Friday, 29 March 2019

Выдающая программа, потрясающийся успех

First published 28 March 2019 @ sólo algunas palabras
— А почему бы вам теперь не устроить свой вечер? Я бы такую пустил рекламу. На всех столбах, на всех стенах огромными буквами, что-о? Огромными буквами: «Выдающая программа...»
— Надо «ся», Гуськин.
— Кого-о?
— Надо «ся». Выдающаяся.
— Ну, пусть будет «ся». Разве я спорю. Чтобы дело разошлось из-за таких пустяков. Можно написать: «Потрясающийся успех».
— Не надо «ся», Гуськин.
— Теперь уже не надо? Ну, я так и думал, что не надо. Почему вдруг. Раз всегда все пишут «выдающая»... А тут дамские нервы, и давай «ся».
Тэффи, «Воспоминания»

Once again, Teffi’s Mr. Guskin provides us with some non-standard Russian which sounds comical. But why? In the quote, Mr. Guskin says выдающая instead of выдающаяся and потрясающийся instead of потрясающий. The latter word means “amazing” or “astounding”. Grammatically, this is a participle or, more precisely, adjectival participle (причастие), a verb form of потрясать, “to shake”, “to rock”, “to amaze”, “to astound” and such. Like English present participle, it is used as an adjective: «потрясающий успех» means “astounding success”.

Выдающаяся is also a participle, this time of the reflexive verb выдаваться, “to stand out”. This type of participle is called возвратное причастие (while the one derived from non-reflexive verb is невозвратное причастие). So «выдающаяся программа» means “outstanding programme”.

The words выдающая and потрясающийся exist in Russian too. They are participles of verbs выдавать “to give out” and потрясаться “to shake itself/themselves”, respectively. It is their use by Guskin that is dubious. While the drop of the affix -ся is noted in demotic or dialectal speech (трудящий ← трудящийся, выдающий ← выдающийся, годящий ← годящийся, моющий ← моющийся), the reverse, i.e. adding -ся, is really Guskin’s own, not exactly successful, attempt to please Teffi.

И совсем мне, — говорю, — не до смеху,
Это чьё же, — говорю, — указанье,
Чтоб такому выдающему цеху
Не присваивать почётного званья?!
Александр Галич,
«История о том, как Клим Петрович добивался, чтоб его цеху присвоили звание Цеха Коммунистического Труда, и, не добившись этого, запил»

Modern English and modern Spanish have only two types of participle: the present participle and the past participle. In spite of that, I found that many Spanish-speaking students of Engish tend to confuse these two. So here’s a mnemonic: look for the n, which is found in the endings of both English and Spanish present participles. Thus Spanish -ndo corresponds to English -ing. No more confusion.

EnglishSpanish
infinitivedancebailar
present participledancingbailando
past participledancedbailado

In Russian there are more types of participles. The adjectival participles could be active (действительные) and passive (страдательные). There are also adverbial participles, or verbal adverbs, which in Russian are classified as a separate part of speech, деепричастия. Moreover, Russian participles can take either present or past tense, so one verb can have up to six participle forms [1].

Let’s have a look at the imperfective verb любить, “to love”, which gives rise to all six participles.

  • Действительное причастие настоящего времени (Present active): любящий “loving”, “who loves”
  • Действительное причастие прошедшего времени (Past active): любивший “who loved”
  • Страдательное причастие настоящего времени (Present passive): любимый “being loved”
  • Страдательное причастие прошедшего времени (Past passive): любленный “who/that was (being) loved”
  • Деепричастие настоящего времени (Adverbial present active:) любя “(while) loving”
  • Деепричастие прошедшего времени (Adverbial past active): любив, любивши “having been loving”
If you listen to love songs or read romantic literature in Russian, you’ve bound to come across many of these words (although you’ll need to look hard for любленный) [2].

You may also remember that Russian perfective verbs do not have present tense and, consequently, no present participles. Thus a perfective verb, say полюбить, “to fall in love”, has only past participles in standard Russian:

  • Действительное причастие прошедшего времени (Past active): полюбивший “who fell in love”
  • Страдательное причастие прошедшего времени (Past passive): полюбленный “who/that had been fallen in love” (by somebody)
  • Деепричастие прошедшего времени (Adverbial past active): полюбив, полюбивши “having fallen in love”
This diversity of Russian participles may cause translation problems. It is often difficult to translate English titles (of books, films etc.) to Russian without knowing the context. When it is eventually done, the Russian titles tend to contain more information than the English originals. Also, translations of the original Russian titles to English may appear ambiguous, while their unambiguous translations look quite awkward.

