At least, Flores Raras isn't going to be remade. 100% for now for it was made in 2013. Anyway, despite Glória Pires isn't copy of Maria Lota, she is better Lota than real Maria Carlota Coostallat de Macedo Soares.

24.01.2015 в 12:53

Пишет  Fidelia Fairyteller:

Зачем-то пересняли Цветы на чердаке. Нахрена?

@темы: , Maria, Brasil, life, Todo pasará

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The new beginning (since 4/7/2017, Апрель то есть).

Хотелось бы передать привет Ларисе Pубальской, если вы понимаете о чём речь :P

Только мне 24 года, а не 50 или около того

@настроение: happy

@темы: nihongo

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15.09.2016 в 16:50

Пишет  Ela:

Dorothy Zbornak - с ДР!

@темы: :D, Birthday

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23.08.2011 в 11:51

Пишет  NagiNaoe:

Strawberry Panic!
А давайте протипируем героинь этого аниме)) Поиск по сообществу такой записи вроде бы не нашел)

Нагиса Аои - Дост/Есь
Тамао Судзуми - Гескли
Сидзума Ханадзоно - Штир/Макс
Миюки Рокудзё - ?
Чио Цукидатэ - Есь
Каори Сакураги - ?
Хикари Конохана - Дост
Яя Нанто - Гамлет
Аманэ Отори - Штир
Цубоми Окувака - Нап
Сион Томори - ?
Канамэ Кэндзё - Жуков
Момоми Киясики - Гамлет
Чихару Минамото - Дюма/Гюго

@темы: anime, manga, соционика, Strawberry Panic!

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Срочно подпишите петицию! Закон против ЛГБТ может вступить в силу 22 января 2016!

Точная цитата,

"19 января 2016 г. в Государственной Думе РФ запланировано рассмотрение законопроекта № 916716-6 «О внесении изменений в Кодекс Российской Федерации об административных правонарушениях (в части установления ответственности за публичное выражение нетрадиционных сексуальных отношений)»

 

Целью данного законопроекта является введение ответственности в виде штрафов и арестов на 15 суток только за биологическую особенность ЛГБТ-людей и естественные для таких людей ее проявления. Наказывать предполагается и за публичные выступления в защиту своих прав: не подвергаться насилию, унижениям и дискриминации лишь за то, что они отличаются от большинства."

_________________

Один вопрос - почему "им" можно публично выражать свою ориентацию (например, поцелую вобщественных местах), а лесбиянкам и геям нельзя?

"Священная война" - единственная песня, которую я часто невольно начинала петь, когда думала о жестокостях и жестоких законах против гомосексуалов. Она лучше всего отражает чувства, которые мы испытвеает за угнетение нас, наших "сестёр" и "братьев".

Абсолютно не важно, кто Вы - лесбиянка, гей, бисексуал, гетеросексуал, каждый имеет право на любовь.

Love is love, правильно?

Вы против законопроэкта, криминализирующего лесбиянок и геев? Не будьте равнодушны. Подпишите петицию. Важен каждый голос.



Подписать петицию ЗДЕСЬ.

@музыка: Священная война (слова: Лебедев-Кумач И. В., музыка: Александров А.В.)

@настроение: angry

@темы: срочно, important, важно, LGBT, петиция, homophobia, importantly, petition, ЛГБТ, подписать, гомофобия

---

Totally true.

As my girlfriend said a few monts ago about Russian sites/communities (this one included too, of course), ~ 'Their lost and my gain.'

You are my gain too, love.

@темы: Tumblr, life

---

Drill/Hardbroom (The Worst Witch).

I found a great avatar with OTP (Imogen Drill/Constance Hardbroom from The Wirst Witch TV Series).

Made by Rebecca a.k.a. witch-in-a-bonnet.tumblr.com

Beyond perfection (Imogen )

@темы: Tumblr, The Worst Witch, ID HB, Imogance

---

Diary's Dog says...

"Куплю шампунь от грязных мыслей." Мой комментарий: "Не думаю, что он поможет."

Потом Собака сообщила: "Грязные мысли не смываются." D

#фемслэш, лесбианизм и прочие прелести.

@темы: фемслэш

---

15.09.2014 в 23:28

Пишет  Ela:

Dorothy Zbornak - с ДР!

@темы: birthday

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Ti amo, Dorothy Zbornak.

1.Hail the Queen! (Bea Arthur is my idol, role model, anything and everything.) Dorothy Zbornak is the one I aspire to be.

2.xsvtnbugmds Yesyesyes An axiom obvious like this.

(If say about Bea, my favourite TV Series with her is Maude, not The Golden Girls.)

@темы: Bea Arthur, Dorothy Zbornak, The Golden Girls

---

Зарегистрируй свой никнэйм!

Нажми на картинку и зарегистрируй свой никнэйм!

PS Платиновый сертификат получен 31.01.2010



Я предпочитаю прозвища именам: по крайней мере, прозвища дают более-менее осмысленно, а имена – как бог на душу положит… © Макс Фрай aldragon.net/page/dry-frei-full

запись создана: 10.01.2011 в 06:31

@темы: имя, никнэйм

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15.09.2013 в 21:57

Пишет  Ela:

Hermione McGonagall - с ДР!

@темы: birthday

---

Full book "The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie" by Muriel Spark on English!!! Ч. 3 (КОНЕЦ)

Начало - hermione-mcgonagall.diary.ru/p171355656.htm (+ комментарии),
продолжение - hermione-mcgonagall.diary.ru/p171364584.htm (+ комментарии).
Этот пост и комментарии - ОКОНЧАНИЕ РОМАНА.


