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

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Часть текста: 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 dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own”; and it struck me, as my automaton knees went up and down, that I simply did not know a thing about my darling’s mind and that quite possibly, behind the awful juvenile clichs, there was in her a garden and a twilight, and a palace gatedim and adorable regions which happened to be lucidly and absolutely forbidden to me, in my polluted rags and miserable convulsions; for I often noticed that living as we did, she and I, in a world of total evil, we would become strangely embarrassed whenever I tried to discuss something she and an older friend, she ...

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Часть текста: 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 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 still more luxurious times, use tiny entertainers fore and aft between the mutton and the rose sherbet. The whole point is that the old link...

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Часть текста: questions James Mossman submitted on September 8, 1969, for Review, BBC-2 (October 4) some 40 were answered and recorded by me from written cards in Montreux. The Listener published the thing in an incomplete form on October 23 of that year. Printed here from my final typescript. You have said that you explored time's prison and have found no way out. Are you still exploring, and is it inevitably a solitary excursion, from which one returns to the solace of others? I'm a very poor speaker. I hope our audience won't mind my using notes. My exploration of time's prison as described in the first chapter of Speak, Memory was only a stylistic device meant to introduce my subject. Memory often presents a life broken into episodes, more or less perfectly recalled. Do you see any themes working through from one episode to another? Everyone can sort out convenient patterns of related themes in the past development of his life. Here again I had to provide pegs and echoes when furnishing my reception halls. Is the strongest tie between men this common captivity in time? Let us not generalize. The common captivity in time is felt differently by different people, and...

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Часть текста: 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 storm has swept falcons across wide fields; flocks of daws flee toward the Great Don"; or you might intone thus, vatic Boyan, grandson of Veles: "Steeds neigh beyond the Sula; glory rings in Kiev; trumpets blare in Novgorod[-Seversk]; banners are raised in Putivl." Vsievolod's speech Igor waits for his dear brother Vsevolod. And Wild Bull Vsevolod [arrives and] says to him: "My one brother, one bright brightness, you Igor! We both are Svyatoslav's sons. Saddle, brother, your swift steeds. As to mine, they are ready, saddled ahead, near Kursk; as to my Kurskers, they are famous knights- swaddled under war-horns, nursed under helmets,...

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Часть текста: всех сил» («à plein gosier» [635] ): And with Pamphilus Throttle's family Also arrived the Frenchman Trick, A wit, come recently from Tambov, With spectacles and red perwick как получилось у меня, когда предпринял я первую, порочную попытку (1950) перевести ЕО рифмованными стихами. 6 …куплет. — Не «couplet» (рифмованное двустишие, термин из практики английского стихосложения), а строфа в несколько строк, иногда с рефреном. Пушкин называл куплетами даже строфы ЕО. Здесь употребление французское (см. также коммент. к гл. 4, XXXV, 8). 8—13 Réveillez-vous, belle endormie… belle Nina… [636] — Забавно, что в некотором смысле Татьяна и есть эта спящая красавица, и она не вполне пробудилась от своего волшебного сна, предвестника этих гротескных гостей. Здесь имеется в виду одно из многих подражаний «Спящей красавице» («La Belle Dormeuse», ок. 1710 г.), приписываемое Шарлю Ривьеру Дюфрени (Charles Rivière Dufresny, 1648–1724), который (согласно Филоксене Буайе) сочинял мелодии для своих пьес, не зная нот, и напевал их композитору Никола Раго де Гранвалю (Nicolas Ragot de Grandval, 1676–1753), писавшему по ним партитуру. В той версии, которую, возможно, имел в виду Пушкин, первый и третий стихи первого четверостишия были (согласно Томашевскому, в П. и его совр. , 1917, VII, с. 67): «Réveillez-vous, belle endormie» и «Dormez...

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Часть текста: Packard had climbed Miss Opposite’s sloping 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...

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Часть текста: I say "our" and I say "prose" because I am thinking of American works of fiction, including my own stuff. It would seem that this reticence is somehow linked up with a sense of decorum. Conformists suspect that to speak of "inspiration" is as tasteless and old-fashioned as to stand up for the Ivory Tower. Yet inspiration exists as do towers and tusks. One can distinguish several types of inspiration, which intergrade, as all things do in this fluid and interesting world of ours, while yielding gracefully to a semblance of classification. A prefatory glow, not unlike some benign variety of the aura before an epileptic attack, is something the artist learns to perceive very early in life. This feeling of tickly well-being branches through him like the red and the blue in the picture of a skinned man under Circulation. As it spreads, it banishes all awareness of physical discomfort-- youth's toothache as well as the neuralgia of old age. The beauty of it is that, while completely intelligible (as if it were connected with a known gland or led to an expected climax), it has neither source nor object. It expands, glows, and...

