Граф Орлов
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"Well, this is just great."
Marey was very irritated, unable to find a real reason for his feeling, which had so unexpectedly replaced the apathy of the past few days. This woman was very unpleasant to him at that moment, and unpleasant even apart from how her appearance had affected life in the academy. What irritated him was how outrageously healthy she was compared to him, how correct and pedantic, and her manner of eating – she did it with such pleasure and healthy appetite. Yes, she embodied the most vulgar ideal of success, contentment, and satiety, and all the bitterness of Marey's proud, hungry, and battered youth rose up against her, and all his dissatisfaction with the world at that moment was projected onto this woman. He was tired of holding back, and the August heat was making him even more agitated.
Moving away and making sure that no one noticed him, Marey fixed his gaze on the space in front of him. Everything happened extremely simply, automatically, and a moment later, several fat flies materialized near him. Without turning around, he directed them to share a meal with the curator.
He returned to his room, lay down on the bed without taking off his shoes, and stared thoughtfully at the moth that had settled on the tip of his index finger. Marey was unhappy with himself: the prank was stupid, and his mood had only worsened. The day off was hopelessly ruined, books were unappealing, boredom overwhelmed him, and his thoughts were like a sluggish slime, and he had a headache from them. For almost the rest of the day, the sorcerer lay on the bed, only shaking his head in time with the butterfly's wings, staring into the empty eyes of the dead head.
Marey was very irritated, unable to find a real reason for his feeling, which had so unexpectedly replaced the apathy of the past few days. This woman was very unpleasant to him at that moment, and unpleasant even apart from how her appearance had affected life in the academy. What irritated him was how outrageously healthy she was compared to him, how correct and pedantic, and her manner of eating – she did it with such pleasure and healthy appetite. Yes, she embodied the most vulgar ideal of success, contentment, and satiety, and all the bitterness of Marey's proud, hungry, and battered youth rose up against her, and all his dissatisfaction with the world at that moment was projected onto this woman. He was tired of holding back, and the August heat was making him even more agitated.
Moving away and making sure that no one noticed him, Marey fixed his gaze on the space in front of him. Everything happened extremely simply, automatically, and a moment later, several fat flies materialized near him. Without turning around, he directed them to share a meal with the curator.
He returned to his room, lay down on the bed without taking off his shoes, and stared thoughtfully at the moth that had settled on the tip of his index finger. Marey was unhappy with himself: the prank was stupid, and his mood had only worsened. The day off was hopelessly ruined, books were unappealing, boredom overwhelmed him, and his thoughts were like a sluggish slime, and he had a headache from them. For almost the rest of the day, the sorcerer lay on the bed, only shaking his head in time with the butterfly's wings, staring into the empty eyes of the dead head.
E si sui vius, er mi grans benananza,
e si ieu muoir, er mi grans deliuriers
e si ieu muoir, er mi grans deliuriers