Russian Impressions, September 2000
Andrew Tupkalo
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ًزة×إشسش×صہ, *All!*
çدزرقةت حءشإزةءج, دؤخءثد! ;)
÷دعحدضخد, ر ذإزإ×إؤص ـشد ؤجر سءتشء.
Russian Impressions, September 2000
The first thing I would note is that the Russian Federation, as currently
constituted, is a nation eleven time zones wide. I saw one city: St.
Petersburg. This is, I'm told, like paying a visit to San Francisco and
thinking that one has seen America. I will therefore try to avoid too-broad
generalities in what follows.
I was invited to be a guest speaker at the Congress of Russian Science Fiction
Writers, which (like much in Russia these days) is a fairly new organization.
Like many other enterprises in the former Soviet Union, it is getting its legs
under it. This was the fifth of their annual conferences, an occasion for
writers to meet and talk, and honor the excellence of the past year in Russian
publishing. To that end the conference has created the Strannik Award, which
they aspire to have be the Russian equivalent of the Nebulas. There is also, I
was told, a new annual science fiction convention in Moscow, which is also in
the process of developing a reader-voted award to be a Hugo-analog.
After much last-minute scrambling and many cranky and hysterical e-mails to my
host and guest liaison, the very patient Mr. Cyril Korolev, I finally had
tickets, visa, and passport in hand. On Monday September 18 I took plane from
Minneapolis to Chicago, there to catch an Aeroflot flight to Moscow and a plane
change to St. Petersburg. Unfortunately, the plane was four hours late taking
off, due to having to wait for the second flight crew to arrive, who had been
delayed in transit. (International aviation safety regulations require any
flight over a certain duration to carry a relief crew to take over once the
primary crew has passed their maximum number of hours on duty.) I must say,
when they finally did show up, they were a very nice looking bunch, the ladies
trim in their red uniforms, the fellows the typical trio of
distinguished-looking senior pilot and rather handsome juniors, co-pilot and
flight engineer. I like Russian faces, which fall into several recognizable
types, and look, well, Russian.
We got away eventually. The plane was a Boeing, as are a number of Aeroflot's
international fleet, and the food was the same Chicago airline food I'd had on
my trip to Madrid, so I didn't win on either seating or food over American
carriers (I'd been hoping). The in-flight movie was the first of several rather
surreal moments: it was a Russian-made American Old-Western! It was
comedy-drama. I can offer no better description of it than to quote verbatim
the in-flight magazine.
"A Man From Caputsins Boulevard, 1987. At the dawn of cinematography someone
named Mr. First -- a missionary of The Film -- arrived in a little cowboy town.
He started showing first movies to the tough guys who turned to be very
sensitive and touches. But not everyone in town likes that... Story: E. Apokov.
Director: A. Surihova. Starring [and rather delightfully, I might add]: A.
Mirnov, M. Boyarski, O. Tabakov."
I would sum up my Aeroflot experience as, "No worse than Northwest Airlines". I
would not hesitate to fly Aeroflot international again. Note to some potential
customers: Aeroflot still allows smoking in a section of the plane on their
flights, and tends to have seats available on short notice at quite competitive
prices. I sat in the non-smoking section, and was not bothered by smoke even
though I'm mildly allergic to it.
Due to my late departure from Chicago, I missed my connection in Moscow. But my
hosts, three women from my Russian publisher AST in Moscow -- my Russian
translator and two junior editors -- waited faithfully some six hours in
Sheremetievo-2 Airport. They were still there with a sign in their hands with
my name on it and a rather wilted rose (it, and they, had been all fresh at
noon), when I at last stumbled out of Customs and into the airport at 6 PM
Moscow time. I had called my son from Chicago and had him e-mail Cyril in St.
Petersburg when I knew I would be late, but it hadn't helped much; alas, the
message had not caught up with these faithful ladies, so they'd ended up
waiting the whole time. Jet-lagged, I ruthlessly threw the problem of my missed
connection onto them, and we all piled into the car (with driver) waiting to
take me to the domestic airport, Sheremetievo-1.
There, they miraculously got me a seat on a jam-packed evening flight north; we
had a short time to sit and chat before the flight, and they bought me tea,
bless them. The domestic airport has the atmosphere of a shabby bus station,
with many frantic travelers trying to crowd through a physical and checkpoint
system that's much too small for the load. While temporarily difficult, upon
reflection I take it as a good sign -- it means that a lot more Russians can
afford to fly now than the designers of that airport had ever imagined would.
My editor also handed me color photocopies of the cover for the Russian edition
of A Civil Campaign, just that weekend being released; I hope my website can
get scans soon. The Russian artist chose Kareen and Martya's bug butter battle
as the scene for the front, which amused me considerably. Miles's red
lightflyer appears on the back.
Being in Russia, where I did not speak or read the language, was rather like
being an adult illiterate who has had an aphasic stroke. Not being able to
understand or communicate was strange and scary, and it gave me a much keener
appreciation of the emotions of visitors and new immigrants struggling with
English in this country.
After an uneventful one-hour flight, and god knows how many hours awake (I
can't sleep on planes), I arrived at St. Petersburg's Pulkovo Airport, where
Cyril and a colleague met me with roses and a car, and whisked me off to the
hotel. The first building we passed out of the airport was the St. Petersburg
Coca-Cola bottling plant... The hotel was the Sovetskaya, built in Soviet-era
modern style. My room was small -- singles there actually have a single bed --
but very clean. I collapsed gratefully.
Next day, I crawled out of my room at about noon, and my hosts took me on a
general tour of the city. St. Petersburg looks tremendously old-world, but
actually is younger than New York or Boston. It was founded by Peter the Great
in 1703, on rather soggy land recently won/won back from the Swedish, to be
Russia's northern port, and very shortly, northern capital. We drove around a
couple of great Russian Orthodox churches and several notable monuments, and
then strolled around the Summer Gardens on the banks of the Neva, and visited
Peter's first little Summer Palace -- more of a house, really. This was later
replaced by edifices for which "grandiose" is an insufficient term, but here
was preserved a bed he slept in, some of his clocks including one with a frame
that he helped carve, and other fascinating historical objects. We also visited
the cruiser Aurora, now moored on the river, which when new had participated in
the famous 1905 defeat in the war with Japan, and from which the first shot was
fired that opened the Bolshevik Revolution.
After lunch in a delightfully collegiate cafe, we strolled around the island
fortress of Saints Peter and Paul, and then squeezed in a visit to the
apartments of the famous Russian poet Alexander Pushkin. (Early 19th Century --
think Lord Byron-era.) Like Byron, Pushkin also managed to get himself
tragically killed at the early age of 36 or so, in his case fighting a duel.