The side-effects of this condition were exhilarating to her special girls in that they in some way partook of the general absolution she had assumed to herself, and it was only in retrospect that they could see Miss Brodie's affair with Mr. Lowther for what it was, that is to say, in a factual light. All the time they were under her influence she and her actions were outside the context of right and wrong. It was twenty-five years before Sandy had so far recovered from a creeping vision of disorder that she could look back and recognise that Miss Brodie's defective sense of self-criticism had not been without its beneficent and enlarging effects; by which time Sandy had already betrayed Miss Brodie and Miss Brodie was laid in her grave.
It was after morning church on Sundays that Miss Brodie would go to Cramond, there to lunch and spend the afternoon with Mr. Lowther. She spent Sunday evenings with him also, and more often than not the night, in a spirit of definite duty, if not exactly martyrdom, since her heart was with the renounced teacher of art.
Mr. Lowther, with his long body and short legs, was a shy fellow who smiled upon nearly everyone from beneath his red-gold moustache, and who won his own gentle way with nearly everybody, and who said little and sang much.
When it became certain that the Kerr sisters had taken over permanently the housekeeping for this bashful, smiling bachelor, Miss Brodie fancied he was getting thin. She announced this discovery just at a time when Jenny and Sandy had noticed a slimmer appearance in Miss Brodie and had begun to wonder, since they were nearly thirteen and their eyes were more focussed on such points, if she might be physically beautiful or desirable to men. They saw her in a new way, and decided she had a certain deep romantic beauty, and that she had lost weight through her sad passion for Mr. Lloyd, and this noble undertaking of Mr. Lowther in his place, and that it suited her.
Now Miss Brodie was saying: "Mr. Lowther is looking thin these days. I have no faith in those Kerr sisters, they are skimping him, they have got skimpy minds. The supplies of food they leave behind on Saturdays are barely sufficient to see him through Sunday, let alone the remainder of the week. If only Mr. Lowther could be persuaded to move from that big house and take a flat in Edinburgh, he would be so much easier to look after. He needs looking after. But he will not be persuaded. It is impossible to persuade a man who does not disagree, but smiles."
She decided to supervise the Kerr sisters on their Saturdays at Cramond when they prepared for Mr. Lowther's domestic week ahead. "They get well paid for it," said Miss Brodie. "I shall go over and see that they order the right stuff, and sufficient." It might have seemed an audacious proposition, but the girls did not think of it this way. They heartily urged Miss Brodie to descend upon the Kerrs and to interfere, partly in anticipation of some eventful consequence, and partly because Mr. Lowther would somehow smile away any fuss; and the Kerr sisters were fairly craven; and above all, Miss Brodie was easily the equal of both sisters together, she was the square on the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle and they were only the squares on the other two sides.
The Kerr sisters took Miss Brodie's intrusion quite meekly, and that they were so unquestioning about any authority which imposed itself upon them was the very reason why they also did not hesitate later on to answer the subsequent questions of Miss Gaunt. Meantime Miss Brodie set about feeding Mr. Lowther up, and, since this meant her passing Saturday afternoons at Cramond, the Brodie set was invited to go, two by two, one pair every week, to visit her in Mr. Lowther's residence where he smiled and patted their hair or pulled pretty Jenny's ringlets, looking meanwhile for reproof or approval, or some such thing, at brown-eyed Jean Brodie. She gave them tea while he smiled; and he frequently laid down his cup and saucer, went and sat at the piano and burst into song. He sang:
March, march Ettrick and Teviotdale,
Why the de'il dinna ye march forward in order?
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,
All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border.
At the end of the song he would smile his overcome and bashful smile and take his teacup again, looking up under his ginger eyebrows at Jean Brodie to see what she felt about him at the current moment. She was Jean to him, a fact that none of the Brodie set thought proper to mention to anyone.
She reported to Sandy and Jenny: "I made short work of those Kerr sisters. They were starving him. Now it is I who see to the provisions. I am a descendant, do not forget, of Willie Brodie, a man of substance, a cabinet maker and designer of gibbets, a member of the Town Council of Edinburgh and a keeper of two mistresses who bore him five children between them. Blood tells. He played much dice and fighting cocks. Eventually he was a wanted man for having robbed the Excise Office — not that he needed the money, he was a night burglar only for the sake of the danger in it. Of course, he was arrested abroad and was brought back to the Tolbooth prison, but that was mere chance. He died cheerfully on a gibbet of his own devising in seventeen-eighty-eight. However all this may be, it is the stuff I am made of, and I have brooked and shall brook no nonsense from Miss Ellen and Miss Alison Kerr."
Mr. Lowther sang:
O mother, mother, make my bed,
O make it soft and narrow,
For my true love died for me today.
I'll die for him tomorrow.
Then he looked at Miss Brodie. She was, however, looking at a chipped rim of a teacup. "Mary Macgregor must have chipped it," she said. "Mary was here last Sunday with Eunice and they washed up together. Mary must have chipped it."
Outside on the summer lawn the daisies sparkled. The lawn spread wide and long, one could barely see the little wood at the end of it and even the wood belonged to Mr. Lowther, and the fields beyond. Shy, musical and gentle as he was, Mr. Lowther was a man of substance.
Now Sandy considered Miss Brodie not only to see if she was desirable, but also to find out if there was any element of surrender about her, since this was the most difficult part of the affair to realise. She had been a dominant presence rather than a physical woman like Norma Shearer or Elisabeth Bergner. Miss Brodie was now forty-three and this year when she looked so much thinner than when she had stood in the classroom or sat under the elm, her shape was pleasanter, but it was still fairly large compared with Mr. Lowther's. He was slight and he was shorter than Miss Brodie. He looked at her with love and she looked at him severely and possessively.
By the end of the summer term, when the Brodie set were all turned, or nearly turned, thirteen, Miss Brodie questioned them in their visiting pairs each week about their art lesson. The girls always took a close interest in Teddy Lloyd's art classes and in all he did, making much of details, so as to provide happy conversation with Miss Brodie when their turn came to visit her at Gordon Lowther's house at Cramond.
It was a large gabled house with a folly-turret. There were so many twists and turns in the wooded path leading up from the road, and the front lawn was so narrow, that the house could never be seen from the little distance that its size demanded and it was necessary to crane one's neck upward to see the turret at all. The back of the house was quite plain. The rooms were large and gloomy with Venetian blinds. The banisters began with a pair of carved lions' heads and carried up and up, round and round, as far as the eye could reach. All the furniture was large and carved, dotted with ornaments of silver and rose-coloured glass. The library on the ground floor where Miss Brodie entertained them held a number of glass bookcases so dim in their interiors that it was impossible to see the titles of the books without peering close. A grand piano was placed across one corner of the room, and on it, in summer, stood a bowl of roses.
This was a great house to explore and on days when Miss Brodie was curiously occupied in the kitchen with some enormous preparation for the next day's eating — in those months when her obsession with Mr. Lowther's food had just begun — the girls were free to roam up the big stairs, hand-in-hand with awe, and to open the doors and look into the dust-sheeted bedrooms and especially into two rooms that people had forgotten to furnish properly, one of which had nothing in it but a large desk, not even a carpet, another of which was empty except for an electric light bulb and a large blue jug. These rooms were icy cold, whatever the time of year. On their descending the stairs after these expeditions, Mr. Lowther would often be standing waiting for them, shyly smiling in the hall with his hands clasped together as if he hoped that everything was to their satisfaction. He took roses from the bowl and presented one each to the girls before they went home.
Mr. Lowther never seemed quite at home in his home, although he had been born there. He always looked at Miss Brodie for approval before he touched anything or opened a cupboard as if, really, he was not allowed to touch without permission. The girls decided that perhaps his mother, now four years dead, had kept him under all his life, and he was consequently unable to see himself as master of the house.
He sat silently and gratefully watching Miss Brodie entertain the two girls whose turn it was to be there, when she had already started on her project of fattening him up which was to grow to such huge proportions that her food-supplying mania was the talk of Miss Ellen and Miss Alison Kerr, and so of the Junior school. One day, when Sandy and Jenny were on the visiting rota, she gave Mr. Lowther, for tea alone, an admirable lobster salad, some sandwiches of liver paste, cake and tea, followed by a bowl of porridge and cream. These were served to him on a tray for himself alone, you could see he was on a special diet. Sandy was anxious to see if Mr. Lowther would manage the porridge as well as everything else. But he worked his way through everything with impassive obedience while she questioned the girls: "What are you doing in the art class just now?"
"We're at work on the poster competition."
"Mr. Lloyd — is he well?"
"Oh yes, he's great fun. He showed us his studio two weeks ago."
"Which studio, where? At his house?" — although Miss Brodie knew perfectly well.
"Yes, it's a great long attic, it———"
"Did you meet his wife, what was she like? What did she say, did she give you tea? What are the children like, what did you do when you got there?..."
