Amsterdam Stories by Joseph O'Neill, Nescio, Damion Searls
By Joseph O'Neill, Nescio, Damion Searls
Nobody has written extra feelingly and extra fantastically than Nescio concerning the insanity and disappointment, braveness and vulnerability of sweet sixteen: its immense plans and obscure longings, let alone the binges, crashes, and marathon walks and talks. nobody, for that topic, has written with such pristine readability concerning the radiating canals of Amsterdam and the cloud-swept panorama of the Netherlands.
Who was once Nescio? Nescio--Latin for "I don't know"--was the pen identify of J.H.F. Grönloh, the hugely profitable director of the Holland--Bombay buying and selling corporation and a father of four--someone who knew good enough approximately decent adulthood. in simple terms in his spare time and less than the canopy of a pseudonym, as though commemorating a misplaced self, did he permit himself cross, generating over the process his lifetime a handful of completely unique tales that comprise essentially the most luminous pages in smooth literature.
This is the 1st English translation of Nescio's tales.
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All right, all right! Now you can blubber all you want,” Baryba repeated like a refrain. He got rid of Polka, and remained a while longer in the cellar, stretched on a pile of potatoes, resting. ryba grinned, pleased with himself. He said aloud to Chebotarikha: “Well, you old featherbed, take that! ” And he showed her a fig in the dark. He came out of the cellar, squinting against the looked under the shed: Urvanka was puttering there, back to him. sun. He with his THE DRAGON 22 8 They were having tea closely, observing him.
I’ll bet you’re lying, Innokenty. It’s just a waste. ” Ivanikha was a dry old crone, tall, bony, with shaggy eye- A Provincial Tale 43 brows like “What an the monks without much courtesy. want? VVhat kind of spell are you after? Or do owl. ” puttering, clanking with her pots at me? I on on the stove. “No, we’re here about . been robbed. ” . a Well, spell Father the on Yevsey here has eh? We've thief, . Father Innokenty was afraid of Ivanikha. He wanted to cross himself, but maybe she wouldn’t stand for it: the devil knows, she might get sore and then you would get nothing out of her.
All day he lounged about in sweet idleness. At dusk he’d snooze off on the oven next to the purring Vaska. He ate his fill. VVhat a life! He ate from morning until night, until he'd break into sweat, until he couldn’t breathe. That a the way of the was house. In the moming—tea with and doughnuts baked buns would sit there in her white that) , a kerchief “Why do you on steamed milk, with all sorts of with buttermilk. Chebotarikha night jacket (not so white at her head. ryba would ask. they taught you?