Rainsford remembered the shots. They had come from the right, and doggedly he swam in that direction, swimming with slow, deliberate strokes, conserving his strength. For a seemingly endless time he fought the sea. He began to count his strokes; he could do possibly a hundred more and then--
Rainsford heard a sound. It came out of the darkness, a high screaming sound, the sound of an animal in an extremity of anguish and terror.
He did not recognize the animal that made the sound; he did not try to; with fresh vitality he swam toward the sound. He heard it again; then it was cut short by another noise, crisp, staccato.
"Pistol shot," muttered Rainsford, swimming on.
Ten minutes of determined effort brought another sound to his ears--the most welcome he had ever heard--the muttering and growling of the sea breaking on a rocky shore. He was almost on the rocks before he saw them; on a night less calm he would have been shattered against them. With his remaining strength he dragged himself from the swirling waters. Jagged crags appeared to jut up into the opaqueness; he forced himself upward, hand over hand. Gasping, his hands raw, he reached a flat place at the top. Dense jungle came down to the very edge of the cliffs. What perils that tangle of trees and underbrush might hold for him did not concern Rainsford just then. All he knew was that he was safe from his enemy, the sea, and that utter weariness was on him. He flung himself down at the jungle edge and tumbled headlong into the deepest sleep of his life.
When he opened his eyes he knew from the position of the sun that it was late in the afternoon. Sleep had given him new vigor; a sharp hunger was picking at him. He looked about him, almost cheerfully.
"Where there are pistol shots, there are men. Where there are men, there is food," he thought. But what kind of men, he wondered, in so forbidding a place? An unbroken front of snarled and ragged jungle fringed the shore.
He saw no sign of a trail through the closely knit web of weeds and trees; it was easier to go along the shore, and Rainsford floundered along by the water. Not far from where he landed, he stopped.
Some wounded thing--by the evidence, a large animal--had thrashed about in the underbrush; the jungle weeds were crushed down and the moss was lacerated; one patch of weeds was stained crimson. A small, glittering object not far away caught Rainsford's eye and he picked it up. It was an empty cartridge.
"A twenty-two," he remarked. "That's odd. It must have been a fairly large animal too. The hunter had his nerve with him to tackle it with a light gun. It's clear that the brute put up a fight. I suppose the first three shots I heard was when the hunter flushed his quarry and wounded it. The last shot was when he trailed it here and finished it."
He examined the ground closely and found what he had hoped to find--the print of hunting boots. They pointed along the cliff in the direction he had been going. Eagerly he hurried along, now slipping on a rotten log or a loose stone, but making headway; night was beginning to settle down on the island.
Bleak darkness was blacking out the sea and jungle when Rainsford sighted the lights. He came upon them as he turned a crook in the coast line; and his first thought was that be had come upon a village, for there were many lights. But as he forged along he saw to his great astonishment that all the lights were in one enormous building--a lofty structure with pointed towers plunging upward into the gloom. His eyes made out the shadowy outlines of a palatial chateau; it was set on a high bluff, and on three sides of it cliffs dived down to where the sea licked greedy lips in the shadows.
"Mirage," thought Rainsford. But it was no mirage, he found, when he opened the tall spiked iron gate. The stone steps were real enough; the massive door with a leering gargoyle for a knocker was real enough; yet above it all hung an air of unreality.
He lifted the knocker, and it creaked up stiffly, as if it had never before been used. He let it fall, and it startled him with its booming loudness. He thought he heard steps within; the door remained closed. Again Rainsford lifted the heavy knocker, and let it fall. The door opened then--opened as suddenly as if it were on a spring--and Rainsford stood blinking in the river of glaring gold light that poured out. The first thing Rainsford's eyes discerned was the largest man Rainsford had ever seen--a gigantic creature, solidly made and black bearded to the waist. In his hand the man held a long-barreled revolver, and he was pointing it straight at Rainsford's heart.
Out of the snarl of beard two small eyes regarded Rainsford.
"Don't be alarmed," said Rainsford, with a smile which he hoped was disarming. "I'm no robber. I fell off a yacht. My name is Sanger Rainsford of New York City."
The menacing look in the eyes did not change. The revolver pointing as rigidly as if the giant were a statue. He gave no sign that he understood Rainsford's words, or that he had even heard them. He was dressed in uniform--a black uniform trimmed with gray astrakhan.
"I'm Sanger Rainsford of New York," Rainsford began again. "I fell off a yacht. I am hungry."
The man's only answer was to raise with his thumb the hammer of his revolver. Then Rainsford saw the man's free hand go to his forehead in a military salute, and he saw him click his heels together and stand at attention. Another man was coming down the broad marble steps, an erect, slender man in evening clothes. He advanced to Rainsford and held out his hand.
In a cultivated voice marked by a slight accent that gave it added precision and deliberateness, he said, "It is a very great pleasure and honor to welcome Mr. Sanger Rainsford, the celebrated hunter, to my home."
Automatically Rainsford shook the man's hand.
"I've read your book about hunting snow leopards in Tibet, you see," explained the man. "I am General Zaroff."
Rainsford's first impression was that the man was singularly handsome; his second was that there was an original, almost bizarre quality about the general's face. He was a tall man past middle age, for his hair was a vivid white; but his thick eyebrows and pointed military mustache were as black as the night from which Rainsford had come. His eyes, too, were black and very bright. He had high cheekbones, a sharpcut nose, a spare, dark face--the face of a man used to giving orders, the face of an aristocrat. Turning to the giant in uniform, the general made a sign. The giant put away his pistol, saluted, withdrew.
"Ivan is an incredibly strong fellow," remarked the general, "but he has the misfortune to be deaf and dumb. A simple fellow, but, I'm afraid, like all his race, a bit of a savage."
"Is he Russian?"
"He is a Cossack," said the general, and his smile showed red lips and pointed teeth. "So am I."
"Come," he said, "we shouldn't be chatting here. We can talk later. Now you want clothes, food, rest. You shall have them. This is a most-restful spot."
Ivan had reappeared, and the general spoke to him with lips that moved but gave forth no sound.
"Follow Ivan, if you please, Mr. Rainsford," said the general. "I was about to have my dinner when you came. I'll wait for you. You'll find that my clothes will fit you, I think."
It was to a huge, beam-ceilinged bedroom with a canopied bed big enough for six men that Rainsford followed the silent giant. Ivan laid out an evening suit, and Rainsford, as he put it on, noticed that it came from a London tailor who ordinarily cut and sewed for none below the rank of duke.
The dining room to which Ivan conducted him was in many ways remarkable. There was a medieval magnificence about it; it suggested a baronial hall of feudal times with its oaken panels, its high ceiling, its vast refectory tables where twoscore men could sit down to eat. About the hall were mounted heads of many animals--lions, tigers, elephants, moose, bears; larger or more perfect specimens Rainsford had never seen. At the great table the general was sitting, alone.
"You'll have a cocktail, Mr. Rainsford," he suggested. The cocktail was surpassingly good; and, Rainsford noted, the table apointments were of the finest--the linen, the crystal, the silver, the china.
They were eating borsch, the rich, red soup with whipped cream so dear to Russian palates. Half apologetically General Zaroff said, "We do our best to preserve the amenities of civilization here. Please forgive any lapses. We are well off the beaten track, you know. Do you think the champagne has suffered from its long ocean trip?"
"Not in the least," declared Rainsford. He was finding the general a most thoughtful and affable host, a true cosmopolite. But there was one small trait of .the general's that made Rainsford uncomfortable. Whenever he looked up from his plate he found the general studying him, appraising him narrowly.
"Perhaps," said General Zaroff, "you were surprised that I recognized your name. You see, I read all books on hunting published in English, French, and Russian. I have but one passion in my life, Mr. Rainsford, and it is the hunt."
"You have some wonderful heads here," said Rainsford as he ate a particularly well-cooked filet mignon. " That Cape buffalo is the largest I ever saw."
