Поиск по творчеству и критике
Cлово "BEYOND"

Часть текста: found? Dmitriev How not to love one's native Moscow? Baratïnski “Reviling Moscow! This is what comes from seeing the world! Where is it better, then?” “Where we are not.” Griboedov I Chased by the vernal beams, down the surrounding hills the snows already have run in turbid streams 4 onto the inundated fields. With a serene smile, nature greets through her sleep the morning of the year. Bluing, the heavens shine. 8 The yet transparent woods as if with down are greening. The bee flies from her waxen cell after the tribute of the field. 12 The dales grow dry and varicolored. The herds are noisy, and the nightingale has sung already in the hush of nights. II How sad your apparition is to me, spring, spring, season of love! What a dark stir there is 4 in my soul, in my blood! With what oppressive tenderness I revel in the whiff of spring fanning my face 8 in the lap of the rural stillness! Or is enjoyment strange to me, and all that gladdens, animates, all that exults and gleams, 12 casts spleen and languishment upon a soul long dead and all looks dark to it? III Or gladdened not by the return of leaves that perished in the autumn, a bitter loss we recollect, 4 harking to the new murmur of the woods; or with...

2. Lolita. Part Two. Chapters 1 - 2

Входимость: 4. Размер: 49кб.

Часть текста: Motelclean, neat, safe nooks, ideal places for sleep, argument, reconciliation, insatiable illicit love. At first, in my dread of arousing suspicion, I would eagerly pay for both sections of one double unit, each containing a double bed. I wondered what type of foursome this arrangement was even intended for, since only a pharisaic parody of privacy could be attained by means of the incomplete partition dividing the cabin or room into two communicating love nests. By and by, the very possibilities that such honest promiscuity suggested (two young couples merrily swapping mates or a child shamming sleep to earwitness primal sonorities) made me bolder, and every now and then I would take a bed-and-cot or twin-bed cabin, a prison cell or paradise, with yellow window shades pulled down to create a morning illusion of Venice and sunshine when actually it was Pennsylvania and rain. We came to know nous connmes, to use a Flaubertian intonationthe stone cottages under enormous Chateaubriandesque trees, the brick unit, the adobe unit, the stucco court, on what the Tour Book of the Automobile Association describes as “shaded” or “spacious” or “landscaped” grounds. The log kind, finished in knotty pine, reminded Lo, by its golden-brown glaze, of friend-chicken bones. We held in contempt the plain whitewashed clapboard Kabins, with their faint sewerish smell or some other gloomy self-conscious stench and nothing to boast of (except “good beds”), and an unsmiling landlady always prepared to have her gift (“…well, I could give you…”) turned down. Nous connmes (this is royal fun) the would-be enticements of their repetitious namesall those Sunset Motels, U-Beam...

3. Lolita. Part Two. Chapters 3 - 8

Входимость: 4. Размер: 54кб.

Часть текста: cloying fudge. To think that between a Hamburger and a Humburger, she wouldinvariably, with icy precisionplump for the former. There is nothing more atrociously cruel than an adored child. Did I mention the name of that milk bar I visited a moment ago? It was, of all things, The Frigid Queen. Smiling a little sadly, I dubbed her My Frigid Princess. She did not see the wistful joke. Oh, d not scowl at me, reader, I do not intend to convey the impressin that I did not manage to be happy. Readeer must understand that in the possession and thralldom of a nymphet the enchanted traveler stands, as it were, beyond happiness. For there is no other bliss on earth comparable to that of fondling a nymphet. It is hors concours , that bliss, it belongs to another class, another plane of sensitivity. Despite our tiffs, despite her nastiness, despite all the fuss and faces she made, and the vulgarity, and the danger, and the horrible hopelessness of it all, I still dwelled deep in my elected paradisea paradise whose skies were the color of hell-flamesbut still a paradise. The able psychiatrist who studies my caseand whom by now Dr. Humbert has plunged, I trust, into a state of leporine fascinationis no doubt anxious to have me take Lolita to the seaside and have me find there, at last, the “gratification” of a lifetime urge, and release from the “subconscious” obsession of an incomplete childhood romance with the initial little Miss Lee. Well, comrade, let me tell you that I did look for a beach, though I also have to confess that by the time we reached its mirage of gray water, so many...

4. Набоков Дмитрий: Отцовские бабочки. Отцовские бабочки. Father's Butterflies (английский язык)

Входимость: 4. Размер: 36кб.

