There I said it!
Yes I know. I have issues.
Oh, don't even get me started about the Circus!
Full Version: I hate magic!
Magic shows affect me the same way someone who lies to me does. If someone actually had the ability to do things with their mind, I would be enthralled, but it's not real, it's an attempt to trick me and by the end of it I feel a growing rage over it.
There I said it!
Yes I know. I have issues.
Oh, don't even get me started about the Circus!
There I said it!
Yes I know. I have issues.
Oh, don't even get me started about the Circus!
But, it doesn't entertain you?
| QUOTE (Guest @ Apr 2 2006, 08:04 PM) |
| But, it doesn't entertain you? |
Not even a little bit.
"If you love magic, magic loves you."
Gilli Smyth
Gilli Smyth
What's wrong with the circus?
| QUOTE (Guest @ Apr 3 2006, 12:57 AM) |
| What's wrong with the circus? |
Fuckin' Clowns, for one thing.
Hype! ARGH! I hate hype.
Animals like elephants and lions before forced to humiliate themselves by performing inane tricks for the slack jawed yokels.
And too much damned shit going on all at the same time. It's like a friggin circus I tell ya.
I concur with both complaints, Lumina.
The Master and Margarita
Mikhail Bulgakov
CHAPTER 12. Black Magic and Its Exposure
The entrance of the magician with his long assistant and the cat, who
came on stage on his hind legs, pleased the audience greatly.
'An armchair for me,' Woland ordered in a low voice, and that same
second an armchair appeared on stage, no one knew how or from where, in
which the magician sat down. 'Tell me, my gentle Fagott,' Woland inquired of
the checkered clown, who evidently had another appellation than Koroviev,
`what do you think, the Moscow populace has changed significantly, hasn't
it?'
The magician looked out at the hushed audience, struck by the
appearance of the armchair out of nowhere.
"That it has, Messire,' Fagott-Koroviev replied in a low voice.
"You're right. The city folk have changed greatly ... externally, that
is ... as has the city itself, incidentally... Not to mention their
clothing, these ... what do you call them ... trams, automobiles ... have
appeared ...'
'Buses ...'-Fagott prompted deferentially.
The audience listened attentively to this conversation, thinking it
constituted a prelude to the magic tricks. The wings were packed with
performers and stage-hands, and among their faces could be seen the tense,
pale face of Rimsky.
The physiognomy of Bengalsky, who had retreated to the side of the
stage, began to show some perplexity. He raised one eyebrow slightly and,
taking advantage of a pause, spoke:
"The foreign artiste is expressing his admiration for Moscow and its
technological development, as well as for the Muscovites.' Here Bengalsky
smiled twice, first to the stalls, then to the gallery.
Woland, Fagott and the cat turned their heads in the direction of the
master of ceremonies.
'Did I express admiration?' the magician asked the checkered Fagott.
'By no means, Messire, you never expressed any admiration,' came the
reply.
Then what is the man saying?'
'He quite simply lied!' the checkered assistant declared sonorously,
for the whole theatre to hear, and turning to Bengalsky, he added:
'Congrats, citizen, you done lied!'
Tittering spattered from the gallery, but Bengalsky gave a start and
goggled his eyes.
'Of course, I'm not so much interested in buses, telephones and other
...'
'Apparatuses,' the checkered one prompted.
'Quite right, thank you,' the magician spoke slowly in a heavy bass,
`as in a question of much greater importance: have the city folk changed
inwardly?'
"Yes, that is the most important question, sir.'
There was shrugging and an exchanging of glances in the wings,
Bengalsky stood all red, and Rimsky was pale. But here, as if sensing the
nascent alarm, the magician said:
'However, we're talking away, my dear Fagott, and the audience is
beginning to get bored. My gentle Fagott, show us some simple little thing
to start with.'
The audience stirred. Fagott and the cat walked along the footlights to
opposite sides of the stage. Fagott snapped his fingers, and with a
rollicking Three, four!' snatched a deck of cards from the air, shuffled it,
and sent it in a long ribbon to the cat. The cat intercepted it and sent it
back. The satiny snake whiffled, Fagott opened his mouth like a nestling and
swallowed it all card by card. After which the cat bowed, scraping his right
hind paw, winning himself unbelievable applause.
'Class! Real class!' rapturous shouts came from the wings.