She did not attempt to conceal from her munching host her keen interest in the art master. Mr. Lowther's eyes looked mournful and he ate on. Sandy and Jenny knew that similar questions had been pressed upon Mary Macgregor and Eunice Gardiner the previous week, and upon Rose Stanley and Monica Douglas the week before. But Miss Brodie could not hear enough versions of the same story if it involved Teddy Lloyd, and now that the girls had been to his house — a large and shabby, a warm and unconventional establishment in the north of Edinburgh — Miss Brodie was in a state of high excitement by very contact with these girls who had lately breathed Lloyd air.
"How many children?" said Miss Brodie, her teapot poised.
"Five, I think," said Sandy.
"Six, I think," said Jenny, "counting the baby."
"There are lots of babies," said Sandy.
"Roman Catholics, of course," said Miss Brodie, addressing this to Mr. Lowther.
"But the littlest baby," said Jenny, "you've forgotten to count the wee baby. That makes six."
Miss Brodie poured tea and cast a glance at Gordon Lowther's plate.
"Gordon," she said, "a cake."
He shook his head and said softly, as if soothing her, "Oh, no, no."
"Yes, Gordon. It is full of goodness." And she made him eat a Chester cake, and spoke to him in a slightly more Edinburgh way than usual, so as to make up to him by both means for the love she was giving to Teddy Lloyd instead of to him.
"You must be fattened up, Gordon," she said. "You must be two stone the better before I go my holidays."
He smiled as best he could at everyone in turn, with his drooped head and slowly moving jaws. Meanwhile Miss Brodie said:
"And Mrs. Lloyd — is she a woman, would you say, in her prime?"
"Perhaps not yet," said Sandy.
"Well, Mrs. Lloyd may be past it," Jenny said. "It's difficult to say with her hair being long on her shoulders. It makes her look young although she may not be."
"She looks really like as if she won't have any prime," Sandy said.
"The word 'like' is redundant in that sentence. What is Mrs. Lloyd's Christian name?"
"Deirdre," said Jenny, and Miss Brodie considered the name as if it were new to her although she had heard it last week from Mary and Eunice, and the week before that from Rose and Monica, and so had Mr. Lowther. Outside, light rain began to fall on Mr. Lowther's leaves.
"Celtic," said Miss Brodie.
Sandy loitered at the kitchen door waiting for Miss Brodie to come for a walk by the sea. Miss Brodie was doing something to an enormous ham prior to putting it into a huge pot. Miss Brodie's new ventures into cookery in no way diminished her previous grandeur, for everything she prepared for Gordon Lowther seemed to be large, whether it was family-sized puddings to last him out the week, or joints of beef or lamb, or great angry-eyed whole salmon.
"I must get this on for Mr. Lowther's supper," she said to Sandy, "and see that he gets his supper before I go home tonight."
She always so far kept up the idea that she went home on these week-end nights and left Mr. Lowther alone in the big house. So far the girls had found no evidence to the contrary, nor were they ever to do so; a little later Miss Ellen Kerr was brought to the headmistress by Miss Gaunt to testify to having found Miss Brodie's nightdress under a pillow of the double bed on which Mr. Lowther took his sleep. She had found it while changing the linen; it was the pillow on the far side of the bed, nearest the wall, under which the nightdress had been discovered folded neatly.
"How do you know the nightdress was Miss Brodie's?" demanded Miss Mackay, the sharp-minded woman, who smelt her prey very near and yet saw it very far. She stood with a hand on the back of her chair, bending forward full of ears.
"One must draw one's own conclusions," said Miss Gaunt.
"I am addressing Miss Ellen."
"Yes, one must draw one's own conclusions," said Miss Ellen, with her tight-drawn red-veined cheeks looking shiny and flustered. "It was crêpe de Chine."
"It is non proven," said Miss Mackay, sitting down to her desk. "Come back to me," she said, "if you have proof positive. What did you do with the garment? Did you confront Miss Brodie with it?"
"Oh, no, Miss Mackay," said Miss Ellen.
"You should have confronted her with it. You should have said, 'Miss Brodie, come here a minute, can you explain this?' That's what you should have said. Is the nightdress still there?"
"Oh, no, it's gone."
"She's that brazen," said Miss Gaunt.
All this was conveyed to Sandy by the headmistress herself at that subsequent time when Sandy looked at her distastefully through her little eyes and, evading the quite crude question which the coarse-faced woman asked her, was moved by various other considerations to betray Miss Brodie.
"But I must organise the dear fellow's food before I go home tonight," Miss Brodie said in the summer of nineteen-thirty-three while Sandy leaned against the kitchen door with her legs longing to be running along the sea shore. Jenny came and joined her, and together they waited upon Miss Brodie, and saw on the vast old kitchen table the piled-up provisions of the morning's shopping. Outside on the dining-room table stood large bowls of fruit with boxes of dates piled on top of them, as if this were Christmas and the kitchen that of a holiday hotel.
"Won't all this give Mr. Lowther a stoppage?" Sandy said to Jenny.
"Not if he eats his greens," said Jenny.
While they waited for Miss Brodie to dress the great ham like the heroine she was, there came the sound of Mr. Lowther at the piano in the library singing rather slowly and mournfully:
All people that on earth do dwell, Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice. Him serve with mirth, his praise forth tell, Come ye before him and rejoice.
Mr. Lowther was the choir-master and an Elder of the church, and had not yet been quietly advised to withdraw from these offices by Mr. Gaunt the minister, brother of Miss Gaunt, following the finding of the nightdress under the pillow next to his.
Presently, as she put the ham on a low gas and settled the lid on the pot Miss Brodie joined in the psalm richly, contralto-wise, giving the notes more body:
O enter then his gates with praise, Approach with joy his courts unto.
The rain had stopped and was only now hanging damply within the salt air. All along the sea front Miss Brodie questioned the girls, against the rhythm of the waves, about the appointments of Teddy Lloyd's house, the kind of tea they got, how vast and light was the studio, and what was said.
"He looked very romantic in his own studio," Sandy said.
"How was that?"
"I think it was his having only one arm," said Jenny.
"But he always has only one arm."
"He did more than usual with it," said Sandy.
"He was waving it about," Jenny said. "There was a lovely view from the studio window. He's proud of it."
"The studio is in the attic, I presume?"
"Yes, all along the top of the house. There is a new portrait he has done of his family, it's a little bit amusing, it starts with himself, very tall, then his wife. Then all the little children graded downwards to the baby on the floor, it makes a diagonal line across the canvas."
"What makes it amusing?" said Miss Brodie.
"They are all facing square and they all look serious," Sandy said. "You are supposed to laugh at it."
Miss Brodie laughed a little at this. There was a wonderful sunset across the distant sky, reflected in the sea, streaked with blood and puffed with avenging purple and gold as if the end of the world had come without intruding on every-day life.
"There's another portrait," Jenny said, "not finished yet, of Rose."
"He has been painting Rose?"
"Yes."
"Rose has been sitting for him?"
"Yes, for about a month."
Miss Brodie was very excited. "Rose didn't mention this," she said.
Sandy halted. "Oh, I forgot. It was supposed to be a surprise. You aren't supposed to know."
"What, the portrait, I am to see it?"
Sandy looked confused, for she was not sure how Rose had meant her portrait to be a surprise to Miss Brodie.
Jenny said, "Oh, Miss Brodie, it is the fact that she's sitting for Mr. Lloyd that she wanted to keep for a surprise." Sandy realised, then, that this was right.
"Ah," said Miss Brodie, well pleased. "That is thoughtful of Rose."
Sandy was jealous, because Rose was not supposed to be thoughtful.
"What is she wearing for her portrait?" said Miss Brodie.
"Her gym tunic," Sandy said.
"Sitting sideways," Jenny said.
"In profile," said Miss Brodie.
Miss Brodie stopped a man to buy a lobster for Mr. Lowther. When this was done she said:
"Rose is bound to be painted many times. She may well sit for Mr. Lloyd on future occasions, she is one of the crème de la crème."
It was said in an enquiring tone. The girls understood she was trying quite hard to piece together a whole picture from their random remarks.
Jenny accordingly let fall, "Oh, yes, Mr. Lloyd wants to paint Rose in red velvet."
And Sandy added, "Mrs. Lloyd has a bit of red velvet to put around her, they were trying it round her."
"Are you to return?" said Miss Brodie.
"Yes, all of us," Sandy said. "Mr. Lloyd thinks we're a jolly nice set."
"Have you not thought it remarkable," said Miss Brodie, "that it is you six girls that Mr. Lloyd has chosen to invite to his studio?"
"Well, we're a set," said Jenny.
"Has he invited any other girls from the school?" — but Miss Brodie knew the answer.
"Oh, no, only us."
"It is because you are mine," said Miss Brodie. "I mean of my stamp and cut, and I am in my prime."
Sandy and Jenny had not given much thought to the fact of the art master's inviting them as a group. Indeed, there was something special in his acceptance of the Brodie set. There was a mystery here to be worked out, and it was clear that when he thought of them he thought of Miss Brodie.
"He always asks about you," Sandy said to Miss Brodie, "as soon as he sees us."
"Yes, Rose did tell me that," said Miss Brodie.
Suddenly, like migrating birds, Sandy and Jenny were of one mind for a run and without warning they ran along the pebbly beach into the air which was full of sunset, returning to Miss Brodie to hear of her forthcoming summer holiday when she was going to leave the fattened-up Mr. Lowther, she was afraid, to fend for himself with the aid of the Misses Kerr, and was going abroad, not to Italy this year but to Germany, where Hitler was become Chancellor, a prophet-figure like Thomas Carlyle, and more reliable than Mussolini; the German brownshirts, she said, were exactly the same as the Italian black, only more reliable.
Jenny and Sandy were going to a farm for the summer holidays, where in fact the name of Miss Brodie would not very much be on their lips or in their minds after the first two weeks, and instead they would make hay and follow the sheep about. It was always difficult to realise during term times that the world of Miss Brodie might be half forgotten, as were the worlds of the school houses, Holyrood, Melrose, Argyll and Biggar.
"I wonder if Mr. Lowther would care for sweetbreads done with rice," Miss Brodie said.