"Oh, that fellow. Yes, he was a monster."
"Did he charge you?"
"Hurled me against a tree," said the general. "Fractured my skull. But I got the brute."
"I've always thought," said Rainsford, "that the Cape buffalo is the most dangerous of all big game."
For a moment the general did not reply; he was smiling his curious red-lipped smile. Then he said slowly, "No. You are wrong, sir. The Cape buffalo is not the most dangerous big game." He sipped his wine. "Here in my preserve on this island," he said in the same slow tone, "I hunt more dangerous game."
Rainsford expressed his surprise. "Is there big game on this island?"
The general nodded. "The biggest."
"Really?"
"Oh, it isn't here naturally, of course. I have to stock the island."
"What have you imported, general?" Rainsford asked. "Tigers?"
The general smiled. "No," he said. "Hunting tigers ceased to interest me some years ago. I exhausted their possibilities, you see. No thrill left in tigers, no real danger. I live for danger, Mr. Rainsford."
The general took from his pocket a gold cigarette case and offered his guest a long black cigarette with a silver tip; it was perfumed and gave off a smell like incense.
"We will have some capital hunting, you and I," said the general. "I shall be most glad to have your society."
"But what game--" began Rainsford.
"I'll tell you," said the general. "You will be amused, I know. I think I may say, in all modesty, that I have done a rare thing. I have invented a new sensation. May I pour you another glass of port?"
"Thank you, general."
The general filled both glasses, and said, "God makes some men poets. Some He makes kings, some beggars. Me He made a hunter. My hand was made for the trigger, my father said. He was a very rich man with a quarter of a million acres in the Crimea, and he was an ardent sportsman. When I was only five years old he gave me a little gun, specially made in Moscow for me, to shoot sparrows with. When I shot some of his prize turkeys with it, he did not punish me; he complimented me on my marksmanship. I killed my first bear in the Caucasus when I was ten. My whole life has been one prolonged hunt. I went into the army--it was expected of noblemen's sons--and for a time commanded a division of Cossack cavalry, but my real interest was always the hunt. I have hunted every kind of game in every land. It would be impossible for me to tell you how many animals I have killed."
The general puffed at his cigarette.
"After the debacle in Russia I left the country, for it was imprudent for an officer of the Czar to stay there. Many noble Russians lost everything. I, luckily, had invested heavily in American securities, so I shall never have to open a tearoom in Monte Carlo or drive a taxi in Paris. Naturally, I continued to hunt--grizzliest in your Rockies, crocodiles in the Ganges, rhinoceroses in East Africa. It was in Africa that the Cape buffalo hit me and laid me up for six months. As soon as I recovered I started for the Amazon to hunt jaguars, for I had heard they were unusually cunning. They weren't." The Cossack sighed. "They were no match at all for a hunter with his wits about him, and a high-powered rifle. I was bitterly disappointed. I was lying in my tent with a splitting headache one night when a terrible thought pushed its way into my mind. Hunting was beginning to bore me! And hunting, remember, had been my life. I have heard that in America businessmen often go to pieces when they give up the business that has been their life."
"Yes, that's so," said Rainsford.
The general smiled. "I had no wish to go to pieces," he said. "I must do something. Now, mine is an analytical mind, Mr. Rainsford. Doubtless that is why I enjoy the problems of the chase."
"No doubt, General Zaroff."
"So," continued the general, "I asked myself why the hunt no longer fascinated me. You are much younger than I am, Mr. Rainsford, and have not hunted as much, but you perhaps can guess the answer."
"What was it?"
"Simply this: hunting had ceased to be what you call `a sporting proposition.' It had become too easy. I always got my quarry. Always. There is no greater bore than perfection."
The general lit a fresh cigarette.
"No animal had a chance with me any more. That is no boast; it is a mathematical certainty. The animal had nothing but his legs and his instinct. Instinct is no match for reason. When I thought of this it was a tragic moment for me, I can tell you."
Rainsford leaned across the table, absorbed in what his host was saying.
"It came to me as an inspiration what I must do," the general went on.
"And that was?"
The general smiled the quiet smile of one who has faced an obstacle and surmounted it with success. "I had to invent a new animal to hunt," he said.
"A new animal? You're joking." "Not at all," said the general. "I never joke about hunting. I needed a new animal. I found one. So I bought this island built this house, and here I do my hunting. The island is perfect for my purposes--there are jungles with a maze of traits in them, hills, swamps--"
"But the animal, General Zaroff?"
"Oh," said the general, "it supplies me with the most exciting hunting in the world. No other hunting compares with it for an instant. Every day I hunt, and I never grow bored now, for I have a quarry with which I can match my wits."
Rainsford's bewilderment showed in his face.
"I wanted the ideal animal to hunt," explained the general. "So I said, `What are the attributes of an ideal quarry?' And the answer was, of course, `It must have courage, cunning, and, above all, it must be able to reason."'
"But no animal can reason," objected Rainsford.
"My dear fellow," said the general, "there is one that can."
"But you can't mean--" gasped Rainsford.
"And why not?"
"I can't believe you are serious, General Zaroff. This is a grisly joke."
"Why should I not be serious? I am speaking of hunting."
"Hunting? Great Guns, General Zaroff, what you speak of is murder."
The general laughed with entire good nature. He regarded Rainsford quizzically. "I refuse to believe that so modern and civilized a young man as you seem to be harbors romantic ideas about the value of human life. Surely your experiences in the war--"
"Did not make me condone cold-blooded murder," finished Rainsford stiffly.
Laughter shook the general. "How extraordinarily droll you are!" he said. "One does not expect nowadays to find a young man of the educated class, even in America, with such a naive, and, if I may say so, mid-Victorian point of view. It's like finding a snuffbox in a limousine. Ah, well, doubtless you had Puritan ancestors. So many Americans appear to have had. I'll wager you'll forget your notions when you go hunting with me. You've a genuine new thrill in store for you, Mr. Rainsford."
"Thank you, I'm a hunter, not a murderer."
"Dear me," said the general, quite unruffled, "again that unpleasant word. But I think I can show you that your scruples are quite ill founded."
"Yes?"
"Life is for the strong, to be lived by the strong, and, if needs be, taken by the strong. The weak of the world were put here to give the strong pleasure. I am strong. Why should I not use my gift? If I wish to hunt, why should I not? I hunt the scum of the earth: sailors from tramp ships--lassars, blacks, Chinese, whites, mongrels--a thoroughbred horse or hound is worth more than a score of them."
"But they are men," said Rainsford hotly.
"Precisely," said the general. "That is why I use them. It gives me pleasure. They can reason, after a fashion. So they are dangerous."
"But where do you get them?"
The general's left eyelid fluttered down in a wink. "This island is called Ship Trap," he answered. "Sometimes an angry god of the high seas sends them to me. Sometimes, when Providence is not so kind, I help Providence a bit. Come to the window with me."
Rainsford went to the window and looked out toward the sea.
"Watch! Out there!" exclaimed the general, pointing into the night. Rainsford's eyes saw only blackness, and then, as the general pressed a button, far out to sea Rainsford saw the flash of lights.
The general chuckled. "They indicate a channel," he said, "where there's none; giant rocks with razor edges crouch like a sea monster with wide-open jaws. They can crush a ship as easily as I crush this nut." He dropped a walnut on the hardwood floor and brought his heel grinding down on it. "Oh, yes," he said, casually, as if in answer to a question, "I have electricity. We try to be civilized here."
"Civilized? And you shoot down men?"
A trace of anger was in the general's black eyes, but it was there for but a second; and he said, in his most pleasant manner, "Dear me, what a righteous young man you are! I assure you I do not do the thing you suggest. That would be barbarous. I treat these visitors with every consideration. They get plenty of good food and exercise. They get into splendid physical condition. You shall see for yourself tomorrow."
"What do you mean?"