Часть текста: (английский язык) Father's Butterflies by Vladimir Nabokov DURING my adolescence, the butterfly enthusiast (" le curieux, " as the honnкtes gens used to put it in judicious France, " the aurelian, " as the poets said in grove-rich England, the "fly doctor," as they wisecracked in advanced Russian circles) who wished to acquire from books a general notion of the fauna of Europe, including Russia, was compelled to scrabble for his crumbs of information in entomological journals in six languages and in multivolume, hard-to-find editions such as the Oberthьr books or those of Grand Duke Nikolai Mikhailovich. The absence or utter inadequacy of "references" in the atlases ad usum Delphini, the tedious perusal of the index of names enclosed with an annual volume of a monthly journal, the sheer number of these journals and volumes (in my father's library there were more than a thousand of the latter alone, representing a good hundred journals) - all this had to be overcome in order to hunt down the necessary reference, if it existed at all. Nonetheless, even in my exceptionally propitious situation things were not easy: Russia, particularly in the north, dwelt in a mist, while the local lists, scattered through the journals, totally haphazard, scanty, and cruelly inaccurate in nomenclature, only maddened me when at last I ferreted them out. My father was the preeminent entomologist of his time, and...

5. Lolita. Part Two. Chapters 32 - 36

Входимость: 3. Размер: 58кб.

Часть текста: promise I had made her on the eve (whatever she had set her funny little heart ona roller rink with some special plastic floor or a movie matinee to which she wanted to go alone), I happened to glimpse from the bathroom, through a chance combination of mirror aslant and door ajar, a look on her face… that look I cannot exactly describe… an expression of helplessness so perfect that it seemed to grade into one of rather comfortable inanity just because this was the very limit of injustice and frustrationand every limit presupposes something beyond ithence the neutral illumination. And when you bear in mind that these were the raised eyebrows and parted lips of a child, you may better appreciate what depths of calculated carnality, what reflected despair, restrained me from falling at her dear feet and dissolving in human tears, and sacrificing my jealousy to whatever pleasure Lolita might hope to derive from mixing with dirty and dangerous children in an outside world that was real to her. And I have still other smothered memories, now unfolding themselves into limbless monsters of pain. Once, in a sunset-ending street of...

6. Lolita. Part One. Chapters 28 - 33

Входимость: 3. Размер: 42кб.

Часть текста: of the jury! Bear with me! Allow me to take just a tiny bit of your precious time. So this was le grand moment. I had left my Lolita still sitting on the edge of the abysmal bed, drowsily raising her foot, fumbling at the shoelaces and showing as she did so the nether side of her thigh up to the crotch of her pantiesshe had always been singularly absentminded, or shameless, or both, in matters of legshow. This, then, was the hermetic vision of her which I had locked inafter satisfying myself that the door carried no inside bolt. The key, with its numbered dangler of carved wood, became forthwith the weighty sesame to a rapturous and formidable future. It was mine, it was part of my hot hairy fist. In a few minutessay, twenty, say half-an-hour, sicher its sicher as my uncle Gustave used to sayI would let myself into that “342” and find my nymphet, my beauty and bride, imprisoned in her crystal sleep. Jurors! If my happiness could have talked, it would have filled that genteel hotel with a deafening roar. And my only regret today is that I did not quietly deposit key...

7. The Song of Igor's Campaign, Igor son of Svyatoslav and grandson of Oleg (перевод Набокова)

Входимость: 3. Размер: 34кб.

Часть текста: begin in the diction of yore the stern tale of the campaign of Igor, Igor son of Svyatoslav? Let us, however, begin this song in keeping with the happenings of these times and not with the contriving of Boyan. For he, vatic Boyan if he wished to make a laud for one, ranged in thought [like the nightingale] over the tree; like the gray wolf across land; like the smoky eagle up to the clouds. For as he recalled, said he, the feuds of initial times, "He set ten falcons upon a flock of swans, and the one first overtaken, sang a song first"- to Yaroslav of yore, and to brave Mstislav who slew Rededya before the Kasog troops, and to fair Roman son of Svyatoslav. To be sure, brothers, Boyan did not [really] set ten falcons upon a flock of swans: his own vatic fingers he laid on the live strings, which then twanged out by themselves a paean to princes. So let us begin, brothers, this tale- from Vladimir of yore to nowadays Igor. who girded his mind with fortitude, and sharpened his heart with manliness; [thus] imbued with the spirit of arms, he led his brave troops against the Kuman land in the name of the Russian land. Boyan apostrophized O Boyan, nigh tingale of the times of old! If you were to trill [your praise of] these troops, while hopping, nightingale, over the tre e of thought; [if you were] flying in mind up to the clouds; [if] weaving paeans around these times, [you were] roving the Troyan Trail, across fields onto hills; then the song to be sung of Igor, that grandson of Oleg [, would be]: "No...

