There was a time when geniuses some

There was a time when geniuses sometimes starved. But there is no reason why a genius must starve in our modern times. The following story of my friend, Bruce, proves that this is true. He was almost sixty when I met him, and he was the author of about fifteen books. The few people who really understood serious realistic literature called him 'a genius'. But Bruce was not interested in what people thought of him or his work. He never read criticism of his books in the newspapers or magazines. He lived alone in his small, dark, dirty room. From time to time he disappeared for several months; and then he appeared again and began to write.

He was a tall, thin man with a face like mark Twain's: black eyebrows, a grey moustache and grey hair. His eyes were dark brown and sad; they seemed not to belong to his face or to the world around him. He had never married, and lived quite alone. He never had much money; and the year I am writing about had been even worse than usual for him. His last book had been a hopeless failure. Besides, he had had an operation, which had cost him much money and left him too weak to work. The day I went to see him, I found him in a gloomy mood, half lying on two chairs, smoking strong cigarettes, which I hated.

"Hello!" he said, and then continued without giving me a chance to ask after his health: "Last night I went into a place that they call a cinema. Have you ever been in once?"

"Ever been? Do you know how long the cinema has existed? Since 1900!"

"Is that so? A terrible place, and terrible people in it. Well, last night they showed a film – what a thing! I've never read such an idiotic story or seen such idiotic characters. How can people look at it? I'm writing a parody on it."

"A parody on an idiotic film?"

"Yes! My heroine is one-quarter black, three quarters white. She is unbelievably beautiful, and all the men run af ter her. Her brother, a man with a heart of stone, wants her to marry a millionaire, who is as bad as he is. All the characters have deep, dark secrets in their lives." He laughed.

"How can you spend your time on such foolishness?" I asked.

"My time!" he answered angrily. "Who needs my time? Nobody buys my books. I'll probably 'starve to death!" He took a page of scenario and laughed again as he read it. "In that film last night they had a race between a train and a car. I've done better: I have a race between a train, a car, an airplane and a horse."

I began to be interested. "May I look at your scenario when you have finished it?" I asked.

"It's already finished. I enjoyed writing it so much that I couldn't sleep until I had come to the end." He gave me the papers. "Take it, you'll have a good laugh, I hope. The heroine's secret is that she isn't black at all. She is part Spanish, part French, and she is a southern aristocrat. And the bad brother isn't really her brother, and the millionaire in reality is a poor man, and the man she loves, who seems to be poor, is really rich." And he laughed until his face was red and his eyes were full of tears.

I went away worried about him, about his health and his penniless condition. How could I help him? How could anybody help him?

After dinner that evening, I began to read the scenario. There were thirty-five pages, and as soon as I had read ten of them, it was clear to me that he had written a masterpiece. I knew that any good film company would be glad to pay whatever he wanted to ask for it. "But," I thought. "if I go to him and tell him what I am planning to do with his scenario, he'll throw it in the fire. He'll never agree to be known as the author of such a thing. I remember how he laughed at it. How can I make him allow me to do whatever I like with the scenario?"

I went to see him again the next day. He was reading.

I interrupted him. "Must I give you back the scenario, or can I keep it?"

"What scenario?"

"The one that you gave me to read yesterday."

"Oh! What do I need it for? Throw it away."

"All right," I said. "I'll throw it away. Excuse me,I see you're busy."

"No, I'm not," he said. "I have nothing to do. It's f oolish to try to write anything: I get less and less for every book I publish. I am dying of poverty."

"It's your own fault," I said. "You refuse to think about what the public wants."

"How can I know what they want?"

"You don't try to. If I tell you how to make some money by writing something that the public wants, you’ll throw me out of the room."

I returned home and did a little work on the scenario. It was very easy; it was a fine scenario. I wanted to write his name on it, but I was afraid to. At last I decided not to write his name, but to say it was written by 'a genius'. That's a wonderful word; everybody respects it and fears it a little. I knew that after they read the scenario, they would feel it really was written by a genius.

