Внимание: Книги на английском языке-- Connie Willis / Конни Уиллис - Собрание сочинений
Годы выпуска: 1984-2013 г.
Автор: Willis, Connie / Уиллис, Конни
Самый титулованный автор фантастики 1980-х-1990-х годов (10 премий «Хьюго», 7 премий «Небьюлы» и свыше десятка «Локусов»).
Уиллис известна как автор, пишущий в жанре комедии нравов, её творения нередко пронизаны сатирой и юмором, часто ей присущ легкий искрящийся стиль, в котором она берется раскрывать самые серьезные и сложные темы, но вам может попасться и новелла-«ужастик» со смертельной серьезностью. Одна из её любимых тем — путешествия во времени.
Проза Уиллис замечательна тем, что характеры своих героев она предпочитает раскрывать через сюжет и почти не пользуется для этой цели описаниями. Благодаря этой интересной технике её рассказы всегда легко узнаваемы, и это при том, что среди них нет и двух похожих. Уиллис намеренно пробует свои силы в самых разных манерах письма: традиционный реализм «Пожарной команды» соседствует у нее со сказочными мотивами «Отца невесты» [«The Father of the Bride»], а те — с лихо закрученными комедийными ситуациями «Посиневшей Луны».
Конни Уиллис — передовой боец фантастики гуманистического толка — успешно ведет заочную дуэль с представителями киберпанка. В первой половине 1990-х за ней безоговорочная победа: «В отеле „Риальто“» выигрывает «Хьюго»-1990, рассказ о превратностях женской физиологии «Даже у королевы» (1992) — «Хьюго», «Небьюлу» и премию журнала «Локус», роман «Книга Судного дня» о тяжелом путешествии во времени в 14-й век в самый разгар эпидемии чумы (1993) — повторение тройного успеха у читателей («Хьюго» и «Локус») и соратников по перу («Небьюла»), премия «Локус» за новеллу «Close Encounter» (1993) и сборник «Impossible Things», через год рассказ «Смерть на Ниле» о крушении лайнера с туристами, продолжающими своё тур-путешествие под присмотром Анубиса (1994) вновь приносит Конни премию «Хьюго», а роман «Remake»(1994) премию «Локуса»!
В конце 20-го века Конни собирает урожай из трёх «Хьюго» за рассказ «Душа выбирает сама свое общество» (1997), роман «Не говоря о собаке» (1999), и повесть «Ветры Марбл-Арч» (2000).
В общем, писательница замечательная - читайте на здоровье
Doomsday Book / Книга Страшного суда 1993, fb2, ISBN: 0-553-56273-8, Bantam Spectra; 2011, epub, eISBN: 978-0-307-78444-5, Bantam Spectra
To Say Nothing of the Dog 1998, fb2, ISBN: 0-553-09995-7, Bantam Spectra; 2009, epub, eISBN: 978-0-307-57408-4, Bantam Spectra
02 All Clear 2010 fb2/epub, eISBN: 978-0-345-52269-6, Spectra / Ballantine Books
Uncharted Territory / Неразведанная территория 1994, fb2, ISBN: 0-553-56294-0, Bantam Spectra; 2009, epub, eISBN: 978-0-307-57415-2, Bantam Spectra
Remake 1994, fb2; 2009, epub, eISBN: 978-0-307-57388-9, Bantam Spectra
Bellwether 1996, fb2; 2010, epub, eISBN: 978-0-307-57194-6, Spectra / Ballantine Books
Passage 2001, fb2; 2009, epub, eISBN: 978-0-307-57372-8, Bantam Books
Повести и рассказы:
Cibola 1990, fb2
A New Theory Explaining the Unpredictability of Forecasting the Weather 1993, fb2
Why the World Didn't End Last Tuesday 1994, fb2
Nonstop to Portales / До Порталеса без остановок 1996, fb2
Just Like the Ones We Used to Know / Светлое Рождество 2003, fb2
Just Like the Ones We Used to KnowThe snow started at 12:01 a.m. Eastern Standard Time just outside of Branford, Connecticut. Noah and Terry Blake, on their way home from a party at the Whittiers’ at which Miranda Whittier had said, "I guess you could call this our Christmas Eve Eve party!" at least fifty times, noticed a few stray flakes as they turned onto Canoe Brook Road, and by the time they reached home, the snow was coming down hard.
"Oh, good," Tess said, leaning forward to peer through the windshield, "I’ve been hoping we’d have a white Christmas this year."
