Английский язык с Грэмом Грином. Третий человек

Martins could not have said how he got through the rest of the discussion (Мартинс не мог бы сказать, как он пробрался через остаток дискуссии): perhaps Crabbin took the brunt (возможно, Крэббин принял основной удар; brunt — нападение, напор, натиск; сила, главный удар /атаки, нападения/): perhaps he was helped by some of the audience (возможно, ему помогли некоторые из аудитории: «он был поддержан некоторыми из аудитории») who got into an animated discussion about the film version of a popular American novel (которые вступили в оживленную дискуссию об экранизации: «фильмовой версии» популярного американского романа). He remembered very little more (он помнил очень мало больше = еще) before Crabbin was making a final speech in his honour (прежде чем Крэббин говорил финальную речь в его честь). Then one of the young men led him to a table stacked with books (тогда один из молодых людей подвел его к столу, заваленному книгами; stack — омет, скирда, стог /о сене/; груда, куча; to stack — складывать в стог и пр., скирдовать; загромождать, заставлять /чем-л./) and asked him to sign them (и попросил его подписать их). "We have only allowed each member one book (мы позволили каждому члену только одну книгу)."

"What have I got to do (что я должен делать)?"

"Just a signature (просто подпись). That's all they expect (это все, что они ожидают). This is my copy of The Curved Prow (это мой экземпляр Изогнутой ладьи). I would be so grateful (я был бы так благодарен) if you'd just write a little something (если бы вы просто написали немного чего-нибудь)..."

enormous [In'O:mqs], arrogant ['xrqugqnt], envelope ['envqlqup], hoarse [hO:s], ardent ['Rd(q)nt], intellectual ["Int(q)'lektjuql], despair [dI'speq], besiege [bI'si:G], adequate ['xdIkwIt], gruesome ['gru:sqm], plasticine ['plxstI"si:n], audience ['O:djqns], animated ['xnImeItId]

He didn't realise it, but he was making an enormous impression. Only a great writer could have taken so arrogant, so original a line: several people wrote Zane Grey's name on the backs of envelopes and the Gr"afin whispered hoarsely to Crabbin, "How do you spell Zane?"

"To tell you the truth, I'm not quite sure." A number of names were simultaneously flung at Martins—little sharp pointed names like Stein, round pebbles like Woolf. A young Austrian with an ardent intellectual black forelock called out "Daphne du Maurier," and Mr. Crabbin winced and looked sideways at Martins. He said in an undertone, "Be kind to them."

A gentle kind faced woman in a hand-knitted jumper said wistfully, "Don't you agree, Mr. Dexter, that no one, no one has written about feelings so poetically as Virginia Woolf? in prose I mean."

Crabbin whispered, "You might say something about the stream of consciousness."

"Stream of what?"

A note of despair came into Crabbin's voice, "Please, Mr. Dexter, these people are your genuine admirers. They want to hear your views. If you knew how they have besieged the Society."

An elderly Austrian said, "Is there any writer in England today of the stature of the late John Galsworthy?"

There was an outburst of angry twittering in which the names of Du Maurier, Priestley and somebody called Layman were flung to and fro. Martins sat gloomily back and saw again the snow, the stretcher, the desperate face of Frau Koch. He thought: if I had never returned, if I had never asked questions, would that little man still be alive? How had he benefited Harry by supplying another victim—a victim to assuage the fear of whom, Herr Kurtz, Cooler (he could not believe that), Dr. Winkler? Not one of them seemed adequate to the drab gruesome crime in the basement: he could hear the child saying: "I saw the blood on the coke," and somebody turned towards him a blank face without features, a grey plasticine egg, the third man.

Martins could not have said how he got through the rest of the discussion: perhaps Crabbin took the brunt: perhaps he was helped by some of the audience who got into an animated discussion about the film version of a popular American novel. He remembered very little more before Crabbin was making a final speech in his honour. Then one of the young men led him to a table stacked with books and asked him to sign them. "We have only allowed each member one book."

"What have I got to do?"

"Just a signature. That's all they expect. This is my copy of The Curved Prow. I would be so grateful if you'd just write a little something ..."