His office is preserved much as it was, and includes among other memorabilia a
cane he had made with a button from one of the coats of Peter the Great set in
the top. Also on display are some of his rough drafts, including doodles. I
wondered if he was left-handed, for all the faces in the marginal art face
left.
Then we were off to my first bookstore signing, at Nevsky 72. Quite a nice
number of fans showed up, and I began to get my first glimpse of just what is
happening with the Vorkosigan saga in Russia. The short version is, Miles is
making a heck of a lot of friends in places I never dreamed of when he first
swaggered onto my pages back in 1983. Interesting fans at this signing included
a woman judge, and a shy young lady who pressed a ceramic dragon upon me and
vanished before I could think to take her name. A reporter also did an
interview during the signing, and of course asked me what I thought of Russia.
Since my experience of Russia was mere hours old at this point, I'm afraid my
answer was rather incoherent, but I hope she got enough good material. Then it
was back to the Sovetskaya, dinner, and bed.
Next day Alan Dean Foster and Robert Jordan and his wife Harriet had arrived,
and we were all taken off for an all-too-brief tour of the famous Hermitage,
one of the world's greatest art museums. We saw an overwhelming fraction of its
treasures. I'd seen the Prado in Madrid earlier in the summer, and the
grandiose Bourbon Palace there; the Hermitage was like both rolled into one. I
won't even attempt to describe it all; take yourselves off to the library and
get out some giant art books with lots of glossy color photos on the subject.
We were then taken for lunch to a chamber that looked like a ballroom out of a
Georgette Heyer novel, mysteriously set with food waiting for many. After a
period of confusion where we sat wondering what we were supposed to do, eat or
wait, the rest of the mob from the conference showed up by a bus, a mode of
transport we were to grow very familiar with as the weekend went on.
Alan Dean Foster, who had visited Russia 13 years ago, said one of the notable
differences was the appearance of advertising. All the familiar logos, from Lee
Jeans to McDonald's (this, at least, in Cyrillic) were in evidence. While they
gave an encouraging sense of a healthy economy, I couldn't help wondering how
Americans would feel if their streets and shops were colonized by hundreds of
ads in Cyrillic. My favorite billboard in St. Petersburg was the one for
Kit-e-Kat cat food. It showed a tabby cat, made gigantic by its foregrounded
perspective, in an Olympic stadium leaping its kibble dish on the track, paws
and claws out -- the head of the cat was on a cut-out board a little in front
of and above the rest of the board, striving for a 3-D effect. One felt
mouse-sized, staring up at it. My provisional conclusion: Russia needs more
exports to balance this influx, culturally as well as financially.
Then it was back to the hotel, then off to the opening ceremonies, held at yet
another location (I spent five straight days lost, never quite certain where I
was or where we were going next, or, sometimes, why.) This was either city
offices or part of a university, I wasn't clear which, but it had an
auditorium. I was whisked away to a classroom-looking room before the ceremony
began for a television interview (!), and sat out another part in favor of some
more interviews and conversations. All of this communication was courtesy of,
and via, several volunteer translators, who worked very hard for us; shoving
the complex ideas we all wanted to convey across the language barrier was a
challenge and a strain. After that, we all were taken by the bus back to what
we Americans finally decided was a restaurant, and another meal was served,
this time a stand-up buffet with vodka and champagne. I kept thinking of that
scene in the Horatio Hornblower novel, where he sails to St. Petersburg and has
his first, confusing encounter with Russian dining -- I'm going to have to
re-read that one soon.
Anyway, everyone got pretty convivial after a few toasts, and things started to
loosen up. I prudently stuck to the champagne. I had a nice chat with some
Russian fans, Ekaterina and Anna, who showered me with gifts including a
hand-made bag in the Vorkosigan colors full of gold-foil covered chocolate
coins -- with the heads of actual Russian emperors on them. They also gave me a
spiffy ceramic bottle of vodka in the shape of a Cossack on a horse, with the
note attached referencing the life-sized sculpture of a guerilla soldier done
in maple sugar Gregor had as a wedding present from the people of the
Vorkosigan's District in A Civil Campaign. (They've made a website in Russian
devoted to the Vorkosigan saga. URL: http://lavka.cityonline.ru/bujold.htm Its
home page has a mirror in English, that one may access by clicking on a link
further down.) Live and recorded music led to dancing, and at last one brave
Russian writer asked me to dance too, which started a trend -- for about
fifteen minutes, till I ran out of breath, I got to be the belle of the ball.
So what if I had to wait till age fifty... One of the fellows was a ballroom
dancer, and made me look great for a turn or two.
Next day was the main event of the conference, The Panel -- just one, on the
topic of wars of the future. It was a bit chaotic, partly due to problems with
translation format, but mostly because it tried to pack five hours worth of
stuff into a two-hour time slot. All three of the American writers had been
told they were to give a speech on the topic; we all three showed up with
material that would fill a typical one-hour US convention slot. No one had
quite realized that non-simultaneous translation was going to more than double
the time for everything. By the time I was asked to cut my remarks down to
seven minutes, we were already boarding the bus for the auditorium.
First up was a real Russian admiral, whose main concern seemed to be wars of
the present; he spoke much on the subject of international terrorism. Since the
translation was a fellow sitting next to me whispering, and we sat in the front
row, I will not attempt to convey my fractured perceptions of what all the
admiral said. Alan Dean Foster did his best with his remarks. A Russian
academic also spoke. I'm pretty sure that what he said could not have been
nearly as baffling as what I heard. (I still don't understand the part about
the bees.)
What I had in hand would have taken me about seven minutes to read -- in
English, with no interruptions. Instead, we all ran over time, and rather
stepped on each other. There was a small riot in the audience when the poor
harried moderator, desperately trying to get things under control, cut me off
about three pages into my seven pages. Acceding to, er, popular acclaim, I
instead handed it over to my translator to read most of the rest of what I'd
written, something I should have done about two pages earlier. I felt a bit
like that British correspondent who apologized for having written an eight-page
letter, because he hadn't had time to write a four-page one. Robert, learning
quickly from our mistakes, wisely handed his speech over to his translator
right after the first paragraph, and got through pretty handily. The most
frustrating part was the fact that the question and discussion part, often the
heart of these sorts of things, had to be ruthlessly cut off. But, in a cloud
of confusion, we all scrambled through to the end somehow, and went off -- in
the bus -- to lunch back in the ballroom.
After dinner, Robert Jordan and I were taken off to a book signing at St.
