Эссе: Mystery in a Sack Suit

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Английский язык
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... And now if you looked still closer, you saw that they were listening with passionate concern to a man they call Orage (pronounce it precisely like the French for storm): and that Orage was most intempestuously sitting in an upholstered armchair, smoking a cigarette and cavalierly smiling. He seems a proverbial schoolboy, slightly damaged by the years, yet on the whole intact-as he sits enwreathed in all those seeking brains and eager eyes. He has a hard body in a tight drab suit. He has hair like a cap drawn close upon his skull. The finger tips are yellow with tobacco. The face is gray with thought. And its prominent part is the nose. The nose is the pinnacle of Orage. Intense brow, wilful jaw, keen eyes, ironic mouth-they all converge upon this proboscidean symbol of pertinence and search. Who is he? and what is he telling the good men and ladies, that they should hearken to him-leaders though they are-with humble rapture? He is propounding a simple, matter-of-fact psychologic method. A method too simple, really, to be written down either by him or by me. So what that Method is, you'll have to find out for yourself. What it does-or claims to do-is nothing less than the whole and utter overturning of everything you live by. All your standards-ethical, religious. All your darlings-historical, artistic. From Жschylus to Bertie Russell, he sweeps them off the table. From Pentateuch to Theosophy, he shows them up. All the world's religions are wrong. All the good intentions are bad. All the truths are lies. All self-improvement is vain. With a most humane smile, Orage blights the claims of humaneness. With valedictory sentiment, wipes sentiment off the slate. With logic swift as a machine, he discredits logic. With courteous manner, drops spiritual bombs into the laps of ladies who adore him. ...