@настроение: happy

@темы: The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, Расцвет мисс Джин Броди, Мюриэл Спарк

---

Full book "The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie" by Muriel Sarah Spark on English!!! PART 2

Начало в предыдущем посте и комментариях к нему. www.diary.ru/~Hermione-McGonagall/p171355656.ht...

Miss Brodie said, "So I intend simply to point out to Miss Mackay that there is a radical difference in our principles of education. Radical is a word pertaining to roots — Latin radix, a root. We differ at root, the headmistress and I, upon the question whether we are employed to educate the minds of girls or to intrude upon them. We have had this argument before, but Miss Mackay is not, I may say, an outstanding logician. A logician is one skilled in logic. Logic is the art of reasoning. What is logic, Rose?"

продолжение

"To do with reasoning, ma'am," said Rose, who later, while still in her teens, was to provoke Miss Brodie's amazement and then her awe and finally her abounding enthusiasm for the role which Rose then appeared to be enacting: that of a great lover, magnificently elevated above the ordinary run of lovers, above the moral laws, Venus incarnate, something set apart. In fact, Rose was not at the time in question engaged in the love affair which Miss Brodie thought she was, but it seemed so, and Rose was famous for sex. But in her mere eleventh year, on the winter's walk, Rose was taking note of the motor cars and Miss Brodie had not yet advanced far enough into her prime to speak of sex except by veiled allusion, as when she said of her warrior lover, "He was a pure man," or when she read from James Hogg's poem "Bonnie Kilmeny,"
Kilmeny was pure as pure could be and added, "Which is to say, she did not go to the glen in order to mix with men."
"When I see Miss Mackay on Monday morning," said Miss Brodie, "I shall point out that by the terms of my employment my methods cannot be condemned unless they can be proved to be in any part improper or subversive, and so long as the girls are in the least equipped for the end-of-term examination. I trust you girls to work hard and try and scrape through, even if you learn up the stuff and forget it next day. As for impropriety, it could never be imputed to me except by some gross distortion on the part of a traitor. I do not think ever to be betrayed. Miss Mackay is younger than I am and higher salaried. That is by accident. The best qualifications available at the University in my time were inferior to those open to Miss Mackay. That is why she holds the senior position. But her reasoning power is deficient, and so I have no fears for Monday."
"Miss Mackay has an awfully red face, with the veins all showing," said Rose.
"I can't permit that type of remark to pass in my presence, Rose," said Miss Brodie, "for it would be disloyal."
They had come to the end of Lauriston Place, past the fire station, where they were to get on a tram car to go to tea with Miss Brodie in her flat at Churchhill. A very long queue of men lined this part of the street. They were without collars, in shabby suits. They were talking and spitting and smoking little bits of cigarette held between middle finger and thumb.
"We shall cross here," said Miss Brodie and herded the set across the road.
Monica Douglas whispered, "They are the Idle."
"In England they are called the Unemployed. They are waiting to get their dole from the labour bureau," said Miss Brodie. "You must all pray for the Unemployed, I will write you out the special prayer for them. You all know what the dole is?"
Eunice Gardiner had not heard of it.
"It is the weekly payment made by the State for the relief of the unemployed and their families. Sometimes they go and spend their dole on drink before they go home, and their children starve. They are our brothers. Sandy, stop staring at once. In Italy the Unemployment problem has been solved."
Sandy felt that she was not staring across the road at the endless queue of brothers, but that it was pulling her eyes towards it. She felt once more very frightened. Some of the men looked over at the girls, but without seeing them. The girls had reached the tram stop. The men were talking and spitting a great deal. Some were laughing with hacking laughs merging into coughs and ending up with spits.
As they waited for the tram car Miss Brodie said, "I had lodgings in this street when first I came to Edinburgh as a student. I must tell you a story about the landlady, who was very frugal. It was her habit to come to me every morning to ask what I would have for breakfast, and she spoke like this: 'Wud ye have a red herrin? — no ye wouldn't. Could ye eat a boilt egg? — no ye couldn't.' The result was, I never had but bread and butter to my breakfast all the time I was in those lodgings, and very little of that."
The laughter of the girls met that of the men opposite, who had now begun to file slowly by fits and starts into the labour bureau. Sandy's fear returned as soon as she had stopped laughing. She saw the slow jerkily moving file tremble with life, she saw it all of a piece like one dragon's body which had no right to be in the city and yet would not go away and was unslayable. She thought of the starving children. This was a relief to her fear. She wanted to cry as she always did when she saw a street singer or a beggar. She wanted Jenny to be there, because Jenny cried easily about poor children. But the snaky creature opposite started to shiver in the cold and made Sandy tremble again. She turned and said to Mary Macgregor who had brushed against her sleeve, "Stop pushing."
"Mary, dear, you mustn't push," said Miss Brodie.
"I wasn't pushing," said Mary.
In the tram car Sandy excused herself from tea with Miss Brodie on the plea that she thought she had a cold coming on. Indeed she shivered. She wanted at that moment to be warmly at home, outside which even the corporate Brodie set lived in a colder sort of way.
But later, when Sandy thought of Eunice doing somersaults and splits on Miss Brodie's kitchen linoleum while the other girls washed up, she rather wished she had gone to tea at Miss Brodie's after all. She took out her secret notebook from between the sheets of music and added a chapter to "The Mountain Eyrie," the true love story of Miss Jean Brodie.
3
The days passed and the wind blew from the Forth.
It is not to be supposed that Miss Brodie was unique at this point of her prime; or that (since such things are relative) she was in any way off her head. She was alone, merely, in that she taught in a school like Marcia Blaine's. There were legions of her kind during the nineteen-thirties, women from the age of thirty and upward, who crowded their war-bereaved spinsterhood with voyages of discovery into new ideas and energetic practices in art or social welfare, education or religion. The progressive spinsters of Edinburgh did not teach in schools, especially in schools of traditional character like Marcia Blaine's School for Girls. It was in this that Miss Brodie was, as the rest of the staff spinsterhood put it, a trifle out of place. But she was not out of place amongst her own kind, the vigorous daughters of dead or enfeebled merchants, of ministers of religion, University professors, doctors, big warehouse owners of the past, or the owners of fisheries who had endowed these daughters with shrewd wits, high-coloured cheeks, constitutions like horses, logical educations, hearty spirits and private means. They could be seen leaning over the democratic counters of Edinburgh grocers' shops arguing with the Manager at three in the afternoon on every subject from the authenticity of the Scriptures to the question what the word "guaranteed" on a jam-jar really meant. They went to lectures, tried living on honey and nuts, took lessons in German and then went walking in Germany; they bought caravans and went off with them into the hills among the lochs; they played the guitar, they supported all the new little theatre companies; they took lodgings in the slums and, distributing pots of paint, taught their neighbours the arts of simple interior decoration; they preached the inventions of Marie Stopes; they attended the meetings of the Oxford Group and put Spiritualism to their hawk-eyed test. Some assisted in the Scottish Nationalist Movement; others, like Miss Brodie, called themselves Europeans and Edinburgh a European capital, the city of Hume and Boswell.
They were not, however, committee women. They were not school-teachers. The committee spinsters were less enterprising and not at all rebellious, they were sober churchgoers and quiet workers. The school-mistresses were of a still more orderly type, earning their keep, living with aged parents and taking walks on the hills and holidays at North Berwick.
But those of Miss Brodie's kind were great talkers and feminists and, like most feminists, talked to men as man-to-man.