Petersburg's largest bookstore, "The Book House", opened in 1923. It is just
around the corner from the monument to Nikolai Gogol, and across the street
from the splendidly neo-Classical Kazan Cathedral. It has three sales floors,
plus offices, and like all the bookstores I saw in Russia, it was jam-packed
with customers buying books. We signed books like mad, answered questions from
readers, had another television interview, and signed more books. After that,
we went off for tea in one of the back offices with the bookstore managers, and
they took photographs of us on the balcony overlooking Nevsky Prospect, where,
we were told, Russian poets used to read poetry to the crowds below. The crowds
below today were more interested in getting home through rush hour, I thought.
Lots of traffic, lots of cars, by the way. The streets are bumpy, but it's not
a question of the Russian economy -- it's the hard winters. Thus speaketh a
resident of Minneapolis (me), where our two seasons are dubbed road removal and
snow repair. It gets even colder in St. Petersburg than it does here, and the
winters are at least a month longer, if not two. Maintenance in a climate that
harsh is no trivial task. There were plenty of people out during the day, and
lots of beautiful, well-dressed women. And a lot fewer street beggars and
panhandlers than I see in the US, I might add. (The girardia outbreaks in the
tap water, however, cannot be excused in a 21st Century city that aspires to
world status.)
Then it was back to the hotel. After that, we were all taken off for another
buffet and beer/vodka/wine party at a place called Elagin Island Pub, which
featured among other things pool tables; the writers had a good time, and I
believe Alan acquitted himself nobly on the, er, field of felt. I had another
good taped interview/conversation with some writers/fans/journalists.
Next morning after breakfast, I squeezed in a taped interview with one
Alexander Royfe, who is a critic and writer for a literary journal in Moscow
called The Book Review. (I now regret not keeping more extensive notes of
everything that went past me, especially people's names.) Then it was back
aboard the bus to the Gogol Monument, just around the corner from the Book
House on Malaya Koniushennaya Street. This street has been turned into a broad
and pleasant promenade for pedestrians. There at Gogol's bronze feet we were
treated to a street-theater production which, since it was all in Russian, I
didn't exactly catch despite sporadic translation. The main speaker was dressed
as the Strannik, the Stranger, a character I came to understand better later
that evening, with a bodyguard of four folk characters in costumes that would
have done credit to a Worldcon masquerade. Pantomime play with music and
voice-over followed, witnessed by the motley mob of us writers, passing
tourists and children, and one scruffy-looking fellow who came out on his
balcony in his bathrobe and stared down at us in mild disbelief for a while,
shook his head, and went back indoors, possibly to stick his head under his
pillow and try to return to sleep.
The playlet included a performance of someone dressed as the Nose from Gogol's
story of the same name (which I have not yet read, but gather from context to
be a sort of early Russian magical realism/absurdist piece). The folk creatures
dressed the statue of the writer temporarily in a large blue cape. When the
coat was taken down at the end, it was cut up on the pavement, and anyone who
could come up and name one of Gogol's characters was offered a piece. I could
not do so, alas, but since I was a guest I received one anyway.
Then it was off to a book fair for another signing. This turned out to be a
large building -- somewhere in St. Petersburg -- that has a daily book market
rather resembling a cross between a Worldcon dealer's room and a flea market.
Many booths sold a vast assortment of books and other items. Customers filled
it wall to wall. We pressed through the crowds to an area in the rear where a
table had been set up, and had a brief Q&A session, and a very active signing
session. Fortunately, the Russian editions of A Civil Campaign had at last
arrived. My senior Russian editor from AST, Nickolay Naumenko, had also
arrived, and assisted, looking pretty happy, I must say. (AST had contributed
sponsorship money to the conference, as had other publishers and some
governmental sponsors.)
Due to another slight gap in communications, I had not realized a meal was
planned for after the signing; I had already promised a group of Russian fans
(spearheaded by Anna and Ekaterina again) that they could take me out. I have
no idea what all I missed, but I blew off the book fair people and went with
the fans, feeling a trifle guilty. They did very well by me, taking me to what
they called a Russian barbeque place just down the street from the hotel called
"Ohotnichya Izba" -- it turned out to be shish-kabob. It looked like a
hole-in-the-wall sort of place, but it turned out to be the best food I'd yet
had in St. Petersburg. A glass booth at one end of the restaurant held a long
metal trough with a charcoal fire, over which the chef cooked your order as you
watched. We had an extremely good conversation, courtesy of our volunteer
interpreter.
Then it was time to go back to the hotel and dress for the Strannik Award
ceremony. This was held in another amazing St. Petersburg interior, an old
composer's club. The chamber to which we were led had some of the most
beautiful carved woodwork I'd ever seen, including a musicians gallery all
around with a spiral staircase up to it in one corner. A marvelous portrait of
Mussorgsky glowered down from one wall -- the man looked startlingly like the
late British actor Oliver Reed, except very pale and rather hung-over. Speeches
and presentations followed, broken up with classical music played on a
harpsichord by a superb woman musician from Latvia named Aina Kalnziema. Since
we'd been told to dress formally, I wore the same silver-on-black dress I'd
worn to the Hugos last month in Chicago, and Alan managed a nice sweater;
Robert shone us all down with a tuxedo and blinding waistcoat. Harriet was
spiff in a flowing red silk coat.
The Stranniks are quite the best looking literary award I've ever seen. They
are heavy cast bronzes of the Stranger, dressed in a hooded cloak with sword
and staff and a raven on his shoulder, striding out. They'd be a substantial
piece of desirable art even if they weren't a prize. They leave the World
Fantasy Award's metal heads of H.P. Lovecraft (aka "the world's ugliest prize")
in the dust. A number of categories for Strannik Awards included ones for art,
translation, short story, and novel.
So there we American guests all were in the front row, enviously coveting our
neighbor's goods, when the presenters called us each up and gave us our very
own Stranniks. We all blurted out rather surprised thanks. The ceremonies
concluded, and we all repaired upstairs to another large chamber for another
abundant buffet with vodka and champagne, and lots of talk. (My Strannik now
has a place on my mantle next to the Hugo I won for The Vor Game, and very
classy it looks there; the art print of a St. Petersburg winter scene has found
a spot on the wall in my front foyer. Amazingly, I managed to get all the gifts
home unbroken, including the porcelain cup and saucer, the ceramic dragon, and
the Cossack vodka bottle.)
Back at the hotel at last, I hung out in the lobby bar for a while. So there I
was at midnight on Saturday, drinking fizzy mineral water and chatting with a
full-blooded Tartar computer programmer from Something-kzstan... he spoke three
languages, Russian, English, and two dialects of Arabic -- but not, he informed
me rather regretfully, Tartar. We both, it turned out, had cut our SF teeth on
the same Eric Frank Russell stories, and the Tartar reported himself very
pleased that NESFA Press had brought these old favorites back into print.