"We'll visit my training school," smiled the general. "It's in the cellar. I have about a dozen pupils down there now. They're from the Spanish bark San Lucar that had the bad luck to go on the rocks out there. A very inferior lot, I regret to say. Poor specimens and more accustomed to the deck than to the jungle." He raised his hand, and Ivan, who served as waiter, brought thick Turkish coffee. Rainsford, with an effort, held his tongue in check.
"It's a game, you see," pursued the general blandly. "I suggest to one of them that we go hunting. I give him a supply of food and an excellent hunting knife. I give him three hours' start. I am to follow, armed only with a pistol of the smallest caliber and range. If my quarry eludes me for three whole days, he wins the game. If I find him "--the general smiled--" he loses."
"Suppose he refuses to be hunted?"
"Oh," said the general, "I give him his option, of course. He need not play that game if he doesn't wish to. If he does not wish to hunt, I turn him over to Ivan. Ivan once had the honor of serving as official knouter to the Great White Czar, and he has his own ideas of sport. Invariably, Mr. Rainsford, invariably they choose the hunt."
"And if they win?"
The smile on the general's face widened. "To date I have not lost," he said. Then he added, hastily: "I don't wish you to think me a braggart, Mr. Rainsford. Many of them afford only the most elementary sort of problem. Occasionally I strike a tartar. One almost did win. I eventually had to use the dogs."
"The dogs?"
"This way, please. I'll show you."
The general steered Rainsford to a window. The lights from the windows sent a flickering illumination that made grotesque patterns on the courtyard below, and Rainsford could see moving about there a dozen or so huge black shapes; as they turned toward him, their eyes glittered greenly.
"A rather good lot, I think," observed the general. "They are let out at seven every night. If anyone should try to get into my house--or out of it--something extremely regrettable would occur to him." He hummed a snatch of song from the Folies Bergere.
"And now," said the general, "I want to show you my new collection of heads. Will you come with me to the library?"
"I hope," said Rainsford, "that you will excuse me tonight, General Zaroff. I'm really not feeling well."
"Ah, indeed?" the general inquired solicitously. "Well, I suppose that's only natural, after your long swim. You need a good, restful night's sleep. Tomorrow you'll feel like a new man, I'll wager. Then we'll hunt, eh? I've one rather promising prospect--" Rainsford was hurrying from the room.
"Sorry you can't go with me tonight," called the general. "I expect rather fair sport--a big, strong, black. He looks resourceful--Well, good night, Mr. Rainsford; I hope you have a good night's rest."
The bed was good, and the pajamas of the softest silk, and he was tired in every fiber of his being, but nevertheless Rainsford could not quiet his brain with the opiate of sleep. He lay, eyes wide open. Once he thought he heard stealthy steps in the corridor outside his room. He sought to throw open the door; it would not open. He went to the window and looked out. His room was high up in one of the towers. The lights of the chateau were out now, and it was dark and silent; but there was a fragment of sallow moon, and by its wan light he could see, dimly, the courtyard. There, weaving in and out in the pattern of shadow, were black, noiseless forms; the hounds heard him at the window and looked up, expectantly, with their green eyes. Rainsford went back to the bed and lay down. By many methods he tried to put himself to sleep. He had achieved a doze when, just as morning began to come, he heard, far off in the jungle, the faint report of a pistol.
General Zaroff did not appear until luncheon. He was dressed faultlessly in the tweeds of a country squire. He was solicitous about the state of Rainsford's health.
"As for me," sighed the general, "I do not feel so well. I am worried, Mr. Rainsford. Last night I detected traces of my old complaint."
To Rainsford's questioning glance the general said, "Ennui. Boredom."
Then, taking a second helping of crêpes Suzette, the general explained: "The hunting was not good last night. The fellow lost his head. He made a straight trail that offered no problems at all. That's the trouble with these sailors; they have dull brains to begin with, and they do not know how to get about in the woods. They do excessively stupid and obvious things. It's most annoying. Will you have another glass of Chablis, Mr. Rainsford?"
"General," said Rainsford firmly, "I wish to leave this island at once."
The general raised his thickets of eyebrows; he seemed hurt. "But, my dear fellow," the general protested, "you've only just come. You've had no hunting--"
"I wish to go today," said Rainsford. He saw the dead black eyes of the general on him, studying him. General Zaroff's face suddenly brightened.
He filled Rainsford's glass with venerable Chablis from a dusty bottle.
"Tonight," said the general, "we will hunt--you and I."
Rainsford shook his head. "No, general," he said. "I will not hunt."
The general shrugged his shoulders and delicately ate a hothouse grape. "As you wish, my friend," he said. "The choice rests entirely with you. But may I not venture to suggest that you will find my idea of sport more diverting than Ivan's?"
He nodded toward the corner to where the giant stood, scowling, his thick arms crossed on his hogshead of chest.
"You don't mean--" cried Rainsford.
"My dear fellow," said the general, "have I not told you I always mean what I say about hunting? This is really an inspiration. I drink to a foeman worthy of my steel--at last." The general raised his glass, but Rainsford sat staring at him.
"You'll find this game worth playing," the general said enthusiastically." Your brain against mine. Your woodcraft against mine. Your strength and stamina against mine. Outdoor chess! And the stake is not without value, eh?"
"And if I win--" began Rainsford huskily.
"I'll cheerfully acknowledge myself defeat if I do not find you by midnight of the third day," said General Zaroff. "My sloop will place you on the mainland near a town." The general read what Rainsford was thinking.
"Oh, you can trust me," said the Cossack. "I will give you my word as a gentleman and a sportsman. Of course you, in turn, must agree to say nothing of your visit here."
"I'll agree to nothing of the kind," said Rainsford.
"Oh," said the general, "in that case--But why discuss that now? Three days hence we can discuss it over a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, unless--"
The general sipped his wine.
Then a businesslike air animated him. "Ivan," he said to Rainsford, "will supply you with hunting clothes, food, a knife. I suggest you wear moccasins; they leave a poorer trail. I suggest, too, that you avoid the big swamp in the southeast corner of the island. We call it Death Swamp. There's quicksand there. One foolish fellow tried it. The deplorable part of it was that Lazarus followed him. You can imagine my feelings, Mr. Rainsford. I loved Lazarus; he was the finest hound in my pack. Well, I must beg you to excuse me now. I always' take a siesta after lunch. You'll hardly have time for a nap, I fear. You'll want to start, no doubt. I shall not follow till dusk. Hunting at night is so much more exciting than by day, don't you think? Au revoir, Mr. Rainsford, au revoir." General Zaroff, with a deep, courtly bow, strolled from the room.
From another door came Ivan. Under one arm he carried khaki hunting clothes, a haversack of food, a leather sheath containing a long-bladed hunting knife; his right hand rested on a cocked revolver thrust in the crimson sash about his waist.
Rainsford had fought his way through the bush for two hours. "I must keep my nerve. I must keep my nerve," he said through tight teeth.
He had not been entirely clearheaded when the chateau gates snapped shut behind him. His whole idea at first was to put distance between himself and General Zaroff; and, to this end, he had plunged along, spurred on by the sharp rowers of something very like panic. Now he had got a grip on himself, had stopped, and was taking stock of himself and the situation. He saw that straight flight was futile; inevitably it would bring him face to face with the sea. He was in a picture with a frame of water, and his operations, clearly, must take place within that frame.