And Fagott jabbed his finger at the stalls and announced:
'You'll find that same deck, esteemed citizens, on citizen Parchevsky
in the seventh row, just between a three-rouble bill and a summons to court
in connection with the payment of alimony to citizen Zeikova.'
There was a stirring in the stalls, people began to get up, and finally
some citizen whose name was indeed Parchevsky, all crimson with amazement,
extracted the deck from his wallet and began sticking it up in the air, not
knowing what to do with it.
'You may keep it as a souvenir!' cried Fagott. 'Not for nothing did you
say at dinner yesterday that if it weren't for poker your life in Moscow
would be utterly unbearable.'
`An old trick!' came from the gallery. The one in the stalls is from
the same company.'
'You think so?' shouted Fagott, squinting at the gallery. 'In that case
you're also one of us, because the deck is now in your pocket!'
There was movement in the balcony, and a joyful voice said:
'Right! He's got it! Here, here! ... Wait! It's ten-rouble bills!'
Those sitting in the stalls turned their heads. In the gallery a
bewildered citizen found in his pocket a bank-wrapped packet with 'One
thousand roubles' written on it. His neighbours hovered over him, and he, in
amazement, picked at the wrapper with his fingernail, trying to find out if
the bills were real or some sort of magic ones.
'By God, they're real! Ten-rouble bills!' joyful cries came from the
gallery.
'I want to play with the same kind of deck,' a fat man in the middle of
the stalls requested merrily.
`Avec playzeer!' Fagott responded. `But why just you? Everyone will
warmly participate!' And he commanded: 'Look up, please! ... One!' There was
a pistol in his hand. He shouted: 'Two!' The pistol was pointed up. He
shouted: 'Three!' There was a flash, a bang, and all at once, from under the
cupola, bobbing between the trapezes, white strips of paper began falling
into the theatre.
They twirled, got blown aside, were drawn towards the gallery, bounced
into the orchestra and on to the stage. In a few seconds, the rain of money,
ever thickening, reached the seats, and the spectators began snatching at
it.
Hundreds of arms were raised, the spectators held the bills up to the
lighted stage and saw the most true and honest-to-God watermarks. The smell
also left no doubts: it was the incomparably delightful smell of freshly
printed money. The whole theatre was seized first with merriment and then
with amazement. The word 'money, money!' hummed everywhere, there were gasps
of 'ah, ah!' and merry laughter. One or two were already crawling in the
aisles, feeling under the chairs. Many stood on the seats, trying to catch
the flighty, capricious notes.
Bewilderment was gradually coming to the faces of the policemen, and
performers unceremoniously began sticking their heads out from the wings.
In the dress circle a voice was heard: `What're you grabbing at? It's
mine, it flew to me!' and another voice: 'Don't shove me, or you'll get
shoved back!' And suddenly there came the sound of a whack. At once a
policeman's helmet appeared in the dress circle, and someone from the dress
circle was led away.
The general agitation was increasing, and no one knows where it all
would have ended if Fagott had not stopped the rain of money by suddenly
blowing into the air.
Two young men, exchanging significant and merry glances, took off from
their seats and made straight for the buffet. There was a hum in the
theatre, all the spectators' eyes glittered excitedly. Yes, yes, no one
knows where it all would have ended if Bengalsky had not summoned his
strength and acted. Trying to gain better control of himself, he rubbed his
hands, as was his custom, and in his most resounding voice spoke thus:
'Here, citizens, you and I have just beheld a case of so-called mass
hypnosis. A purely scientific experiment, proving in the best way possible
that there are no miracles in magic. Let us ask Maestro Woland to expose
this experiment for us. Presently, citizens, you will see these supposed
banknotes disappear as suddenly as they appeared.'
Here he applauded, but quite alone, while a confident smile played on
his face, yet in his eyes there was no such confidence, but rather an
expression of entreaty.
The audience did not like Bengalsky's speech. Total silence fell, which
was broken by the checkered Fagott.
`And this is a case of so-called lying,' he announced in a loud,
goatish tenor. The notes, citizens, are genuine.'
'Bravo!' a bass barked from somewhere on high.
This one, incidentally,' here Fagott pointed to Bengalsky, 'annoys me.
Keeps poking his nose where nobody's asked him, spoils the s ance with
false observations! What're we going to do with him?'
Tear his head off!' someone up in the gallery said severely.
'What's that you said? Eh?' Fagott responded at once to this outrageous
suggestion. Tear his head off? There's an idea! Behemoth!' he shouted to the
cat. 'Go to it! Ein, zwei, drei!!'
