London was a graveyard haunted by dead faiths. A city and a landscape. A market laid on feudalisms. Gathering and hunting, little pockets of alterity, too, but most of all in the level Billy had come to live in a tilework of fiefdoms, theocratic duchies, zones and spheres of influences, over each of which some local despot, some criminal pope, sat watch. It was all who-knew-whom, gave access to what, greased which palms on what route to where.
China MiévilleWas it that these particular occult streets had been made, then hidden? Their names leaked as traps in an elaborate double-bluff, so that no one could go except those who knew that such
traps were actually destinations? Or were there really no streets there when the traps were set? Perhaps these cul-de-scas were residues, yawned into illicit existence when the atlases were drawn up by liars.
The moon made horns, the sky was gnarly. The cults were skittish.
China MiévilleI don't want to be a simile anymore,' I said. "I want to be a metaphor.
China MiévilleČasový golem povstal a byl, ignoroval linearitu kolem sebe, pouze byl.
Byl narušením, strašlivým proniknutím do sledu okamžiků, sraženinou v diachronii, která s nemyslící arogancí své existence nevěnovala tomuto zprznění ontologie sebemenší pozornost.
The time golem stood and was, ignored the linearity around it, only was. It was a violence, a terrible intrusion in the succession of moments, a clot in diachrony, and with the dumb arrogance of its existence it paid the outrage of
ontology no mind.
When the rich grow afraid, they get nasty.
China Miéville– Один плюс один равняется одному, твою мать, – сказал он и тяжело обрушил флейту на челюсть Дудочника. Тот отшатнулся, но не упал. – Я не крыса плюс человек, усек? Я больше, чем один из двух, и я больше, чем оба. Я новое существо. Ты не заставишь меня танцевать.
China MiévilleЯ больше, чем сумма моих составляющих.
China MiévilleI wish that there was nothing to hold me here, that gravity was a suggestion I could ignore.
China MiévilleA plague of ennui afflicted London's many prophets. Warning signs were discarded, pamphlets pulped, megaphones thrown into cupboards. Those who could count questionable presences insisted that even since the Architeuthis had disappeared, something new had been walking. Something driven and intense and intent on itself. And since shortly after that, it had unfolded again and become something a little more itself, emerged from a pupa of unspecificity
into sentience, a obsessive moment of now that trod heavy in time.
No, they didn't really know what that mean, either, but that was their very strong impression. And it was freaking them out.
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