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        Again there was a corridor — anywhere the leader until as if on 
To the subconsciousness order there was no next deadlock. At deadlock there was a door — still 
One valve in a hopelessness copper. Kafka has consistently opened three locks 
Also has leant on a heavy shutter. 
        — Our mental hospital, — he has explained. — here and the first surprise. I am insolent 
Bets, you did not expect to see here anything similar. 
        Yes, But did not expect. About sterility of speech any more was not. Especially it not 
Expected to see here a cage similar on bear, from which for ten of steps 
Bore blood, kalom and urine. In the beginning But at all has not noticed the inhabitant of the nearest 
Chambers or, perhaps, chambers — and it is not sophisticated: in eyes first of all 
The walls entirely covered with brown letters rushed. Over old, 
The dried up inscriptions went new — here one of components whence undertook 
Exciting smell! — and already it was impossible to disassemble a uniform word of this 
Gloomy abracadabra, however almost naked person with a confused beard, 
Standing in the heart of the chamber, continued to drive with maniacal persistence on 
To wall a finger, dipping it in own blood. 
        «How much time it opened to itself(himself) veins with the TEETH?» — has thought But and 
Has frowned. From this, that he has seen, one conclusion followed at least. 
There are bad places. There are very bad places. But how to name a place, where 
Even it is impossible to commit suicide? 
        — Here we hold incurable, — Kafka vigorous continued and 
Unperturbable tone of the guide acquainting the beginner with the local 
Sights. — here, for example, especially heavy case. Well, 
That at least the rare. No more than one on one thousand. 
        But has shuddered. Eyes prompted it another. He saw equal numbers 
Cages on either side of pass which left in infinity and 
Were dissolved in darkness. Groans, champing, vshlipy therefrom reached... And 
The continuous silent rustle replacing here a scratch of feathers and fraction of the keyboard. 
        — Now I suggest to glance in our prison. — Kafka was 
Courtesy. — you will meet system of correction not hopeless. At 
Them good prospects. 
        — It is not necessary, — has told But. — I have understood all. 
        — Well, my dear, on it even I do not apply, — Kafka has noticed 
Modestly. — however, me all the same. Then let's finish it. You 
Are warned. 
        With a kind of the person, till the end of done the duty, it has locked a door 
Mental hospitals also has gone to itself. 
        But has stood, deliberating where still can get its sick 
Imagination. Sick, so. It hallucinates under the influence of certain 
Preparation. Let even he has gone mad. But also loonies do not live eternally, here that 
Consoles. 
        It has walked on a corridor, imagining itself(himself) got the refined 
Trap of perception and inventing various ways of self-identification. All of them 
Were imperfect. But has faced impossibility of overcoming of subjectivity. 
Once it was hardly kept checking up, whether there is at it a blood. 
And if is, what is it: the condensed substance of a phantom — imperceptible and 
Inexhaustible — or a six-litre stock of fuel which it will dump as 
The plane making emergency planting... 
        In the end of a corridor there was a fragment of a city landscape: the faceless 
The street tightened whether a smog, whether a fog, lampposts, dirty 
Walls of houses — all dreadfully fragile, as if made of smoky glass. 
Fragile if to look from a high hill of death. 
        It was the city of its youth mislaid somewhere in sedimentary breed 
Time, a dead print, podernutyj besides an oblivion veil. A city 
Seemed washed away — exactly so, how much were uncertain 
Memoirs most Buta. Details which it did not remember, have obediently disappeared, 
And that has strongly sat down at memory, has taken a grotesque form. In general, it 
There was very strange city. 
        But wandered in a fog absorbing an echo, — the fog was live and ate 
Sounds. But repeatedly came back in the same place; the passed 
Streets lasted before it again and again — so time killed in other life 
It was embodied in the space stamped by muddy images; repetition 
Was sproetsirovano on a plane; the train of grey and boring events has turned back 
Self-copied labyrinth. 
        Attempts Buta something to change have ended with that it at last 
Has made out in a fog a bar signboard. Nearby there was a square: naked, as if 
Crystal, trees seemed mertvee cracks in the broken mirror, and even 
The sick imagination was unable recover them. At an input in square stuck out 
Monument: the man with long hair and a long nose has stared in a haze 
The blind stone cataracts. 
        The bar was called "Consolation". But hardly probably to find a consolation on 
The pole of loneliness... 
        But has opened a door and has entered. The institution would look left 
And thrown, if not the barman behind a rack. It just poured to itself(himself) 
The next glass. Judging by quantity of the empty bottles built 
There and then, he could drink infinitely, staying in the same stage of intoxication. 
Between the regiments which were at it behind the back, the skeleton of the huge has been strengthened 
Fishes. 
        The barman has with concentration stared at the darkened picture hanging 
On an opposite wall of a narrow premise. From door But has not made out, who 
It is represented on a canvas. Drunk something muttered to itself, whether endeavouring 
To recollect, whether zatverzhivaja by heart. When But shy inaudible steps 
Has come nearer to a rack, it has disassembled words: 
        — «... All has begun with occurrence in a city of this gloomy person in 
The spacious raincoat of the crimson colour which have been lined with brown fur, and all to ours 
At once it became clear, than such raincoat is good... »Do not remember, how there 
Further? — The barman to Butu has unexpectedly addressed. 