English title Russian title Literal translation of the Russian title
Gone with the Wind → Унесённые ветром They who are gone with the wind
Born Free → Рождённая свободной She who was born free
The Missing → Пропавший без вести He who disappeared without a trace
Singin’ in the Rain → Поющие под дождём They who are singing in the rain
Running on Waves ← Бегущая по волнам She who is running on the waves
Burnt by the Sun ← Утомлённые солнцем They who were wearied by the sun

Importantly, the participles in Russian provide an elegant way to express difference between active and passive participants in a feast, as could be seen in the 1979 comedy Осенний марафон (Autumn Marathon) by Georgiy Daneliya:

  • Тостующий пьёт до дна. “He who is proposing a toast drinks bottom up”
  • Тостуемый пьёт до дна. “He who has a toast proposed to him drinks bottom up”
This subtle difference aside, the final result is the same: everybody’s drunk.

In case of our friends потрясать and выдаваться, not all participles can be formed.

infinitive потрясать выдаваться
participle present past present past
active потрясающий потрясавший выдающийся выдававшийся
passive потрясаемый — — —
adverbial потрясая потрясав выдаваясь выдававшись

In general, Russian reflexive verbs don’t form passive participles. However, I can’t think of a rule that forbids me to make the past passive participle of потрясать, viz. потряса́нный.

Overuse of active participles can fill your speech with too many fricatives, as in the novelty song by Leonid Sergeev:

Дорогие товарищи брачующиеся,
Вот стоите вы такие улыбающиеся,
Вот стоите вы такие любующиеся,
Своими отношениями узаканивающиеся!

Подойдите, пожалуйста, поближе, расписывающиеся,
Поднесите свидетеля уже нажравшегося,
Распишитесь вот здесь, здесь, здесь
И унесите свидетеля, совсем, к сожалению, обпившегося!
Леонид Сергеев, «Свадьба №1»

Adjectival participles can undergo nominalisation. In the same fashion as nominalised adjectives, they “inherit” their gender from the noun they were originally modifying, which is by now lost. For example, the neuter noun пресмыкающееся “reptile” is a nominalised participle derived from the verb пресмыкаться “to creep”, “to crawl”, and replaces the phrase «пресмыкающееся животное», “creeping animal”. When the lost noun stands for a person, both masculine and feminine versions are possible, for instance (m.) заведующий and (f.) заведующая “director”, “chief”, “head”, “governor”; same with управляющий “manager”, нападающий “forward” (e.g. in football), обвиняемый “accused”, заключённый “prisoner”, etc. Some of such nouns tend to be used in plural: отдыхающие “holidaymakers”, трудящиеся “workers”, and, from the song above, брачующиеся, “bride and groom”.

__________________________________________________
  1. Although future participles are not considered a part of standard Russian, there is no reason why they could not be derived from perfective verbs. In fact, these participles do exist: встанущий, приедущий, согреющий, увидящий, услышащий etc. See, for example, Михаил Эпштейн, «Есть ли будущее у причастий будущего времени?» (2007). Ksenia Shagal attests “the comparatively high level of acceptability” of future active perfective participle among native Russian speakers.
  2. Both passive and active participles have to agree with the noun in number, gender and case. In the example above, любящий, любивший, любимый and любленный are given in masculine singular nominative. Adverbial participles don’t inflect.

Thursday, 21 March 2019

Nostalghia

a film by Andrei Tarkovsky

Nostalghia was the final film screened in Teatro Guiniguada as part of the Tarkovsky cycle. This was the first time I watched it in a quarter of a century; it turned out that have forgotten quite a few things since then. For example, was Ностальгия dubbed or voiced-over when I saw it in Russia? Eugenia (Domiziana Giordano), for the most part of the movie, speaks Italian, but I distinctly remember her saying «Знаешь, кто такой зануда?» or «Говорит будто Фидель Кастро» in Russian. This time, in VOSE, I could at last hear her voice clearly.