And an unheard-of thing occurred. The fur bristled on the cat's back,
and he gave a rending miaow. Then he compressed himself into a ball and shot
like a panther straight at Bengalsky's chest, and from there on to his head.
Growling, the cat sank his plump paws into the skimpy chevelure of the
master of ceremonies and in two twists tore the head from the thick neck
with a savage howl.
The two and a half thousand people in the theatre cried out as one.
Blood spurted in fountains from the torn neck arteries and poured over
the shirt-front and tailcoat. The headless body paddled its feet somehow
absurdly and sat down on the floor. Hysterical women's cries came from the
audience. The cat handed the head to Fagott, who lifted it up by the hair
and showed it to the audience, and the head cried desperately for all the
theatre to hear:
'A doctor!'
'Will you pour out such drivel in the future?' Fagott asked the weeping
head menacingly.
'Never again!' croaked the head.
'For God's sake, don't torture him!' a woman's voice from a box seat
suddenly rose above the clamour, and the magician turned in the direction of
that voice.
'So, what then, citizens, shall we forgive him?' Fagott asked,
addressing the audience.
'Forgive him, forgive him!' separate voices, mostly women's, spoke
first, then merged into one chorus with the men's.
'What are your orders, Messire?' Fagott asked the masked man.
'Well, now,' the latter replied pensively, 'they're people like any
other people... They love money, but that has always been so... Mankind
loves money, whatever it's made of- leather, paper, bronze, gold. Well,
they're light-minded ... well, what of it ... mercy sometimes knocks at
their hearts ... ordinary people... In general, reminiscent of the former
ones ... only the housing problem has corrupted them...' And he ordered
loudly: 'Put the head on.'
The cat, aiming accurately, planted the head on the neck, and it sat
exactly in its place, as if it had never gone anywhere. Above all, there was
not even any scar left on the neck. The cat brushed Bengalsky's tailcoat and
shirt-front with his paws, and all traces of blood disappeared from them.
Fagott got the sitting Bengalsky to his feet, stuck a packet of money
into his coat pocket, and sent him from the stage with the words:
'Buzz off, it's more fun without you!'
Staggering and looking around senselessly, the master of ceremonies had
plodded no farther than the fire post when he felt sick. He cried out
pitifully:
'My head, my head! ...'
Among those who rushed to him was Rimsky. The master of ceremonies
wept, snatched at something in the air with his hands, and muttered:
'Give me my head, give me back my head ... Take my apartment, take my
paintings, only give me back my head! ...'
A messenger ran for a doctor. They tried to lie Bengalsky down on a
sofa in the dressing room, but he began to struggle, became violent. They
had to call an ambulance. When the unfortunate master of ceremonies was
taken away, Rimsky ran back to the stage and saw that new wonders were
taking place on it. Ah, yes, incidentally, either then or a little earlier,
the magician disappeared from the stage together with his faded armchair,
and it must be said that the public took absolutely no notice of it, carried
away as it was by the extraordinary things Fagott was unfolding on stage.
And Fagott, having packed off the punished master of ceremonies,
addressed the public thus:
`All righty, now that we've kicked that nuisance out, let's open a
ladies' shop!'
Mikhail Bulgakov
CHAPTER 12. Black Magic and Its Exposure
The entrance of the magician with his long assistant and the cat, who
came on stage on his hind legs, pleased the audience greatly.
'An armchair for me,' Woland ordered in a low voice, and that same
second an armchair appeared on stage, no one knew how or from where, in
which the magician sat down. 'Tell me, my gentle Fagott,' Woland inquired of
the checkered clown, who evidently had another appellation than Koroviev,
`what do you think, the Moscow populace has changed significantly, hasn't
it?'
The magician looked out at the hushed audience, struck by the
appearance of the armchair out of nowhere.
"That it has, Messire,' Fagott-Koroviev replied in a low voice.
"You're right. The city folk have changed greatly ... externally, that
is ... as has the city itself, incidentally... Not to mention their
clothing, these ... what do you call them ... trams, automobiles ... have
appeared ...'
'Buses ...'-Fagott prompted deferentially.
The audience listened attentively to this conversation, thinking it
constituted a prelude to the magic tricks. The wings were packed with
performers and stage-hands, and among their faces could be seen the tense,
pale face of Rimsky.