"I'll give him a trail to follow," muttered Rainsford, and he struck off from the rude path he had been following into the trackless wilderness. He executed a series of intricate loops; he doubled on his trail again and again, recalling all the lore of the fox hunt, and all the dodges of the fox. Night found him leg-weary, with hands and face lashed by the branches, on a thickly wooded ridge. He knew it would be insane to blunder on through the dark, even if he had the strength. His need for rest was imperative and he thought, "I have played the fox, now I must play the cat of the fable." A big tree with a thick trunk and outspread branches was near by, and, taking care to leave not the slightest mark, he climbed up into the crotch, and, stretching out on one of the broad limbs, after a fashion, rested. Rest brought him new confidence and almost a feeling of security. Even so zealous a hunter as General Zaroff could not trace him there, he told himself; only the devil himself could follow that complicated trail through the jungle after dark. But perhaps the general was a devil--
An apprehensive night crawled slowly by like a wounded snake and sleep did not visit Rainsford, although the silence of a dead world was on the jungle. Toward morning when a dingy gray was varnishing the sky, the cry of some startled bird focused Rainsford's attention in that direction. Something was coming through the bush, coming slowly, carefully, coming by the same winding way Rainsford had come. He flattened himself down on the limb and, through a screen of leaves almost as thick as tapestry, he watched. . . . That which was approaching was a man.
It was General Zaroff. He made his way along with his eyes fixed in utmost concentration on the ground before him. He paused, almost beneath the tree, dropped to his knees and studied the ground. Rainsford's impulse was to hurl himself down like a panther, but he saw that the general's right hand held something metallic--a small automatic pistol.
The hunter shook his head several times, as if he were puzzled. Then he straightened up and took from his case one of his black cigarettes; its pungent incenselike smoke floated up to Rainsford's nostrils.
Rainsford held his breath. The general's eyes had left the ground and were traveling inch by inch up the tree. Rainsford froze there, every muscle tensed for a spring. But the sharp eyes of the hunter stopped before they reached the limb where Rainsford lay; a smile spread over his brown face. Very deliberately he blew a smoke ring into the air; then he turned his back on the tree and walked carelessly away, back along the trail he had come. The swish of the underbrush against his hunting boots grew fainter and fainter.
The pent-up air burst hotly from Rainsford's lungs. His first thought made him feel sick and numb. The general could follow a trail through the woods at night; he could follow an extremely difficult trail; he must have uncanny powers; only by the merest chance had the Cossack failed to see his quarry.
Rainsford's second thought was even more terrible. It sent a shudder of cold horror through his whole being. Why had the general smiled? Why had he turned back?
Rainsford did not want to believe what his reason told him was true, but the truth was as evident as the sun that had by now pushed through the morning mists. The general was playing with him! The general was saving him for another day's sport! The Cossack was the cat; he was the mouse. Then it was that Rainsford knew the full meaning of terror.
"I will not lose my nerve. I will not."
He slid down from the tree, and struck off again into the woods. His face was set and he forced the machinery of his mind to function. Three hundred yards from his hiding place he stopped where a huge dead tree leaned precariously on a smaller, living one. Throwing off his sack of food, Rainsford took his knife from its sheath and began to work with all his energy.
The job was finished at last, and he threw himself down behind a fallen log a hundred feet away. He did not have to wait long. The cat was coming again to play with the mouse.
Following the trail with the sureness of a bloodhound came General Zaroff. Nothing escaped those searching black eyes, no crushed blade of grass, no bent twig, no mark, no matter how faint, in the moss. So intent was the Cossack on his stalking that he was upon the thing Rainsford had made before he saw it. His foot touched the protruding bough that was the trigger. Even as he touched it, the general sensed his danger and leaped back with the agility of an ape. But he was not quite quick enough; the dead tree, delicately adjusted to rest on the cut living one, crashed down and struck the general a glancing blow on the shoulder as it fell; but for his alertness, he must have been smashed beneath it. He staggered, but he did not fall; nor did he drop his revolver. He stood there, rubbing his injured shoulder, and Rainsford, with fear again gripping his heart, heard the general's mocking laugh ring through the jungle.
"Rainsford," called the general, "if you are within sound of my voice, as I suppose you are, let me congratulate you. Not many men know how to make a Malay mancatcher. Luckily for me I, too, have hunted in Malacca. You are proving interesting, Mr. Rainsford. I am going now to have my wound dressed; it's only a slight one. But I shall be back. I shall be back."
When the general, nursing his bruised shoulder, had gone, Rainsford took up his flight again. It was flight now, a desperate, hopeless flight, that carried him on for some hours. Dusk came, then darkness, and still he pressed on. The ground grew softer under his moccasins; the vegetation grew ranker, denser; insects bit him savagely.
Then, as he stepped forward, his foot sank into the ooze. He tried to wrench it back, but the muck sucked viciously at his foot as if it were a giant leech. With a violent effort, he tore his feet loose. He knew where he was now. Death Swamp and its quicksand.
His hands were tight closed as if his nerve were something tangible that someone in the darkness was trying to tear from his grip. The softness of the earth had given him an idea. He stepped back from the quicksand a dozen feet or so and, like some huge prehistoric beaver, he began to dig.
Rainsford had dug himself in in France when a second's delay meant death. That had been a placid pastime compared to his digging now. The pit grew deeper; when it was above his shoulders, he climbed out and from some hard saplings cut stakes and sharpened them to a fine point. These stakes he planted in the bottom of the pit with the points sticking up. With flying fingers he wove a rough carpet of weeds and branches and with it he covered the mouth of the pit. Then, wet with sweat and aching with tiredness, he crouched behind the stump of a lightning-charred tree.
He knew his pursuer was coming; he heard the padding sound of feet on the soft earth, and the night breeze brought him the perfume of the general's cigarette. It seemed to Rainsford that the general was coming with unusual swiftness; he was not feeling his way along, foot by foot. Rainsford, crouching there, could not see the general, nor could he see the pit. He lived a year in a minute. Then he felt an impulse to cry aloud with joy, for he heard the sharp crackle of the breaking branches as the cover of the pit gave way; he heard the sharp scream of pain as the pointed stakes found their mark. He leaped up from his place of concealment. Then he cowered back. Three feet from the pit a man was standing, with an electric torch in his hand.
"You've done well, Rainsford," the voice of the general called. "Your Burmese tiger pit has claimed one of my best dogs. Again you score. I think, Mr. Rainsford, Ill see what you can do against my whole pack. I'm going home for a rest now. Thank you for a most amusing evening."
At daybreak Rainsford, lying near the swamp, was awakened by a sound that made him know that he had new things to learn about fear. It was a distant sound, faint and wavering, but he knew it. It was the baying of a pack of hounds.
Rainsford knew he could do one of two things. He could stay where he was and wait. That was suicide. He could flee. That was postponing the inevitable. For a moment he stood there, thinking. An idea that held a wild chance came to him, and, tightening his belt, he headed away from the swamp.
The baying of the hounds drew nearer, then still nearer, nearer, ever nearer. On a ridge Rainsford climbed a tree. Down a watercourse, not a quarter of a mile away, he could see the bush moving. Straining his eyes, he saw the lean figure of General Zaroff; just ahead of him Rainsford made out another figure whose wide shoulders surged through the tall jungle weeds; it was the giant Ivan, and he seemed pulled forward by some unseen force; Rainsford knew that Ivan must be holding the pack in leash.
They would be on him any minute now. His mind worked frantically. He thought of a native trick he had learned in Uganda. He slid down the tree. He caught hold of a springy young sapling and to it he fastened his hunting knife, with the blade pointing down the trail; with a bit of wild grapevine he tied back the sapling. Then he ran for his life. The hounds raised their voices as they hit the fresh scent. Rainsford knew now how an animal at bay feels.
He had to stop to get his breath. The baying of the hounds stopped abruptly, and Rainsford's heart stopped too. They must have reached the knife.
He shinned excitedly up a tree and looked back. His pursuers had stopped. But the hope that was in Rainsford's brain when he climbed died, for he saw in the shallow valley that General Zaroff was still on his feet. But Ivan was not. The knife, driven by the recoil of the springing tree, had not wholly failed.
Rainsford had hardly tumbled to the ground when the pack took up the cry again.
"Nerve, nerve, nerve!" he panted, as he dashed along. A blue gap showed between the trees dead ahead. Ever nearer drew the hounds. Rainsford forced himself on toward that gap. He reached it. It was the shore of the sea. Across a cove he could see the gloomy gray stone of the chateau. Twenty feet below him the sea rumbled and hissed. Rainsford hesitated. He heard the hounds. Then he leaped far out into the sea. . . .