I took it to a leading film company the next day with a note saying: "The author, a recognised literary genius, f or his own reasons prefe

Результаты (русский) 1:

Было время, когда гении иногда морили голодом. Но нет никаких причин, почему гений должен голодать в наше время. Следующая история моего друга, Брюс, доказывает, что это правда. Он был почти шестидесяти, когда я встретился с ним, и он был автором около пятнадцати книг. Немногих людей, которые действительно понимают серьезные реалистической литературе назвал его «гений». Но Брюс не был заинтересован в том, что люди думали о его работе. Он никогда не читал критику своих книг в газетах или журналах. Он жил один в своей комнате маленькие, темные, грязные. Время от времени он исчез на несколько месяцев; а потом он снова появился и начал писать.Он был высокий, тонкий человек с лицом, как Марк Твен в: черные брови, серые усы и седые волосы. Его глаза были темно коричневый и грустно; они, казалось, не принадлежат к его лицу или мир вокруг него. Он никогда не женат и жил совсем один. Он никогда не было много денег; и год, когда я пишу о даже хуже, чем обычно для него. Его последняя книга была безнадежно провал. Кроме того он провел операцию, которая стоила ему много денег и оставил его слишком слабы, чтобы работать. День, когда я пошел к нему, я нашел его в мрачное настроение, половина лежал на двух стульях, курить сильные сигареты, которые я ненавидел.«Hello!» он сказал, а затем по-прежнему не давая мне шанс спросить после его здоровье: «прошлой ночью я пошел в место, что они называют кино. Вы когда-нибудь были в один раз?»«Когда-нибудь был? Знаете ли вы, как долго существует кино? С 1900 года!»«Это так? Страшное место и страшные люди в нем. Ну прошлой ночью они показали фильм-какая вещь! Я никогда не читал такой идиотские истории или видели таких идиотских символов. Как люди смотрят на это? Я пишу пародией на него.»«Пародия на идиотские фильм?»«Да! Моя героиня является одной четверти черных, три четверти белых. Она невероятно красиво, и все мужчины запустить af тер ее. Ее брат, человек с сердцем из камня, хочет, чтобы ее выйти замуж за миллионера, который так же плохо, как он. Все персонажи имеют глубокие, темные секреты в жизни». Он засмеялся.«Как можете вы тратите свое время на такой глупостью?» Я спросил.«Мое время!» он сердито ответил. «Кому мое время? Никто не покупает мои книги. Я, вероятно, ' голодать до смерти!» Он взял страницу сценария и снова засмеялся как он читал ее. «В этом фильме прошлой ночью они была гонка между поездом и автомобилем. Я сделал лучше: у меня есть гонка между поездом, автомобиль, самолет и лошадь.»Я начал интересоваться. «Может я смотреть на ваш сценарий когда вы закончили его?» Я спросил."It's already finished. I enjoyed writing it so much that I couldn't sleep until I had come to the end." He gave me the papers. "Take it, you'll have a good laugh, I hope. The heroine's secret is that she isn't black at all. She is part Spanish, part French, and she is a southern aristocrat. And the bad brother isn't really her brother, and the millionaire in reality is a poor man, and the man she loves, who seems to be poor, is really rich." And he laughed until his face was red and his eyes were full of tears.I went away worried about him, about his health and his penniless condition. How could I help him? How could anybody help him?After dinner that evening, I began to read the scenario. There were thirty-five pages, and as soon as I had read ten of them, it was clear to me that he had written a masterpiece. I knew that any good film company would be glad to pay whatever he wanted to ask for it. "But," I thought. "if I go to him and tell him what I am planning to do with his scenario, he'll throw it in the fire. He'll never agree to be known as the author of such a thing. I remember how he laughed at it. How can I make him allow me to do whatever I like with the scenario?"I went to see him again the next day. He was reading.I interrupted him. "Must I give you back the scenario, or can I keep it?""What scenario?""The one that you gave me to read yesterday.""Oh! What do I need it for? Throw it away.""All right," I said. "I'll throw it away. Excuse me,I see you're busy.""No, I'm not," he said. "I have nothing to do. It's f oolish to try to write anything: I get less and less for every book I publish. I am dying of poverty.""It's your own fault," I said. "You refuse to think about what the public wants.""How can I know what they want?""You don't try to. If I tell you how to make some money by writing something that the public wants, you’ll throw me out of the room."I returned home and did a little work on the scenario. It was very easy; it was a fine scenario. I wanted to write his name on it, but I was afraid to. At last I decided not to write his name, but to say it was written by 'a genius'. That's a wonderful word; everybody respects it and fears it a little. I knew that after they read the scenario, they would feel it really was written by a genius.I took it to a leading film company the next day with a note saying: "The author, a recognised literary genius, f or his own reasons prefe