8. Эссе о драматургии ("Playwriting", на английском языке)

Входимость: 3. Размер: 59кб.

Часть текста: in mind, however, that, later in life, Father might have expressed certain thoughts differently. The lectures were partly in typescript and partly in manuscript, replete with Nabokov's corrections, additions, deletions, occasional slips of the pen, and references to previous and subsequent installments of the course. I have limited myself to what editing seemed necessary for the presentation of the lectures in essay form. If Nabokov had been alive, he might perhaps have performed more radical surgery. He might also have added that the gruesome throes of realistic suicide he finds unacceptable onstage (in "The Tragedy of Tragedy") are now everyday fare on kiddies' TV, while "adult" entertainment has long since outdone all the goriness of the Grand Guignol. He might have observed that the aberrations of theatrical method wherein the illusion of a barrier between stage and audience is shattered - a phenomenon he considered "freakish" - are now commonplace: actors wander and mix; the audience is invited to participate; it is then applauded by the players in a curious reversal of roles made chic by Soviet performers ordered to emulate the mise-en-sce´ne of party congresses; and the term "happening" has already managed to grow obsolescent. He might have commented that the quest for originality for its own sake has led to ludicrous excesses and things have taken their helter-skelter course in random...

9. Маликова М.: "Первое стихотворение" В. Набокова. Перевод и комментарий

Входимость: 3. Размер: 81кб.

Часть текста: Я нахожу ее прицепившейся к краю призрачного холста, или хитро вписанной в какую-нибудь декоративную часть картины. Временами, впрочем, она висит в отдалении, чуть барочная, но в ладу с красивыми деревьями, темной елью и светлой березой, сок которых когда-то бежал в ее бревнах. Винно-красные, бутылочно-зеленые и темно-синие ромбы цветного стекла придавали решетчатым конструкциям ее створных окон вид часовни. Она точно такая, как во времена моего детства — крепкое старое деревянное строение над заросшим папоротником оврагом в старой, приречной части нашего вырского парка. Точно такая, или немного более совершенная. В реальной беседке не хватало нескольких стекол, внутрь нанесло ветром опавших листьев. Узкий мостик, изогнувшийся над самой глубокой частью оврага, посередине которого, точно сгустившаяся радуга, поднималась беседка, был таким скользким после приступа дождя, как будто его покрыли какой-то темной и в некотором смысле волшебной мазью. Этимологически беседка (pavilion) и бабочка (papilio) тесно связаны. Внутри не было ничего из мебели, кроме складного стола, прикрепленного ржавыми петлями к стене под восточным окном, сквозь два или три пустых или простых ромба которого, среди надменных голубых и хмельных красных, можно было на мгновение увидеть реку. На полу у моей ноги лежал на спинке мертвый слепень рядом с коричневыми остатками березовой сережки. А пятна осыпавшейся штукатурки на внутренней стороне двери использовались различными нарушителями для надписей типа «Здесь были Даша, Тамара и Лена» или «Долой Австрию!» Гроза быстро прошла. Ливень, хлеставший потоками, в которых деревья качались и клонились, сократился в одно мгновение до косых линий тихого золота, вспыхивавших короткими и длинными штрихами на фоне утихающего растительного волнения. Заливы роскошного голубого разрастались среди огромных облаков: горы...

10. Шифф Стейси: Вера (Миссис Владимир Набоков). 1. Петербург, 38–48

Входимость: 2. Размер: 125кб.

Часть текста: 1 Вера Набокова не только не писала, она и не помышляла писать мемуары. Даже в конце своей долгой жизни эта женщина оставляла мало надежд любителям тайных признаний престарелой вдовы. (Правда, она вела дневник, описывающий тяготы женской доли, только речь в нем шла о Лолите.) Если допытывались, при каких обстоятельствах она встретилась с человеком, с которым впоследствии проживет пятьдесят два года, Вера уклонялась от ответа, иногда любезно, а иногда и нет. «Не помню!» — такова была шаблонная отговорка, весьма сомнительная, если учесть, что исходит от женщины, которая знала наизусть чуть ли не все стихи мужа. Бывало, Вера парировала: «Вы что, из КГБ?» Как-то один из немногих почтенных исследователей загнал ее в угол: вот тут ваш муж описывает, что происходило 8 мая 1923 года, не хотите внести свои уточнения? «Нет!» — резко бросила миссис Набоков. В ушах биографа явственно прозвучал лязг грянувшей вниз крепостной решетки. Так все ее и считали миссис Набоков от природы. ...

Поиск по творчеству и критикеCлово "BEYOND"

Поиск по творчеству и критике
Cлово "BEYOND"