The Slynx Read Online Free PDF

he's a bossman, but your neighbor Golubchik--anything goes. Neighbors aren't easy to deal with, they're not just any old fuddy-duddy, you can't get rid of them. Neighbors are there to make your heart heavy, muddle your head, fire up your temper. Neighbors make you jumpy or can give you a feeling of dread. Sometimes you think: Why is my neighbor like that and not like this? What does he want? You look at him: he comes out on the porch. Yawns. Looks at the sky. Spits. Looks up at the sky again.
    And you think: What's he looking at? Like he hasn't seen it before? There he goes again, standing around, and he doesn't know what he's standing around for. You shout, "Hey!"
    "Whadisit?"
    "Nuthin. That's whadidis. Whadisidding are you? Whaddya whadisidding at?"
    "Whasit to ya?"
    "Nuthin."
    "Then shudjer trap!"
    "You shudjer trap or else I'll ledja have it!"
    So sometimes you have a good fight, even to the death, or you just break a few arms and legs, punch out an eye or something. Because it's your neighbor. There were a lot of killings on account of these poles at first, but then, as always, people got used to it, they'd just scrape off "Arbat" and carve something new: "Pakhom lives here," or cuss words. Cuss words are fun to carve. Never boring. There aren't too many of them, but they're all so cheery. Lively. If a fellow is in a serious mood, if he feels like crying or a weariness comes over him, a weakness--he'll never say or write any cuss words. But if he gets good and mad, or falls down laughing, or if he's taken by surprise all of a sudden --then they kind of come rolling out all on their own.
    [] . GLAGOL
    So nikita ivanich went and put his poles all over the place, and Benedikt kept banging his head on them. Lumps would pop up. That was too bad. The girls would probably giggle and whisper. They might stick their tongues out at him. Or shout from behind the gates and tease him: "Lumpy Bumpy!" One of them might run ahead on the path, stop right in front of him, raise her skirts and show him her bare ass. It was so insulting you could cry. Others, hiding in the izbas, laughed and squealed like harpies: there would be a shrieking and screeching all around, and you couldn't see who was doing it even if you turned your head, ears, or what-have-you to all sides. From those izbas where all the racket was, the shriek would up and jump to other izbas in the back row, and from there it would go to the third row, and from there out around the whole settlement. That's the way it always goes, spreading like a plague, like a fire when the wind blows the flames from yard to yard, God forbid. You could go stick your head into any house, push the door open with your boot, and shout in a furious voice: "Whaddya squawking about like a bunch of sick goats? Whasso funny?"--and they couldn't tell you. They don't know.
    So just go to hell, you insulting bareass you. Sometimes, of course, it was fun to look at bare bottoms: they gave you all sorts of ideas, your heart pounded, and you didn't notice the time flying by. Yes, other times it was fun, but times like this it wasn't. Why was that?
    Well, it's because the bareass was set against you, to put you in your place--you're lower than low, and don't go getting any ideas. If someone laughs at you, it's like he's showing his power over you, and you, boy, are down in the ditch.
    That's something to think on. But if it's so simple, why is it that the Lesser Murzas, who are there to watch us, never laugh? Why do they stare at you like you've been dished out of the out-
    house with a ladle? They talk through their teeth like they've got something valuable in their mouths, like it might fall out, and you're gonna grab it and take off. And the look in their eyes: they make them go all muddy like they're not moving. But they still cut straight through you. And then ... but no, no, that must be Freethinking. No, no, I mustn't think. No.
    ... So then the pesky old man puts up all these posts, God forgive him,