The Algorithm of Chaos. Сергей Николаевич Огольцов

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ rate in the political arena, trading my truthful self for a soft seat under my ass at my workplace and other comforts. Nope. The first and foremost is my personal health for whose sake I say what I think, and feel, and understand.

      So what—again and namely—saved science from my ground-breaking, epoch-making discoveries which neither Einstein nor Tesla saw in their wildest dreams?. Ever?.

      Despite my obvious propensity towards pure science, there popped up a pesky predicament attributed irrefutably to my personality traits. One of those prevented my plain sailing to the glamorous shores of purity.

      To tear, straight and openly, the mask of false shyness – yes, it was me or, rather, my unconquerable dislike of useless inactivity that separated us from each other, Science and me.

      The most noteworthy fact about my vibrant briskness is that it tends to manifest itself selectively. On the one hand, I’m quite capable of sitting on for hours, who fly by like seagulls past a buoy of no interest to the gluttons looking for some chow, when I am pouring over an electronic microscope or thru the Hubble telescope (none of which I have got, as of yet, as well as a bicycle which cryingly unjust deficiencies I refuse to discuss now).

      And on the other hand, whenever called to participate in a sitting of any kind at all, be it an AA caucus, a General Assembly of UN (the most hateful are those time-wasting get-togethers of a trade union members) I feel sick in one way or another. Some averse endocrine shit shoots thru my system, the bladder sounds sirens of micturition alert and, so as to abate their combined peak of energy, I evaporate on the sound excuse of legitimate need of peeing immediately.

      That same restlessness turned to be the stumbling block as big as the huge rock carved with the directions for further routs in front of the knight-ridden stallion’s face who does not know how to skirt around it, the stallion doesn’t because the knight in his medieval pants and not my jeans gives no clue to his means of transportation and just sits irresolute and irresponsive to the uncertain snorts of his companion with the stares of them both fixed blankly to the rock.

      Which fork to take? Really? The divination for the outcome down each of the three trails available are pretty ominous: loosing your dear life, loosing your faithful steed, getting married to who knows whom. Some bleak dilemma for any sentient explorer, take my word. Just like choosing your way in science which, let’s be frank, is a minefield of all kinds of briefings, meetings, colloquiums, symposiums, congresses, conferences, convocations…

      Let us peruse a trivial, predictable case of my visiting Stockholm to collect the Nobel Prize for my quant-mechanical achievements and—bolt from the blue!—it turns out I have to sit thru the Ceremonial Blah-Blah first! So? And have you consulted my peppy whippiness beforehand? Just to plumb if your planing had feasible grounds?

      Hence, the conclusion which any average horse would whisper into your ear: sorry, mankind, for leaving you without the second to none discoveries and inventions but—even for the sake of your unavoidable convergence with AI—I won’t rape my nature. Not a chance!

      That’s what I am and gonna stay on unlike the proverbial hunchback getting straightened by his grave. Mind you – my personal hole is to be dug taking in account the peculiarities of the would-be filling (supposedly – me but… well, whatever… Forget it.)

      Sehrgueys, are notoriously tough customers, if you recall the Cicero’s harangue or another, recenter development at the Radonezh Monastery where the Catilina’s namesake’s funerary skiff went counter the flow drift which phenomenon was not expected by the onlookers from the bank because 600 years ago the science was not keen yet on motor-boats.

      (*A life-hack tip here for startup parents: be careful at choosing the name for your newborn so as not to kick yourselves later for the gaga flippancy – “Ah! The kid’s turned utterly unruly!”)

      And finally, summing up my scientific experiences, it’s only fair to admit: whatever is is right and although we, I and the science, keep moving on independently, the separation might very well be for the better.

      How do I know? Easy as a pie. After taking a shot at a crossword or puzzle I have a nasty backache next day because whatever I do I do with enthusiastic vigor.

      d. Find yourself and pass the rudder to the foundling

      And if anyone had, nonetheless, the nerve to read up to this here line just to remark, both deductively and scornfully, to themselves, ‘The guy is so predictable! Now, he’ll start kicking the educational system’s ass,' then, dear Sherlock, take my advice: possessing suchlike knack at clairvoyance keep off betting.

      No, Sir. I refrain from whipping it, the system that has formatted us and picked up mutilating our offsprings, not because of its immaculately chaste innocence—miles from that! the slut has been used by every other fool in all manners of postures and weird juxtapositions—but out of a pity for the poor wretch. And, overwhelmed with empathy, all I can say is “o! poor thing!” and clamp my teeth firmly blocking the outpour of four-letter words, condolent as well. Absolved you are, poor child, go take some rest before the upcoming reformative changes in you by a bunch of sleek-talk buffoons.

      As a natural gentleman I have no intention of entering the subject any deeper and instead will I get straight over to where all of my meander circumgyrations were, up till now, leading to so as to let you see what namely I am about, after all.

      Now, dearest dear, get ready! Your entrance, yes, the dessert crowns a dinner, mind it, sweetie.

      Hats off, gentlemen! No semi-monde tramps here… Enters Lady Belles-Lettres!

      I do foresee the ineluctable backlash, like, the smirk of my acquaintances at any level of familiarity, ‘What? That jerk and belle-letters? Are you kidding?,' and haughty, ‘One more hick in dang-smeared boots!,' from the heights of the Laureate-Nominees’ Olympus, and the matter-of-fact response from the too busy slip-slap-sloppy bestseller kneaders – ‘A bitchy upstart!,' and “Holy Baaa! Belle-Bull!’ braying by the counter-culture shitheads from their glossy latrine they try to sell us on as the Underground.

      What belletrist am I? Frankly – I have no idea, some passages of mine are, like, to my liking, others not exactly, depends on the extent of the dose consumed, I reckon, and, maybe, on the time of day as well. Yes, Sir, I stay ignorant as to who I am as well as to which correction institution will be honored with seeing my end. Yet one thing I know for sure – there are no born belletrists, writer is a self-made product.

      That said, I’m far from denying possible presence of one or two smithereens of truth in the commentaries of my still-to-emerge-at-some-later-point critics, be they aesthetes groomed in the scholarly shade of ostensible family trees or common drunkards kicked out from full of hell of a lot of noise speakeasies. A winged byword from the public domain attests that any asshole might happen right when they pop up at a proper place with good timing.

      And yet, how pitiful are the clowns who try at staking off their short-lived being right and keep their current position forever by falsifying elections results! Nitwit schmo schmucks with their tries at putting shackles on time!

      And you, Citizen, keep back your shocked-loyal-subject’s burps, I meant Muammar Kaddafi here. As of yet. Though the finish by them all is pretty similar—a gutter holding the divine ruler of yesterday now ditched and turned rat-food. Game over, Your Majesty…

      Secondly, what else am I supposed to do if fishing does not turn me on? Neither get I aroused by Real Madrid nor by Manchester United? What is there to do? (Damn, I have definitely met the phrase someplace. Am I plagiarizing?)

      The answer is as simple as follows: your only choice, sonny, is to become a belletrist. СКАЧАТЬ