Wild and nasty piece of history
Запись от noart размещена 13.05.2010 в 00:30
[COLOR="Red"]stole the girl's poem - not a lot of them changed and printed in magazines. Yes, manners and behavior, we meet life ....[/COLOR]
Hello, Kate.
First of all, sincerely beg your pardon. I understand your harsh tone, more than that: you have the right to send me even mat ... And send, but first, I beg you, listen to me. I do not hope to understand, I do not even know why I confess to you, but I beg you, read this letter to the end.
You probably imagine me nasty, aggressive predator, the professional thief, finished everything for money ... No, Kate, is not so! I took your story is not for the fee (by the way, I never really paid). Maybe I'm disgusted with myself. But imagine my destiny.
From childhood I loved literature. I read the classics to the headache, night after night. And gradually, this intoxication of literature, was born insolent desire: to write itself! I am by nature a very shy, desublimated (affecting a very difficult childhood) and before I decided myself to write something, years passed. I wrote, reread what I wrote and burned it. I understand that the untalented, I write bad, disgusting, but how terrible was the contrast between the enormous, having no title bubbled and that bothered me inside, and those pathetic stereotypical words to which it embodies! I am tormented beauty of the world and its complexity, I am worried about thousands of vague ideas, and I dreamed of unusual and fantastic dreams, and how many times woke up, I threw myself at the table, trying to capture something about - but, alas! I have nothing good could not write, it was all so ridiculous, so stupid ...
Understand, Kate, is a tragedy: I have invested in the artist's soul, but not given talent. I can see everything and understand it all - and nothing can express! How cow, I swear. Maybe if I were not so well-read, I would become an ordinary grafomankoy, wrote to a jar, and fancied herself a writer. But I understand the literature and know the value of their "creations". And for many years at night I write, twisted in the clouds and soaring high, and in the morning reread what I wrote and tore it. However, I did not lose the love of literature. I am actively looking at the all new releases, and recently helped me in the Internet.
Several times it was: I was reading someone's novel or story and feel: it seems! This is so like my dreams, my vague yearnings and fantasies! Like us, the author feeling life in unison. But when I came to your site, Katya, I experienced a real shock. Lord, You have expressed everything, everything that lived inside me, though I telepathically transmitted to you all my feelings! I was so stunned that not slept 2 nights. I wanted to write you and express my admiration, but could not find the right words - also because she felt wronged. "Why is she talented? - I thought about you. - Why it all, and I do? "
Yes, this is the story of Mozart and Salieri, you say. You are right. I am painfully jealous of you. In your background, I feel so keenly their talent, their insignificance! I bow before you, and admired and envied, and hated, and at the same time recognize his own, his own! So I could write, had I your talent. And from the chaos of these painful feelings in a cold, stormy night was born, my crime. Yes, I stole your story, and you know why I was so little has changed in him? I could no longer recruit, my hands were shaking. Trembling like a fever, I sent a letter to the editor, sleeping pills and drank a forgotten grave, painful sleep.
And in the morning ... but this morning I wanted to cancel everything, and wrote a letter in which she asked not to print the story ... but it was too late! The story was printed, and I am left to suffer shame and fear. And when I saw your letter, I felt almost happy: at last I was exposed. Strange, but with shoulders like a mountain had been lifted ...
Oh, Kate, Kate, says: plagiarists - the most unfortunate people. They are unhappy, not only in the works, they are unhappy at all ... I'm 30 years old and I have no family, no child, I live alone, a man whom I love, will never be mine ... And before, during adolescence, in childhood, so little joy in my life, one sorrow and eternal tears. I am writing this letter and crying. If you know how I feel right now! I implore you, Katya, write to me at least something. It will be hard to live with the thought that you hate me and never forgive.
El Krysyuk
Hello, Kate.
First of all, sincerely beg your pardon. I understand your harsh tone, more than that: you have the right to send me even mat ... And send, but first, I beg you, listen to me. I do not hope to understand, I do not even know why I confess to you, but I beg you, read this letter to the end.
You probably imagine me nasty, aggressive predator, the professional thief, finished everything for money ... No, Kate, is not so! I took your story is not for the fee (by the way, I never really paid). Maybe I'm disgusted with myself. But imagine my destiny.
From childhood I loved literature. I read the classics to the headache, night after night. And gradually, this intoxication of literature, was born insolent desire: to write itself! I am by nature a very shy, desublimated (affecting a very difficult childhood) and before I decided myself to write something, years passed. I wrote, reread what I wrote and burned it. I understand that the untalented, I write bad, disgusting, but how terrible was the contrast between the enormous, having no title bubbled and that bothered me inside, and those pathetic stereotypical words to which it embodies! I am tormented beauty of the world and its complexity, I am worried about thousands of vague ideas, and I dreamed of unusual and fantastic dreams, and how many times woke up, I threw myself at the table, trying to capture something about - but, alas! I have nothing good could not write, it was all so ridiculous, so stupid ...
Understand, Kate, is a tragedy: I have invested in the artist's soul, but not given talent. I can see everything and understand it all - and nothing can express! How cow, I swear. Maybe if I were not so well-read, I would become an ordinary grafomankoy, wrote to a jar, and fancied herself a writer. But I understand the literature and know the value of their "creations". And for many years at night I write, twisted in the clouds and soaring high, and in the morning reread what I wrote and tore it. However, I did not lose the love of literature. I am actively looking at the all new releases, and recently helped me in the Internet.
Several times it was: I was reading someone's novel or story and feel: it seems! This is so like my dreams, my vague yearnings and fantasies! Like us, the author feeling life in unison. But when I came to your site, Katya, I experienced a real shock. Lord, You have expressed everything, everything that lived inside me, though I telepathically transmitted to you all my feelings! I was so stunned that not slept 2 nights. I wanted to write you and express my admiration, but could not find the right words - also because she felt wronged. "Why is she talented? - I thought about you. - Why it all, and I do? "
Yes, this is the story of Mozart and Salieri, you say. You are right. I am painfully jealous of you. In your background, I feel so keenly their talent, their insignificance! I bow before you, and admired and envied, and hated, and at the same time recognize his own, his own! So I could write, had I your talent. And from the chaos of these painful feelings in a cold, stormy night was born, my crime. Yes, I stole your story, and you know why I was so little has changed in him? I could no longer recruit, my hands were shaking. Trembling like a fever, I sent a letter to the editor, sleeping pills and drank a forgotten grave, painful sleep.
And in the morning ... but this morning I wanted to cancel everything, and wrote a letter in which she asked not to print the story ... but it was too late! The story was printed, and I am left to suffer shame and fear. And when I saw your letter, I felt almost happy: at last I was exposed. Strange, but with shoulders like a mountain had been lifted ...
Oh, Kate, Kate, says: plagiarists - the most unfortunate people. They are unhappy, not only in the works, they are unhappy at all ... I'm 30 years old and I have no family, no child, I live alone, a man whom I love, will never be mine ... And before, during adolescence, in childhood, so little joy in my life, one sorrow and eternal tears. I am writing this letter and crying. If you know how I feel right now! I implore you, Katya, write to me at least something. It will be hard to live with the thought that you hate me and never forgive.
El Krysyuk
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