Chrysry Marx and Peter Ledger
Apr. 17th, 2009 09:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
swamp_lynxКомпьютерные игры не всегда были развлечением для подростков, когда-то это был огромный и свободный мир, куда приходили программисты, сценаристы, иллюстраторы и даже отставные полицейские, чтобы поделиться своим внутренним миром. Окончательно закрывшаяся в прошлом году Sierra On-Line была основана мечтавшими о лучшей жизни Кеном и Робертой Уильямс в начале 80х, а уже через несколько лет продажи достигли миллионов копий. Когда читал об истории компании, особое внимание обратил ещё на одну семейную пару, Кристи Маркс и Питер Лэджер, которые создали волшебную сказку по мотивам легенд о короле Артуре. Грустная, красивая история любви, нашедшая своё отражение и в компьютерной игре.
Peter was an amazing man. A gentleman barbarian, a man of vast talent, a man of "gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirths" (as Robert E. Howard described Conan). We had many adventurous and sometimes turbulent years together before he was killed in a car accident.
Dead, rotten, in the ground,
To see no more, to hear no sound,
To taste not of the tang of wine,
Nor feel the curve of love entwined,
To ride not on the waves of air,
Nor penetrate deep Neptune’s lair,
The powdered slopes no more to run,
No flashing shaft nor bucking gun,
To dine not from the laden table,
Unmoved by words or song or fable,
To but lie entombed anon,
‘til body, mind and earth are one.
Peter wrote this poem himself, on 24 May 1991. He asked me to type it up for him, and said "This will be my epitaph." It wasn't a matter of foreknowledge, it's simply the way he was. He lived for the moment, for the day, always aware of his mortality.
Peter was an amazing man. A gentleman barbarian, a man of vast talent, a man of "gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirths" (as Robert E. Howard described Conan). We had many adventurous and sometimes turbulent years together before he was killed in a car accident.
Dead, rotten, in the ground,
To see no more, to hear no sound,
To taste not of the tang of wine,
Nor feel the curve of love entwined,
To ride not on the waves of air,
Nor penetrate deep Neptune’s lair,
The powdered slopes no more to run,
No flashing shaft nor bucking gun,
To dine not from the laden table,
Unmoved by words or song or fable,
To but lie entombed anon,
‘til body, mind and earth are one.
Peter wrote this poem himself, on 24 May 1991. He asked me to type it up for him, and said "This will be my epitaph." It wasn't a matter of foreknowledge, it's simply the way he was. He lived for the moment, for the day, always aware of his mortality.
