That’s why all the salesmen disseminating nostalgia for the golden days of Soviet era are viewed by me as low-grade promoters of the fucking Restoration. It’s only that I don’t stroll around with a Mauser pistol because of the built-in pacifism in the firmware of both the motherboard and other vital parts of my personality…
Presently, text hunting is looked upon as an oddball twist to your mindset, some funny atavism, sort of. Who’d ever need the stuff? Wake up, bro! The Net’s swamped with freebie dolls nicely applicable for jerking , as well as warfare for edging any bent of taste be it War of Tanks or Aviation, or bare Strategy, ready for customers of any quirk and preference in their way of masturbation.
And that is just fine! Because while they keep jerking or shooting, the Internet roots into inextricable depths which keeps up my optimistic hope for getting free pdf files and a “thank you!” in the bargain.
Me personally, the Internet had sure liberated from book-buy expenses. What’s the point in outlay while in the Net, running high and boldly, there is everything, including books you’ll never find even for ready money? Both goodies and best things since sliced bread to be paid for only by the time you spend in the online search-and-find, if not too lazy.
Arise, brother, and catch on, firstly, that the up front page of search results Google fills with the addresses of the customers paying Google for their ads, and those now want to harvest, in their turn, the gravy off you, while the rest 1,630,000,000 results in 0.62 sec are presented downstream where you not at once guess to check (well, no, I don’t dig deeper than the fourth in the resulting pages) and where there surely sits the book in question, PDF formatted, but you do have what to open a pdf file with, right? And it’s no problem if you don’t because in the Net there is any opener whatsoever and free of charge too, just look for it deeper than the first page served up by Google.
At times the search takes up to a couple of days because of piggy mercantile schemers. Know what I mean? Yeah, sure, those sites mutely hollering “Hey! Hi! Here! ANY PDF FOR FREE!”
You, naturally, rush there to run into a smaller-font notification “for registered users”, and the registration is certainly nothing else but free. Yet, after a click or two, there pops up the form for entering the number of your credit card. Some fine howdy-do.
No-no-no! They won’t take a penny off it, and the procedure is just their long-established custom. But where on God’s green earth would I fetch the required card from? The arid untilled patch (right, it’s me), who never has had anything to do with the like cards? The sinless virgin hick (me once again) who’s never rolled in the hay of that particular field?.
True, a couple of times I tried bilking and entered a fictitious number from my imaginative ass. But no-go, Mr. Pariah Outcast.
Since then wherever registration includes the form inquiring of my card number I sucker punch the “X” in upper right corner of their site page – look for some other twerp, sir Hooker! Go an’ fuck yourself, corrupt crook, you!
But your search target waits for you at archive.org or Gutenberg project if not at z-library. And that is right because the best things in life are free – the air, when not polluted, and love which is not a part to Goods-Money-Goods shebang…
The first computer machine I happened to meet at 40, when “Internet” word was yet unheard-of.
I recollect there was a lunch break at some office, but which namely I cannot call to mind. The staff went out forgetting to turn the machine off, which oversight gave me about an hour for sitting before it and clicking the mouse on the “open file” Button that hovered in the monitor center. On every click the monitor would wink and hop slightly, as if in doubt: to open or not to open? Yet, eventually, kept to where it was. One whole hour and it never got tired, faith! Then the office employees came back waking me up from the spell of my first intercourse with the wonder of technology.
On leaving the office or, to be more precise, at the first crossing after leaving it, I met Sam, the most advanced cat in town on such matters, and asked him how that frigging file could, by the bye, be opened with the mouse.
Well, he looked at me the way as if I asked about how to put your right foot before the left when walking, however, patiently enough explained that, before to click the button, the file you wanna open should be highlighted in the list.
O yeah! Windows 95 was a mighty cool operational system the present Windows 10 sucks at every point when compared to that…
So, on the grounds of the current status quo allowing for texts availability, there crops up an uneasy suspicion: what if books—following the example of the vinyl disks by the band Flow, Song, Flow!—will also disappear in the bottomless bin of Past to the common heap atop the mentioned garbage because of the rise of laser disks and pirate sites all over the globe, where you are welcome to download any hit, be it the Lemeshev’s aria Will arrow hit me, and pierce to take my life?. and up to Hit me, Baby, one more time performed by Britney Spears?
To which with all befitting soberness I declare – fuck, no!
Were they even to convert each and every printed volume into an audio book or turn it into a movie, like they did to Harry Potter, and The Steel Hardened That Way, or steep it in all kinds of widgets both to reproduce the aroma of the prairie in bloom and the stench off your dorm buddy drunk blind (following the plot), and make it able to imitate the tactile impressions in line with the sex orgies served by the whores at the Red Mill (as depicted by the seasoned author), or even let you feel, virtually, taste of any delicacy, up to Zhigulevsky beer snacked with a briquette of molten cheese for 13 kopecks a piece, still and yet – fuck, no!
Because there is some (what would I call it?) magic (yes!) in books which is beyond imitation by any 3D (or be it 696D if they choose it)!
Got it what I’m about? Quite so! The words! Those black ant-like-critter-signs in the white field without smell-taste-color, like the distilled water, but making you tighter than all them sweet wines…
But then again, only if you know the trick of getting the adequate intoxication from them those ants, sure thing.
Good news, that skills could be developed when needed, which lately brought about my getting high from classical music, at least some of its pieces. Take The Hairless Heights by Mussorgsky, if you please, where witches fly to to land under the soundtrack cooler than the chopper’s Ride of the Valkyries over Nam.
Yet, Alfred Schnitke still remains as remorseless guts ripper as he always was…
No doubt, freedom captivates anyone but since that villain Hegel had shackled the world with his unbreakable chain of unity-of-opposites it (freedom) got turned into prison as well.
Handcuffed by the edging smartphones, teeter poor Juliets never spotting Romeos around who—their brows vindictively downcast—keep flicking the beans of Steve Job’s HER’s or someone else’s Samsungs.
Each medal has its backside. The Dark Side of the Moon in action.
