دانلود رمان انگلیسی “مردان پاک”

Have you seen the video that’s been going around the past few days?” All I wanted was to fall asleep in my post-orgasmic inebriation. Alas. In this world, there’s always that one charitable soul who, rather uncharitably, wants to sober you up. The voice was insistent: “It’s on nearly every cell phone in the country. Apparently, some TV station even broadcast it before they got cut off…” No choice, then. I was obliged to return to my bedroom, where the smell of underarm perspiration and cigarettes lingered in the air, though overpowered, smothered in fact, by the dense spoor of sex, of her sex. I could have recognized her coital scent among a thousand, a unique olfactory signature that evoked the open sea, like a swirl of incense drifting down from the heavens…It was getting dark. Past the time when you could still guess the hour. Night. And yet, the voices outside refused to fade. Theirs was the garbled chorus of a tired people who had nonetheless lost their appetite for sleep long ago. They were talking, if you can call it that: sentences without start or finish, incomplete monologues, never-ending dialogues, inaudible murmurs, deafening outbursts, implausible interjections, ingenious onomatopoeias, maddening nocturnal sermons, pitiful declarations of love, the obscenest of curses. Talk. No, decidedly not, they slobbered their sentences like greasy sauces, which were dribbling out, incidentally, without regard for meaning, preoccupied only with warding off what would have otherwise been their death sentence: silence. The terrifying silence that would have forced every so-called talker to examine who they really were. They drank tea, played cards, surrendered to boredom and idleness but with a semblance of class, with the disingenuous elegance that frames powerlessness as a choice that some loftily call dignity. Bullshit. They were putting the entire weight of their existence into every sentence, every gesture, except that their lives weighed nothing at all. The scale of destiny didn’t even quiver. The needle always at zero. The most terrible part was that this fight to the death wasn’t unfolding on a majestic stage worthy of the stakes. No, it was taking place in the vast anonymity of filthy, sandstrewn streets cloaked in darkness. Just as well, they all would have committed suicide if they could have seen one another. It was sad enough as it was. They were waiting. God knows for what. Godot. The Barbarians. The Tartars. The Syrtes. For the wild beasts to vote. God knows for whom. Every time one of them laughed, it was as if they were throwing up a distress beacon that exploded in the sky. Some find that admirable. Just look at those brave people! Laughing despite it all! They defy death with their faith in life! Honor in poverty, etc.! And so, hearts are stirred, accolades bestowed, regal busts carved. But if you ask me, statues should only be erected for the dead, for heroes or tyrants. These inhabitants of the night were simply poor and miserable. Though did I have the heart to expose their illusory courage?