Sofie Alavnir

This speech which would have softened good Mrs. Lynde’s heart in a twinkling, had no effect on Mrs. Barry except to irritate her still more. She was suspicious of Anne’s big words and dramatic gestures and imagined that the child was making fun of her.

Marilla pessimistically expected more trouble since Anne had again begun to go to school. But none developed. Perhaps Anne caught something of the “model” spirit from Minnie Andrews; at least she got on very well with Mr. Phillips thenceforth. She flung herself into her studies heart and soul, determined not to be outdone in any class by Gilbert Blythe. The rivalry between them was soon apparent; it was entirely good natured on Gilbert’s side; but it is much to be feared that the same thing cannot be said of Anne, who had certainly an unpraiseworthy tenacity for holding grudges. She was as intense in her hatreds as in her loves. She would not stoop to admit that she meant to rival Gilbert in schoolwork, because that would have been to acknowledge his existence which Anne persistently ignored; but the rivalry was there and honors fluctuated between them. Now Gilbert was head of the spelling class; now Anne, with a toss of her long red braids, spelled him down. One morning Gilbert had all his sums done correctly and had his name written on the blackboard on the roll of honor; the next morning Anne, having wrestled wildly with decimals the entire evening before, would be first. One awful day they were ties and their names were written up together. It was almost as bad as a take-notice and Anne’s mortification was as evident as Gilbert’s satisfaction. When the written examinations at the end of each month were held the suspense was terrible. The first month Gilbert came out three marks ahead. The second Anne beat him by five. But her triumph was marred by the fact that Gilbert congratulated her heartily before the whole school. It would have been ever so much sweeter to her if he had felt the sting of his defeat.

Only one number on the program failed to interest her. When Gilbert Blythe recited “Bingen on the Rhine” Anne picked up Rhoda Murray’s library book and read it until he had finished, when she sat rigidly stiff and motionless while Diana clapped her hands until they tingled.

“I’ve made up my mind to stay simply for the sake of getting better acquainted with that Anne-girl,” she said frankly. “She amuses me, and at my time of life an amusing person is a rarity.”

Marilla’s only comment when she heard the story was, “I told you so.” This was for Matthew’s benefit.

And Mrs. Thomas’s father was pursued home one night by a lamb of fire with its head cut off hanging by a strip of skin. He said he knew it was the spirit of his brother and that it was a warning he would die within nine days. He didn’t, but he died two years after, so you see it was really true.

“I won’t mind writing that composition when its time comes,” sighed Diana. “I can manage to write about the woods, but the one we’re to hand in Monday is terrible. The idea of Miss Stacy telling us to write a story out of our own heads!”

“Why, it’s as easy as wink,” said Anne.

“It’s easy for you because you have an imagination,” retorted Diana, “but what would you do if you had been born without one? I suppose you have your composition all done?”

Anne nodded, trying hard not to look virtuously complacent and failing miserably.

“I wrote it last Monday evening. It’s called ‘The Jealous Rival; or In Death Not Divided.’ I read it to Marilla and she said it was stuff and nonsense. Then I read it to Matthew and he said it was fine. That is the kind of critic I like. It’s a sad, sweet story. I just cried like a child while I was writing it. It’s about two beautiful maidens called Cordelia Montmorency and Geraldine Seymour who lived in the same village and were devotedly attached to each other. Cordelia was a regal brunette with a coronet of midnight hair and duskly flashing eyes. Geraldine was a queenly blonde with hair like spun gold and velvety purple eyes.”

“I never saw anybody with purple eyes,” said Diana dubiously.

“Neither did I. I just imagined them. I wanted something out of the common. Geraldine had an alabaster brow too. I’ve found out what an alabaster brow is. That is one of the advantages of being thirteen. You know so much more than you did when you were only twelve.”

“Well, what became of Cordelia and Geraldine?” asked Diana, who was beginning to feel rather interested in their fate.

