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Cлово "HUNGRY"
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Часть текста: 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 ...
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Часть текста: lawn at an angle from the sidewalk (where a tartan laprobe had dropped in a heap), and stood there, shining in the sun, 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)...
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Часть текста: reached at last by my awkward, aching, timid clawswould have certainly landed me again in a sanatorium, had not the devil realized that I was to be granted some relief if he wanted to have me as a plaything for some time longer. The reader has also marked the curious Mirage of the Lake. It would have been logical on the part of Aubrey McFate (as I would like to dub that devil of mine) to arrange a small treat for me on the promised beach, in the presumed forest. Actually, the promise Mrs. Haze had made was a fraudulent one: she had not told me that Mary Rose Hamilton (a dark little beauty in her own right) was to come too, and that the two nymphets would be whispering apart, and playing apart, and having a good time all by themselves, while Mrs. Haze and her handsome lodger conversed sedately in the seminude, far from prying eyes. Incidentally, eyes did pry and tongues did wag. How queer life is! We hasten to alienate the very fates we intended to woo. Before my actual arrival, my landlady had planned to have an old spinster, a Miss Phalen, whose mother had been cook in Mrs. Haze’s family, come to stay in the house with Lolita...
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Часть текста: что его, будущее то есть, едва ли можно считать не существующим, раз «оно облагает, — простите, обладает — по крайней мере, одним свойством, охватывающим такое важнейшее понятие, как абсолютная необходимость?» За шиворот и вон. Кто вам сказал, что я умру? Можно и покорректней развенчать претензии этого детерминиста: бессознательное вовсе не подстерегает нас где-то впереди, чтоб щелчком отбросить назад или заарканить, оно охватывает как Прошлое, так и Настоящее со всех обозримых сторон, оставаясь не свойством Времени как такового, но свойством органического затухания, естественного для всех проявлений бытия, ощущающих Время или нет. Я знаю, что другие умирают, но это не имеет никакого значения. Я также знаю, что вы, возможно, как и я, рождены на свет, но это не доказывает, что мы прошли через временную фазу, именуемую Прошлым: это мое Настоящее, краткий просвет сознания, уверяет, что я ее прошел, а не бесшумное грохотание бесконечного бессознательного, предварявшее мое появление на свет пятьдесят два года и 195 дней тому назад. Мои первые воспоминания восходят к середине июля 1870 года, а именно, к семимесячному возрасту (у большинства-то, разумеется, четкое сознание проявляется позднее, года в три-четыре), — это было утром на нашей вилле, что на Ривьере: во время землетрясения кусок зеленого гипсового бордюра сорвался с потолка и рухнул прямо ко мне в кроватку. Сто девяносто пять предшествовавших этому событию и не отторжимых от бесконечности бессознательного дней не следует включать в сознательный период, так что, если сделать память точкой отсчета, мне сейчас (в середине июля 1922 года) день в день пятьдесят два, et trêve de mon style plafond peint [528] . В аналогичном восприятии индивидуального, осязающего времени я могу запустить свое Прошлое вспять, возрадовавшись мигу воспоминания в не меньшей степени, чем...
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Часть текста: В. В., Набокова В. - Маркову В., без даты Montreux, Palace Hotel Switzerland. Многоуважаемый господин Марков, 17-го сего месяца я писала Вам и вернула Вам Ваши переводы двух стихотворений моего мужа. Сегодня мой муж, неожиданно для самого себя, перевел оба стихотворения сам. Если Вы захотите их напечатать, то не откажите в любезности непременно прислать корректуру. Примите уверение в моем совершенном уважении. Вера Набокова. * * * Каким бы полотном батальным ни являлась советская сусальнейшая Русь, какой бы жалостью душа ни наполнялась не поклонюсь, не примирюсь со всею мерзостью, жестокостью и скукой немого рабства… Нет, о, нет, еще я духом жив, еще не сыт разлукой увольте - я еще поэт! 1944 , Cambridge, Mass. * * * Какое сделал я дурное дело, и я ли развратитель и злодей, я, заставляющий мечтать мир целый о бедной девочке моей? О, знаю я: меня боятся люди, и жгут таких, как я, за волшебство, и, как от яда в полом изумруде, мрут от искусства моего. Но как забавно, что в конце абзаца, корректору и веку вопреки, тень русской ветки будет колебаться на мраморе моей руки. 27 декабря 1959, San Remo * * * No matter how the Soviet tinsel glitters Upon the canvas of а battle piece; No matter how the soul dissolves in pity, I will not bend, I will not cease Loathing the filth, brutality and boredom Of silent servitude. No, no, I shout, My spirit is still quick, still exile-hungry, I'm still а poet, count me out! (Translated by the author) * * * What is the evil deed I have committed? Seducer, criminal - is this the word For me who set the entire world а-dreaming Of my poor little girl? Oh, well I know that people do not love me: They burn the likes of me for wizard wiles And as of poison in а hollow emerald Of my art die. Amusing, though, that at the...
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Часть текста: half droll, half sad, 12 plain-folk, ideal, the careless fruit of my amusements, insomnias, light inspirations, unripe and withered years, 16 the intellect's cold observations, and the heart's sorrowful remarks. CHAPTER ONE To live it hurries and to feel it hastes. Prince Vyazemski I “My uncle has most honest principles: when he was taken gravely ill, he forced one to respect him 4 and nothing better could invent. To others his example is a lesson; but, good God, what a bore to sit by a sick person day and night, not stirring 8 a step away! What base perfidiousness to entertain one half-alive, adjust for him his pillows, 12 sadly serve him his medicine, sigh — and think inwardly when will the devil take you?” II Thus a young scapegrace thought as with post horses in the dust he flew, by the most lofty will of Zeus 4 the heir of all his kin. Friends of Lyudmila and Ruslan! The hero of my novel, without preambles, forthwith, 8 I'd like to have you meet: Onegin, a good pal of mine, was born upon the Neva's banks, where maybe you were born, 12 or used to shine, my reader! There formerly I too promenaded — but harmful is the North to me. 1 III Having served excellently, nobly, his father lived by means of debts; gave three balls yearly 4...
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Часть текста: trumpeting everywhere about itself, 8 taking its pleasure without loving. But that grand game is worthy of old sapajous of our forefathers' vaunted times; 12 the fame of Lovelaces has faded with the fame of red heels and of majestic periwigs. VIII Who does not find it tedious to dissemble; diversely to repeat the same; try gravely to convince one 4 of what all have been long convinced; to hear the same objections, annihilate the prejudices which never had and hasn't 8 a little girl of thirteen years! Who will not grow weary of threats, entreaties, vows, feigned fear, notes running to six pages, 12 betrayals, gossiping, rings, tears, surveillances of aunts, of mothers, and the onerous friendship of husbands! IX Exactly thus my Eugene thought. In his first youth he had been victim of tempestuous errings 4 and of unbridled passions. Spoiled by a habitude of life, with one thing for a while enchanted, disenchanted with another, 8 irked slowly by desire, irked, too, by volatile success, hearkening in the hubbub and the hush to the eternal mutter of his soul, 12 smothering yawns with laughter: this was the way he killed eight years, having lost life's best bloom. X With belles no longer did he fall in love, but dangled after them just anyhow; when they refused,...