"I tell you this, Mr. Geddes, birth control is the only answer to the problem of the working class. A free issue to every household..."
And often in the thriving grocers' shops at three in the afternoon:
"Mr. Logan, Elder though you are, I am a woman in my prime of life, so you can take it from me that you get a sight more religion out of Professor Tovey's Sunday concerts than you do out of your kirk services."
And so, seen in this light, there was nothing outwardly odd about Miss Brodie. Inwardly was a different matter, and it remained to be seen, towards what extremities her nature worked her. Outwardly she differed from the rest of the teaching staff in that she was still in a state of fluctuating development, whereas they had only too understandably not trusted themselves to change their minds, particularly on ethical questions, after the age of twenty. There was nothing Miss Brodie could not yet learn, she boasted of it. And it was not a static Miss Brodie who told her girls, "These are the years of my prime. You are benefiting by my prime," but one whose nature was growing under their eyes, as the girls themselves were under formation. It extended, this prime of Miss Brodie's, still in the making when the girls were well on in their teens. And the principles governing the end of her prime would have astonished herself at the beginning of it.
The summer holidays of nineteen-thirty-one marked the first anniversary of the launching of Miss Brodie's prime. The year to come was in many ways the most sexual year of the Brodie set, who were now turned eleven and twelve; it was a crowded year of stirring revelations. In later years, sex was only one of the things in life. That year it was everything.
The term opened vigorously as usual. Miss Brodie stood bronzed before her class and said, "I have spent most of my summer holidays in Italy once more, and a week in London, and I have brought back a great many pictures which we can pin on the wall. Here is a Cimabue. Here is a larger formation of Mussolini's fascisti, it is a better view of them than that of last year's picture. They are doing splendid things as I shall tell you later. I went with my friends for an audience with the Pope.
My friends kissed his ring but I thought it proper only to bend over it. I wore a long black gown with a lace mantilla, and looked magnificent. In London my friends who are well-to-do — their small girl has two nurses, or nannies as they say in England — took me to visit A. A. Milne. In the hall was hung a reproduction of Botticelli's Primavera which means The Birth of Spring. I wore my silk dress with the large red poppies which is just right for my colouring. Mussolini is one of the greatest men in the world, far more so than Ramsay MacDonald, and his fascisti———"
"Good morning, Miss Brodie. Good morning, sit down, girls," said the headmistress who had entered in a hurry, leaving the door wide open.
Miss Brodie passed behind her with her head up, up, and shut the door with the utmost meaning.
"I have only just looked in," said Miss Mackay, "and I have to be off. Well, girls, this is the first day of the new session. Are we downhearted? No. You girls must work hard this year at every subject and pass your qualifying examination with flying colours. Next year you will be in the Senior school, remember. I hope you've all had a nice summer holiday, you all look nice and brown. I hope in due course of time to read your essays on how you spent them."
When she had gone Miss Brodie looked hard at the door for a long time. A girl, not of her set, called Judith, giggled. Miss Brodie said to Judith, "That will do." She turned to the blackboard and rubbed out with her duster the long division sum she always kept on the blackboard in case of intrusions from outside during any arithmetic period when Miss Brodie should happen not to be teaching arithmetic. When she had done this she turned back to the class and said, "Are we downhearted no, are we downhearted no. As I was saying, Mussolini has performed feats of magnitude and unemployment is even farther abolished under him than it was last year. I shall be able to tell you a great deal this term. As you know, I don't believe in talking down to children, you are capable of grasping more than is generally appreciated by your elders. Education means a leading out, from e, out and duco, I lead. Qualifying examination or no qualifying examination, you will have the benefit of my experiences in Italy. In Rome I saw the Forum and I saw the Colosseum where the gladiators died and the slaves were thrown to the lions. A vulgar American remarked to me, 'It looks like a mighty fine quarry.' They talk nasally. Mary, what does to talk nasally mean?"
Mary did not know.
"Stupid as ever," said Miss Brodie. "Eunice?"
"Through your nose," said Eunice.
"Answer in a complete sentence, please," said Miss Brodie. "This year I think you should all start answering in complete sentences, I must try to remember this rule. Your correct answer is 'To talk nasally means to talk through one's nose.' The American said, 'It looks like a mighty fine quarry.' Ah! It was there the gladiators fought. 'Hail Caesar!' they cried. These about to die salute thee!'"
Miss Brodie stood in her brown dress like a gladiator with raised arm and eyes flashing like a sword. "Hail Caesar!" she cried again, turning radiantly to the window light, as if Caesar sat there. "Who opened the window?" said Miss Brodie dropping her arm.
Nobody answered.
"Whoever has opened the window has opened it too wide," said Miss Brodie. "Six inches is perfectly adequate. More is vulgar. One should have an innate sense of these things. We ought to be doing history at the moment according to the time-table. Get out your history books and prop them up in your hands. I shall tell you a little more about Italy. I met a young poet by a fountain. Here is a picture of Dante meeting Beatrice — it is pronounced Beatrichay in Italian which makes the name very beautiful — on the Ponte Vecchio. He fell in love with her at that moment. Mary, sit up and don't slouch. It was a sublime moment in a sublime love. By whom was the picture painted?"
Nobody knew.
"It was painted by Rossetti. Who was Rossetti, Jenny?"
"A painter," said Jenny.
Miss Brodie looked suspicious.
"And a genius," said Sandy, to come to Jenny's rescue.
"A friend of———?" said Miss Brodie.
"Swinburne," said a girl.
Miss Brodie smiled. "You have not forgotten," she said, looking round the class. "Holidays or no holidays. Keep your history books propped up in case we have any further intruders." She looked disapprovingly towards the door and lifted her fine dark Roman head with dignity. She had often told the girls that her dead Hugh had admired her head for its Roman appearance.
"Next year," she said, "you will have the specialists to teach you history and mathematics and languages, a teacher for this and a teacher for that, a period of forty-five minutes for this and another for that. But in this your last year with me you will receive the fruits of my prime. They will remain with you all your days. First, however, I must mark the register for today before we forget. There are two new girls. Stand up the two new girls."
They stood up with wide eyes while Miss Brodie sat down at her desk.
"You will get used to our ways. What religions are you?" said Miss Brodie with her pen poised on the page while, outside in the sky, the gulls from the Firth of Forth wheeled over the school and the green and golden tree-tops swayed towards the windows.

@настроение: happy

@темы: The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, Расцвет мисс Джин Броди, Мюриэл Спарк

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Full book "The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie" (1961) by Muriel Sarah Spark on English!!!

НАЧАЛО В ЭТОМ ПОСТЕ, ПРОДОЛЖЕНИЕ В КОММЕНТАРИЯХ, ЗАТЕМ В ДВУХ ПОСЛЕДУЮЩИХ ПОСТАХ И КОММЕНТАРИЯМ К НИМ.

На всякий случай выложу адрес, где был найден полный вариант книги, вдруг у кого-то откроется. У меня почему-то не вышло. Ну, ладно.
Итак, www.hlitgroup.org/reads/ThePrimeOfMissJeanBrodi...

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie
by Muriel Spark (1961)
________________________________________
1
The boys, as they talked to the girls from Marcia Blaine School, stood on the far side of their bicycles holding the handlebars, which established a protective fence of bicycle between the sexes, and the impression that at any moment the boys were likely to be away.
The girls could not take off their panama hats because this was not far from the school gates and hatlessness was an offence. Certain departures from the proper set of the hat on the head were overlooked in the case of fourth-form girls and upwards so long as nobody wore their hat at an angle. But there were other subtle variants from the ordinary rule of wearing the brim turned up at the back and down at the front. The five girls, standing very close to each other because of the boys, wore their hats each with a definite difference.

