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Название книги: Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal
Автор(ы): Christopher Moore
Жанр: Современная проза
Адрес книги: http://www.6lib.ru/books/Lamb_-The-Gospel-According-to-Biff_-Christ_s-Childhood-Pal-193672.html
Author’s blessing
If you have come to these pages for laughter, may you find it.If you are here to be offended, may your ire rise and your blood boil.If you seek an adventure, may this story sing you away to blissful escape.If you need to test or confirm your beliefs, may you reach comfortable conclusions.All books reveal perfection, by what they are or what they are not.May you find that which you seek, in these pages or outside them.May you find perfection, and know it by name.
Prologue
The angel was cleaning out his closets when the call came. Halos and moonbeams were sorted into piles according to brightness, satchels of wrath and scabbards of lightning hung on hooks waiting to be dusted. A wineskin of glory had leaked in the corner and the angel blotted it with a wad of fabric. Each time he turned the cloth a muted chorus rang from the closet, as if he’d clamped the lid down on a pickle jar full of Halleluja
Название книги: Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal
Автор(ы): Christopher Moore
Жанр: Современная проза
Адрес книги: http://www.6lib.ru/books/Lamb_-The-Gospel-According-to-Biff_-Christ_s-Childhood-Pal-193672.html
Author’s blessing
If you have come to these pages for laughter, may you find it.If you are here to be offended, may your ire rise and your blood boil.If you seek an adventure, may this story sing you away to blissful escape.If you need to test or confirm your beliefs, may you reach comfortable conclusions.All books reveal perfection, by what they are or what they are not.May you find that which you seek, in these pages or outside them.May you find perfection, and know it by name.
Prologue
The angel was cleaning out his closets when the call came. Halos and moonbeams were sorted into piles according to brightness, satchels of wrath and scabbards of lightning hung on hooks waiting to be dusted. A wineskin of glory had leaked in the corner and the angel blotted it with a wad of fabric. Each time he turned the cloth a muted chorus rang from the closet, as if he’d clamped the lid down on a pickle jar full of Halleluja
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