|ночные стихи (англ.)
||[фев. 3, 2013|03:28 am]
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,|
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
Омар Хайям, в переводе "Рубайат" Эдварда Фицджеральда.
This Homer K. M., from what leaked out of his libretto through Idaho, seemed to me to be a kind of a dog who looked at life like it was a tin can tied to his tail. After running himself half to death, he sits down, hangs his tongue out, and looks at the can and says:
"Oh, well, since we can't shake the growler, let's get it filled at the corner, and all have a drink on me."
Besides that, it seems he was a Persian; and I never hear of Persia producing anything worth mentioning unless it was Turkish rugs and Maltese cats.
Same is true about posting stuff online.
Спасибо, вероятно отсюда название романа Агаты Кристи "Moving Finger" - про злобные анонимные письма...
Наглядная иллюстрация принципа WORM.