продолжение

These girls formed the Brodie set. That was what they had been called even before the headmistress had given them the name, in scorn, when they had moved from the Junior to the Senior school at the age of twelve. At that time they had been immediately recognisable as Miss Brodie's pupils, being vastly informed on a lot of subjects irrelevant to the authorised curriculum, as the headmistress said, and useless to the school as a school. These girls were discovered to have heard of the Buchmanites and Mussolini, the Italian Renaissance painters, the advantages to the skin of cleansing cream and witch-hazel over honest soap and water, and the word "menarche"; the interior decoration of the London house of the author of Winnie the Pooh had been described to them, as had the love lives of Charlotte Bronte and of Miss Brodie herself. They were aware of the existence of Einstein and the arguments of those who considered the Bible to be untrue. They knew the rudiments of astrology but not the date of the Battle of Flodden or the capital of Finland. All of the Brodie set, save one, counted on its fingers, as had Miss Brodie, with accurate results more or less.
By the time they were sixteen, and had reached the fourth form, and loitered beyond the gates after school, and had adapted themselves to the orthodox regime, they remained unmistakably Brodie, and were all famous in the school, which is to say they were held in suspicion and not much liking. They had no team spirit and very little in common with each other outside their continuing friendship with Jean Brodie. She still taught in the Junior department. She was held in great suspicion.
Marcia Blaine School for Girls was a day school which had been partially endowed in the middle of the nineteenth century by the wealthy widow of an Edinburgh book-binder. She had been an admirer of Garibaldi before she died. Her manly portrait hung in the great hall, and was honoured every Founder's Day by a bunch of hard-wearing flowers such as chrysanthemums or dahlias. These were placed in a vase beneath the portrait, upon a lectern which also held an open Bible with the text underlined in red ink, "O where shall I find a virtuous woman, for her price is above rubies."
The girls who loitered beneath the tree, shoulder to shoulder, very close to each other because of the boys, were all famous for something. Now, at sixteen, Monica Douglas was a prefect, famous mostly for mathematics which she could do in her brain, and for her anger which, when it was lively enough, drove her to slap out to right and left. She had a very red nose, winter and summer, long dark plaits, and fat, peg-like legs. Since she had turned sixteen, Monica wore her panama hat rather higher on her head than normal, perched as if it were too small and as if she knew she looked grotesque in any case.
Rose Stanley was famous for sex. Her hat was placed quite unobtrusively on her blonde short hair, but she dented in the crown on either side.
Eunice Gardiner, small, neat and famous for her spritely gymnastics and glamorous swimming, had the brim of her hat turned up at the front and down at the back.
Sandy Stranger wore it turned up all round and as far back on her head as it could possibly go; to assist this, she had attached to her hat a strip of elastic which went under the chin. Sometimes Sandy chewed this elastic and when it was chewed down she sewed on a new piece. She was merely notorious for her small, almost nonexistent, eyes, but she was famous for her vowel sounds which, long ago in the long past, in the Junior school, had enraptured Miss Brodie. "Well, come and recite for us please, because it has been a tiring day."
She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot.
"It lifts one up," Miss Brodie usually said, passing her hand outward from her breast towards the class of ten-year-old girls who were listening for the bell which would release them. "Where there is no vision," Miss Brodie had assured them, "the people perish. Eunice, come and do a somersault in order that we may have comic relief."
But now, the boys with their bicycles were cheerfully insulting Jenny Gray about her way of speech which she had got from her elocution classes. She was going to be an actress. She was Sandy's best friend. She wore her hat with the front brim bent sharply downward; she was the prettiest and most graceful girl of the set, and this was her fame. "Don't be a lout, Andrew," she said with her uppish tone. There were three Andrews among the five boys, and these three Andrews now started mimicking Jenny: "Don't be a lout, Andrew," while the girls laughed beneath their bobbing panamas.
Along came Mary Macgregor, the last member of the set, whose fame rested on her being a silent lump, a nobody whom everybody could blame. With her was an outsider, Joyce Emily Hammond, the very rich girl, their delinquent, who had been recently sent to Blaine as a last hope, because no other school, no governess, could manage her. She still wore the green uniform of her old school. The others wore deep violet. The most she had done, so far, was to throw paper pellets sometimes at the singing master. She insisted on the use of her two names, Joyce Emily. This Joyce Emily was trying very hard to get into the famous set, and thought the two names might establish her as a something, but there was no chance of it and she could not see why.
Joyce Emily said, "There's a teacher coming out," and nodded towards the gates.
Two of the Andrews wheeled their bicycles out on to the road and departed. The other three boys remained defiantly, but looking the other way as if they might have stopped to admire the clouds on the Pentland Hills. The girls crowded round each other as if in discussion. "Good afternoon," said Miss Brodie when she approached the group. "I haven't seen you for some days. I think we won't detain these young men and their bicycles. Good afternoon, boys." The famous set moved off with her, and Joyce, the new delinquent, followed. "I think I haven't met this new girl," said Miss Brodie, looking closely at Joyce. And when they were introduced she said: "Well, we must be on our way, my dear."
Sandy looked back as Joyce Emily walked, and then skipped, leggy and uncontrolled for her age, in the opposite direction, and the Brodie set was left to their secret life as it had been six years ago in their childhood.
"I am putting old heads on your young shoulders," Miss Brodie had told them at that time, "and all my pupils are the crème de la crème."
Sandy looked with her little screwed-up eyes at Monica's very red nose and remembered this saying as she followed the set in the wake of Miss Brodie.
"I should like you girls to come to supper tomorrow night," Miss Brodie said. "Make sure you are free."
"The Dramatic Society..." murmured Jenny.
"Send an excuse," said Miss Brodie. "I have to consult you about a new plot which is afoot to force me to resign. Needless to say, I shall not resign." She spoke calmly as she always did in spite of her forceful words.
Miss Brodie never discussed her affairs with the other members of the staff, but only with those former pupils whom she had trained up in her confidence. There had been previous plots to remove her from Blaine, which had been foiled.
"It has been suggested again that I should apply for a post at one of the progressive schools, where my methods would be more suited to the system than they are at Blaine. But I shall not apply for a post at a crank school. I shall remain at this education factory. There needs must be a leaven in the lump. Give me a girl at an impressionable age, and she is mine for life."
The Brodie set smiled in understanding of various kinds.
Miss Brodie forced her brown eyes to flash as a meaningful accompaniment to her quiet voice. She looked a mighty woman with her dark Roman profile in the sun. The Brodie set did not for a moment doubt that she would prevail. As soon expect Julius Caesar to apply for a job at a crank school as Miss Brodie. She would never resign. If the authorities wanted to get rid of her she would have to be assassinated.
"Who are the gang, this time?" said Rose, who was famous for sex-appeal.
"We shall discuss tomorrow night the persons who oppose me," said Miss Brodie. "But rest assured they shall not succeed."
"No," said everyone. "No, of course they won't."
"Not while I am in my prime," she said. "These years are still the years of my prime. It is important to recognise the years of one's prime, always remember that. Here is my tram car. I daresay I'll not get a seat. This is nineteen-thirty-six. The age of chivalry is past."
Six years previously, Miss Brodie had led her new class into the garden for a history lesson underneath the big elm. On the way through the school corridors they passed the headmistress's study. The door was wide open, the room was empty.
"Little girls," said Miss Brodie, "come and observe this."
They clustered round the open door while she pointed to a large poster pinned with drawing-pins on the opposite wall within the room. It depicted a man's big face. Underneath were the words "Safety First."
"This is Stanley Baldwin who got in as Prime Minister and got out again ere long," said Miss Brodie. "Miss Mackay retains him on the wall because she believes in the slogan 'Safety First.' But Safety does not come first. Goodness, Truth and Beauty come first. Follow me."
This was the first intimation, to the girls, of an odds between Miss Brodie and the rest of the teaching staff. Indeed, to some of them, it was the first time they had realised it was possible for people glued together in grown-up authority to differ at all. Taking inward note of this, and with the exhilarating feeling of being in on the faint smell of row, without being endangered by it, they followed dangerous Miss Brodie into the secure shade of the elm.
Often, that sunny autumn, when the weather permitted, the small girls took their lessons seated on three benches arranged about the elm.
"Hold up your books," said Miss Brodie quite often that autumn, "prop them up in your hands, in case of intruders. If there are any intruders, we are doing our history lesson... our poetry... English grammar."
The small girls held up their books with their eyes not on them, but on Miss Brodie.
"Meantime I will tell you about my last summer holiday in Egypt... I will tell you about care of the skin, and of the hands... about the Frenchman I met in the train to Biarritz... and I must tell you about the Italian paintings I saw. Who is the greatest Italian painter?"
"Leonardo da Vinci, Miss Brodie."
"That is incorrect. The answer is Giotto, he is my favourite."
Some days it seemed to Sandy that Miss Brodie's chest was flat, no bulges at all, but straight as her back. On other days her chest was breast-shaped and large, very noticeable, something for Sandy to sit and peer at through her tiny eyes while Miss Brodie on a day of lessons indoors stood erect, with her brown head held high, staring out of the window like Joan of Arc as she spoke.
"I have frequently told you, and the holidays just past have convinced me, that my prime has truly begun. One's prime is elusive. You little girls, when you grow up, must be on the alert to recognise your prime at whatever time of your life it may occur. You must then live it to the full. Mary, what have you got under your desk, what are you looking at?"
Mary sat lump-like and too stupid to invent something. She was too stupid ever to tell a lie, she didn't know how to cover up.
"A comic, Miss Brodie," she said.
"Do you mean a comedian, a droll?"
Everyone tittered.
"A comic paper," said Mary.
"A comic paper, forsooth. How old are you?"
"Ten, ma'am."
"You are too old for comic papers at ten. Give it to me."
Miss Brodie looked at the coloured sheets. "Tiger Tim's forsooth," she said, and threw it into the waste-paper basket. Perceiving all eyes upon it she lifted it out of the basket, tore it up beyond redemption and put it back again.
"Attend to me, girls. One's prime is the moment one was born for. Now that my prime has begun — Sandy, your attention is wandering. What have I been talking about?"
"Your prime, Miss Brodie."
"If anyone comes along," said Miss Brodie, "in the course of the following lesson, remember that it is the hour for English grammar. Meantime I will tell you a little of my life when I was younger than I am now, though six years older than the man himself."
She leaned against the elm. It was one of the last autumn days when the leaves were falling in little gusts. They fell on the children who were thankful for this excuse to wriggle and for the allowable movements in brushing the leaves from their hair and laps.
"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. I was engaged to a young man at the beginning of the War but he fell on Flanders Field," said Miss Brodie. "Are you thinking, Sandy, of doing a day's washing?"
"No, Miss Brodie."
"Because you have got your sleeves rolled up. I won't have to do with girls who roll up the sleeves of their blouses, however fine the weather. Roll them down at once, we are civilized beings. He fell the week before Armistice was declared. He fell like an autumn leaf, although he was only twenty-two years of age. When we go indoors we shall look on the map at Flanders, and the spot where my lover was laid before you were born. He was poor. He came from Ayrshire, a countryman, but a hardworking and clever scholar. He said, when he asked me to marry him, "We shall have to drink water and walk slow." That was Hugh's country way of expressing that we would live quietly. We shall drink water and walk slow. What does the saying signify, Rose?"
"That you would live quietly, Miss Brodie," said Rose Stanley who six years later had a great reputation for sex.
The story of Miss Brodie's felled fiancé was well on its way when the headmistress, Miss Mackay, was seen to approach across the lawn. Tears had already started to drop from Sandy's little pig-like eyes and Sandy's tears now affected her friend Jenny, later famous in the school for her beauty, who gave a sob and groped up the leg of her knickers for her handkerchief. "Hugh was killed," said Miss Brodie, "a week before the Armistice. After that there was a general election and people were saying, 'Hang the Kaiser!' Hugh was one of the Flowers of the Forest, lying in his grave." Rose Stanley had now begun to weep. Sandy slid her wet eyes sideways, watching the advance of Miss Mackay, head and shoulders forward, across the lawn.
"I am come to see you and I have to be off," she said. "What are you little girls crying for?"
"They are moved by a story I have been telling them. We are having a history lesson," said Miss Brodie, catching a falling leaf neatly in her hand as she spoke.
"Crying over a story at ten years of age!" said Miss Mackay to the girls who had stragglingly risen from the benches, still dazed with Hugh the warrior. "I am only come to see you and I must be off. Well, girls, the new term has begun. I hope you all had a splendid summer holiday and I look forward to seeing your splendid essays on how you spent them. You shouldn't be crying over history at the age of ten. My word!"
"You did well," said Miss Brodie to the class, when Miss Mackay had gone, "not to answer the question put to you. It is well, when in difficulties, to say never a word, neither black nor white. Speech is silver but silence is golden. Mary, are you listening? What was I saying?"
Mary Macgregor, lumpy, with merely two eyes, a nose and a mouth like a snowman, who was later famous for being stupid and always to blame and who, at the age of twenty-three, lost her life in a hotel fire, ventured, "Golden."
"What did I say was golden?"
Mary cast her eyes around her and up above. Sandy whispered, "The falling leaves."
"The falling leaves," said Mary.
"Plainly," said Miss Brodie, "you were not listening to me. If only you small girls would listen to me I would make of you the crème de la crème."