For me, nostalgia is an inherently beautiful emotion. Tarkovsky’s own Solaris and especially Зеркало are full of it; Nostalghia, in spite of its name, is not [1]. In a way, Andrei Gorchakov (Oleg Yankovsky) is a stereotypical exponent of the “mysterious Russian soul”, who does not (want to, or try to) see anything good outside of the Motherland: «Надоели мне все ваши красоты хуже горькой редьки» (“I’m fed up with all your beauties”) he mutters in the beginning of the film. The only reason for him to be in Italy, apparently, is another Russian intellectual, the 18th-century composer Pavel Sosnovsky. When Eugenia asks if Sosnovsky was successful or happy at all upon returning to Russia, Gorchakov reluctantly explains that no, the composer started to drink (surprise surprise) and eventually committed suicide. Gorchakov himself is unable live here and now, in colour: his true life and his love must be in black and white, beyond the reach. Worse still, the final scene implies that a Russian simply cannot enter, say, an Italian cathedral without transplanting there his izba and a puddle (and making it all black and white).

But Yankovsky wouldn’t be Yankovsky if he just portrayed a grumpy, judgemental, misogynistic asshole [2]. Sure, his Gorchakov is all that, but he is also sensitive, lovable, and has sense of humour which, while does not save the poor writer, saves the film. The story of the rescuer and the rescued is priceless; also, it explains the puddle.

Горчаков: Есть одна история. Один человек спасает другого из огромной, глубокой лужи, понимаешь? Спасает с риском для собственной жизни. Ну, вот они лежат у края этой глубокой лужи, тяжело дышат, устали. Наконец, спасённый спрашивает:
— Ты что?..
— Как что? Я тебя спас.
— Дурак! Я там живу!..
«Я там живу.» Обиделся очень.
Gorchakov: Here’s a story. A man saves another from a huge, deep puddle, you understand? Saves him, risking his own life. Well, they are both lying on the edge of this deep puddle, breathing heavily, tired. Finally, the rescued man asks: “Why did you do that?..”
“Why what? I just saved you.”
“You idiot! I live there!..”
“I live there.” He took great offense.
__________________________________________________
  1. What it has is not nostalgia but тоска, a concept so awfully sad that Finns had to import it, as tuska, together with quite a few other depressing Russian words.
  2. Anatoly Solonitsyn, who was originally cast in the lead role, already played a similar character in Сталкер.

Tuesday, 19 March 2019

Acer Chromebook 14 CB3-431

by Acer

I keep losing things.

The most outrageous thing about this particular loss was that I wasn’t even aware of it until the day after, about noon, when I opened my backpack where there should have been my Chromebook. It was not there. The power cable and the mouse, yes. Laptop, no.

I distinctly remember having it there a day before, as well as taking it out at the airport security. The problem with air travel in winter, even if it is Spanish winter, is that you have too many clothes on. And then you have to take your coat and your jacket off, maybe even your boots, if you’re lucky, and they don’t fit in those trays anymore, and you take another one. The security guy insisted that I did not cover the notebook with my jacket, so I shoved it in another tray. And then, when they successfully reemerged on the other side, I stacked all three or four of them on top of each other and moved on to the free table, to put the stuff back on me. Keys, mobile phone, belt and suchlike. I must have left the laptop in the bottom tray. I must have.

I found the Lost&Found page of the airport of Valencia with a contact telephone number. As much as I hate phoning, this time I had to. The person I talked to, in English, was very polite and helpful. I explained what happened; he advised me to phone back in quarter an hour. I did. He said that yes, they have located the notebook. Can you come here, he asked. I am in Las Palmas, I said. Oh, he said. Do you happen to know somebody who lives a bit closer and can fetch it, he mused. Yes I do, I said.

He suggested my sending him an email describing my loss and authorising that kind person, with such and such ID, to collect it, plus a photo of my passport attached. I did exactly that and pleaded my friend to visit the Lost&Found office when she can.

When she got there, later the same day, she messaged me asking for the password. I sent it to her. I think it’s a normal procedure — they need some evidence that the device is mine. She unlocked it, they handed it over.

How easy and efficient it was, I thought. I remember a story I heard from a German scientist I met on a conference in Italy twenty years ago. He was travelling by train. Surprised by the timely arrival at the destination, he rushed out of the carriage leaving his laptop behind. On realising that, he immediately went to the police station and filed the report. Fortunately, the computer was quickly located and brought to the hotel where we stayed the following day. Needless to say, he was very pleased and praised the politeness and efficiency of Italian police over their German colleagues who (according to him) would question you for hours who are you and where did you come from and how did you dare to forget your property in the train. Well, that was in 1999.