Somewhere in here, I also did a digital video recorded interview for a Russian
website-cum-magazine, caught on the fly in the hotel lobby. It's going to turn
up in some sort of streaming video format, I expect, eventually. The young man
had strange hair, but a very impressive portfolio of materials from his site.
In the morning another panel was scheduled, a formal Q&A with the three
American writer guests, in a conference room on the top floor of the
Sovetskaya. Picture windows in the elevator foyer gave a fine view of the city.
Alas, we had a late start as the hotel had lost the key to the conference room,
but eventually someone came and opened it. The panel went swimmingly once it
finally got started, at last getting some conversation with the writers, and I
regretted that we ended so soon.
However, it was time to dash off to the next treat: a tour of the Peterhof, the
Russian Imperial summer palace on the shore of the Gulf of Finland, across the
water from the city. The grounds are Versailles-era lavish, with what is
probably the most astonishing collection of garden fountains in the world. The
place was badly damaged in WWII, but is now much restored. (Among the many
things I regret not having time to cram in was a visit to the museum of the
siege of Leningrad/St. Petersburg.) Again, I recommend a visit to your
library's oversized book collection -- words can scarcely convey the
fascinating, indeed, appalling, opulence of most of these Imperial venues. The
gardens are now a favorite place for St. Petersburg residents to go for a
stroll on Sundays; our guide, who was old enough to have gray in his hair, told
us the tale of being taken there as a child, and having his boat go down the
drain of the Pyramid Fountain. A family crisis was averted when his father ran
around and rescued it at the outlet. Four hours barely sufficed to explore just
the grounds; the interior of the palace had to be forgone.
Alan had to go off to his signing at the bookstore at Nevsky 72; I was captured
and carried off by the fans again, in this case members of a military history
club from Moscow. We repaired to someone's hotel room, and talked for an
intense and interesting hour. (More information on this club seems to be
available on Anna and Ekaterina's Russian website mentioned above.) Then Cyril
came and collected me to sign books for the hard-working organizing committee
members.
After that, we -- the American writers, the musician guest Aina and her
husband, Cyril, and some of the committee -- were taken to an extraordinary
dinner, courtesy, if I understand correctly, of one of the convention's
sponsors. It was held in the former home of a Countess, and again I expected
Georgette Heyer or at least Leo Tolstoy characters to walk through the door at
any moment. The several-course meal was served by marvelously self-effacing and
attentive waiters. Competitive toasting ensued. Carried away, I too rose to the
occasion. Since Alan and Robert had already thanked the committee and praised
the city, I offered a toast to the readers, without whom none of us would have
our dream jobs. Robert was unfortunately seriously exhausted by this time, and
had to leave early; Alan and I stayed on, to be treated to some wonderful music
on a pianoforte until that moment merely decorating the far end of the chamber.
The Latvian lady's rendition of Mozart's "Turkish March" had us clapping along
and cheering. At last, things drew down; it was time to repair to the hotel and
pack for my 5 AM departure. I'd traveled with one carry-on bag; by this time,
with all the presents, the volume of my possessions had about doubled, and my
suitcase zipper was parting company with itself.
The return flights on Aeroflot were without hitches or delays this time. My AST
ladies again met me in Moscow, and saw me safely from the domestic to the
international airport; we had time to converse a bit about the state of Russian
publishing. AST as a company, after a shaky start, now seems to be doing quite
well, producing many more titles.
Looking back, I regret that I did not get in quite as much conversation, or
rather, listening, with the Russian SF writers as I would have liked, although
our time was about as packed as it could hold. Russian SF seems to have a
strong native tradition, a voice of its own on which to build; it's not just
imitation American/British SF. A number of writers there appear to be getting
respectable print runs and good sales. Interestingly, there were very few women
writers in the crowd. I eventually came to realize that in Russian SF, the
seventies had never happened. In American SF, this was the period when women
writers emerged in force, and as a force to be reckoned with. The Russians
still have more than a tinge of that 50's-60's Boys' Own Club about them. The
gender of my name is apparently even more ambiguous in Russian than in English;
a number of my readers reported surprise when they learned I was a woman. AST
is putting my picture on the back cover now, though, which should help -- or,
possibly, hurt. We'll see.
Some of my interlocutors were surprised to hear that SFWA has about one-third
female members. Both the junior editors and my translator were female, but
their senior editor was male; the problem seems to be the usual dual-edged one
of self-fulfilling prophecy. Women writers are assumed not to sell, therefore
they are not bought, therefore no woman has a chance to prove that women
writers can indeed sell books. In the US market, it was first Andre Norton and
then especially Anne McCaffrey, the first woman SF writer to get a book on the
New York Times bestseller list, who in my opinion broke that barrier for us. I
do not know if, or how many, Russian women are trying to write in the genre.
I'm put in mind of Octavia Butler's description of an encounter with a black
reader, who said to her wonderingly of her work in SF, "I didn't know we did
that." To try something, one must first envision it as possible for oneself.
I'd like to hope that my success in Russia might start something for Russian
women writers.
On this leg Aeroflot flew a route to Chicago that stopped, rather to my
surprise, in Shannon, Ireland. I spent a couple hours staring out the window of
the transient lounge at the soggy green Irish landscape, and then at last
headed home, feeling that 27 hours was quite long enough for airplanes and
airports. At last, after a quick triage of mail and e-mail, and an emergency
call to Pat Wrede to drive me out to dinner, I fell into my own waterbed with
my own cats, very glad to be home.
(c) 2000 by Lois McMaster Bujold.
َ ص×ءضإخةإح, _*Alexander*_. [/02.10.2000/]
[Team Lois M. Bujold | Join RU.VORKOSIGAN now!]
... And God said: E = جmv - Ze/r, and there was light!
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HI, All!
ًدثء All! "Listen to the music,.. not the song..." (c)Kosh Naranek
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Andrey Beresnyak
> To that end the conference has created the Strannik Award, which
> they aspire to have be the Russian equivalent of the Nebulas. There is
^^^^^^^^^^^
Что-то я не помню, чтобы кто-нибудь конкретно проводил такое сравнение.
Сочиняет небось, Буджолдиха.
> Starring [and rather delightfully, I might add]: A. Mirnov, M.
> Boyarski, O. Tabakov."
Отож. Американцам все гордость не позволяет признать, что американские
вестерны -- суксь. ;)
> I would sum up my Aeroflot experience as, "No worse than Northwest
> Airlines".
Ей повезло... :)
> The girardia outbreaks in the tap water, however, cannot be excused in
> a 21st Century city that aspires to world status.)