@настроение: happy

@темы: The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, Расцвет мисс Джин Броди, Мюриэл Спарк

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В придумывании названий фан-фикшенов я - оригинал или нет? Судите сами.

найдено у sever_snape snapelly.diary.ru/p57391382.htm

То, что есть в Сети. (www.fanfiction.net/u/2686792)

Итак, по порядку написания последнего обновления, начиная с самого старого.

Названия фан-фикшенов с моими комментариями

Самое первое, что я когда-либо написала, было продолжение «ГП» на магловский детский конкурс «Золотая буква». Суть конкурса заключалась в том, что что нужно написать продолжение любого произведения по длине текста до 1 листа А4. Участвовать в конкурсе посоветовала мама (спасибо ей огромное, если бы я не участвовала в конкурсе я бы никогда не написала свои фики и драбблы) и сказала, что надо писать по какому-нибудь популярному произведению. Я тогда недавно закончила читать «ГП» и очень хорошо его знала. Я ответила, что писать не умею, но написала за пару часов или меньше, LOL.
Кстати, я была среди победителей)) Но до сих пор думаю, что у меня почти нет фантазии.
Разве воплощение своих желаний в литературной форме - это фантазия? Нет, увы. Плюс к этому я - критик и аналитик (среднее между Бальзаком и Робеспьером (в основном - Робеспьер)), поэтому в фиках часто присутствуют ответы на вопросы. Например - почему герой сделал именно это, а не другое или что герой чувствовал в определённый момент (как раз чувства - это самое простое для меня в написании фан-фикшенов).

В общем, 22 июня 2008 года я написала «Гарри Поттер и прОклятая должность». Мне было ещё 15 лет (день рождения 15.09).

Собственно, вот это творение.

Гарри Поттер и прОклятая должность.

Прошло ещё несколько лет. И вот наконец-то трое детей Гарри Поттера и Джинни Уизли и двое Рона Уизли и Гермионы Грэйнджер все вместе сели на «Хогвартс-экспресс», отходящий в 11-00 с платформы 9 ¾ .