The physiognomy of Bengalsky, who had retreated to the side of the
stage, began to show some perplexity. He raised one eyebrow slightly and,
taking advantage of a pause, spoke:
"The foreign artiste is expressing his admiration for Moscow and its
technological development, as well as for the Muscovites.' Here Bengalsky
smiled twice, first to the stalls, then to the gallery.
Woland, Fagott and the cat turned their heads in the direction of the
master of ceremonies.
'Did I express admiration?' the magician asked the checkered Fagott.
'By no means, Messire, you never expressed any admiration,' came the
reply.
Then what is the man saying?'
'He quite simply lied!' the checkered assistant declared sonorously,
for the whole theatre to hear, and turning to Bengalsky, he added:
'Congrats, citizen, you done lied!'
Tittering spattered from the gallery, but Bengalsky gave a start and
goggled his eyes.
'Of course, I'm not so much interested in buses, telephones and other
...'
'Apparatuses,' the checkered one prompted.
'Quite right, thank you,' the magician spoke slowly in a heavy bass,
`as in a question of much greater importance: have the city folk changed
inwardly?'
"Yes, that is the most important question, sir.'
There was shrugging and an exchanging of glances in the wings,
Bengalsky stood all red, and Rimsky was pale. But here, as if sensing the
nascent alarm, the magician said:
'However, we're talking away, my dear Fagott, and the audience is
beginning to get bored. My gentle Fagott, show us some simple little thing
to start with.'
The audience stirred. Fagott and the cat walked along the footlights to
opposite sides of the stage. Fagott snapped his fingers, and with a
rollicking Three, four!' snatched a deck of cards from the air, shuffled it,
and sent it in a long ribbon to the cat. The cat intercepted it and sent it
back. The satiny snake whiffled, Fagott opened his mouth like a nestling and
swallowed it all card by card. After which the cat bowed, scraping his right
hind paw, winning himself unbelievable applause.
'Class! Real class!' rapturous shouts came from the wings.
And Fagott jabbed his finger at the stalls and announced:
'You'll find that same deck, esteemed citizens, on citizen Parchevsky
in the seventh row, just between a three-rouble bill and a summons to court
in connection with the payment of alimony to citizen Zeikova.'
There was a stirring in the stalls, people began to get up, and finally
some citizen whose name was indeed Parchevsky, all crimson with amazement,
extracted the deck from his wallet and began sticking it up in the air, not
knowing what to do with it.
'You may keep it as a souvenir!' cried Fagott. 'Not for nothing did you
say at dinner yesterday that if it weren't for poker your life in Moscow
would be utterly unbearable.'
`An old trick!' came from the gallery. The one in the stalls is from
the same company.'
'You think so?' shouted Fagott, squinting at the gallery. 'In that case
you're also one of us, because the deck is now in your pocket!'
There was movement in the balcony, and a joyful voice said:
'Right! He's got it! Here, here! ... Wait! It's ten-rouble bills!'
Those sitting in the stalls turned their heads. In the gallery a
bewildered citizen found in his pocket a bank-wrapped packet with 'One
thousand roubles' written on it. His neighbours hovered over him, and he, in
amazement, picked at the wrapper with his fingernail, trying to find out if
the bills were real or some sort of magic ones.
'By God, they're real! Ten-rouble bills!' joyful cries came from the
gallery.
'I want to play with the same kind of deck,' a fat man in the middle of
the stalls requested merrily.
`Avec playzeer!' Fagott responded. `But why just you? Everyone will
warmly participate!' And he commanded: 'Look up, please! ... One!' There was
a pistol in his hand. He shouted: 'Two!' The pistol was pointed up. He
shouted: 'Three!' There was a flash, a bang, and all at once, from under the
cupola, bobbing between the trapezes, white strips of paper began falling
into the theatre.
They twirled, got blown aside, were drawn towards the gallery, bounced
into the orchestra and on to the stage. In a few seconds, the rain of money,
ever thickening, reached the seats, and the spectators began snatching at
it.
Hundreds of arms were raised, the spectators held the bills up to the
lighted stage and saw the most true and honest-to-God watermarks. The smell
also left no doubts: it was the incomparably delightful smell of freshly
printed money. The whole theatre was seized first with merriment and then
with amazement. The word 'money, money!' hummed everywhere, there were gasps
of 'ah, ah!' and merry laughter. One or two were already crawling in the
aisles, feeling under the chairs. Many stood on the seats, trying to catch
the flighty, capricious notes.
