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Входимость: 3. Размер: 59кб.
Часть текста: they embody, in concentrated form, many of his principal guidelines for writing, reading, and performing plays. The reader is urged to bear 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 theatre as they have in random music and in random painting. Yet Nabokov's own plays demonstrate that it is possible to respect the...
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Часть текста: 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 “342” at the office, and leave the town, the country, the continent, the hemisphere,indeed, the globethat very same night. Let me explain. I was not unduly disturbed by her self-accusatory innuendoes. I was still firmly resolved to pursue my policy of sparing her purity by operating only in the stealth of night, only upon a completely anesthetized little nude. Restraint and reverence were still my motto-even if that “purity” (incidentally, thoroughly debunked by modern science) had been slightly damaged through some juvenile erotic experience, no doubt homosexual, at that accursed camp of hers. Of course, in my old-fashioned, old-world way, I, Jean-Jacques Humbert, had taken for granted, when I first met her, that she was as unravished as the stereotypical notion of “normal child” had been since the lamented end of the Ancient World B. C. and its fascinating practices. We are not surrounded in our enlighted era by little slave flowers that can be casually plucked between business and bath as they used to be in the days of the Romans; and we do not, as dignified Orientals did in...
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Часть текста: или цитируя чушь несусветную из последней статейки Элси де Нор, вульгарной литературной проститутки, заявившей, что Левин расхаживал по Москве в nagol'ny tulup {30} , «мужицкой овчинной шубе, гладкой стороной наружу, мехом внутрь», согласно словарю (куда уж Элси и иже с нею до этаких высот!), с ловкостью фокусника откуда-то извлеченного нашей комментаторшей. Адина эффектная манипуляция придаточными предложениями, эти вводные, вскользь бросаемые слова, это сладострастное усиление привязки односложных слов (« что за бред, она просто безграмотна!») — в результате все это почему-то действовало на Вана с силой, сходной, наверное, с искусственной стимуляцией или изощренной изуверской лаской, возбуждая где-то слева острое вожделение, пугающее и сладострастно волнующее одновременно. Мать, называя ее «мое сокровище», прерывала Адин рассказ короткими восклицаниями, типа: «Жутко смешно!» или: «Ай, прелесть какая!», хотя позволяла себе также замечания и более наставительные, скажем: «Ну-ка выпрями спинку!» или: « Ешь, сокровище мое!», произнося это «ешь» по-матерински заботливо, что никак не вязалось с язвительно-взрывными сарказмами дочери. Выпрямившаяся было Ада, отрываясь от спинки стула, вновь опускает податливые плечики, и когда этот то ли сон, то ли случай (или что там она...
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Часть текста: 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 very well off to boot, but the ordinary amateur, unable to dispatch his scouts throughout Russia, and denied the opportunity - or not knowing how - to gain access to specialized collections and libraries (and an accidental boon, the hasty inspection of...
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Часть текста: between Humbert Humbert and Lolita is very strong. In Hollywood and New York, however, relationships are frequent between men of forty and girls very little older than Lolita. They marry-- to no particular public outrage; rather, public cooing. No, it is not my sense of the immorality of the Humbert Humbert-Lolita relationship that is strong; it is Humbert's sense. He cares, I do not. I do not give a damn for public morals, in America or elsewhere. And, anyway, cases of men in their forties marrying girls in their teens or early twenties have no bearing on Lolita whatever. Humbert was fond of "little girls"-- not simply "young girls." Nymphets are girl-children, not starlets and "sex kittens." Lolita was twelve, not eighteen, when Humbert met her. You may remember that by the time she is fourteen, he refers to her as his "aging mistress." One critic has said about you that "his feelings are like no one else's. " Does this make sense to you? Or does it mean that you know your feelings better than others know theirs? Or that you have discovered yourself at other levels? Or simply that your history is unique? I do not recall that article; but if a critic makes such a statement, it must surely mean that he has explored the feelings of literally millions of people, in at least three countries, before reaching his conclusion. If so, lama rare fowl indeed. If, on the other hand, he has merely limited himself to quizzing members of his family or club, his statement cannot be discussed seriously. Another critic has written that your "worlds are static. They may become tense with obsession, but they do not break apart like the worlds of everyday reality. " Do you agree? Is there a static quality in your view of things? Whose "reality"? "Everyday" where? Let me suggest that the very term "everyday reality" is utterly static since it presupposes a...
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Часть текста: лет. К тому времени я прожил в Берлине, с перерывами, лет шесть. В числе многих других интеллигентных людей я был совершенно уверен, что не пройдет и десяти лет, как все мы вернемся в гостеприимную, раскаявшуюся, тонущую в черемухе Россию. Осенью того же года Ульштейн купил права на немецкое издание. Книга была переведена (как меня уверяли, вполне удовлетворительно) Зигфридом фон Фегезаком, с которым я, помнится, познакомился в начале 1929 года, второпях проезжая с женой через Париж, чтобы истратить щедрый ульштейновский аванс на собирание бабочек в восточных Пиренеях. Мы познакомились в его гостинице, где он лежал в постели с сильным гриппом, совершенно разбитый, но при монокле, а знаменитые американские писатели меж тем кутили в барах и подобных заведениях, как это у них, говорят, полагалось {67} . Нетрудно заключить что русский писатель, выбирая исключительно немецких персонажей (мы с женою появляемся в двух последних главах только для инспекции), создает себе непреодолимые трудности. По-немецки я не говорил, немецких друзей у меня не было, и я не прочитал к тому времени ни единого немецкого романа ни в подлиннике, ни в переводе. Но в искусстве, как и в природе, очевидный изъян может обернуться тонким защитным приемом. «Человеческая влажность», которой пропитан мой первый роман «Машенька» (изданный «Словом» в 1926 году и тоже выпущенный по-немецки Ульштейном), была там совершенно уместна, но книга эта мне тогда разонравилась (а теперь она опять мне нравится, но уже по другим причинам). Герои-эмигранты, которых я выставил напоказ в витрине, были до того прозрачны на взгляд той эпохи, что позади них можно было легко рассмотреть ярлычки с их описанием. К счастью, надписи были не довольно разборчивы, но у меня не было никакого желания продолжать пользоваться методом,...
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Часть текста: 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 object the expedition was pursuing. Judging by the number of meteorologists upon it, we may have been tracking to its lair (somewhere on Prince of Wales’ Island, I understand) the wandering and wobbly north magnetic pole. One group, jointly with the Canadians,...