Кроме того, что Лили - дочь Джинни и Гарри пошла в школу, но и её папа отправился туда вместе с ней и сыновьями Джеймсом и Альбусом. Он должен вести там свои первые уроки Защиты от Тёмных Искусств. А его подруга, Гермиона Грэйнджер, стала преподавателем Трансфигурации в Хогвартсе. После того как он окончательно победил самого тёмного волшебника Волан-де-Морта, на эту должность перестало действовать проклятие, которое наложил на неё Тёмный Лорд, когда Дамблдор ещё преподавал Трансфигурацию и отсоветовал директору Диппету брать на работу Тома Реддла.

Несколько лет назад Гарри перед первым отъездом Альбуса в Хогвартс впервые сказал ему, что мог попасть в Слизерин. И если это важно для него, то он может сделать свой выбор. С этого самого учебного года Поттер Альбус Северус учится в Гриффиндоре.

Но вот подъехал поезд, Рон с Джинни посадили пятерых друзей в поезд, пожелали им и будущим профессорам удачи и долго махали вслед удаляющемуся поезду.
- Как хорошо, что мы сможем присматривать за нашими детьми во время учебного года, - тихо, чтобы никто не слышал, сказала Гермиона Гарри.

В этом году, в отличие от многих, когда Гарри ехал в школу в качестве ученика, доехали без приключений.

У поезда их также как и всегда ждал Хагрид, чтобы по традиции переправлять первокурсников на лодках до школы. Гарри с Гермионой радостно приветствовали Рубеуса, но уже в качестве преподавателей.

Вскоре все остальные расселись по каретам, которые везли для многих невидимые фестралы. Ведь этих крылатых лошадей видят только те, кто видел умерших. Кареты неслышно покатили к Хогвартсу.

Так начался ещё один, ничем не омрачённый новый учебный год.

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Из этого отрывка был написан фан-фикшен «Больше, чем профессор» ММ/ГГ PG Femslash Romance/Friendship (июнь-август 2009 года).
В конце октября я начала переписывать фан-фикшен. Сейчас уже пишу 6 главу и по сюжету - только 4 день)) Фик будет очень длинным и, о Мерлин, мой первый рейтинг - R c 4 главы.
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...потому, что герои не плачут джен || G || Гарри Поттер, Лили Эванс, Петуния Дурсли (вообще фик о Гарри) || Happy End
За идею спасибо Мюриэл Спарк, а именно её шедевру «Расцвет мисс Джин Броди» (Кстати, у меня есть в оригинале!!! Полный текст в следующем посте и комментариям к нему).
« - Что больше всего повлияло на вас в школьные годы, сестра Елена? Литература, политика, личные интересы? А может, это был Кальвинизм?
Но Сэнди ответила: «Нет, это была некая мисс Броди в расцвете лет»». (печатаю по памяти, помню дословно (это самые последние слова Книги)).
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Для тебя - переделки песен и стихотворения по «ГП» о/или с участием Её (Минерва МакГонагалл).

Драбблы о Ней - естественно, о Минерве. Написаны по заявкам в сообщстве однострочников в Diary.

Mihera (Если перевести, то будет Мигера), в общем, моё название пэйринга Минерва/Гермиона (Mina + Hera). Только что придумала:
Живёт на свете Mina (Мина)
И любит её Hera (Гера).
А вместе это - пэйринг с названием Mihera (Мигера).

Maggie Smith и заклятие вечного проветривания Да-да, дженовый фик о самой Мэгги. (Естественно, по «ГП»).

А Ролинг читала «Джин Броди» - длинное стихотворение о том, кто из «Джин Броди» стал героями «ГП», вначале - коротко о фильме.

Всегда вместе - ММ/ГГ || Femslash || Romance || PG


(Далее без пояснений - только название и фэндом)

More than mamma (Больше, чем мама) - ГП

С первого дня и навсегда - ГП

Неужели это - правда?

Необъяснимо, но факт - ГП Увы, название - известная фраза.

Together (Вместе) - ГП

The Mystery of Grace Howkins (Тайна Грэйс Хоукинс) - фильм "Молчи в тряпочку"

Гаррипоттерить - ГП Слово Мэгги Смит

Songs of Magic World (Песни волшебного мира) - ГП

Flora and Pomona - ГП

Couplets on different books (Двустишия по различным книгам (ГП присутствует)) sever_snape, thanks for idea!

Poem about fan-fiction (Стихотворение о фан-фикшене) - ГП

Thou and I (Ты и я) - Расцвет мисс Джин Броди (книга)

Short drabbles (Короткие драбблы) - Merlin BBC

A Poem About Rolanda Hooch (Стихотворение о Роланде Хуч) - ГП

Universal Day of Kises - ГП Название фика - международный день поцелуев, который был придуман в Англии и отмечается 6 июня.

Why do we together? (Почему мы вместе?) - ГП

Вдвоём с тобой - ГП и немного Джин Броди Название фан-фикшена и сам фан-фикшен связан с песней Леонтьева (Исчезли солнечные дни) Самое смешное в том, что считается, что главный герой этой песни - мужчина. Но нет! Если второй персонаж - "Любимая, бесценная", то по этой песне можно написать фемслэш. Что я и начала делать))

Вдвоём с тобой 2 - ГП

Dæmon and Patronus (Дэймон и Патронус) - ГП и Чудесный нож (2 книга из трилогии Тёмные начала Филипа Пулмана).

Beauty's heart (Сердце красавицы) - книга Расцвет мисс Джин Броди Название и сам фик появился благодаря тому, что девочки из клана Броди начинают петь мелодию песни "Сердце красавицы", когда к Джин подходит Тедди Ллойд.
Кстати, на эту песню у меня сделан клип (ссылка на аккаунт в YouTube в самом верху страницы).
Седьмое чувство - ГП Минерва/Роланда для sever_snape Кстати, фан-фикшен дописан. Итак, про название – моё и только моё. Вы когда-нибудь слышали, что кроме интуиции (шестое чувство) есть что-то ещё?
Frauen ohne Uniform (Женщины без униформы) - по фильму "Mädchen in Uniform" ("Девушки в униформе")
Тигрёнок Тим - ГП Название фан-фикшена - это название журнала в книге «Расцвет мисс Джин Броди» (в русском переводе)
The Story About One Muggle (История об одной магле) - ГП


LOL)) Сегодня по «Радио России» передавали песню «Ах, какая женщина». Естественно, на месте идеальной женщины из персонажей я вижу только Минерву)) Написать, что ли фемслэш (не учитывая песню, а только «Ах какая женщина, мне б такую»)?

@темы: фан-фикшен, фемслэш, Минерва МакГонагалл, фанфики, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, Расцвет мисс Джин Броди, Молчи в тряпочку, мир Гарри Поттера

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Girl Maggie!!! You did not saw it!

I have remembered what some Maggie's fans want see girl Maggie. I found it!!!

Girl Maggie in my main Tumblr.
Reblogged from Dame Maggie Daily (my fan Tumblr about Maggie Natalie Smith).
Enjoy!

@настроение: happy

@темы: ссылки, Tumblr, Тумблер, Maggie Smith, Мэгги Смит

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Лучшее по тв (Новый год 2012).

Я смеялась долго )

(Сказано ведущими на канале «Россия» в 23 ч с минутами).
- Кто самый знаменитый исполнитель в России песни «О со ля мио»?
- Коля Басков.
- Заяц из «Ну, погоди!»
Кто-нибудь кроме меня помнит эти замечательные слова?
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Ангела Меркель на канале Россия)) Подождите, это же Юрий Стоянов (а как похож, LOL)

@настроение: giggle

@темы: юмор

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LOL))

holdyourhippogriffs
Book Dumbledore: Harry, did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?
Movie Dumbledore: HARRY POTTER DID YOU PUT YOUR FUCKING NAME INTO THE FUCKING GOBLET OF FUCKING FIRE FROM HELL? DID YOU? HUH?

@настроение: giggle

@темы: юмор, мир Гарри Поттера

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Happy 77 birthday, Maggie Natalie Smith!

С днём рождения, Мэгги Смит!!! Мои поздравления

@музыка: Happy birthday

@настроение: ecstatic

@темы: Maggie Smith, Мэгги Смит