Снова эзотерика
Nov. 21st, 2011 08:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
just_tomЧетыре года назад я показывал эзотерическую ложечку, купленную в ближайшем супермаркете (ой, это столько времени прошло):
Вчера в другом магазине нашёл её родственника - эзотерический штопор:
Ну, его применение должно быть совершенно очевидно.
Вчера в другом магазине нашёл её родственника - эзотерический штопор:
Ну, его применение должно быть совершенно очевидно.
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Date: 2011-11-21 08:27 am (UTC)Впрочем, я и про ложку не понял.
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Date: 2011-11-21 09:52 am (UTC)А вот зачем это штопору - не понятно. И вообще, он какой-то странный.
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Date: 2011-11-21 11:40 pm (UTC)ON NOT KNOWING ANYTHING
One thing you must learn in England is that you must never really learn anything. You may hold opinions – as long as you are not too dogmatic about them – but it is just bad form to know something. You may think that two and two make four; you may ‘rather suspect it’; but you must not go further than that. Yes and no are about the two rudest words in the language.
One evening recently I was dining with several people. Someone – a man called Trevor – suddenly paused in his remarks and asked in a reflective voice:
‘Oh, I mean that large island off Africa... You know, near Tanganyika... What is it called?’
Our hostess replied chattily:
‘I’m afraid I have no idea. No good asking me, my dear.’ She looked at one of her guests: ‘I think Evelyn might...’
Evelyn was born and brought up in Tanganyika but she shook her head firmly:
‘I can’t remember at the moment. Perhaps Sir Robert. ..’
Sir Robert was British Resident in Zanzibar – the place in question – for twenty-seven years but he, too, shook his head with grim determination:
‘It escapes me too. These peculiar African names... I know it is called something or other. It may come back to me presently.’
Mr Trevor, the original enquirer, was growing irritated.
‘The wretched place is quite near Dar es Salaam. It’s called... Wait a minute...”
I saw the name was on the tip of his tongue. I tried to be helpful.
‘Isn’t it called Zan...’
One or two murderous glances made me shut up. I meant to put it in question form only but as that would have involved uttering the name sought for, it would not do. The word stuck in my throat. I went on in the same pensive tone:
‘I mean... What I meant was, isn’t it Czechoslovakia?’
The Vice-President of one of our geographical societies shook his head sadly.
‘I don’t think so... I can’t be sure, of course... But I shouldn’t think so.’
Mr Trevor was almost desperate.
‘Just south of the equator. It sounds something like...’
But he could not produce the word. Then a benevolent looking elderly gentleman, with a white goatee beard smiled pleasantly at Trevor and told him in a confident, guttural voice:
‘Ziss islant iss kolt Zsantsibar, yes?’
There was deadly, hostile silence in the room. Then a retired colonel on my left le-aned forward and whispered into my ear:
‘Once a German always a German.’ The bishop on my right nodded grimly:
‘And they’re surprised if we’re prejudiced against them.’
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Date: 2011-11-21 09:33 pm (UTC)