"Ой какие мы нежные" (c) анекдот. Хотя цветущая вода из крана -- это
действительно сюр. Прямо из речки что-ль качают? :-[ ]
> neighbor's goods, when the presenters called us each up and gave us
> our very own Stranniks. We all blurted out rather surprised thanks.
А им-то за что дали?
Андрей
Anna Hodosh
Wed Oct 11 2000 07:05, Andrey Beresnyak wrote to All:
>> To that end the conference has created the Strannik Award, which
>> they aspire to have be the Russian equivalent of the Nebulas. There is
AB> ^^^^^^^^^^^
AB> Что-то я не помню, чтобы кто-нибудь конкретно проводил такое сравнение.
AB> Сочиняет небось, Буджолдиха.
"Ежегодная национальная премия, которую писатели-фантасты
присуждают лучшим из них"
Что, под описание Hебьюлы не подходит?
>> I would sum up my Aeroflot experience as, "No worse than Northwest
>> Airlines".
AB> Ей повезло... :)
Это она женщина просто очень вежливая... Приехать за _3_ часа
в аэропорт и узнать, чтои рейс отложен _еще_ на три часа, и
потом не пожаловаться... Леди, что с неее возьмешь.
>> The girardia outbreaks in the tap water, however, cannot be excused in
>> a 21st Century city that aspires to world status.)
AB> "Ой какие мы нежные" (c) анекдот. Хотя цветущая вода из крана -- это
AB> действительно сюр. Прямо из речки что-ль качают? :-[ ]
Подтверждаю как свидетель - вода из крана в гостинице текла цвета
средне-крепкого чая. И в некоторых номерах вместо горячей была едва
тепловатой.Американцы - почему-то - удивлялись... :( А мы почему-то
же нет. Hаверное, вовремя вспомниоли название гостиницы - "Советская" %))
>> neighbor's goods, when the presenters called us each up and gave us
>> our very own Stranniks. We all blurted out rather surprised thanks.
AB> А им-то за что дали?
Из вежливости (?) и формально в номинации "Гость издалека".
--------
Анна Ходош
Сайт Буджолд - www.bujold.da.ru
Oleg Pol
11 октября 2000 года в 07:05 Andrey Beresnyak писал к All:
>> To that end the conference has created the Strannik Award, which
>> they aspire to have be the Russian equivalent of the Nebulas. There
>> is
AB> ^^^^^^^^^^^
AB> Что-то я не помню, чтобы кто-нибудь конкретно проводил такое
AB> сравнение. Сочиняет небось, Буджолдиха.
А ты когда последний раз был на "Страннике"? Вот и не помнишь.
Лоис же просто повторяет то, что ей сказали организаторы (а с чего бы
ей им не поверить?)
>> neighbor's goods, when the presenters called us each up and gave us
>> our very own Stranniks. We all blurted out rather surprised thanks.
AB> А им-то за что дали?
За то, что не поленились приехать :) Разве этого мало?
С уважением, Oleg 11 октября 2000 года
Andrey Beresnyak
> >> they aspire to have be the Russian equivalent of the Nebulas.
AB>> Сочиняет небось, Буджолдиха.
AH> "Ежегодная национальная премия, которую писатели-фантасты
AH> присуждают лучшим из них"
AH> Что, под описание Hебьюлы не подходит?
Нет, фраза как построена: "они стремятся, чтобы странник стал русским
эквивалентом Небьюлы". Кто конкретно стремится? :)
Андрей
Anton Farb
> > Starring [and rather delightfully, I might add]: A. Mirnov, M.
> > Boyarski, O. Tabakov."
>
> Отож. Американцам все гордость не позволяет признать, что американские
> вестерны -- суксь. ;)
Ну не все. "Бутч Кэссиди и Санденс Кид" - шедевр. "Тумбстоун" неплох.
"Непрощенный". Полуамериканские-поспагеттные Леоне с Иствудом - вполне
смотрибельны.
Хотя лучше всего наши истерны. Тут недавно повторяли по телеку "Свой среди
чужих, чужой среди своих", а потом "Белое солнце пустыни" - куда там этим
американцам...
Антон
Anna Hodosh
Wed Oct 11 2000 20:25, Andrey Beresnyak wrote to All:
>> >> they aspire to have be the Russian equivalent of the Nebulas.
AB> Hет, фраза как построена: "они стремятся, чтобы странник стал русским
AB> эквивалентом Hебьюлы". Кто конкретно стремится? :)
Бог его знает... устроители кона, наверное. Вон среди нас несколько
человек из тамошнего жюри мелькает... пусть ответят на этот вопрос.
Andrey Beresnyak
AF> Ну не все. "Бутч Кэссиди и Санденс Кид" - шедевр. "Тумбстоун"
AF> неплох. "Непрощенный".
"Непрощенный" очень хорош, согласен.
AF>Полуамериканские-поспагеттные Леоне с Иствудом - вполне смотрибельны.
Как бы, лучшее.
AF> Хотя лучше всего наши истерны. Тут недавно повторяли по телеку "Свой
AF> среди чужих, чужой среди своих", а потом "Белое солнце пустыни" -
AF> куда там этим американцам...
Это да.
Андрей
Andrey Beresnyak
OP> А ты когда последний раз был на "Страннике"? Вот и не помнишь.
Потому и спрашиваю. :)
AB>> А им-то за что дали?
OP> За то, что не поленились приехать :) Разве этого мало?
Несолидно.
Андрей
Anna Hodosh
Thu Oct 12 2000 00:46, Andrey Beresnyak wrote to All:
AB>>> А им-то за что дали?
OP>> За то, что не поленились приехать :) Разве этого мало?
AB> Hесолидно.
Hа май взгляд, логика обратная - пригласили тех, кого
собирались наградить. В прошлом году это, кажется,
были Шекли и Андерсон. По-моему, люди в HФ не последние. :)
В этом году - то же самое.
А вот кого из забугорных писателей выбирают и почему -
это исключительно решал оргкомитет.
------
Mikhail Nazarenko
Как-то Wed Oct 11 2000, Anna Hodosh писала к Andrey Beresnyak:
AH> "Ежегодная национальная премия, которую писатели-фантасты
AH> присуждают лучшим из них"
AH> Что, под описание Hебьюлы не подходит?
Hе подходит, между пpочим! (Хотя "Стpанника" сpавнивают с "Hебьюлой"
постоянно.) "Hебьюлу", как и стpанниковские "Мечи", пpисуждают _все_ имеющиеся
в наличии фантасты. А собственно "Стpанник" - аналог Мемоpиальной пpемии Джона
Кэмпбелла, котоpая также вpучается пpофессиональным жюpи. И вусы у этого жюpи
такие же стpанные.
До свидания,
Mikhail.
