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The dirigible disappeared. The steppe seemed to be rising imperceptibly: I began to tire, but forced myself to go on. My feet stumbled on clumps of dry grass. Panting, I reached the river; but I found myself, as I saw only then, at the top of a high steep cliff that overlooked it from about twenty meters up; down below, the water was flowing with a swift current; impossible to jump, impossible too to climb down this cliff. I should have landed on the other shore: there, the almost flat bank gently descended to the water. To my left, upriver, I saw the procession of boats arriving. Musicians wearing garlands, who were following the carved gondola carrying my sister, were playing shrill, solemn music on flutes, string instruments, and drums. I could clearly see my sister, haughty between the two creatures who were rowing; she sat cross-legged and her long black hair fell over her breasts. I cupped my hands over my mouth and shouted her name, many times. She raised her head and looked at me, but without changing her expression or saying anything; her gaze was riveted on mine while the boat passed slowly by; I shouted her name like a madman, but she didn’t react; finally she turned away. The procession slowly drew away downstream, while I remained there, stunned. Then I tried to begin pursuing her; but at that moment violent stomach cramps seized me; feverishly, I undid my pants and squatted down; but instead of shit, living bees, spiders, and scorpions gushed out of my anus. It burned horribly, but they had to be evacuated; I strained, the spiders and scorpions scattered, running, the bees flew away, I had to clench my jaw not to shout with pain. I heard something and turned my head: two boys, identical twins, were looking at me in silence. Where in God’s name had they come from? I stood and pulled up my pants; but already they had done an about-face and were going away. I dashed after them, calling out to them. But I couldn’t catch up to them. I followed them for a long time.

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«Текст» – первый реалистический роман Дмитрия Глуховского, автора «Метро», «Будущего» и «Сумерек». Эта книга на стыке триллера, романа-нуар и драмы, история о столкновении поколений, о невозможной любви и бесполезном возмездии. Действие разворачивается в сегодняшней Москве и ее пригородах.Телефон стал для души резервным хранилищем. В нем самые яркие наши воспоминания: мы храним свой смех в фотографиях и минуты счастья – в видео. В почте – наставления от матери и деловая подноготная. В истории браузеров – всё, что нам интересно на самом деле. В чатах – признания в любви и прощания, снимки соблазнов и свидетельства грехов, слезы и обиды. Такое время.Картинки, видео, текст. Телефон – это и есть я. Тот, кто получит мой телефон, для остальных станет мной. Когда заметят, будет уже слишком поздно. Для всех.

Дмитрий Глуховский , Святослав Владимирович Логинов , Дмитрий Алексеевич Глуховский

Детективы / Современная русская и зарубежная проза / Социально-психологическая фантастика / Триллеры