When the general and his pack reached the place by the sea, the Cossack stopped. For some minutes he stood regarding the blue-green expanse of water. He shrugged his shoulders. Then be sat down, took a drink of brandy from a silver flask, lit a cigarette, and hummed a bit from Madame Butterfly.
General Zaroff had an exceedingly good dinner in his great paneled dining hall that evening. With it he had a bottle of Pol Roger and half a bottle of Chambertin. Two slight annoyances kept him from perfect enjoyment. One was the thought that it would be difficult to replace Ivan; the other was that his quarry had escaped him; of course, the American hadn't played the game--so thought the general as he tasted his after-dinner liqueur. In his library he read, to soothe himself, from the works of Marcus Aurelius. At ten he went up to his bedroom. He was deliciously tired, he said to himself, as he locked himself in. There was a little moonlight, so, before turning on his light, he went to the window and looked down at the courtyard. He could see the great hounds, and he called, "Better luck another time," to them. Then he switched on the light.
A man, who had been hiding in the curtains of the bed, was standing there.
"Rainsford!" screamed the general. "How in God's name did you get here?"
"Swam," said Rainsford. "I found it quicker than walking through the jungle."
The general sucked in his breath and smiled. "I congratulate you," he said. "You have won the game."
Rainsford did not smile. "I am still a beast at bay," he said, in a low, hoarse voice. "Get ready, General Zaroff."
The general made one of his deepest bows. "I see," he said. "Splendid! One of us is to furnish a repast for the hounds. The other will sleep in this very excellent bed. On guard, Rainsford." . . .
He had never slept in a better bed, Rainsford decided.
marți, 24 iunie 2008
melodia zilei
donovan - hurdy gurdy man
ipostaza in care eu am auzit melodia este "Zodiac".... e prima melodie din film atunci cand are loc prima crima....
ipostaza in care eu am auzit melodia este "Zodiac".... e prima melodie din film atunci cand are loc prima crima....
noaptea barurilor deschise articol incomplet si pe departe de a fi terminat
Acum vreo luna sau mai mult a fost "noaptea muzeelor" si au fost deschise mai 'toata' noaptea, bine tre' sa recunoastem, k a fost o tiganie dupa ora 11, intrare in grupuri de nush cate persoane care aveau la dispozitie un timp limitat. Am incercat si eu sa merg dar nu am ajuns decat putin baut pe la 2 cand mi s-a zis k s-a inchis. Ai putea zice "bah, erai baut si d-aia nu te-au primit" si eu as zice k ai dreptate dar aia din fata muzeului care asteptau si ei???... vreo 50-100 la numar??... printre care si copii cu tatici mamici, unchi, catel, purcel.
La 2 sapt dupa noaptea alba a muzeelor a fost randul galeriilor de arta... acolo nici macar nu m-am mai ridicat. Astazi cand veneam de la scoala am vazut un poster cu "noaptea institutelor" si ghici ce... nici la asta nu o sa ma 'obosesc'.
Bai, frate... io zic sa termine astia, cu prostiile astea cu "nopti albe de cultura"... pana la 11-12 noaptea mai zic, da, intr-adevar, este o idee buna, k poate n-are timp familistu' de cultura dar dupa o anumita ora o sa se imbete naibii tablourile alea.
As vrea sa mi se spuna k gresesc si ca in ziua de azi, in bucuresti mai exista reminiscente de cultura in tineret dar stim cu totii k o sa ne oprim la UTV, MTV si OTV. Adica, nu zic k nu exista exceptii (a fost o dubla negatie, daaa?!) dar asta este in fond si definitia 'exceptiei' si anume, nr mic deci e vb de o "cantitate" foarte redusa in comparatie cu majoritatea.
Spune-ne k Mcdonald's'il de la Unirii o sa fie non-stop, k o sa gasesc un restaurant deschis pe la 4 noaptea si atunci o sa vina lumea k la paine moka. Spune-mi k un muzeu este deschis si pe deasupra mai e si cu intrare gratuita... "cum?.. moka??... sa mori tu??!!" cam asta e nivelu' daca e moka tre' sa te bucuri de moka, moka e bun, moka e gratis.
Si pe deasupra mai e si pb mea personala cu tema muzeului: nu ai ce cauta intr-un loc in care nu stii cum ai ajuns... nu ma intelege gresit... nu zic k omu nu are voie sa se duca sa vada despre ce e vb.... bai dar daca nu ai auzit de grigorescu sau de luchian stai acasa. Daca ti se pare ca Mihai Viteazu e filmu ala cu Amza Pelea (si aici merg deja departe)... reformulez... daca ti se pare ca Mihai Viteazu e filmu ala cu nea' Marin mai bine du-te la discoteca...
Cultura, in opinia mea, e pe cale de disparitie, vorbesc de cultura aia cu carti (vb de literatura nationala si internationala mai vechi de 30 de ani ), cu biblioteci, cu muzee. Daca ai citit Coelho, nu inseamna k esti mai destept, daca ai citi Cartarescu nu inseamna k esti 'citit'. Inseamna k vrei sa zici si tu k "Uite frate k citesc, nu ca tine!". Daca te duci la muzeu la "nopti albe" odata pe an ca atunci este.. o data pe an, nu inseamna k esti cult... inseamna k toatea astea sunt doar pt TINE... 'ei' incearca sa faca mai accesibila cultura sau macar s-o aduca la nivelul tau de inteligenta... nimeni nu vrea sa faca din tine intelectual dar macar mediocru sa fii pentru k in momentul asta te indrepti spre inferioritate si te mai si complaci in ea.
Stiu ca in timp cultura evolueaza dar consider ca in momentul acesta in romania trece catre o involutie (sau declin). Uita-te la toate site-urile.... despre ce sunt??? despre ce am mai vazut, pe unde am mai fost, cu ce se mai imbraca ala/aia. Uita-te pe site-il unei edituri sa vezi descrierea la o carte... cred k post'ul asta e mai mare.
Nu zic k io sunt mare rahat... dar macar io stiu ce fac prost (rar ce-i drept) si recunosc indolenta mea pentru cultura (nu chiar toata... mai degraba e o 'indolenta selectiva').
Anexa:
La 2 sapt dupa noaptea alba a muzeelor a fost randul galeriilor de arta... acolo nici macar nu m-am mai ridicat. Astazi cand veneam de la scoala am vazut un poster cu "noaptea institutelor" si ghici ce... nici la asta nu o sa ma 'obosesc'.
Bai, frate... io zic sa termine astia, cu prostiile astea cu "nopti albe de cultura"... pana la 11-12 noaptea mai zic, da, intr-adevar, este o idee buna, k poate n-are timp familistu' de cultura dar dupa o anumita ora o sa se imbete naibii tablourile alea.
As vrea sa mi se spuna k gresesc si ca in ziua de azi, in bucuresti mai exista reminiscente de cultura in tineret dar stim cu totii k o sa ne oprim la UTV, MTV si OTV. Adica, nu zic k nu exista exceptii (a fost o dubla negatie, daaa?!) dar asta este in fond si definitia 'exceptiei' si anume, nr mic deci e vb de o "cantitate" foarte redusa in comparatie cu majoritatea.
Spune-ne k Mcdonald's'il de la Unirii o sa fie non-stop, k o sa gasesc un restaurant deschis pe la 4 noaptea si atunci o sa vina lumea k la paine moka. Spune-mi k un muzeu este deschis si pe deasupra mai e si cu intrare gratuita... "cum?.. moka??... sa mori tu??!!" cam asta e nivelu' daca e moka tre' sa te bucuri de moka, moka e bun, moka e gratis.