Now let me say a few words about this Chromebook. My brother bought it for me last year when I visited him in the States, so you can imagine how annoyed I was with myself to lose it. It’s literally the coolest computer I ever had in my hands (or placed on my lap, for that matter), thanks to its aluminium case. Also, since there are no moving parts, it is virtually silent. It boots in seconds. It has really bright 14-inch anti-glare screen (specified as a full-HD but, according to WhatIsMyScreenResolution.NET, I can get resolution up to 2194x1234). It served me well in the classroom — videos, PowerPoints, Kahoot! quizzes, you name it — and the battery lasted the whole damn working day. I sure would appreciate more internal memory but for now I can live with 32 GB. And why there’s no SD card slot?!

I can’t say I’m over the moon about Chrome OS — I think this machine deserves decent software on its own, not only Android apps. Luckily, since 2018 you can also install Linux apps on it. I tried that and it works. I put there LibreOffice and Inkscape just a few days before my flight to Gran Canaria.

With Christmas holidays and all that, my friend only was able to go to the post office after the New Year. Even then, she was warned that the laptop is unlikely to arrive before Reyes. It took longer than that.

The day she sent it off, I got both email and SMS with the tracking number so I was able to check the shipping progress on the Correos website. In practice, for five days or so I was stuck with its original location, that is, Valencia, followed by the terse “en camino” (“on the way”). Finally, it arrived to Canaries.

Último estado del envío: En tramitación aduanera

Se ha emitido aviso al destinatario para poder completar la tramitación

I started to worry. We dealt with customs before, and every time they wanted money. Normally they would send you a paper enquiring about the value of the imported goods so they could determine how much you must pay on top of the postage. In theory, that should be only applicable to new goods, but you never know. In any case, I still didn’t have any notice.

I went to the post office for a consultation. They told me basically what I already knew and their advice was to wait a couple more days. I did that and, naturally, in a couple more days came back. This time I’ve got the email address of the customs. Write to them and explain the matter, the postal worker said. So I did.

Dear Sir/Madam, I wrote, I am waiting for a package sent on January the 2nd, with tracking code XYZ, containing a laptop I lost at the Valencia Airport. The laptop is used and doesn’t even have a power cable. The package should have been delivered to such and such post office. I was supposed to get a message from you but I didn’t. Waiting for your response. Big hug xoxoxo Yours sincerely.

Imagine my joy mixed with amusement when I received their response the very next day.

Buenos días,

La información que nos ha enviado es correcta. Le llevarán el envío a su domicilio. Si no estuviese, le dejarán un aviso para que usted vaya a retirarlo a la oficina de Correos que le corresponda. Puede realizar el seguimiento de su envío en nuestra página web introduciendo el código del mismo.

Gracias por utilizar nuestros servicios

Saludos

But of course the information I sent them was correct. What, I wonder, would they do if I hadn’t provided them with that correct information? Anyway, the next morning I got the SMS saying that my parcel is waiting for me in the post office. Contrary to what the email said, they never planned to deliver it to my home address. Which suited me fine. I showed my ID, they gave the box to me. It all took just four weeks. Happy end of story.

Sunday, 17 March 2019

No beer, no subject

First published 17 March 2019 @ sólo algunas palabras
— Добрый день.
— Добрый день.
— Пиво есть?
— Пива нет.
— Пива нет?
— Пива нет.
— Добрый день.
— Добрый день.

— Добрый день.
— Добрый день.
— Пиво есть?
— Пива нет.
— Пива нет?
— Пива нет.
— Добрый день.
— Добрый день.

— Добрый день.
— Добрый день.
— Пива нет?
— Пиво есть.
— Пиво есть?
— Пиво есть.
— Добрый день.
— Добрый день.

Alas, Google couldn’t help me to identify the real author of the poem which I remember since my university days, so let’s call it “folklore”. This dialogue is made up of very short but complete sentences, every one consists of two words only. As discussed earlier, the Russian sentences can be both two-member (двусоставные) and one-member (односоставные). «Пиво есть?» and «Пиво есть.» are classical two-member sentences with subject пиво (beer) and predicate есть (there is). I trust you know that «Добрый день» means “Good day”. A common greeting, it is formally a nominal sentence (назывное предложение), a type of one-member sentence that, just like its English counterpart, has no predicate. «Пива нет?» and «Пива нет.», however, are puzzling.