Bewilderment was gradually coming to the faces of the policemen, and
performers unceremoniously began sticking their heads out from the wings.
In the dress circle a voice was heard: `What're you grabbing at? It's
mine, it flew to me!' and another voice: 'Don't shove me, or you'll get
shoved back!' And suddenly there came the sound of a whack. At once a
policeman's helmet appeared in the dress circle, and someone from the dress
circle was led away.
The general agitation was increasing, and no one knows where it all
would have ended if Fagott had not stopped the rain of money by suddenly
blowing into the air.
Two young men, exchanging significant and merry glances, took off from
their seats and made straight for the buffet. There was a hum in the
theatre, all the spectators' eyes glittered excitedly. Yes, yes, no one
knows where it all would have ended if Bengalsky had not summoned his
strength and acted. Trying to gain better control of himself, he rubbed his
hands, as was his custom, and in his most resounding voice spoke thus:
'Here, citizens, you and I have just beheld a case of so-called mass
hypnosis. A purely scientific experiment, proving in the best way possible
that there are no miracles in magic. Let us ask Maestro Woland to expose
this experiment for us. Presently, citizens, you will see these supposed
banknotes disappear as suddenly as they appeared.'
Here he applauded, but quite alone, while a confident smile played on
his face, yet in his eyes there was no such confidence, but rather an
expression of entreaty.
The audience did not like Bengalsky's speech. Total silence fell, which
was broken by the checkered Fagott.
`And this is a case of so-called lying,' he announced in a loud,
goatish tenor. The notes, citizens, are genuine.'
'Bravo!' a bass barked from somewhere on high.
This one, incidentally,' here Fagott pointed to Bengalsky, 'annoys me.
Keeps poking his nose where nobody's asked him, spoils the s ance with
false observations! What're we going to do with him?'
Tear his head off!' someone up in the gallery said severely.
'What's that you said? Eh?' Fagott responded at once to this outrageous
suggestion. Tear his head off? There's an idea! Behemoth!' he shouted to the
cat. 'Go to it! Ein, zwei, drei!!'
And an unheard-of thing occurred. The fur bristled on the cat's back,
and he gave a rending miaow. Then he compressed himself into a ball and shot
like a panther straight at Bengalsky's chest, and from there on to his head.
Growling, the cat sank his plump paws into the skimpy chevelure of the
master of ceremonies and in two twists tore the head from the thick neck
with a savage howl.
The two and a half thousand people in the theatre cried out as one.
Blood spurted in fountains from the torn neck arteries and poured over
the shirt-front and tailcoat. The headless body paddled its feet somehow
absurdly and sat down on the floor. Hysterical women's cries came from the
audience. The cat handed the head to Fagott, who lifted it up by the hair
and showed it to the audience, and the head cried desperately for all the
theatre to hear:
'A doctor!'
'Will you pour out such drivel in the future?' Fagott asked the weeping
head menacingly.
'Never again!' croaked the head.
'For God's sake, don't torture him!' a woman's voice from a box seat
suddenly rose above the clamour, and the magician turned in the direction of
that voice.
'So, what then, citizens, shall we forgive him?' Fagott asked,
addressing the audience.
'Forgive him, forgive him!' separate voices, mostly women's, spoke
first, then merged into one chorus with the men's.
'What are your orders, Messire?' Fagott asked the masked man.
'Well, now,' the latter replied pensively, 'they're people like any
other people... They love money, but that has always been so... Mankind
loves money, whatever it's made of- leather, paper, bronze, gold. Well,
they're light-minded ... well, what of it ... mercy sometimes knocks at
their hearts ... ordinary people... In general, reminiscent of the former
ones ... only the housing problem has corrupted them...' And he ordered
loudly: 'Put the head on.'
The cat, aiming accurately, planted the head on the neck, and it sat
exactly in its place, as if it had never gone anywhere. Above all, there was
not even any scar left on the neck. The cat brushed Bengalsky's tailcoat and
shirt-front with his paws, and all traces of blood disappeared from them.
Fagott got the sitting Bengalsky to his feet, stuck a packet of money
into his coat pocket, and sent him from the stage with the words:
'Buzz off, it's more fun without you!'
Staggering and looking around senselessly, the master of ceremonies had
plodded no farther than the fire post when he felt sick. He cried out
pitifully:
'My head, my head! ...'
