Moorcock, Michael / Муркок, Майкл - Собрание сочинений (138 произведений) [1962-2023, fb2/epub, ENG]

The Winds of Limbo (= The Fireclown) / У врат преисподней ветрено 1965, fb2; 1978, epub, ISBN: 0-89559-055-7, Dale Books The Blood Red Game (= The Sundered Worlds) / Багряная игра 1965, fb2 The Shores of Death (= The Twilight Man) / Берега смерти 1966, epub The Rituals of Infinity (= The Wrecks of Time) / Ритуалы бесконечности 1986, epub, ISBN: 0-450-39532-4, New English Library The Black Corridor / Чёрный коридор 1969, fb2; 2018, epub (retail), ISBN: 978-0-575-09280-8, Gateway / Orion (with Hilary Bailey) The Ice Schooner / Ледовая шхуна 1985, epub, ISBN: 0-245-54284-1, Harrap Gloriana, or, The Unfulfill'd Queen / Глориана, или Неудовлетворенная Королева 1978, fb2; 2004, epub, ISBN: 978-0-446-55970-6, Aspect / Warner Books Mother London / Лондон, любовь моя 2016, epub (retail), ISBN: 978-1-4732-1326-5, Weidenfeld & Nicolson King of the City 2010, epub (retail), ISBN: 978-0-06-204084-8, HarperCollins

The Time Dweller / Обитатель времени 1969, fb2 The Best of Michael Moorcock 2018, epub (retail), ISBN: 978-1-61696-312-5, Tachyon Publications

A Caribbean Crisis 1962, fb2 Free States 1994, fb2 The Adventure of the Dorset Street Lodger / Жилец с Дорсет-стрит 1995, fb2 London Bone 1997, fb2 A Slow Saturday Night at the Surrealist Sporting Club 2001, fb2 Lost Sorceress of the Silent Citadel / Волшебница Безмолвной Цитадели 2010, epub, Tor.com The Case of the Nazi Canary 2003, fb2 An Evening at Home 2006, fb2 (extract from The Vengeance of Rome) London, My Life! or the Sedentary Jew 2007, fb2 ( Extract from a work in progress) The Flaneur des Arcades de l'Opera 2007, fb2 The Affair of the Bassin Les Hivers 2007, fb2 Stories / Истории 2010, fb2 Sojan the Swordsman / Соджан-воин 2013, epub (retail), ISBN: 978-0-575-07890-1, Gateway / Orion The Nostalgia Differential 2013, fb2