        — «... On him blood stains» are not appreciable almost, — has finished But on 
Memories. 
        The barman shlepnul a palm on a rack. 
        — Precisely! It is devilishly difficult to hold all this rubbish in memory. 
        — And you did not try to write down? — Has set But obviously provocative 
Question. 
        The drunk has looked at it as on the idiot, and has threatened with a finger. 
        — Do not play about, druzhishche! I see, you still not skilled — so I to you 
Something I will explain. If you zastukajut behind this business on first time will chop off 
Hand. On the second — will cut off language. And on the third — will prick out eyes. And so on... 
        But suddenly has brightly imagined these blind and mute stumps sliding 
Through an infinite rectum — everyone in the isolated measurement — 
Without hope of understanding, without possibility to be heard or at least 
To cry from a pain. An existence metaphor? No, in words of the drunk clown 
Something contained more ominous. 
        But it tried to be protected that filtered through the shabby 
Nightmare fabric. 
        — I saw absolutely another, — he has minded. 
        — I do not know, I do not know, — the barman has told. — but make it three times — 
And, I swear a devil, you can already see nothing! 
        But has preferred to change the subject: 
        — What is this a monument there, near square? 
        — A-a. The local hero. An example for imitation. Before death has burnt all 
The manuscripts. Now it at us one of the main liquidators. 
        But already knew enough not to ask, about what "liquidation" 
There is a speech. 
        The person who has died in poverty has entered into this moment in a bar and 
Obscurity for four years earlier Buta. Last considered its not recognised 
The genius and even has few times said it aloud in any receptions. At the person 
(More correctly, at a being — for on this party of death all became something 
Other, indescribable) was the sight of the sleep-walker, and moved it somehow strange — 
skovanno and randomly — but first of all attracted attention the empty 
The sleeve of a black jacket which was dangling, as if a mourning panel or a tape 
On a wreath. 
        The being similar to own shade and visited ingenious 
The writer in the world of people, has come nearer to a rack behind which already stuck out 
Two, also has slowly fallen on a high stool. At Buta there was an impression, 
That it is afraid to be scattered, as a sculpture from ashes. When it has opened a mouth, 
But has caught itself that expects to hear inarticulate low and 
To see a language stump. 
        But the being has quite distinctly said: 
        — At last has received honour. It is invited to the boss. 
        On the barman it has not made special impression. It has made 
Sour grimace as if for it the invitation to the boss was trifling matter, and 
Tone of the thrown mistress has noticed: 
        — Well, at least, to you will be to talk about what. If 
Will allow, one free council: stir about itself less. He likes, 
When with its creativity admire. But without rough flattery. Or you iskrenni, 
Or you are expected by rather cold meeting. 
        — Hm. — But has been surprised and it was a little forgot. — and unless it too... 
That? 
        — Certainly, — has nodded drunk, going into eyes. — scribbles on 
Leisure. But to all of us it is far to it. You understand — milliard circulations. 
Heap of time and the same huge heap of best sellers. For tens thousand years 
After all it is possible for something to learn. 
        — But I, devil take it, do not remember... — the beginnings was But and has stopped short. 
It has lighted up. 
        — Pseudonyms, — the barman who not so was not seeming has explained 
The drunk. — besides, it is not constrained in means. I saw forms 
Contracts... — He has become silent, as if at last has thought, that has blurted out superfluous, 
However from the party it looked as well raschitannyj a course. 
        But poezhilsja. To it has become not on itself — first of all from the 
Lifetime blindness. But now all has cleared up. And nevertheless it has set still 
One question: 
        — By the way, about best sellers. Really it had enough impudence 
To write... 
        It could not continue. The barman fine has understood it. Also has spoken, 
Having approximated eyes: 
        — Arrogance. Devil arrogance. 
        They have for a long time become silent. 
        — Why I? — Suddenly has hoarsely asked a being. 
        — Well, in my opinion, the reason is obvious, — the barman has answered. — your books. 
They were too good. Those who read them, did not think any more of Him. — It has stuck 
Finger somewhere upwards. — Ridiculous creations! They did not think even of themselves, about 
Volume, what for have come to that world and where go. Your books became magnificent 
Exhibits of infinite gallery in which it is possible to lose the way for all life. 
They also have lost the way — the lost people, the hearts pierced with beauty and 
Love... But we with you know, — it has conspiratorially winked both 
To ungrateful listeners, — what is it only small white lie. 
        For drunk it was too eloquent. 
        Being pomotalo a head, not finding words. 
        — Yes-yes, — with infinite friendliness the barman has told and has stroked 
It on the UNIQUE hand. — so you, no doubt, our colleague. 
I am surprised only why you have not invited to job earlier. Much earlier. 
How much advantage to the boss you could bring! 

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