Si pe deasupra mai e si pb mea personala cu tema muzeului: nu ai ce cauta intr-un loc in care nu stii cum ai ajuns... nu ma intelege gresit... nu zic k omu nu are voie sa se duca sa vada despre ce e vb.... bai dar daca nu ai auzit de grigorescu sau de luchian stai acasa. Daca ti se pare ca Mihai Viteazu e filmu ala cu Amza Pelea (si aici merg deja departe)... reformulez... daca ti se pare ca Mihai Viteazu e filmu ala cu nea' Marin mai bine du-te la discoteca...
Cultura, in opinia mea, e pe cale de disparitie, vorbesc de cultura aia cu carti (vb de literatura nationala si internationala mai vechi de 30 de ani ), cu biblioteci, cu muzee. Daca ai citit Coelho, nu inseamna k esti mai destept, daca ai citi Cartarescu nu inseamna k esti 'citit'. Inseamna k vrei sa zici si tu k "Uite frate k citesc, nu ca tine!". Daca te duci la muzeu la "nopti albe" odata pe an ca atunci este.. o data pe an, nu inseamna k esti cult... inseamna k toatea astea sunt doar pt TINE... 'ei' incearca sa faca mai accesibila cultura sau macar s-o aduca la nivelul tau de inteligenta... nimeni nu vrea sa faca din tine intelectual dar macar mediocru sa fii pentru k in momentul asta te indrepti spre inferioritate si te mai si complaci in ea.
Stiu ca in timp cultura evolueaza dar consider ca in momentul acesta in romania trece catre o involutie (sau declin). Uita-te la toate site-urile.... despre ce sunt??? despre ce am mai vazut, pe unde am mai fost, cu ce se mai imbraca ala/aia. Uita-te pe site-il unei edituri sa vezi descrierea la o carte... cred k post'ul asta e mai mare.
Nu zic k io sunt mare rahat... dar macar io stiu ce fac prost (rar ce-i drept) si recunosc indolenta mea pentru cultura (nu chiar toata... mai degraba e o 'indolenta selectiva').
Anexa:
“Haute Culture” is a term that is sometimes used in general media as a definition for cultural activities or items that achieve the highest standards. Although initially used as an offshoot of the highly popular (and now legally protected) Haute Couture, it really seeks to define anything that is unique and exclusive in the cultural world (as opposed to the fashion one).
“Haute Culture” really defines a number of interesting façades of our society and has been used in a number of different ways, from high-end art collections to tailor-made holidays."
luni, 23 iunie 2008
canicula si cuba
...sunt atat de bucuros ca azi, la pranz, au fost aproape 40 de grade... serios :)
Mai stii cum sunt "new year resolution", ei bine eu am "summer resolution":
1. As vrea sa stau pe o plaja ca cea de mai jos :
2. Sa ascult melodia asta:
Compay Segundo - Chan Chan
Asculta mai multe audio Muzica »
3. si sa beau asa ceva:
P.S. si la fel va doresc si voua!!!!!
Mai stii cum sunt "new year resolution", ei bine eu am "summer resolution":
1. As vrea sa stau pe o plaja ca cea de mai jos :
2. Sa ascult melodia asta:
Compay Segundo - Chan Chan
Asculta mai multe audio Muzica »
3. si sa beau asa ceva:
P.S. si la fel va doresc si voua!!!!!
luni, 16 iunie 2008
victorieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
Ce fumeaza puiu' ??????????????
Da daaa!!!!
Cine vrea... sa se duca in padure!!! Am doar 20... 19... 18...
Da daaa!!!!
Cine vrea... sa se duca in padure!!! Am doar 20... 19... 18...
sâmbătă, 14 iunie 2008
filme de iunie
A trecut mult timp de cand nu am mai vazut un film misto, dar nu am avut timp! Si totusi... printre ex
amene si proiecte, mi-am "permis" (de fapt acum le-am gasit) vizionarea a cateva"
Definitely Maybe - cu Ryan Reynolds in rolul unui tata divortat care trebuie sa-i explice copilului (lui) cum s-a ajuns acolo si de ce. Acum, pentru ca si eu am fost intr-o situatie asemenatoare... a copilului :)) nu a tatalui, pot sa zic, ca a meritat toata asteptarea mea de a gasi acest film. Foarte bine facut, foarte bine scris si foarte bine interpretat. Daca il gasesti sau ai optiunea sa-l vezi la cinema, fa-o!! it's worth every penny! (+Ryan Reynolds mi se pare k joaca in filme din ce in ce mai misto 'so not-"Van Wilder" ' si in acelasi timp umbla cu Scarlett Johansson)
Stop-loss - Ryan Phillippe se intoarce din Vietnam.... aaa... nu.... din Afganistan impreuna c
u trupa lui de soc.... aka camarazi de arme, toti cu mintea ciuruita si psihicu tandari si cand vrea sa se retraga din razboi/sa iasa la pensie/lasat la vatra, armata ii baga in fata un ordin "stop-loss", ceea ce inseamna ca ciuciu... adica nu si e nevoit sa se intoarca la razboi. Si de aici "se naste dilema" (replica a la Timpuri Noi - Stere), ce sa faca? cum sa faca? La sfarsit/ In concluzie adevarul doare, dar ca sa vezi de ce, mai bine vezi filmu'.
Th
e Oxford Murders - pustiu ala mic din Lordu inelelor.... Frodo...aaa.. Elijah Wood numai poate sa filmeze in America asa k s-a mutat pe platourile din UK de data asta in rolul unui matemacian in devenire, originar din Arizona, care vrea sa faca totul (ca orice american din Arizona). Cu timpul (adica vreo 2 zile) in jurul lui se intampla tot felul de evenimente ciudate (morti, nu asa de multi) si alaturi de John Hurt, mentorul lui, incearca sa descopere "who did it". "Weeeeell, it's not the butler."
Filmu' e bunicel, nu e grozav dar merita mentionat.
In Bruges - Colin Farrell, Ralph Fiennes si Brendan Gleeson sunt 3 asasini cu
probleme. Farrell si Gleeson sunt trimisi de Fiennes in Belgia "for sightseeing". "Little did they know" ca Fiennes are alt plan. bine, k sa mai completez la intriga, Farrel si cu Gleeson sunt trimisi sub pretextul ca ultima lor "misiune" a iesit prost si trebuie sa dispara pentro vreme. Sincer, ultima lor misiune a iesit foarte prost si de fapt cam si despre asta este si toata intriga.
Alte cronici la acest film, spun ca este o comedie neagra si au dreptate partial daaaar.... mai bine vezi tu insuti.
amene si proiecte, mi-am "permis" (de fapt acum le-am gasit) vizionarea a cateva"Definitely Maybe - cu Ryan Reynolds in rolul unui tata divortat care trebuie sa-i explice copilului (lui) cum s-a ajuns acolo si de ce. Acum, pentru ca si eu am fost intr-o situatie asemenatoare... a copilului :)) nu a tatalui, pot sa zic, ca a meritat toata asteptarea mea de a gasi acest film. Foarte bine facut, foarte bine scris si foarte bine interpretat. Daca il gasesti sau ai optiunea sa-l vezi la cinema, fa-o!! it's worth every penny! (+Ryan Reynolds mi se pare k joaca in filme din ce in ce mai misto 'so not-"Van Wilder" ' si in acelasi timp umbla cu Scarlett Johansson)
Stop-loss - Ryan Phillippe se intoarce din Vietnam.... aaa... nu.... din Afganistan impreuna c
u trupa lui de soc.... aka camarazi de arme, toti cu mintea ciuruita si psihicu tandari si cand vrea sa se retraga din razboi/sa iasa la pensie/lasat la vatra, armata ii baga in fata un ordin "stop-loss", ceea ce inseamna ca ciuciu... adica nu si e nevoit sa se intoarca la razboi. Si de aici "se naste dilema" (replica a la Timpuri Noi - Stere), ce sa faca? cum sa faca? La sfarsit/ In concluzie adevarul doare, dar ca sa vezi de ce, mai bine vezi filmu'.Th
e Oxford Murders - pustiu ala mic din Lordu inelelor.... Frodo...aaa.. Elijah Wood numai poate sa filmeze in America asa k s-a mutat pe platourile din UK de data asta in rolul unui matemacian in devenire, originar din Arizona, care vrea sa faca totul (ca orice american din Arizona). Cu timpul (adica vreo 2 zile) in jurul lui se intampla tot felul de evenimente ciudate (morti, nu asa de multi) si alaturi de John Hurt, mentorul lui, incearca sa descopere "who did it". "Weeeeell, it's not the butler."Filmu' e bunicel, nu e grozav dar merita mentionat.
