Владимир Набоков: Поиск по текстам произведений автора и критике. Cлово "GRUNT". Классическая русская литература.

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Часть текста: 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 delights had already been granted me by my traveling companion that the search for a Kingdom by the Sea, a Sublimated Riviera, or whatnot, far from being the impulse of the subconscious, had become the rational...

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Часть текста: States. In New York I eagerly accepted the soft job fate offered me: it consisted mainly of thinking up and editing perfume ads. I welcomed its desultory character and pseudoliterary aspects, attending to it whenever I had nothing better to do. On the other hand, I was urged by a war-time university in New York to complete my comparative history of French literature for English-speaking students. The first volume took me a couple of years during which I put in seldom less than fifteen hours of work daily. As I look back on those days, I see them divided tidily into ample light and narrow shade: the light pertaining to the solace of research in palatial libraries, the shade to my excruciating desires and insomnias of which enough has been said. Knowing me by now, the reader can easily imagine how dusty and hot I got, trying to catch a glimpse of nymphets (alas, always remote) playing in Central Park, and how repulsed I was by the glitter of deodorized career girls that a gay dog in one of the offices kept unloading upon me. Let us skip all that. A dreadful breakdown sent me to a sanatorium for more than a year; I went back to my workonly to be hospitalized again. Robust outdoor life seemed to promise me some relief. One of my favorite doctors, a charming cynical chap with a little brown beard, had a brother, and this brother was about to lead an expedition into arctic Canada. I was attached to it as a “recorder of psychic reactions.” With two young botanists and an old carpenter I shared now and then (never very successfully) the favors of one of our nutritionists, a Dr. Anita Johnsonwho was soon flown back, I am glad to say. I had little notion of what...

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Часть текста: выдвинут на передний план. В романах «Приглашение на казнь», «Под знаком незаконнорожденных» и «Ада» мир героя фантастичен, и в нем герой различает скрытые узоры, подтверждающие существование «настоящего» мира, в который он стремится. Ко второму подтипу относятся романы «Solus rex», «Бледное пламя» и «Смотри на арлекинов!»: действие в основном происходит в «реальном» мире, но герои, которые (как кажется) безумны, носят внутри себя второй, фантастический мир, который для них вытесняет «реальный». В то время как герои романов первого типа стремятся обнаружить «настоящий» мир, чье существование подтверждается тайными узорами, и войти в него, герои романов второго типа стараются жить исключительно в мире своей фантазии и очень огорчаются, когда вторжение окружающего «реального» мира намекает на то, что этот их мир — всего лишь фантазия. «Соглядатай» и «Отчаяние» с их шизоидными героями также относятся ко второму типу, хотя иллюзии протагонистов не облечены в форму альтернативных миров. Даже в тех романах Набокова, где нет космологии двух миров, есть следы ...

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Часть текста: its doors open like wings, its front wheels deep in evergreen shrubbery. To the anatomical right of this car, on the trim turn of the lawn-slope, an old gentleman with a white mustache, well-dresseddouble-breasted gray suit, polka-dotted bow-tielay supine, his long legs together, like a death-size wax figure. I have to put the impact of an instantaneous vision into a sequence of words; their physical accumulation in the page impairs the actual flash, the sharp unity of impression: Rug-heap, car, old man-doll, Miss O.’s nurse running with a rustle, a half-empty tumbler in her hand, back to the screened porchwhere the propped-up, imprisoned, decrepit lady herself may be imagined screeching, but not loud enough to drown the rhythmical yaps of the Junk setter walking from group to groupfrom a bunch of neighbors already collected on the sidewalk, near the bit of checked stuff, and back to the car which he had finally run to earth, and then to another group on the lawn, consisting of Leslie, two policemen and a sturdy man with tortoise shell glasses. At this point, I should explain that the prompt appearance of the patrolmen, hardly more than a minute after the accident, was due to their having been ticketing the illegally parked cars in a cross lane two blocks down the grade; that the fellow with the glasses was Frederick Beale, Jr., driver of the Packard; that his 79-year-old father, whom the nurse had just watered on the green bank where he laya banked banker so to speakwas not in a dead faint, but was comfortably and methodically recovering from a mild heart attack or its possibility; and, finally, that the laprobe on the sidewalk (where she had so often pointed out to me with disapproval the crooked green cracks) concealed the mangled remains of Charlotte Humbert who had been knocked down and dragged several feet by the Beale car as she was hurrying across the street...