I happened to be sitting in the snug of the Strangers' Bar at the Surrealist Sporting Club on a rainy Saturday night, enjoying a well-mixed Existential Fizz (2 parts Vortex Water to 1 part Sweet Gin) and desperate to meet a diverting visitor, when Death slipped unostentatiously into the big chair opposite, warming his bones at the fire and remarking on the unseasonable weather. There was sure to be a lot of flu about. It made you hate to get the tube but the buses were worse and had I seen what cabs were charging these days? He began to drone on as usual about the ozone layer and the melting pole, how we were poisoning ourselves on GM foods and feeding cows to cows and getting all that pollution and cigarette smoke in our lungs and those other gloomy topics he seems to relish, which I suppose makes you appreciate it when he puts you out of your misery. I had to choose between nodding off or changing the subject. The evening being what it was, I made the effort and changed the subject. Or at least, had a stab at it. "So what's new?" It was feeble, I admit. But, as it happened, it stopped him in midmoan. "Thanks for reminding me," he said, and glanced at one of his many watches. "God's dropping in-oh, in about twelve minutes, twenty-five seconds. He doesn't have a lot of time, but if you've any questions to ask him, I suggest you canvass the other members present and think up some good ones in a hurry. And he's not very fond of jokers, if you know what I mean. So stick to substantial questions or he won't be pleased." "I thought he usually sent seraphim ahead for this sort of visit?" I queried mildly. "Are you all having to double up or something? Is it overpopulation?" I didn't like this drift, either. It suggested a finite universe, for a start. Our Ever-Present Friend rose smoothly. He looked around the room with a distressed sigh, as if suspecting the whole structure to be infected with dry rot and carpenter ants. He couldn't as much as produce a grim brotherly smile for the deathwatch beetle that had come out especially to greet him. "Well, once more into the breach. Have you noticed what it's like out there? Worst on record, they say. Mind you, they don't remember the megalithic. Those were the days, eh? See you later." "Be sure of it." I knew a moment of existential angst. Sensitively, Death hesitated, seemed about to apologize, then thought better of it. He shrugged. "See you in a minute," he said. "I've got to look out for God in the foyer and sign him in. You know." He had the air of one who had given up worrying about minor embarrassments and was sticking to the protocol, come hell or high water. He was certainly more laconic than he had been. I wondered if the extra work, and doubling as a seraph, had changed his character. With Death gone, the Strangers' was warming up rapidly again, and I enjoyed a quiet moment with my fizz before rising to amble through the usual warped and shrieking corridors to the Members' Bar, which appeared empty. "Are you thinking of dinner?" Lizard Bayliss, looking like an undis-infected dishrag, strolled over from where he had been hanging up his obnoxious cape. Never far behind, out of the WC, bustled Englebrecht the Dwarf Clock Boxer, who had gone ten rounds with the Greenwich Atom before that overrefined chronometer went down to an iffy punch in the eleventh. His great, mad eyes flashed from under a simian hedge of eyebrow. As usual he wore a three-piece suit a size too small for him, in the belief it made him seem taller. He was effing and blinding about some imagined insult offered by the taxi driver who had brought them back from the not altogether successful Endangered Sea Monsters angling contest in which, I was to learn later, Engelbrecht had caught his hook in a tangle of timeweed and wound up dragging down the Titanic, which explained that mystery. Mind you, he still had to come clean about the R101. There was some feeling in the club concerning the airship, since he'd clearly taken bets against himself. Challenged, he'd muttered some conventional nonsense about the Maelstrom and the Inner World, but we'd heard that one too often to be convinced. He also resented our recent rule limiting all aerial angling to firedrakes and larger species of pterodactyls. . . .

BOOK ONE

For all forlorn was the Bride of Morne, And sare alone were she, She sailed that night from Flete’s narren sleets, So to flee the whispering swarm. —FOURTEENTH-CENTURY ENGLISH BALLAD (COLL. CHILD)

1 MY REALITIES

Every day of my life, after all I have learned and the many dangers I have survived, I still reflect on the circumstances which drew me to that part of the City of London I know as ‘Alsacia’, which her inhabitants call ‘the Sanctuary’. I learned that magic is as dangerous as we are told it is and that romance can be more destructive than reality. Worse, I came to know and fear the fulfillment of my deepest desires. I suppose I’m a pretty typical Londoner of my generation. Born at the beginning of the Second World War, in 1940, I was brought up in Brookgate between Grays Inn and Leather Lane. We never moved away, even when the whole city surrounded us in yelling flame. By the time I was born, my family worked chiefly at the lower end of the entertainment business. People had to go on making a living as best they could. And they wanted to be entertained. We were settled Roma intermarried with Jews, cockneys, Irish. Culturally, we were metropolitan Christians. We had barely heard of Alsacia, which was no more than a bit of local folklore. There was plenty of that in London.

SEEING GHOSTS PROFESSIONALLY

From the age of eleven in 1951, I earned my own living, first in The Gallery, Oxford Street, then, after I left school at fifteen, as a journalist (mostly a stringer for the Evening Standard) and writer of fiction. As an early reader, I especially enjoyed P.G. Wodehouse, Edgar Rice Burroughs and George Bernard Shaw, and when I first began writing I habitually used my middle initial because I thought the best authors all had three names. I had been telling stories since I was four or five, mostly as little one-act plays. Adults said they were amazed at my imagination. I had the sense not to tell them that I could see ghosts as well. I knew I could impose images on the air and taught myself not to be frightened by them, that they were a phenomenon which could be explained. Occasionally, I glimpsed trails not much wider than a high wire, stretching off into shivering emerald and silver. I took it for granted that this was some occasional trick of the eye. It went away soon enough. As I grew older and read Jung I became even more convinced that what I saw wasn’t real. Not, at any rate, in any other shared reality. Jung had analysed perfectly rational people who believed they had travelled in flying saucers. I was a perfectly rational person and I didn’t believe in flying saucers or any of the other stuff Jung wrote about. It soon became second nature to check when I saw something odd and remember that only crazy people had visions. . . .

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