Anna Hodosh
Thu Oct 12 2000 22:43, Mikhail Nazarenko wrote to Anna Hodosh:
AH>> "Ежегодная национальная премия, которую писатели-фантасты
AH>> присуждают лучшим из них"
AH>> Что, под описание Hебьюлы не подходит?
MN> Hе подходит, между пpочим! (Хотя "Стpанника" сpавнивают с "Hебьюлой"
MN> постоянно.)
Приятно знать, что не я одна ошибаюсь.
MN> "Hебьюлу", как и стpанниковские "Мечи", пpисуждают _все_
MN> имеющиеся в наличии фантасты. А собственно "Стpанник" - аналог
MN> Мемоpиальной пpемии Джона Кэмпбелла, котоpая также вpучается
MN> пpофессиональным жюpи. И вусы у этого жюpи такие же стpанные.
Спасибо за уточнение.
А не скажешь ли тогда, плиз - я ошибаюсь, или кэмпбэлловская премия
дается все же за _дебют_ ?
Nikolay D. Perumov
Anna Hodosh wrote:
> Hа май взгляд, логика обратная - пригласили тех, кого
> собирались наградить.
Приглашают тех, на кого согласен выделить деньги спонсор. В данном
случае деньги давал Ефим Островский (группа Гост).
>
> А вот кого из забугорных писателей выбирают и почему -
> это исключительно решал оргкомитет.
Комитет может решать все, что угодно -- последнее слово за тем, у кого
ружье, то есть толстая пачка долларов.
С уважением,
капитан Уртханг ака Ник.
Nikolay D. Perumov
Anna Hodosh wrote:
> "Ежегодная национальная премия, которую писатели-фантасты
> присуждают лучшим из них"
> Что, под описание Hебьюлы не подходит?
Не подходит. Небьюла вручается голосованием ВСЕХ членов SFWA, а не узким кругом
литературного жюри.
>
> >> The girardia outbreaks in the tap water, however, cannot be excused in
> >> a 21st Century city that aspires to world status.)
> AB> "Ой какие мы нежные" (c) анекдот. Хотя цветущая вода из крана -- это
> AB> действительно сюр. Прямо из речки что-ль качают? :-[ ]
> Подтверждаю как свидетель - вода из крана в гостинице текла цвета
> средне-крепкого чая.
Ну я тоже свидетель. И тоже в той же гостинице жил. В самом обычном номере 1418.
И все у меня было нормально. Вода -- прозрачная. Горячая, холодная. Так что
никаких ужасных "прорывов" в помине не было.
Igor Stratienko
>> Отож. Американцам все гордость не позволяет признать, что американские
>> вестерны -- суксь. ;)
>
>Ну не все. "Бутч Кэссиди и Санденс Кид" - шедевр. "Тумбстоун" неплох.
>"Непрощенный". Полуамериканские-поспагеттные Леоне с Иствудом - вполне
>смотрибельны.
>
>Хотя лучше всего наши истерны. Тут недавно повторяли по телеку "Свой среди
>чужих, чужой среди своих", а потом "Белое солнце пустыни" - куда там этим
>американцам...
Это еще не "истерны"... было, помнится, несколько фильмов про крутых
узбекских(или туркменских? или киргизских?) чекистов - вот это
"истерны"! Снимались там в роли "крутых чекистов" профессиональные
каскадеры азиатской наружности, одеты они были в невообразимо
суперменские прикиды(такие черные плащи в арабском стиле), трюки
учиняли тоже невообразимые. А стреляли так, что Клинт Иствуд, увидь он
это, от зависти бы удавился. В общем, совершеннейше сюрное кино:
чекисты в черных плащах(под которыми что-то вроде нинзевских
комбинезонов), на великолепных конях, стреляющие на скаку
по-македонски гоняют злых, потных, грязных басмачей по пустыне. Вот
это "истерн"! :))
------------
С наибестейшими регардзами и вишесами
Игорь Стратиенко
--
Отправлено через сервер Talk.Ru - http://www.talk.ru
Alexander Balabchenkov
[*13.10.2000*] _*Nikolay D. Perumov*_ сообщал(а) _*All*_:
NP> Hу я тоже свидетель. И тоже в той же гостинице жил. В самом обычном
NP> номере 1418. И все у меня было нормально. Вода -- прозрачная. Горячая,
NP> холодная. Так что никаких ужасных "прорывов" в помине не было.
Hу и какого черта жена Джордана жаловалась,
что в номре нет горячей воды? Просто так?
С уважением, _*Alexander*_. [/13.10.2000/]
[Team Lois M. Bujold | Join RU.VORKOSIGAN now!]
... Сусака, масака, лэма, pэма, гэма, буpидо, фуpидо, сэма, пэма, фэма!..
Konstantin Grishin
Пятница Октябрь 13 2000 07:27 перехвачено сообщение: Nikolay D. Perumov ==>
All:
>> Подтверждаю как свидетель - вода из крана в гостинице текла цвета
>> средне-крепкого чая.
NP> Hу я тоже свидетель. И тоже в той же гостинице жил. В самом обычном
NP> номере 1418. И все у меня было нормально. Вода -- прозрачная. Горячая,
NP> холодная. Так что никаких ужасных "прорывов" в помине не было.
Hик, тут ты неправ. Это стандартный трабл "Советской" - в дотаточн большом
количестве номером из крана стартово будет идти рыжая вода, и ей надо дать пару
минут чтобы сбежать. Потому как водопроводные трубы соответствуют названию
гостиницы. :)
А у тебя в номере, не исключаю, что ржавчины либо не было, либо она вся на
нижних этажах оседает. :)
C уважением, Konstantin Grishin.
[ Team Ёжики - рулез! ] [ Team Котёнки на солярке ]
... От одной девочки больше пользы, чем от тридцати мальчиков... (с) Питер Пэн
Mikhail Nazarenko
Как-то Fri Oct 13 2000, Anna Hodosh писал к Mikhail Nazarenko:
AH> А не скажешь ли тогда, плиз - я ошибаюсь, или кэмпбэлловская премия
AH> дается все же за _дебют_ ?
Существуют две почти одноименные пpемии:
John W. Campbell Award - за лучший дебют
и
John W. Campbell Memorial Award - за лучший pоман года.
Из-за этого часто бывает путаница. К пpимеpу, в энциклопедии Гакова написано,
что pоман Джоан Слончевски "Двеpь в океан" был нагpажден пpемией Кэмпбелла за
дебют, а на самом деле он получил именно мемоpиальную пpемию.
До свидания,
Mikhail.
Anna Hodosh
Fri Oct 13 2000 06:45, Nikolay D. Perumov wrote to All:
NP> From: "Nikolay D. Perumov" <per...@fantasy.ru>
>> Hа май взгляд, логика обратная - пригласили тех, кого
>> собирались наградить.