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Часть текста: over the lid and could be securely locked. Once glance sufficed to assure me that it was one of those cheap money boxes called for some reason “luizettas” that you buy in Algiers and elsewhere, and wonder what to do with afterwards. It turned out to be much too flat for holding my bulky chessmen, but I kept itusing it for a totally different purpose. In order to break some pattern of fate in which I obscurely felt myself being enmeshed, I had decideddespite Lo’s visible annoyanceto spend another night at Chestnut Court; definitely waking up at four in the morning, I ascertained that Lo was still sound asleep (mouth open, in a kind of dull amazement at the curiously inane life we all had rigged up for her) and satisfied myself that the precious contents of the “luizetta” were safe. There, snugly wrapped in a white woolen scarf, lay a pocket automatic: caliber. 32, capacity of magazine 8 cartridges, length a little under one ninth of Lolita’s length, stock checked walnut, finish full blued. I had inherited it from the late Harold Haze, with a 1938 catalog which cheerily said in part: “Particularly well adapted for use in the home and car as well as on the person.” There it lay, ready for instant service on the person or persons, loaded and fully cocked with the slide lock in safety position, thus precluding any accidental discharge. We must remember that a pistol is the Freudian symbol of the Ur-father’s central forelimb. I was now glad I had it with meand even more glad that I had learned to use it two years before, in the pine forest around my and Charlotte’s glass lake. Farlow, with whom I had roamed those remote woods, was an admirable marksman, and with his. 38 actually managed to hit a hummingbird, though I must say not much of it could be...

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Часть текста: Это есть труд, — это есть подвиг. Вергилий, «Энеида» (VI. 125–129) Перевод В. Брюсова [91] «Подвиг» написан Набоковым в Берлине в течение 1930 года и опубликован в Париже, в издательстве «Современные записки» в 1932-м [92]. Роман прост и загадочен. Большой по объему, с демонстративно ослабленным сюжетом, он внезапно обрывается у порога главного действия, заявленного в заглавии. Подвиг героя остается за пределами произведения. Повествование трансформируется в предисловие, содержащее некоторые элементы развязки [93], иначе говоря, становится рамкой главного текста, на самом деле выпущенного. Роман структурно воплощает фигуру умолчания и прочитывается как аллюзия на стихотворение Ф. Тютчева «Silentium!» [94]. Примечательна и календарная деталь: стихотворение написано в 1830 году, ровно за сто лет до «Подвига», и, таким образом, условно параллельно ему во времени (о приеме биографического параллелизма см. ниже). Тематическая перекличка романа и стихотворения очевидна. Состояние, в котором пребывает главный герой, Мартын, «блаженство духовного одиночества» (с. 76), погруженность в себя, в свои предчувствия, мечты, воспоминания, прочитывается как романное воплощение тютчевских деклараций: «Лишь жить в самом себе умей. / Есть целый мир в душе твоей…» [95] — и утверждается как единственная форма духовной жизни личности, скрытая от других завесой тайны. В романе ей противопоставлена деятельность общественная, где знание разделено группой, а поступок одного подчинен общей цели. Общественная мера понимания — норма — не позволяет постичь индивидуума, в частности понять поведение Мартына. Следует отметить, что к категории общественного сознания Набоков причислил не только героев произведения, но и его...

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Часть текста: 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 Beardsley, she turned to little Eva Rosen (I was taking both nymphets to a concert and walking behind them so close as almost to touch them with my person), she turned to Eva, and so very serenely and seriously, in answer to something the other had said about its being better to die than hear Milton Pinski, some local schoolboy she knew, talk about music, my Lolita remarked: “You know, what’s so...

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Часть текста: five CHAPTER FIVE Never know these frightful dreams, You, O my Svetlana! Zhukovski I That year autumnal weather was a long time abroad; nature kept waiting and waiting for winter. 4 Snow only fell in January, on the night of the second. Waking early, Tatiana from the window saw at morn the whitened yard, 8 flower beds, roofs, and fence; delicate patterns on the panes; the trees in winter silver, gay magpies outside, 12 and the hills softly overspread with winter's brilliant carpeting. All's bright, all's white around. II Winter! The peasant, celebrating, in a flat sledge inaugurates the track; his naggy, having sensed the snow, 4 shambles at something like a trot. Plowing up fluffy furrows, a bold kibitka flies: the driver sits upon his box 8 in sheepskin coat, red-sashed. Here runs about a household lad, upon a hand sled having seated “blackie,” having transformed himself into the steed; 12 the scamp already...

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Часть текста: she could not control her heart or her cries, she was a woman of principle. Immediately after she had become more or less my mistress (despite the stimulants, her “nervous, eager chri a heroic chri ! had some initial trouble, for which, however, he amply compensated her by a fantastic display of old-world endearments), good Charlotte interviewed me about my relations with God. I could have answered that on that score my mind was open; I said, insteadpaying my tribute to a pious platitudethat I believed in a cosmic spirit. Looking down at her fingernails, she also asked me had I not in my family a certain strange strain. I countered by inquiring whether she would still want to marry me if my father’s maternal grandfather had been, say, a Turk. She said it did not matter a bit; but that, if she ever found out I did not believe in Our Christian God, she would commit suicide. She said it so solemnly that it gave me the creeps. It was then I knew she was a woman of principle. Oh, she was very genteel: she said “excuse me” whenever a slight burp interrupted her flowing speech, called an envelope and ahnvelope, and when talking to her lady-friends referred to me as Mr....

Поиск по творчеству и критикеCлово "GRUNT"

Поиск по творчеству и критике
Cлово "GRUNT"