“They grew in beauty side by side until they were sixteen. Then Bertram DeVere came to their native village and fell in love with the fair Geraldine. He saved her life when her horse ran away with her in a carriage, and she fainted in his arms and he carried her home three miles; because, you understand, the carriage was all smashed up. I found it rather hard to imagine the proposal because I had no experience to go by. I asked Ruby Gillis if she knew anything about how men proposed because I thought she’d likely be an authority on the subject, having so many sisters married. Ruby told me she was hid in the hall pantry when Malcolm Andres proposed to her sister Susan. She said Malcolm told Susan that his dad had given him the farm in his own name and then said, ‘What do you say, darling pet, if we get hitched this fall?’ And Susan said, ‘Yes—no—I don’t know—let me see’—and there they were, engaged as quick as that. But I didn’t think that sort of a proposal was a very romantic one, so in the end I had to imagine it out as well as I could. I made it very flowery and poetical and Bertram went on his knees, although Ruby Gillis says it isn’t done nowadays. Geraldine accepted him in a speech a page long. I can tell you I took a lot of trouble with that speech. I rewrote it five times and I look upon it as my masterpiece. Bertram gave her a diamond ring and a ruby necklace and told her they would go to Europe for a wedding tour, for he was immensely wealthy. But then, alas, shadows began to darken over their path. Cordelia was secretly in love with Bertram herself and when Geraldine told her about the engagement she was simply furious, especially when she saw the necklace and the diamond ring. All her affection for Geraldine turned to bitter hate and she vowed that she should never marry Bertram. But she pretended to be Geraldine’s friend the same as ever. One evening they were standing on the bridge over a rushing turbulent stream and Cordelia, thinking they were alone, pushed Geraldine over the brink with a wild, mocking, ‘Ha, ha, ha.’ But Bertram saw it all and he at once plunged into the current, exclaiming, ‘I will save thee, my peerless Geraldine.’ But alas, he had forgotten he couldn’t swim, and they were both drowned, clasped in each other’s arms. Their bodies were washed ashore soon afterwards. They were buried in the one grave and their funeral was most imposing, Diana. It’s so much more romantic to end a story up with a funeral than a wedding. As for Cordelia, she went insane with remorse and was shut up in a lunatic asylum. I thought that was a poetical retribution for her crime.”

“How perfectly lovely!” sighed Diana, who belonged to Matthew’s school of critics. “I don’t see how you can make up such thrilling things out of your own head, Anne. I wish my imagination was as good as yours.”

“It would be if you’d only cultivate it,” said Anne cheeringly. “I’ve just thought of a plan, Diana. Let you and me have a story club all our own and write stories for practice. I’ll help you along until you can do them by yourself. You ought to cultivate your imagination, you know. Miss Stacy says so. Only we must take the right way. I told her about the Haunted Wood, but she said we went the wrong way about it in that.”

This was how the story club came into existence. It was limited to Diana and Anne at first, but soon it was extended to include Jane Andrews and Ruby Gillis and one or two others who felt that their imaginations needed cultivating. No boys were allowed in it—although Ruby Gillis opined that their admission would make it more exciting—and each member had to produce one story a week.

“It’s extremely interesting,” Anne told Marilla. “Each girl has to read her story out loud and then we talk it over. We are going to keep them all sacredly and have them to read to our descendants. We each write under a nom-de-plume. Mine is Rosamond Montmorency. All the girls do pretty well. Ruby Gillis is rather sentimental. She puts too much lovemaking into her stories and you know too much is worse than too little. Jane never puts any because she says it makes her feel so silly when she had to read it out loud. Jane’s stories are extremely sensible. Then Diana puts too many murders into hers. She says most of the time she doesn’t know what to do with the people so she kills them off to get rid of them. I mostly always have to tell them what to write about, but that isn’t hard for I’ve millions of ideas.”

