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Часть текста: хочется повидать Вас” . Когда читаешь о разрыве двух писателей, приключившемся два десятилетия спустя - жестоком, с публичными взаимными обвинениями (пожалуй, последняя подобная битва педантов в истории Америки - хотя кто знает?), - удивляешься, как же до такого дошло, как могла разрушиться такая дружба? “Дорогой Кролик, - писал Набоков Уилсону в начале 1940х, - я получил гуггенхаймовскую стипендию. Спасибо, дорогой друг. У тебя удивительно легкая рука. Я заметил, что всякий раз, когда ты принимаешь участие в моих делах, успех мне обеспечен... В Нью-Йорке буду проездом в среду и четверг, 14 и 15 апреля. Позвоню в среду днем, если дашь мне свой телефон” 4 . Уилсон уговорил Набокова подать заявку на стипендию фонда Гуггенхайма и даже написал рекомендательное письмо 36 . В итоге грант Набоков получил, причем едва ли ему дали бы его без помощи Уилсона: писателю на тот момент уже исполнилось 43 года, а прежде среди стипендиатов фонда не было никого старше 40 лет. Набоков писал ему в 1941 году: Дорогой Уилсон, большое spaseebo за то, что “свели” меня с Decision и New Direction. Мы очень мило пообщались с Клаусом Манном [сыном писателя Томаса Манна и редактором журнала Decision ]: он предложил мне написать для них статью в 2000 слов. Я получил письмо от Джеймса Лафлина и посылаю ему мой английский роман 5 . “Английским романом” Уилсон называл “Подлинную жизнь Себастьяна Найта”. Он не только помог опубликовать книгу, но и свел Набокова со многими влиятельными людьми и издательствами. В декабре 1940 года Уилсон писал Набокову: В конце этой недели я ухожу из The New Republic, но я договорился с Брюсом Блайвеном [председателем редколлегии журнала], что он закажет вам цикл статей. о современной русской литературе. Думаю, каждая статья должна быть максимум в 1500 слов, разве что вы захотите написать что-то очень важное: тогда можно больше 6 . Ранее Уилсон советовал Набокову: В дальнейшем, когда будете писать рецензии в The New...

2. Lolita. Part One. Chapters 23 - 27

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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 ...

3. Lolita. Part One. Chapters 9 - 11

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Часть текста: 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, established a weather station on Pierre Point in Melville Sound. Another group, equally misguided, collected plankton. A third studied tuberculosis in the tundra. Bert, ...

4. Lolita. Part One. Chapters 28 - 33

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Часть текста: 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 “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...

5. Lolita. Part Two. Chapters 17 - 21

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Часть текста: of the ordinary, or so he prissily thought. Noticing one night that my box of chessmen was broken, he sent me next morning, with a little lad of his, a copper case: it had an elaborate Oriental design 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...

6. Смотри на арлекинов! Часть вторая

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7. Долинин А: Искусство палача - заметки к теме смертной казни у Набокова

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Часть текста: Отсечение головы требует большого искусства. П. Д. Калмыков. «Учебник уголовного права» (1866) Кто знает, сколько скуки В искусстве палача! Ф. Сологуб. «Нюренбергский палач» The article follows the development of the capital punishment theme in Nabokov S writings, from early poems to 'Speak, Memory', focusing on a concept of the executioner as a despicable actor, the main figure in the low taste histrionics of totalitarian and revolutionary states. It pinpoints some hitherto unknown historical and literary sources of the concept and discusses its symbolism, in particular sartorial and ritualistic images. Key words: V. V. Nabokov, V. D. Nabokov, Pushkin, death penalty, executioner, masquerade, suit, platitude. Статья посвящена развитию темы смертной казни в произведениях Набокова - от ранних стихотворений до ‘Speak, Memory’. Особое внимание уделяется палачу как вызывающему презрение персонажу, главной фигуре в “отвратительной театральщине” тоталитарных и революционных государств. В статье рассматривается ранее неизвестные исторические и литературные источники концепта палача и обсуждается его символика. В особенности, в центре внимания в статье оказываются одеяние палача и его изображения. Ключевые слова: В.В. Набоков, В.Д. Набоков, Пушкин, смертная казнь, палач, маскарад, костюм, пошлость. После Достоевского и Толстого никто из русских писателей не...

8. Eugene Onegin. A Novel in Verse by Aleksandr Pushkin. Chapter one

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Часть текста: 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 ...

9. Интервью Набокова на английском языке. Playboy, 1964 г.

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Часть текста: author of a sensational bestseller. In the aftermath of this cause celebre, do you ever regret having written Lolita? On the contrary, I shudder retrospectively when I recall that there was a moment, in 1950, and again in 1951, when I was on the point of burning Humbert Humbert's little black diary. No, I shall never regret Lolita. She was like the composition of a beautiful puzzle-- its composition and its solution at the same time, since one is a mirror view of the other, depending on the way you look. Of course she completely eclipsed my other works-- at least those I wrote in English: The Real Life of Sebastian Knight, Bend Sinister, my short stories, my book of recollections; but I cannot grudge her this. There is a queer, tender charm about that mythical nymphet. Though many readers and reviewers would disagree that her charm is tender, few would deny that it is queer-- so much so that when director Stanley Kubrick proposed his plan to make a movie of Lolita, you were quoted as saying, "Of course they'll have to change the plot. Perhaps they will make Lolita a dwarfess. Or they will make her 16 and Humbert 26. " Though you finally wrote the screenplay yourself, several reviewers took the film to task for watering down the central...

10. Lolita. Part One. Chapters 1 - 8

Входимость: 1. Размер: 53кб.

Часть текста: and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns. 2 I was born in 1910, in Paris. My father was a gentle, easy-going person, a salad of racial genes: a Swiss citizen, of mixed French and Austrian descent, with a dash of the Danube in his veins. I am going to pass around in a minute some lovely, glossy-blue picture-postcards. He owned a luxurious hotel on the Riviera. His father and two grandfathers had sold wine, jewels and silk, respectively. At thirty he married an English girl, daughter of Jerome Dunn, the alpinist, and granddaughter of two Dorset parsons, experts in obscure subjectspaleopedology and Aeolian harps, respectively. My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three, and, save for a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory, over which, if you can still stand my style (I am writing under observation), the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the midges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill, in the summer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges. My mother’s elder sister, Sybil, whom a cousin of my father’s had married and then...

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