Похоже, у литературы есть лишь одно оправдание - она спасает того, кто ею занимается, от отвращения к жизни.

“In this game he had acquired a great deal of muddled knowledge, more than one a…”

“The Louis XIII style in perfumery, composed of the elements dear to that period…”

“Movement, after all, seemed futile to him. He felt that imagination could easil…”

“Menacing lines of black tomorrows on the horizon.”