Решила я значит перечитать Баума:

Суд Дьявола и Христоса над Воландемортом

— Итак я проиграл. Я идиот. Хвастун! Теперь я понял, никто не завоюет мир.
— Наконец-то ты закончил свою лекцию для тиранов! — сказала Смерть, доедая попкорн.
— Я думал, Смерть попкорн не ест, — проворчал Воландеморт.
— Ничего не слышу, абсолютно ничего, — донеслось от скелета в чёрном балахоне.
Волдеморт напоследок раз десять проклял Гарри Поттера и угрюмо кивнул Смерти. Та, все поняв без слов, помогла ему взобраться на коня, и помчались они в место суда ада или рая.

Это место на первый взгляд выглядело как обыкновенный судебный зал, но были существенные различия: зал был разделен на две половины. За столом судьи, разделенном черной жирной линией надвое, сидели Христос и Дьявол.
Христос как всегда сиял, дьявол же мрачнел с каждой минутой.
— Опаздывают, — промолвил он и его глаза сузились в щёлку, а стекло на наручных часах треснуло.
— С них останется, — добавил с газетной улыбочкой Христос.
— Ты хоть когда нибудь не улыбаешься? — спросил дьявол. Но тут наконец-то двери суда распахнулись и светлые и темные стороны так и не поссорились, увлекшись судебным процессом.


Воландеморт начал нервничать, у него были все шансы попасть в ад.
Дьявол сказал странному зелёному человечку, выглядящему, как таракан.
— Подай мне проступки, что он совершил, магог.
— Конечно, Ваше Темнейшество,- однотонно сказал Магон... или намог... "Ах да!" — вспомнил волдеморт, - "магог".
— Для вас — Маледиктус Де Магог, — сказал магог чётко выделяя слова.
Христос произвёл указанья все те же, но светлость Воландеморта просил принести.
Магог принёс свиток почти весь обгоревший.
— Госпожа Огнёва, или как вас там, раскрутите над этим свои часики, — с издевкой произнёс дьявол, — а то зря я вас пригласил.
К столу подошла девочка с рыжими волосами и зачем то закрутила над свитком часы. Волдеморт продолжил раздумья, но его прервал дьявол громко и язвительно зачитывающий его подвиги.
— И, наконец, совершил 3248 убийств, — закончил дьявол.
— Но, — прокричал Волдеморт.
— До свиданья. До ада сопроводит тебя Смерть.
и Воландеморт с понуро опущенной головой вышел из зала.

Стало быть по сюжету сна я жила на две комнаты. Комнаты эти были порядочно обустроенные, хорошенечко так вещами захламлёнными, по внешнему виду во многом отдавали СНГ-шной действительностью.

За окном одной из них виднелась природа, и в целом она напомнила мне родительскую дачу. Другая же комната выглядела скорее, как что-то из моей родной квартиры в Москве. В частности там была домашняя библиотека, которую родители в своё время собирали специально с той целью, чтобы дети их росли не абы какими, а читающими людьми.

Мне приснился сон, в котором один мужчина научился материализовывать нейросети. То есть буквально превращать в реального человека текст с запросами к тому, каким должен быть виртуальный собеседник.

Слово за слово, и первый же созданный таким образом раб сбегает. Он конечно же преисполняется ненавистью к своему создателю и вознамеривается учинить над тем кровавую расправу.

Сон заканчивается тем, что создатель в жутком страхе за свою жизнь прячется в каком-то грязном, полуразрушенном сарае. К этому моменту ему больше не на чем писать: поблизости нет ни бумаги, ни ноутбука.

И вот он, превозмогая боль, бросает взгляд на собственную окровавленную руку. На ней ножом высечено: «Любая нейросеть не может вместить меня». Очевидно создатель совсем лишился рассудка, пока был в бегах. Он в спешке исправляет «вместить» на «убить».

Издалека слышатся чьи-то шаги...

На этом кончается сон. Однако дабы вы не прониклись излишним состраданием к его герою я обращу ваше внимание на одно обстоятельство, которое прежде намеренно утаила.

Раб был всего лишь экспериментом. На протяжении всей истории главным мотивом создателя остаётся материализация своей личной, идеальной рабыни. И он продолжает грезить об этом даже в финале, пока судорожно ножом исправляет надпись на руке.