Poster by Vladimir Chaika

Let’s compare «Пиво есть» (There is beer) with «Пива нет» (There is no beer). The sad fact of beer absence in English is indicated by laconic “no”. Likewise, in Spanish: “Hay cerveza” and “No hay cerveza”. Easy. Not so in Russian.

First, note that пиво (nominative) inflects to become пива (genitive) in the negative sentence [1]. This change is so universal that every time Russian speakers need to construct a genitive form, they would mentally ask, «нет кого? нет чего?».

Wait a minute, I hear you saying. In Russian the subject, when it is a noun or pronoun, is always in nominative. So, пива cannot be the subject here, right? Right. In «Пива нет», not only beer but also the subject are missing.

Second, what about the predicate? We usually expect a verb to function as one, or form a part of it. But in this sentence we don’t seem to have a verb either. In school, we were taught that нет (no) is a particle (частица), the opposite of да (yes). On the contrary, in our example нет is the opposite of the predicate есть, which is the present indicative form of the verb быть (to be). Logic tells us that нет must be the predicate then.

Our dialogue, grammatically, is in present. To make sure that we are really talking about present, say, today, and not about the beer situation in general, we can be more specific:

— Сегодня пиво есть?
— Сегодня пива нет.
We can leave the present for a while and enquire about the recent past, such as yesterday:
— А вчера пиво было?
— И вчера пива тоже не было.
How sad is that! Note, however, that in the past our verbs behave as expected: the negative is formed by placing the particle не in front of the verb.

But don’t despair just yet. Maybe tomorrow we’ll have better luck.

— А завтра пива тоже не будет?
— Завтра пиво будет.
You see? If было and будет are, respectively, the past and the future of есть, then не было and не будет are, respectively, the past and the future of нет. So this нет is a verb. Most probably it is a contraction of не + есть; cf. its archaic form несть.

OK, we’ve established that «Пива нет» has no subject and identified нет as our predicate. What is пива then? Why, it is the object.

But isn’t it fascinating that in Russian the subject of the affirmative sentence become the object of the negative one? I think it is.

«Пива нет» is an example of impersonal sentence (безличное предложение). It is not important who is responsible for the absence of beer; what is important that there’s none. Curiously, this type of negative sentence remains impersonal even when we specify the potential owner of, alas, still missing beer:

— У тебя пиво есть?
— У меня пива нет.
Can’t we simply say: “Do you have beer?” — “I don’t have beer”, you may wonder. It turns out, in modern Russian the verb иметь (to have) is rarely used to indicate actual possession [2]. It is like Russians, while mentioning the location («у меня» literally means “near me”), are afraid to admit they own anything physical, lest somebody (e.g. the government) take it away. Instead, Russians would turn to reflexive verbs such as иметься (to be available) or найтись (to happen to be found), with this latter in the future tense — being a perfective verb, it does not have present tense.

— У самих револьверы найдутся...
Копейку я сунул в карман и остановился, обнаружив, что в том же кармане имеется еще один пятак.

Not only are Russians reluctant “to have” things, they also love to ask negative questions, as if preparing themselves for a likely disappointment. To Russian ear, even abrupt «Пива нет?» sounds more polite than «Пиво есть?».

Хлестаков (громко и скоро). Взаймы рублей тысячу.
Бобчинский. Такой суммы, ей-богу, нет. А нет ли у вас, Петр Иванович?
Добчинский. При мне-с не имеется, потому что деньги мои, если изволите знать, положены в приказ общественного призрения.
Н. В. Гоголь, «Ревизор»
— Сигареты у вас не найдётся? – спросила она без всякой приветливости.
Братья Стругацкие, «Град обреченный»
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  1. And vice versa, to transform an affirmative sentence into negative, it is not enough simply to replace нет with есть: we also need to change the genitive back to nominative.
    — Вы просите песен? Их есть у меня!
    In this quote, the genitive (их, i.e. песен) is used on purpose to emulate the Odessa dialect. Thus, instead of grammatically correct but boring «у меня есть песни», the Odessite (supposedly) says «у меня есть песен».
  2. Whenever I encounter the verb иметь in a sense “to possess”, I always suspect it being a poor translation from English or German. Of course, it could be — and is — employed to a comic effect:
    Субъект монотонно бубнил:
    — Имею имение за Варшавою, конечно, небольшое...
    — Имею доход от имения, конечно, небольшой...
    Снится это мне или не снится?
    — Имею луга в имении, конечно, небольшие...
    — Имею тётку в Варшаве...
    — Конечно, небольшую, — неожиданно для себя перебиваю я.
    Тэффи, «Воспоминания»