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Часть текста: The Norton Anthology of English Literature , vol. 2, 4th ed. New York: W.W. Norton and Co., 1979. Adkins, Lynn. “Jesse L. Nusbaum and the Painted Desert in San Diego.” Journal of San Diego History 29, no. 2 (Spring 1983). Agee, James. “The Great American Roadside.” Fortune 10 (September 1934): 53-63, 172, 174, 177. Ahuja, Nitin. “Nabokov’s Case Against Natural Selection.” Tract, 2012. http:// www.hcs.harvard.edu/tract/nabokov. html. Alden, Peter D. “H.M. C. Climbing Camp, 1953.” Harvard Mountaineering, no. 12 (May 1955). Alexander, Victoria N. “Nabokov, Teleology, and Insect Mimicry. ” Nabokov Studies 7 (2002-2003): 177-213. Alexandrov, Vladimir E. “Nabokov and Bely.” In Alexandrov. Garland Companion. Alexandrov, Vladimir E. Nabokov’s Otherworld. Princeton, N. J.: Princeton University Press, 1991. Alexandrov, Vladimir E., ed. The Garland Companion to Vladimir Nabokov. New York: Garland, 1995. Altschuler, Glenn, Kramnick, Isaac. “«Red Cornell»: Cornell in the Cold War, ” part 1. Cornell Alumni Magazine, July 2010. Amis, Martin. “Divine Levity: The Reputation of Vladimir Nabokov Is High and Growing Higher and There Is Much More Work Still to Come.” Times Literary Supplement, December 23 and 30, 2011, 3-5. Amis, Martin. “The Sublime and the Ridiculous: Nabokov’s Black Farces”. In Quennell. Vladimir Nabokov, His Life. Amis, Martin. Visiting Mrs. Nabokov and Other Excursions. New York: Vintage International, 1995. Appel, Alfred, Jr. “The Road to Lolita, or ...

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Часть текста: дочь его сына, эмигрантского поэта и прозаика Вадима Андреева, - переводчица, журналистка, автор мемуаров, в том числе о встречах с Борисом Пастернаком» 2 . Справка эта нуждается в существенных дополнениях. В частности, что такое те «мерзостны<е> “преображен- ии<я>”», о которых с таким гневом пишет своему адресату Набоков? Очевидно, что речь здесь идет об одной из тогдашних новинок - антологии “Poets on Street Corners” («Поэты на уличных углах») под редакцией О. В. Андреевой-Карлайль. В антологию эту вошли переводы из пятнадцати русских поэтов: А. Блока, Анны Ахматовой, Б. Пастернака, О. Мандельштама, М. Цветаевой, В. Маяковского, С. Есенина, Н. Заболоцкого, Б. Поплавского, Е. Евтушенко, А. Вознесенского, И. Холина, Г. Сапгира, Б. Ахмадулиной и И. Бродского 3 . Переводы из Мандельштама, выполненные Робертом Лоуэллом, лауреатом Bollingen Poetry Translation Prize 1962 г., помещены в антологии с указанием на их подчеркнуто вольный характер. Уже этого одного обстоятельства было достаточно для того, чтоб Набоков счел Лоуэлла оскорбителем тени покойного Мандельштама - поэта, который Набокову был особенно дорог в те годы 4 . В 1964 г. в предисловии к своему комментированному переводу пушкинского «Онегина» Набоков писал, что попытки поэтического перевода подпадают под три категории: 1) парафрастический перевод (создание вольного переложения исходного текста с купюрами и конъектурами), 2) лексический перевод (передача основного смысла слов и их порядка) и - наконец - 3) буквальный перевод (передача точного контекстуального значения подлинника столь близко, сколь это позволяют ассоциативные и...

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Часть текста: и мрачно. Теперь утро. Всю ночь звёзды пронзительно кричали детскими голосами, и, кто-то на крыше терзал и ласкал скрипку острым смычком. Смотри, солнце перевалилось через стену, словно сияющий парусник. Ты выдыхаешь туманом всё обволакивающий дым. Пылинки начинают кружиться в твоих глазах, миллионы золотых миров. Ты улыбнулась! Мы выходим на балкон. Весна. Внизу, посреди улицы, жёлто-кудрявый малыш быстро-быстро рисует бога. Бог растянулся от одной стороны улицы до другой. Малыш сжимает в руке кусок мела, маленький кусок белого угольного карандаша, и сидя на корточках, поворачивается, вычерчивая широкую линию. У этого белого бога большие белые пуговицы и развёрнутые наружу ступни. Распятый на асфальте он смотрит в небеса круглыми глазами. Белой дугой рот. Бревно-образная сигара появилась у него во рту. Винтовыми толчками малыш изображает спиралевидный дым. Руки в боки, он созерцает свою работу. Добавляет ещё одну пуговицу. Громыхнула оконная рама через дорогу; женский голос, огромный и счастливый позвал его. Малыш зафутболил подальше мел и помчался домой. На фиолетовом асфальте остался белый, геометрический бог, вглядывающийся в небо. Твой взгляд опять мрачнеет. Я знаю, конечно, что тебе припоминается. В углу нашей спальни, под иконой, цветной резиновый мячик. Иногда он мягко и печально прыгает со стола и тихо катится по полу. Положи его на место, под икону, и потом, почему бы нам не прогуляться? Весенний воздух. Слегка пушистый. Посмотри на эти липы, равняющие улицу. Чёрные их ветви покрыты мокрыми зелёными блёстками. Все деревья в мире бредут куда-то. Вечные пилигримы. Помнишь, когда мы ехали сюда, в этот город, деревья...

Поиск по творчеству и критикеCлово "VOICES"

Поиск по творчеству и критике
Cлово "VOICES"