Among those who rushed to him was Rimsky. The master of ceremonies
wept, snatched at something in the air with his hands, and muttered:
'Give me my head, give me back my head ... Take my apartment, take my
paintings, only give me back my head! ...'
A messenger ran for a doctor. They tried to lie Bengalsky down on a
sofa in the dressing room, but he began to struggle, became violent. They
had to call an ambulance. When the unfortunate master of ceremonies was
taken away, Rimsky ran back to the stage and saw that new wonders were
taking place on it. Ah, yes, incidentally, either then or a little earlier,
the magician disappeared from the stage together with his faded armchair,
and it must be said that the public took absolutely no notice of it, carried
away as it was by the extraordinary things Fagott was unfolding on stage.
And Fagott, having packed off the punished master of ceremonies,
addressed the public thus:
`All righty, now that we've kicked that nuisance out, let's open a
ladies' shop!'
Smoke and mirrors
Distraction
Misdirection
Sensory overload
Gotcha.
Distraction
Misdirection
Sensory overload
Gotcha.
| QUOTE (Lumina @ Apr 3 2006, 11:11 AM) | ||
Fuckin' Clowns, for one thing. Hype! ARGH! I hate hype. Animals like elephants and lions before forced to humiliate themselves by performing inane tricks for the slack jawed yokels. And too much damned shit going on all at the same time. It's like a friggin circus I tell ya. |
"it's like a circus, I tell ya" 
I've NEVER liked circuses. They give me the creeps.
Black Jack, that was just... Um... Bizarre!
Leia, so many people I talk to say they hate circuses too. So who the hell are all these people going to them?
Leia, so many people I talk to say they hate circuses too. So who the hell are all these people going to them?
pardon if you've heard this one b4:
kid is at the Ringling Bros. Circus at Madison Square Garden. his folks and him are sitting just next to the gate where the performers and animals come out. An elephant is standing just off stage, but within the kid's view
dad succumbs to kid and wife's whining and goes to buy cotton candy and diet soda from the concessions...
"mom!"
"what?"
"what's that thing hanging from the elephant?"
"oh. that's it's trunk, son."
"not that thing. that thing."
"that's it's tail, now watch the clowns."
"mom. not that. that!!!!"
"oh. that is nothing. look here's daddy."
daddy hands mom the diet soda and the kid the candy. daddy knees mommy squeezing into his chair and spills her soda all over her jeans. mom, pevved, gets up and goes to the powder room to clean herself.
"dad!"
"what, boy?"
"what's that thing hanging from the elephant?"
"it's trunk."
"no! that thing."
"it's tail."
"dad! that!!!!"
"it's penis, son. look, the trapese..."
"dad? why did mom tell me it was 'nothing.'"
"son.... I've spoiled that woman."
kid is at the Ringling Bros. Circus at Madison Square Garden. his folks and him are sitting just next to the gate where the performers and animals come out. An elephant is standing just off stage, but within the kid's view
dad succumbs to kid and wife's whining and goes to buy cotton candy and diet soda from the concessions...
"mom!"
"what?"
"what's that thing hanging from the elephant?"
"oh. that's it's trunk, son."
"not that thing. that thing."
"that's it's tail, now watch the clowns."
"mom. not that. that!!!!"
"oh. that is nothing. look here's daddy."
daddy hands mom the diet soda and the kid the candy. daddy knees mommy squeezing into his chair and spills her soda all over her jeans. mom, pevved, gets up and goes to the powder room to clean herself.
"dad!"
"what, boy?"
"what's that thing hanging from the elephant?"
"it's trunk."
"no! that thing."
"it's tail."
"dad! that!!!!"
"it's penis, son. look, the trapese..."
"dad? why did mom tell me it was 'nothing.'"
"son.... I've spoiled that woman."
Ah, in his DREAMS...
Shall we talk about Mime's now?
| QUOTE (Black Jack @ Apr 3 2006, 04:22 PM) |
| The Master and Margarita Mikhail Bulgakov CHAPTER 12. Black Magic and Its Exposure ' |
My husband was scrounging about for something to read tonight, and I gave him this book. Wonder if he'll finish it? (I have my doubts... he says he prefers 'hard' science fiction, but what I have read of it, it is anything but. Toss a few gyros and magnetic pulls into the idealistic human relationship and pull-out a novel)?
Nyet and blech.
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