At 1:37 a.m. Central Standard Time, Billy Grogan, filling in for KYZT’s late-night radio request show out of Duluth, said, "This just in from the National Weather Service. Snow advisory for the Great Lakes region tonight and tomorrow morning. Two to four inches expected," and then went back to discussing the callers’ least favorite Christmas songs.
"I’ll tell you the one I hate," a caller from Wauwatosa said. " ‘White Christmas.’ I musta heard that thing five hundred times this month."
"Actually," Billy said, "according to the St. Cloud Evening News, Bing Crosby’s version of ‘White Christmas’ will be played 2150 times during the month of December, and other artists’ renditions of it will be played an additional 1890 times."
The caller snorted. "One time’s too many for me. Who the heck wants a white Christmas anyway? I sure don’t."
"Well, unfortunately, it looks like you’re going to get one," Billy said. "And, in that spirit, here’s Destiny’s Child, singing ‘White Christmas.’ "
At 1:45 a.m., a number of geese in the city park in Bowling Green, Kentucky, woke up to a dark, low, overcast sky and flew, flapping and honking loudly, over the city center, as if they had suddenly decided to fly farther south for the winter. The noise woke Maureen Reynolds, who couldn’t get back to sleep. She turned on KYOU, which was playing "Holly Jolly Oldies," including "Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree" and Brenda Lee’s rendition of "White Christmas."
At 2:15 a.m. Mountain Standard Time, Paula Devereaux arrived at DIA for the red-eye flight to Springfield, Illinois. It was beginning to snow, and as she waited in line at the express check-in (she was carrying on her bridesmaid dress and the bag with her shoes and slip and makeup–the last time she’d been in a wedding, her luggage had gotten lost and caused a major crisis) and in line at security and in line at the gate and in line to be de-iced, she began to hope they might not be able to take off, but no such luck.
Of course not, Paula thought, looking out the window at the snow swirling around the wing, because Stacey wants me at her wedding.
"I want a Christmas Eve wedding," Stacey’d told Paula after she’d informed her she was going to be her maid of honor, "all candlelight and evergreens. And I want snow falling outside the windows."
"What if the weather doesn’t cooperate?" Paula’d asked.
"It will," Stacey’d said. And here it was, snowing. She wondered if it was snowing in Springfield, too. Of course it is, she thought. Whatever Stacey wants, Stacey gets, Paula thought. Even Jim.
Don’t think about that, she told herself. Don’t think about anything. Just concentrate on getting through the wedding. With luck, Jim won’t even be there except for the ceremony, and you won’t have to spend any time with him at all.
She picked up the in-flight magazine and tried to read and then plugged in her headphones and listened to Channel 4, "Seasonal Favorites." The first song was "White Christmas" by the Statler Brothers.
At 3:38 a.m., it began to snow in Bowling Green, Kentucky. The geese circling the city flew back to the park, landed, and hunkered down to sit it out on their island in the lake. Snow began to collect on their backs, but they didn’t care, protected as they were by down and a thick layer of subcutaneous fat designed to keep them warm even in sub-zero temperatures.
At 3:39 a.m., Luke Lafferty woke up, convinced he’d forgotten to set the goose his mother had talked him into having for Christmas Eve dinner out to thaw. He went and checked. He had set it out. On his way back to bed, he looked out the window and saw it was snowing, which didn’t worry him. The news had said isolated snow showers for Wichita, ending by mid-morning, and none of his relatives lived more than an hour and a half away, except Aunt Lulla, and if she couldn’t make it, it wouldn’t exactly put a crimp in the conversation. His mom and Aunt Madge talked so much it was hard for anybody else to get a word in edgewise, especially Aunt Lulla. "She was always the shy one," Luke’s mother said, and it was true, Luke couldn’t remember her saying anything other than "Please pass the potatoes," at their family get-togethers.
What did worry him was the goose. He should never have let his mother talk him into having one. It was bad enough her having talked him into having the family dinner at his place. He had no idea how to cook a goose.
"What if something goes wrong?" he’d protested. "Butterball doesn’t have a goose hotline."
"You won’t need a hotline," his mother had said. "It’s just like cooking a turkey, and it’s not as if you had to cook it. I’ll be there in time to put it in the oven and everything. All you have to do is set it out to thaw. Do you have a roasting pan?"
"Yes," Luke had said, but lying there, he couldn’t remember if he did. When he got up at 4:14 a.m. to check–he did–it was still snowing.
. . .
To Say Nothing of the Dog“It would have been nice to start fresh without
those messy old ruins” she said.
“They’re a symbol, dear?”, said her friend.
