Malone, writes Malone, is what I am called now. On his deathbed, and wiling away the time with stories, the octogenarian Malones account of his condition is intermittent and contradictory, shifting with the vagaries of the passing days: without mellowness, without elegiacs; wittier, jauntier, and capable of wilder rages than Molloy.
The sound I liked best had nothing noble about it. It was the barking of the dogs, at night, in the clusters of hovels up in the hills, where the stone-cutters lived, like generations of stone-cutters before them. it came down to me where I lay, in the house in the plain, wild and soft, at the limit of earshot, soon weary. The dogs of the valley replied wi
The sound I liked best had nothing noble about it. It was the barking of the dogs, at night, in the clusters of hovels up in the hills, where the stone-cutters lived, like generations of stone-cutters before them. it came down to me where I lay, in the house in the plain, wild and soft, at the limit of earshot, soon weary. The dogs of the valley replied wi
Malone Dies
ΠΡΠΎΡ ΡΠΎΠ²Π°Ρ Π·Π°ΠΊΠΎΠ½ΡΠΈΠ»ΡΡ
ΠΠΏΠΈΡΠ°Π½ΠΈΠ΅ ΠΈ Ρ Π°ΡΠ°ΠΊΡΠ΅ΡΠΈΡΡΠΈΠΊΠΈ
The sound I liked best had nothing noble about it. It was the barking of the dogs, at night, in the clusters of hovels up in the hills, where the stone-cutters lived, like generations of stone-cutters before them. it came down to me where I lay, in the house in the plain, wild and soft, at the limit of earshot, soon weary. The dogs of the valley replied with their gross bay all fangs and jaws and foam...
- Π’ΠΈΠΏ ΠΎΠ±Π»ΠΎΠΆΠΊΠΈ ΠΡΠ³ΠΊΠΈΠΉ ΠΏΠ΅ΡΠ΅ΠΏΠ»ΡΡ
- ΠΠΎΠ»ΠΈΡΠ΅ΡΡΠ²ΠΎ ΡΡΡΠ°Π½ΠΈΡ 133
- ΠΠ΅Ρ, Π³ 200
- Π Π°Π·ΠΌΠ΅Ρ 1.2x12.7x19.7
- ΠΠ·Π΄Π°ΡΠ΅Π»ΡΡΡΠ²ΠΎ Faber & Faber
- ΠΠΎΠ΄ ΠΈΠ·Π΄Π°Π½ΠΈΡ 2010
- ISBN 978-0-571-24463-8
- ID ΡΠΎΠ²Π°ΡΠ° 2890302