In Bruges - Colin Farrell, Ralph Fiennes si Brendan Gleeson sunt 3 asasini cu
probleme. Farrell si Gleeson sunt trimisi de Fiennes in Belgia "for sightseeing". "Little did they know" ca Fiennes are alt plan. bine, k sa mai completez la intriga, Farrel si cu Gleeson sunt trimisi sub pretextul ca ultima lor "misiune" a iesit prost si trebuie sa dispara pentro vreme. Sincer, ultima lor misiune a iesit foarte prost si de fapt cam si despre asta este si toata intriga.Alte cronici la acest film, spun ca este o comedie neagra si au dreptate partial daaaar.... mai bine vezi tu insuti.
back to the news: "Drivers turn to blow-up dolls to beat traffic rules"
"
WELLINGTON (Reuters) - Drivers in New Zealand's largest city of Auckland are turning to inflatable passengers to try and beat transit lane rules.
Blow-up dolls, shop mannequins and dogs dressed up as children have all been used to try and justify driving in lanes where vehicles are required to have at least three occupants.
"There were some odd people that tried these antics," North Shore city council traffic safety manager Andre Dannhauser told Reuters.
Drivers caught trying to beat the system are fined NZ$150
($114).
Enforcement officers taking pictures of offending cars in transit lanes have been treated to a wide range of excuses from caught-out motorists, Dannhauser said.
"The most common one is the imaginary passengers they claim we couldn't see because they were so small," Dannhauser said.
For a while some enterprising students charged a small fee to get driven past the enforcement officers, before running back up the road to repeat the trick. "The money they generated from that was not enough to pay for the beer for the thirst they generated," Dannhauser said. (NZ$1=$1.32)
(Reporting by Adrian Bathgate; Editing by Alex Richardson)
"miercuri, 11 iunie 2008
mesaj
verbul 'a merita' NU are reflexiv!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
poti sa spui "merita atentie" si nu "se merita atentie"
poti sa spui "merita atentie" si nu "se merita atentie"
marți, 10 iunie 2008
the theory
Nu stiu daca a vazut cineva dar io nu pot sa ma abtin sa mai tac. e a tzunshpea mie oara cand vad una cat casa de mare k merge pe varfuri. Acum 10 min l-am vazut pe unu (cred k avea pe putin 140 de kile), parca era balerina, pe varfuri si cu mainile fluturand.
Frate, daca ai 150 de kile numa' e nevoie sa mergi pe varfuri!!!!
Frate, daca ai 150 de kile numa' e nevoie sa mergi pe varfuri!!!!
stiri de ora 5
Problema mea este ca toata lumea isi da cu parerea. Cativa "intelepti" pe la sfarsit dar peste tot pareri si atotstiutorul "modest"....: "Eu cred k..." si "Parerea mea este..."
Si eu fac aceasi chestie numai ca EU o fac in acest spatiu, pe care poti sa-l citesti sau nu, dar ei o fac intr-un "loc" unde toata lumea poate citi toate acele lucruri
In Romania sau mai exact in Bucuresti (pentru k Bucuresti-ul e ceea ce vad zi de zi ), asta gasesti... pareri!!!
Imi pare rau daca generalizarea mea jigneste pe cineva dar putin imi pasa. Ceea ce ma face sa-mi para rau este ca (in caz ca cineva citeste aceste randuri si) zice "Vorbeste de altcineva" ba io chiar de tine vorbesc... pentru k TU "te faci ca ploua".
O sa mancam, dormim, kkm 'pentru' si 'pe' "pareri"!
comentarii:
Trimis de bali...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 13:49 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Trimis de cioc...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 14:00 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Trimis de adri...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 14:04 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Trimis de pepi...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 14:04 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Trimis de razg...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 14:12 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Trimis de this...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 14:15 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Trimis de patr...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 14:16 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Si eu fac aceasi chestie numai ca EU o fac in acest spatiu, pe care poti sa-l citesti sau nu, dar ei o fac intr-un "loc" unde toata lumea poate citi toate acele lucruri
In Romania sau mai exact in Bucuresti (pentru k Bucuresti-ul e ceea ce vad zi de zi ), asta gasesti... pareri!!!
Imi pare rau daca generalizarea mea jigneste pe cineva dar putin imi pasa. Ceea ce ma face sa-mi para rau este ca (in caz ca cineva citeste aceste randuri si) zice "Vorbeste de altcineva" ba io chiar de tine vorbesc... pentru k TU "te faci ca ploua".
O sa mancam, dormim, kkm 'pentru' si 'pe' "pareri"!
Accident rutier grav în Bucureşti
10/06/2008
O adolescentă în vârstă de13 ani a murit, iar o alta de 12 ani a rămas internată în spital cu leziuni grave, după ce luni după-amiază au fost lovite de un autoturism în timp ce încercau să traverseze bulevardul Aviatorilor, anunţă Poliţia Capitalei.
A MURIT PE LOC. Accidentul s-a petrecut în jurul orei 17.00, iar adolescentele au fost lovite în plin de un bucureştean în vârstă de 27 de ani, care rula cu un autoturism Opel pe bulevardul Aviatorilor, dinspre Piaţa Victoriei către strada Arhitect „Ion Mincu”. Potrivit martorilor audiaţi de poliţişti, cele două fete au încercat să traverseze artera în fugă, undeva în dreptul intersecţiei dintre Bulevardul Aviatorilor cu Aleea Alexandru, însă totul a rămas doar tentativă. Primi paşi făcuţi către celălalt trotuar le-a adus în faţa Opel-ului, astfel că au fost spulberate. După accident, conducătorul auto a pierdut controlul asupra direcţiei şi a intrat în coliziune cu un autoturism marca Renault, care se afla oprit. Adolescenta de 13 ani a murit pe loc, iar colega ei a fost transportată la Spitalul de Urgenţă din calea Floreasca, unde a rămas internată cu leziuni grave. Conducătorul auto a fost testat cu aparatul alcooltest, rezultatul fiind zero, iar în momentul producerii accidentului, spun poliţiştii, purta centura de siguranţă. În cauză s-a întocmit dosar de cercetare ce va fi înaintat spre soluţionare Biroului Cercetări Penale din cadrul Direcţiei Generale de Poliţie a Municipiului Bucureşti.
comentarii:
daca era trecere in preajma
Trimis de bali...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 13:49 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
isi meritau soarta
Trimis de cioc...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 14:00 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
nu spune asta
a murit un om
pacat si de fata si de conducatorul auto care va duce povara asta toata viata
a murit un om
pacat si de fata si de conducatorul auto care va duce povara asta toata viata
Trimis de adri...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 14:04 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Mah peisane...a murit o persoana...cum poti vb asa
Trimis de pepi...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 14:04 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
da intr-adevar indiferent cine a fost de vina o sa poarte pe constiinta imaginea si trauma aceasta toata viata.