A Search Party—Wartime Headgear—The Problem of Nepotism—Royal Headgear—The Bishop’s Bird Stump Is Missing—Jumble Sales—A Clue to Its Whereabouts—Astronomical Observations—Dogs—A Cat—Man’s Best Friend—An Abrupt Departure
There were five of us—Carruthers and the new recruit and myself, and Mr. Spivens and the verger. It was late afternoon on November the fifteenth, and we were in what was left of Coventry Cathedral, looking for the bishop’s bird stump.
Or at any rate I was. The new recruit was gawking at the blown-out stained-glass windows, Mr. Spivens was over by the vestry steps digging up something, and Carruthers was trying to convince the verger we were from the Auxiliary Fire Service.
“This is our squadron leader, Lieutenant Ned Henry,” he said, pointing at me, “and I’m Commander Carruthers, the post fire officer.”
“Which post?” the verger said, his eyes narrowed.
“Thirty-six,” Carruthers said at random.
“What about him?” the verger said, pointing at the new recruit, who was now trying to figure out how his pocket torch worked and who didn’t look bright enough to be a member of the Home Guard, let alone AFS.
“He’s my brother-in-law,” Carruthers improvised. “Egbert.”
“My wife tried to get me to hire her brother to work on the fire watch,” the verger said, shaking his head sympathetically. “Can’t walk across the kitchen without tripping over the cat. ‘How’s he supposed to put out incendiaries?’ I asks her. ‘He needs a job,’ she says. ‘Let Hitler put him to work,’ I says.”
I left them to it and started down what had been the nave. There was no time to lose. We’d gotten here late, and even though it was only a bit past four, the smoke and masonry dust in the air already made it almost too dark to see.
The recruit had given up on his pocket torch and was watching Mr. Spivens digging determinedly into the rubble next to the steps. I sighted along him to determine where the north aisle had been and started working my way toward the back of the nave.
The bishop’s bird stump had stood on a wrought-iron stand in front of the parclose screen of the Smiths’ Chapel. I picked my way over the rubble, trying to work out where I was. Only the outer walls of the cathedral and the tower, with its beautiful spire, were still standing. Everything else—the roof, the vaulted ceiling, the clerestory arches, the pillars—had come crashing down into one giant unrecognizable heap of blackened rubble.
All right, I thought, standing on top of a roof beam, that was the apse, and along there was the Drapers’ Chapel, although there was no way to tell except by the blown-out windows. The stone arches had come down, and there was only the bayed wall left.
And here was the St. Laurence Chapel, I thought, scrabbling over the rubble on my hands and knees. The clutter of stone and charred beams was five feet high in this part of the cathedral, and slippery. It had drizzled off and on all day, turning the ash to blackish mud and making the lead slates from the roof as slick as ice.
The Girdlers’ Chapel. And this must be the Smiths’ Chapel. There was no sign of the parclose screen. I tried to judge how far from the windows it would have stood, and started digging.
The bishop’s bird stump wasn’t underneath the mass of twisted girders and broken stone, and neither was the parclose screen. A broken-off length of kneeling rail was, and part of a pew, which meant I was too far out into the nave.
I stood up, trying to orient myself. It’s amazing how much destruction can distort the sense of space. I knelt down and looked up the church toward the choir, trying to spot the base of any of the north aisle pillars to see how far out into the nave I was, but they were hopelessly buried.
I needed to find where the arch had been and work from there. I looked back up at the Girdlers’ Chapel’s east wall, aligned myself with it and the windows, and started digging again, looking for the supporting pillar of the arch.
It had been broken off six inches from the floor. I uncovered the space around it, then, sighting along it, tried to estimate where the screen would have been, and started digging again.
Nothing. I heaved up a jagged piece of the wooden ceiling, and under it was a giant slab of marble, cracked across. The altar. Now I was too far in. I sighted along the new recruit again, who was still watching Mr. Spivens dig, paced off ten feet, and started digging again.
. . .
Вы не можете отвечать на сообщения
Вы не можете редактировать свои сообщения
Вы не можете удалять свои сообщения
Вы не можете голосовать в опросах
Вы не можете прикреплять файлы к сообщениям
Вы можете скачивать файлы
Сайт не предоставляет электронные версии произведений, а занимается лишь коллекционированием и каталогизацией ссылок, присылаемых и публикуемых на форуме нашими читателями. Если вы являетесь правообладателем какого-либо представленного материала и не желаете, чтобы ссылка на него находилась в нашем каталоге, свяжитесь с нами, и мы незамедлительно удалим ее. Файлы для обмена на трекере предоставлены пользователями сайта, и администрация не несет ответственности за их содержание. Просьба не заливать файлы, защищенные авторскими правами, а также файлы нелегального содержания!