самая мякотка, самая писечка / corpus cavernosum

Среди наших друзей возник вопрос о взаимосвязанности крутящего момента и лошадиных сил. Эффективность крутящего момента замечательно истолкована в небезызвестном чапаевском анекдоте:

Полковник Бороздин зовёт денщика Петровича. «Чё изволите, ваше превосходительство?»—«Петрович, неси сюда рюмку водки и кота.» Петрович принёс. Полковник поддал. «Петрович, крути коту яйца.» Петрович крутит. Кот орёт. Полковник утирает скупую мужскую слезу: «Котик-котик, как я тебя понимаю…»

Здесь никакие лошадиные силы не помогут. Действительно, представим себе, что не Петрович крутит коту яйца, а лягает их копытом белый чапаевский конь. В этом случае, вместо издавания желаемого вопля, кот либо разобьётся вдребезги, либо улетит к ебёной матери. Короче говоря, при попытке подмены крутящего момента лошадиными силами выходит пагубная неувязка.

Our friends are puzzled by the interrelatedness of torque and horsepower. The effects of torque are remarkably illustrated in this Chapayevite tale of a certain renown:

Colonel Borozdin summons his batman Petrovich. “At your service, your excellency!”—“Petrovich, fetch me a glass of vodka and a cat.” Petrovich conveys. The colonel guzzles. “Petrovich, twist his balls.” Petrovich twists. The cat wails. The colonel dabs his moistened eyes: “Kitty-cat, kitty-cat, I understand…”

All the king’s horses would be unavailing. Indeed, imagine that instead of the cat’s balls getting twisted by Petrovich, they get kicked by Chapaev’s white horse. In this scenario, instead of emitting the desired shriek, the cat would either break into pieces or launch into orbit. In short, an attempt to replace torque with horsepower would result in a fatal mishap.

words to live by

Michael Lewis dishes out definitive business advice:

Danny Moses, who became [Steve] Eisman’s head trader [at FrontPoint Partners], was another who shared his perspective. Raised in Georgia, Moses, the son of a finance professor, was a bit less fatalistic than [Vincent] Daniel or Eisman, but he nevertheless shared a general sense that bad things can and do happen. When a Wall Street firm helped him get into a trade that seemed perfect in every way, he said to the salesman, “I appreciate this, but I just want to know one thing: How are you going to screw me?”
    Heh heh heh, c’mon. We’d never do that, the trader started to say, but Moses was politely insistent: We both know that unadulterated good things like this trade don’t just happen between little hedge funds and big Wall Street firms. I’ll do it, but only after you explain to me how you are going to screw me. And the salesman explained how he was going to screw him. And Moses did the trade.

Hence the difference between business and pleasure. Thus spake Rod Stewart, thrice married, twice divorced, sire to seven children from five different women: “Instead of getting married again, I’m going to find a woman I don’t like and just give her a house.” No cause for inquiry there.

гнилое лицо

Люди участвуют в обществе в факультативном порядке. В меру своего участия, они открывают, изучают и усваивают не только нравственные правила, но и более требовательные правила вежливости. Все эти процессы они осуществляют не столько личными усилиями, сколько путём взаимодействия. Вежливость—это ключ к соборности. Если вежливость более требовательна, чем нравственность, то нравственность более требовательна, чем законность. Если законность запрещает человеку сбрасывать обнажённую женщину с моста, то нравственность призывает его вытащить её из воды, а вежливость отворачивает его плотоядный взгляд от её влажного лобка. Continue reading гнилое лицо

in memoriam


John Singer Sargent, Gassed, 1919, Imperial War Museum, London

            Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

—Wilfred Owen
(18 March 1893 – 4 November 1918)
The Collected Poems of Wilfred Owen
edited by Edmund Blunden
New Directions, 1965, p. 55


Henri de Groux, Masques à gaz, etching,
Royal Army and Military History Museum, Brussels
REPRODUCED FROM ART OF THE FIRST WORLD WAR

                                   LA NUIT D’AVRIL 1915

                                                                      À L. de C.-C.

                    Le ciel est étoilé par les obus des Boches
                    La forêt merveilleuse où je vis donne un bal
                    La mitrailleuse joue un air à triples-croches
                    Mais avez-vous le mot
                                                         Eh ! oui le mot fatal
                    Aux créneaux Aux créneaux Laissez là les pioches

                    Comme un astre éperdu qui cherche ses saisons
                    Cœur obus éclaté tu sifflais ta romance
                    Et tes mille soleils ont vidé les caissons
                    Que les dieux de mes yeux remplissent en silence

                    Nous vous aimons ô vie et nous vous agaçons

                    Les obus miaulaient un amour à mourir
                    Un amour qui se meurt est plus doux que les autres
                    Ton souffle nage au fleuve où le sang va tarir
                    Les obus miaulaient
                                                     Entends chanter les nôtres
                    Pourpre amour salué par ceux qui vont périr

                    Le printemps tout mouillé la veilleuse l’attaque
                    Il pleut mon âme il pleut mais il pleut des yeux morts

                    Ulysse que de jours pour rentrer dans Ithaque
                    Couche-toi sur la paille et songe un beau remords
                    Qui pur effet de l’art soit aphrodisiaque

                    Mais
                             orgues
                                         aux fétus de la paille où tu dors
                    L’hymne de l’avenir est paradisiaque

—Guillaume Apollinaire
(26 août 1880 – 9 novembre 1918)
Œuvres poétiques
édition établie et annotée par Marcel Adéma
Gallimard, 1965, pp. 243-244


Guillaume Apollinaire, 1916

кавалерист Моисей Исаакович Зелёный (1889-1934)
пехотинец Иосиф Моисеевич Зелёный (1920-2000)
артиллерист Исаак Моисеевич Зелёный (1923-2004)

the roots of english hoplophobia

Carrying a revolver is a fad, just a fad or a fashion; but the revolvers are mighty harmless. Of course there are desperadoes on the frontier, but that is the only part of the world they live in. Their deeds give a false character to their district. I have carried a revolver; lots of us do, but they are the most innocent things in the world.
MARK TWAIN PUT TO THE QUESTION, ADELAIDE South Australian Register, OCTOBER 14, 1895, in Mark Twain Speaks for Himself, edited by Paul Fatout, Purdue University Press, 1997, p. 152

Continue reading the roots of english hoplophobia

“we are unconcerned”

For all its lexical wealth, English lacks pithy counterparts to the French “je-m’en-foutisme” and the opposite-but-equal Italian “menefreghismo”, let alone the nonpareil Russian “похуй”. The best we can do is wax prolix: “I just don’t give a fuck!”

And yet, if Tom Stoppard is to be believed, high marks for good breeding accrue among the English upper classes with credit for one’s unconcern. (See Arcadia, Act One, Scene Four.) Surely there is no shortage of his fellow public schoolboys around these parts, to generate a proper Englishing of this Russian proto-rap: «Умер Максим—ну и хуй с ним; положили в гроб—мать его ёб.» [Maksim died—and the prick with him; laid in a coffin—fuck his mother.] Any ideas?

Crossposted to [info]larvatus, [info]linguaphiles, and [info]ru_translate.

UPDATE:

We lost Maxim—well, fuck him.
We’ll bury him this week—[that motherfucking prick/his mom can suck my dick].

Courtesy of [info]pawnchow.