NP> Приглашают тех, на кого согласен выделить деньги спонсор. В данном
NP> случае деньги давал Ефим Островский (группа Гост).
А какими мотивами руководствовался спонсор?
Того приглашает, кого сам любит почитать?
Хорошие книжки читает г-н Островский в таком случае!
>> А вот кого из забугорных писателей выбирают и почему -
>> это исключительно решал оргкомитет.
NP> Комитет может решать все, что угодно -- последнее слово за тем, у кого
NP> ружье, то есть толстая пачка долларов.
Погоди-ка.... им что, это ружье к виску приставили?
Расходишься принципиально во взглядах со споносором - найди
другого.
Hасколько я видела, деньги в Странник вкладывали многие
организации, и не все из них такие уж нищие.
Anna Hodosh
Fri Oct 13 2000 07:27, Nikolay D. Perumov wrote to All:
>> Подтверждаю как свидетель - вода из крана в гостинице текла цвета
>> средне-крепкого чая.
NP> Hу я тоже свидетель. И тоже в той же гостинице жил. В самом обычном
NP> номере 1418.
NP> И все у меня было нормально. Вода -- прозрачная. Горячая, холодная. Так
NP> что никаких ужасных "прорывов" в помине не было.
Hадеюсь, твоими словами - ты не обвиняешь меня во вранье?
Могу позвать очевидцев вышесказанного.
Вероятно, и мне, и ЛМБ повезло меньше, чем тебе.
А жена Джордана вообще жаловалась, что у нее вода
течет едва теплая.
---------
Anna Hodosh
Fri Oct 13 2000 22:27, Mikhail Nazarenko wrote to Anna Hodosh:
MN> Существуют две почти одноименные пpемии:
MN> John W. Campbell Award - за лучший дебют
MN> и
MN> John W. Campbell Memorial Award - за лучший pоман года.
<подробности поскипаны>
Спасибо за толковое разъяснение.
Andrey Beresnyak
AB>>>> А им-то за что дали?
OP>>> За то, что не поленились приехать :) Разве этого мало?
AB>> Hесолидно.
AH> Hа май взгляд, логика обратная - пригласили тех, кого
AH> собирались наградить. В прошлом году это, кажется,
AH> были Шекли и Андерсон. По-моему, люди в HФ не последние. :)
AH> В этом году - то же самое.
AH> А вот кого из забугорных писателей выбирают и почему -
AH> это исключительно решал оргкомитет.
Я извиняюсь, если что-то не так понял, но из этих двух утверждений
следует, что оргкомитет фактически имеет право вручать премии?
Совсем несолидно.
Андрей
Andrey Beresnyak
>>>> The girardia outbreaks in the tap water, however, cannot be excused
>>>> in a 21st Century city that aspires to world status.)
> Так что никаких ужасных "прорывов" в помине не было.
"Эпидемий" :)
Я подозреваю, что она спутала ржавчину и цветение. Цветение в
водопроводе это "не бывает". Мало того, что воду чистят, так ее еще и
хлоркой...
Anna Hodosh
Sat Oct 14 2000 08:11, Andrey Beresnyak wrote to All:
AH>> Hа май взгляд, логика обратная - пригласили тех, кого
AH>> собирались наградить.
AH>> А вот кого из забугорных писателей выбирают и почему -
AH>> это исключительно решал оргкомитет.
AB> Я извиняюсь, если что-то не так понял, но из этих двух утверждений
AB> следует, что оргкомитет фактически имеет право вручать премии?
AB> Совсем несолидно.
Hе исключено, что именно так и есть.
Вот всех лауреатов Странника выбирало жюри... а кто
выбирал состав этого самого жюри? Hе хочу упрекать никого
в субъективности, но премия, кажется, была действительно
несколько... кулуарной, что ли.
Впрочем, мои рассуждения - рассуждения дилетанта.
Если кто-то из вышеупомянутых членов жюри может ответить
точнее - пусть ответит.
-------
Nikolay D. Perumov
Alexander Balabchenkov wrote:
>
> Hу и какого черта жена Джордана жаловалась,
> что в номре нет горячей воды? Просто так?
Разве я сторож джордановской жене? В моем номере все было нормально.
Alexander Balabchenkov
[*15.10.2000*] _*Nikolay D. Perumov*_ сообщал(а) _*All*_:
>> Hу и какого черта жена Джордана жаловалась,
>> что в номре нет горячей воды? Просто так?
NP> Разве я сторож джордановской жене?
NP> В моем номере все было нормально.
Замечательно. Только это не значит, что во всех
остальных номерах тоже все было нормально.
С уважением, _*Alexander*_. [/15.10.2000/]
[Team Lois M. Bujold | Join RU.VORKOSIGAN now!]
... Сопpотивление бесполезно. Ставьте конденсатоp.
Dmitry Yakimovitch
18 Nov 36 07:12, Andrey Beresnyak wrote to All:
AF>> Полуамериканские-поспагеттные Леоне с Иствудом - вполне
AF>> смотрибельны.
AB> Как бы, лучшее.
AF>> Хотя лучше всего наши истерны. Тут недавно повторяли по телеку "Свой
AF>> среди чужих, чужой среди своих", а потом "Белое солнце пустыни" -
AF>> куда там этим американцам...
AB> Это да.
Помнится, в "Известиях" одна статья содержала небезынтересные наблюдения о
наших "вестернах" и их американских первоисточниках. Какая сцена, какой трюк
откуда взяты... Я по американским вестернам спец небольшой, и основной мссы
просто не видел - но вот наблюдение относительно "Шестой" и "Однажды на диком
Западе" подтвердить могу.
Votre humble serviteur, Kim.
"Все на свете восстанавливают справедливость, и каждый - с выгодой для себя."
Nikolay D. Perumov
Alexander Balabchenkov wrote:
> >> Hу и какого черта жена Джордана жаловалась,
> >> что в номре нет горячей воды? Просто так?
>
> NP> Разве я сторож джордановской жене?
> NP> В моем номере все было нормально.
>
> Замечательно. Только это не значит, что во всех
> остальных номерах тоже все было нормально.
Да речь-то шла о том, что в городе, "претендующем на статус" и т.п. из кранов
течет нечто вроде ночной бактериальной культуры, на богатой среде 2xYT выращенной.
И если в одном номере (в моем) этого нет, то едва ли это (бактериальная культура)
имеется в других.
Nikolay D. Perumov
Konstantin Grishin wrote:
> NP> Hу я тоже свидетель. И тоже в той же гостинице жил. В самом обычном
> NP> номере 1418. И все у меня было нормально. Вода -- прозрачная. Горячая,
> NP> холодная. Так что никаких ужасных "прорывов" в помине не было.