Friday, 15 March 2019

¡Aquí Estamos! Ciclo de cortos dirigidos por mujeres

On occasion of the International Women’s Day, there was a free screening of short films directed by women in Monopol on 13—14 March. I went there on 13th and... had to go back home as they ran out of tickets! So I returned the following day by the box office opening, which happened to be 16:30. (I have to say that I couldn’t find the box office opening times at the Monopol website but it looks like they start to sell tickets 30 minutes before the first screening of the day.) I got my ticket but, to my chagrin, somewhere between the buses and the cinema I lost (how?!) my yellow hoody, which served me well for the last five years. The programme consisted of five shorts: Miss Wamba, Centrifugado, Mai, Marta and Madres de luna, all very different and all very good. I also was impressed that there were two Spanish sign language interpreters (during the short introduction, we were told that it was for the first time in Monopol history!)

Miss Wamba

Centrifugado

Mai

Marta

Madres de luna

Thursday, 14 March 2019

Сталкер

a film by Andrei Tarkovsky

Stalker was my first encounter with Tarkovsky’s cinema, and I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed. I went to see it with my brother and my mum, who later noted, “I didn’t understand what’s so sci-fiey here”. I didn’t either. I loved Strugatsky brothers but Сталкер has precious little to do with the book, Пикник на обочине (Roadside Picnic) on which the film was ostensibly based. Watching it again and again in the 1980s, I grew to like (if not exactly love) this bleak movie as well as to understand my mum’s comment.

Isn’t it strange that the ominous Chernobyl-esque Zone has (at least some) colour while the “real” world outside it, apart from the final scenes with Martyshka, is monochrome? Not to me. Not now. I think that for the grownups life in 1970s Soviet Union was not particularly colourful. But I was a child. I was lucky: I was able to see stuff in full colour on our black and white telly, Рубин-110.

Speaking of colours: I’m sure that what they were showing in Teatro Guiniguada was not the 2017 restored version, which, judging from trailer, must be closer, colour-wise, to the version I saw some 40 years ago. Here the sepia sequences looked almost greyscale.

For all its focus on three men’s overlong venture to the Zone — in Timur’s opinion, the film would be perfect if it were about 40 minutes shorter — it is the final, fourth-wall-breaking monologue by the Stalker’s wife (Alisa Freindlich) that suddenly brings humanity as well as sense to the story.

Wednesday, 13 March 2019

Бременские музыканты

a musical by Yuri Entin, Vasily Livanov and Gennady Gladkov
a film by Inessa Kovalevskaya

Rock music-wise, 1970s really started in 1969. Abbey Road, Concerto for Group and Orchestra, In the Court of the Crimson King, Led Zeppelin, Yes and Woodstock defined the shape of rock to come, just like, a decade earlier, Ornette Coleman and other giants did it for jazz. And then there was The Bremen Town Musicians. I can’t honestly tell you that I remember it since 1969 but I am sure that I first heard this mini-musical on the EP that my cousin brought us. This EP, albeit badly scratched, survived in our house till the late 1980s when I finally found a replacement.

Of course, not only I and my brother (and then, Yuri and Timur, too) — whole generations grew up on this story and this music. Still, I think of it as “ours”. There was a group of trees not far from our house where we loved to play and, by some reason, referred to as «Бременские». Maybe it was my mum who called it that first. When, years later, I read the Grimms’ version, I was sorely disappointed. Without either Troubadour or Princess, it wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on, I decided.

It aged beautifully. As the end credits roll, the main “rock” theme («Ничего на свете лучше нету») is played as an instrumental with a strong Latin feel. The trumpet goes higher and higher. The music ends. My hands ache to flip the vinyl to the A-side and start from the beginning.

Давным-давно на белом свете жили глупые короли, прекрасные принцессы, страшные лесные разбойники и весёлые трубадуры...