Već neko vrijeme čitam roman Philipa K. Dicka A Scanner Darkly. Čitam ga vrlo sporo jer me ideje iz njega tako obuzmu i neki dijelovi tako oduševe da me uhvati strah ga ću ga pročitati prebrzo - progutati u jednome zalogaju - ne uživajući, već izgladnjelo, požudno, eskapistički - da će biti zauvijek izgubljen u poplavi kortizola.
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"Later, in the semidarkness he drowsed, from--so to speak-- his own fix. Connie snored on beside him, lying on her back with her arms at her sides outside the covers. He could see her dimly. They sleep like Count Dracula, he thought, junkies do. Staring straight up until all of a sudden they sit up, like a machine cranked from position A to position B. "It-- must--be--day," the junkie says, or anyhow the tape in his head says. Plays him his instructions, the mind of a junkie being like the music you hear on a clock radio . . . it sometimes sounds pretty, but it is only there to make you do something. The music from the clock radio is to wake you up; the music from the junkie is to get you to become a means for him to obtain more junk, in whatever way you can serve. He, a machine, will turn you into _his_ machine.
Every junkie, he thought, is a recording."
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Bilo bi šteta da ovo bude izgubljeno.
(Oni koji mogu čitati sa zaslona mogu to činiti odavde)
Post je objavljen 27.03.2009. u 23:55 sati.