>
> Hик, тут ты неправ. Это стандартный трабл "Советской" - в дотаточн большом
> количестве номером из крана стартово будет идти рыжая вода, и ей надо дать пару
> минут чтобы сбежать.
Ну в самом худшем случае - трубы ржавые. А отнюдь не глобальное поражение всей
водопроводной сети города патогенными штаммами.
>
> А у тебя в номере, не исключаю, что ржавчины либо не было, либо она вся на
> нижних этажах оседает. :)
Вот только удивительно, что на 14 этаже горячая вода была, а на тех, что ниже --
люди говорят, что нет. Обычно как раз наоборот бывает. :)
Konstantin Grishin
Суббота Октябрь 14 2000 20:39 перехвачено сообщение: Anna Hodosh ==> Andrey
Beresnyak:
AH> Вот всех лауреатов Странника выбирало жюри... а кто
AH> выбирал состав этого самого жюри? Hе хочу упрекать никого
AH> в субъективности, но премия, кажется, была действительно
AH> несколько... кулуарной, что ли.
Самое "забавное" - что вышеупомянутое жюри сочло Дяченок (вошедших во все
тройки - роман, повесть, рассказ) - недостаточно профессиональными, чтобы войти
в это самое жюри...
C уважением, Konstantin Grishin.
[ Team Ёжики - рулез! ] [ Team Котёнки на солярке ]
... ... и в самом деле оказалось, что это просто котенок! (с)самизнаетекто
Denis
Hello, Nikolay D. Perumov ! You wrote:
> >
> > Замечательно. Только это не значит, что во всех
> > остальных номерах тоже все было нормально.
>
> Да речь-то шла о том, что в городе, "претендующем на статус" и т.п. из
кранов
> течет нечто вроде ночной бактериальной культуры, на богатой среде 2xYT
выращенной.
>
> И если в одном номере (в моем) этого нет, то едва ли это (бактериальная
культура)
> имеется в других.
Угу, тётка должна была быстренько анализ текущей жидкости произвести ?
Или ты отрицаешь принципиальную возможность течи бурой жидкости из кранов в
городе Питере ?
А у маменьки моей в квартире чего тогда течет ? Через минуту уходит, но ведь
течет же ...
Или гостица имеет свой собственный источник воды и котельную ?
Денис Коновалов
Denis
Hello, Nikolay D. Perumov ! You wrote:
>
> > NP> Hу я тоже свидетель. И тоже в той же гостинице жил. В самом обычном
> > NP> номере 1418. И все у меня было нормально. Вода -- прозрачная.
Горячая,
> > NP> холодная. Так что никаких ужасных "прорывов" в помине не было.
> >
> > Hик, тут ты неправ. Это стандартный трабл "Советской" - в дотаточн
большом
> > количестве номером из крана стартово будет идти рыжая вода, и ей надо
дать пару
> > минут чтобы сбежать.
>
> Ну в самом худшем случае - трубы ржавые. А отнюдь не глобальное поражение
всей
> водопроводной сети города патогенными штаммами.
А что она должна была подумать, если в жизни такого не встречала ?
> > А у тебя в номере, не исключаю, что ржавчины либо не было, либо она
вся на
> > нижних этажах оседает. :)
>
> Вот только удивительно, что на 14 этаже горячая вода была, а на тех, что
ниже --
> люди говорят, что нет. Обычно как раз наоборот бывает. :)
Клеветники оне все. Клеветники и западники...
Денис Коновалов
Alexander Balabchenkov
[*16.10.2000*] _*Nikolay D. Perumov*_ сообщал(а) _*All*_:
>> Замечательно. Только это не значит, что во всех
>> остальных номерах тоже все было нормально.
NP> Да речь-то шла о том, что в городе, "претендующем на статус" и т.п. из
NP> кранов течет нечто вроде ночной бактериальной культуры, на богатой
NP> среде 2xYT выращенной.
NP> И если в одном номере (в моем) этого нет, то едва ли это
NP> (бактериальная культура) имеется в других.
Если речь идет вот об этом комментарии:
(The girardia outbreaks in the tap water, however, cannot be excused in a 21st
Century city that aspires to world status.)
То он ни каким боком не относится к гостиничным номерам. Для меня вообще
загадка, к чему он относится. Возможно, ей кто-то посоветовал не пить
воду из под крана. Я не знаю.
С уважением, _*Alexander*_. [/16.10.2000/]
[Team Lois M. Bujold | Join RU.VORKOSIGAN now!]
... Здесь был похититель таглайнов.
Sergey Lukianenko
Понедельник Октябрь 16 2000 15:15 перехвачено сообщение: Konstantin Grishin
==> Anna Hodosh:
KG> Самое "забавное" - что вышеупомянутое жюри сочло Дяченок (вошедших
KG> во все тройки - роман, повесть, рассказ) - недостаточно
KG> профессиональными, чтобы войти в это самое жюри...
За все жюри говорить не надо...
Я был "за". И не только я... Hо два человека воспользовались правом вето...
Hа мой взгляд - чушь это. Дяченки должны быть в "Страннике"...
C уважением, Sergey Lukianenko.
Vadim Rumyantsev
В понедельник, 16 октябpя 2000 05:59:40, Nikolay D. Perumov писал to All:
NP> Вот только удивительно, что на 14 этаже горячая вода была, а на тех,
NP> что ниже -- люди говорят, что нет. Обычно как раз наоборот бывает. :)
Hа самом деле это неудивительно, поскольку в высоких зданиях (в Питере обычно в
тех, которые выше 9 этажей) нижние и верхние этажи снабжаются водой раздельно.
Hа верхние этажи вода подаётся под бОльшим давлением.
Sincerely,
Vadim.
Konstantin Grishin
Понедельник Октябрь 16 2000 20:31 перехвачено сообщение: Sergey Lukianenko
==> Konstantin Grishin:
KG>> Самое "забавное" - что вышеупомянутое жюри сочло Дяченок
KG>> (вошедших во все тройки - роман, повесть, рассказ) - недостаточно
KG>> профессиональными, чтобы войти в это самое жюри...
SL> За все жюри говорить не надо...
В данном случае речь идет не о всем жюри, а об его итоговом решении...
SL> Я был "за". И не только я... Hо два человека воспользовались
SL> правом вето...
Знаю я... :((((
SL> Hа мой взгляд - чушь это. Дяченки должны быть в "Страннике"...
Угу. Если бы все так считали...
C уважением, Konstantin Grishin.
[ Team Ёжики - рулез! ] [ Team Котёнки на солярке ]
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