«Martin Eden» kitabından alıntılar, sayfa 6

Есть много романтического в истории каждой травинки; она пережила немало приключений. Одна эта мысль вдохновляет меня.

Пусть мертвецы остаются мертвецами. Какое имею отношение я к этим мертвецам? Красота вечна и всегда жива. Языки создаются и исчезают. Они прах мертвецов.

Разум не должен вмешиваться в любовные дела. Правильно рассуждает любимая женщина или неправильно - это безразлично. Любовь выше разума.

- Почему вы не родились с готовым доходом!

- Предпочитаю иметь здоровье и воображение. А доходы придут.

Она любила бы меня, если бы у нее нашлось время. Но она надрывается от работы.

Девяносто девять процентов редакторов обыкновенные неудачники. Несостоявшиеся писатели. Не думай, будто они предпочли нудную необходимость торчать за редакторским столом, зависеть от тиража и коммерческого директора радости творить. Они пробовали писать– и не сумели

The situation was obscured to Ruth. She had never had any experiences of the heart. Her only experiences in such matters were of the books, where the facts of ordinary day were translated by fancy into a fairy realm of unreality; and she little knew that this rough sailor was creeping into her he

He was too tired to feel sleepy, and he lay, scarcely thinking, in a semi-stupor of weariness, until it was time for supper. Joe did not appear for that function, and when Martin heard the gardener remark that most likely he was ripping the slats off the bar, Martin understood. He went to bed immediately afterward, and in the morning decided that he was greatly rested. Joe being still absent, Martin procured a Sunday paper and lay down in a shady nook under the trees. The morning passed, he knew not how. He did not sleep, nobody disturbed him, and he did not finish

and, most important of all, she would catch glimpses of the real Martin Eden. In his work she would discern what his heart and soul were like, and she would come to understand something, a little something, of the stuff of his dreams and the strength of his power. Martin gathered together a number of carbon copies of his short stories, hesitated a moment, then added his "Sea Lyrics." They mounted their wheels on a late June afternoon and rode for the hills. It was the second time he had been out with her alone, and as they rode along through the balmy warmth, just chilled by she sea-breeze to refreshing coolness, he was profoundly impressed by the fact that it was a very beautiful and well-ordered world and that it was good to be alive and to love

It was exhausting work, carried on, hour after hour, at top speed. Out on the broad verandas of the hotel, men and women, in cool white, sipped iced drinks and kept their circulation down. But in the laundry the air was sizzling. The huge stove roared red hot and white hot, while the irons, moving over the damp cloth, sent up clouds of steam. The heat of these irons was different from that used by housewives. An iron that stood the ordinary test of a wet finger was too cold for Joe and Martin, and such test was useless. They went wholly by holding