Trimis de razg...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 14:12 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
pacat de fetita care a murit si de familia distrusa ramasa in urma. daca soferul este nevinovat ... nu vreau sa-mi imaginez ce cosmar il asteapta restul vietii. :(
Trimis de this...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 14:15 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
sa se invete lumea sa nu mai treaca aiurea strada.....
asa se intampla accidente si mor oameni nevinovati.. sau mai rau... fac altii puscarie degeaba......
de ce tre sa lasam noi soferii de la noi cand trec aiuritii neregulamentar strada?
trist oricum ptr ca erau mult prea tinere..nu meritau sa moara
asa se intampla accidente si mor oameni nevinovati.. sau mai rau... fac altii puscarie degeaba......
de ce tre sa lasam noi soferii de la noi cand trec aiuritii neregulamentar strada?
trist oricum ptr ca erau mult prea tinere..nu meritau sa moara
Trimis de patr...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 14:16 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
mai BALI tu nu te-ai grabit niciodata si ai traversat strada aiurea ,esti omul perfect,nu gresesti ?,cum poti face o asemenea afirmatie ?esti cumva Dumnezeu sa afirmi ca isi meritau soarta ,se vede ca nu ai copii , iar cand o sa ii ai, ai sa vezi cum e sa fii parinte si o sa ai grija sa nu pateasca ceva intru-n oras haotic cum e Bucurestiul,de unde atata ura si lipsa de suflet ?..
comentarii partea a 2-a
Trimis de iata...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 15:28 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Trimis de vasi...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 16:00 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Trimis de iata...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 16:15 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Trimis de stef...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 16:22 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Trimis de vali...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 16:26 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj o masina gen opel opreste in franare de la 60 de km in aproximativ 10-12 metrii, deci daca la 60 de km pe ora iti sare cineva in fata la 4 metrii poti sa fii si schumaher, la mai putin de 30 -40 de km pe ora nu ajungi. Nu mai vb voi soferii cu un accident ca probabil ati mers doar pe autostrada in linie drepta si pana acolo v-a condus cineva masina in oras. Dumnezeu s-o odihneasca in pace pe saraca fata
comentarii partea a 3-a:
Trimis de socr...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 14:15 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Cunosc zona FOARTE BINE ai NU ESTE NICI O TRECERE DE PIETONI !!
PREA "LE FURAM" NOI,ASTIA CARE MAI SI CONDUCEM !!!
Trimis de serg...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 14:29 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Trimis de dani...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 15:49 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Trimis de supe...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 15:58 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Trimis de dan_...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 17:09 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Trimis de mail...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 17:12 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Trimis de bade...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 18:35 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Trimis de vasi...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 18:38 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
comentarii partea a 2-a
Mai mult ca sigur...
Comentariu pe articolulAccident rutier grav in Bucuresti
Trimis de iata...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 15:28 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Mai mult ca sigur ca a avut viteza excesiva. La o viteza normala sunt sanse foarte mari pentru a evita sa omori pe cineva. Indiferent ca cele doua fetite nu au traversat regulamentar daca teribilistul de sofer ar fi avut viteza mai mica, cel putin doar le accidenta dar fara sa omoare pe vreuna.
Trimis de vasi...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 16:00 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
s-o crezi mata daca au sarit direct in sosea si la 40 la ora le faceam terci
masinile nu sunt obiecte fara inertie
masinile nu sunt obiecte fara inertie
Trimis de iata...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 16:15 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
La 40 /ora poti frana fara probleme
...si eu am carnet si am avut un singur accident.. deci stiu ce vorbesc... aveam cam 55 la ora si am putut evita sa omor pe cineva din acest motiv - ca nu-i dadeam in goarna prin oras cu 100 sau mai bine.. cum cred ca o fi avut soferul respectiv.
...si eu am carnet si am avut un singur accident.. deci stiu ce vorbesc... aveam cam 55 la ora si am putut evita sa omor pe cineva din acest motiv - ca nu-i dadeam in goarna prin oras cu 100 sau mai bine.. cum cred ca o fi avut soferul respectiv.
Trimis de stef...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 16:22 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
nu stiu ce carnet ai tu, dar nu cred ca de masina, poate bicicleta. poate nu sti piatra cubica de pe aviatorilor si nici nu sti cum reactioneaza o masina cand franezi pe aceasta suprafata. incearca intro seara sa te opresti de la 40km/h pe aviatorilor si masoara cat iti ia. o sa ai o mare SURPRIZA!!! pana una alta ... baiatul ala nu are absolut nici o vina si asa este si corect. din partea mea poate sa si ceara daune morale.
Trimis de vali...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 16:26 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj o masina gen opel opreste in franare de la 60 de km in aproximativ 10-12 metrii, deci daca la 60 de km pe ora iti sare cineva in fata la 4 metrii poti sa fii si schumaher, la mai putin de 30 -40 de km pe ora nu ajungi. Nu mai vb voi soferii cu un accident ca probabil ati mers doar pe autostrada in linie drepta si pana acolo v-a condus cineva masina in oras. Dumnezeu s-o odihneasca in pace pe saraca fata
comentarii partea a 3-a:
COMFORM LEGII.....
Comentariu pe articolulAccident rutier grav in Bucuresti
Trimis de socr...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 14:15 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Cunosc zona FOARTE BINE ai NU ESTE NICI O TRECERE DE PIETONI !!
PREA "LE FURAM" NOI,ASTIA CARE MAI SI CONDUCEM !!!
Trimis de serg...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 14:29 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
bine zici socr:)
Trimis de dani...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 15:49 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
si din cate stiu eu ...viteza permisa pe aviatorilor este de 60 km / h ... si intr-un comentariu cineva spunea ca daca ar fi condus cu viteza legala ar fi putut evita ! OARE ? am avut si eu un accident minor , si stiu cat m-au durut toate cele , la o viteza de doar 30 km/h (m-a lovit o alta masina din spate), dar la 60 (viteza legala).... normal ca nu poate rezista corpul uman ! si asta sigur nu e singurul exemplu , multe accidenta s-au soldat cu morti si raniti foarte grav , chiar daca masina circula cu viteza legala .... asa ca , viata trebuie pretuita , atat cat o avem ! condoleante familiei . si mult noroc tanarului care conducea , sa nu faca puscarie nevinovat , datorita justitiei romane ...
Trimis de supe...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 15:58 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
crezi ca se mai pune problema de noroc sa scape?...cum traiesti cu chestia asta pe constiinta? sa omori pe cineva...chiar si din vina lui...pacat de toti cei implicati...
Trimis de dan_...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 17:09 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Ce sa zic, sunt poate prea multi pietoni neatenti, sau inconstienti. Si-au meritat soarta, cele doua, mai ales ca nu erau pe trecere si nici atente la circulatia masinilor.
Doar ca le are pe constiinta (soferul respectiv).
Doar ca le are pe constiinta (soferul respectiv).
Trimis de mail...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 17:12 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Sunt si pieton si sofer. Si intotdeauna am considerat ca locul soferilor e pe sosea, iar al pietonilor pe trotoar sau pe trecere la culoarea verde.. La Aviatorilor exista pasaje pietonale. E momentul in care tb sa invatam sa fim mai civilizati, mai putin grabiti, mai atenti cu noi insine si cu cei din jurul nostru. Si e momentul in care tb sa invatam ca trecerile de pietoni sunt puse cu un scop, si nu au un rol estetic. Sunt unul din oamenii care traverseaza doar pe la trecere, indiferent de cat de departe pare a fi, si unul din pacate din putinii soferi care refuza sa blocheze intersectiile oricate claxoane si injuraturi si-ar lua din spate. Condoleante familiei.. Nu stiu ce sa-i urez soferului, poate sa treaca cu bine peste momentul acesta imputit. Si vorba cuiva din post, sa nu aiba ghinionul sa vada zabrele din cauza justitiei noastre care e asa cum o stim cu totii
Trimis de bade...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 18:35 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
adica daca esti sofer si trece un pieton printr-un loc nepermis ii da acestuia dreptul de al lovi trecatorul fara probleme? si eu sunt sofer dar nu lovesc lumea pe sosea. puneti-va in locul lor. nu mai criticati pietonii("voi soferii").
Trimis de vasi...@... la 10 Iunie 2008, ora 18:38 | Raporteaza abuz de limbaj
Nu uitati ca erau niste copii, este treaba noastra, a adultilor, sa ne educam copiii cum trebuie.
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