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

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Часть текста: that summer. The lepidoptera lived up to the occasion, so did the weather. My visitors and their crew had never paid much attention to those insects and I was touched and flattered by the childish wonderment with which they viewed the crowds of butterflies imbibing moisture on brookside mud at various spots of the mountain trail. Pictures were taken of the swarms that arose at my passage, and other hours of the day were devoted to the reproduction of the interview proper. It eventually appeared on the Bookstand program and was published in The Listener (November 22, 1962). I have mislaid the cards on which I had written my answers. I suspect that the published text was taken straight from the tape for it teems with inaccuracies. These I have tried to weed out ten years later but was forced to strike out a few sentences here and there when memory refused to restore the sense flawed by defective or improperly mended speech. The poem I quote (with metrical accents added) will be found translated into English in Chapter Two of The Gift, G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York, 1963. Would you ever go back to Russia? I will never go back, for the simple reason that all the Russia I need is always with me: literature, language, and my own Russian childhood. I will never return. I will never surrender. And anyway, the grotesque shadow of a police state will not be dispelled in my lifetime. I don't think they know my works there-- oh, perhaps a number of readers exist there in my special secret service, but let us not forget that Russia has grown tremendously provincial during these forty years, apart from the fact that people there are told what to read, what to think. In America I'm happier than in any other country. It is in America that I found my best readers, minds that are closest to mine. I feel intellectually at home in America. It is a second home in the true...

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Часть текста: 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 some people may not feel it at all. Generalizations are full of loopholes and traps. I know elderly men for whom "time" only means "timepiece." What distinguishes us from animals? Being aware of being aware of being. In other words, if I not only know that I am but also know that I know it, then I belong to the human species. All the rest follows-- the glory of thought, poetry, a vision of the universe. In that respect, the gap between ape and man is immeasurably greater than the one between amoeba and ape. The difference between an ape's memory and human memory is the difference between an ampersand and the British Museum library. Judging from your own awakening consciousness as a child, do you think that the capacity to use language, syntax, relate ideas, is something we learn from adults, as if we were computers being programed, or do we begin to use a unique, built-in capability of our own-- call it imagination? The stupidest person in the world is an all-round genius compared to the cleverest computer. How we learn to imagine and express things is a riddle with premises impossible to express and a solution impossible to imagine. In your acute scrutiny of your past, can you find the instruments that fashioned you? Yes-- unless I refashion them retrospectively, by the very act of evoking them. There is quite a lot of give and take in the game of metaphors. As you recall a patch of time, its shapes, sounds, colors, and occupants, does this complete picture help combat time or offer any clue to its mysteries, or is it pleasure that it affords? Let me quote a paragraph in my book Ada:...

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Часть текста: где она проводила лето 1941 года. Чем и объясняется то обстоятельство, что всякий, кто встречался с Верой в первые годы пребывания Набоковых в Америке, прежде всего поражался ее замкнутости. Всего через несколько месяцев после знакомства с Верой Слоним Набоков уже предлагал ей уехать с ним в Америку. Все еще полуреальная, как и те ранние мечты 1923 года, нынешняя жизнь оказалась куда сложнее, чем ожидалось. Набоков был беден, когда они с Верой поженились, беден, но знаменит. А теперь впервые в жизни слава не летела впереди него. Семейство бежало из Европы в полном составе, но это происходило крайне стремительно, среди (по выражению Набокова) «охваченных паникой разверстых чемоданов и взметнувшихся ураганом старых газет», не говоря о наступавших немцах. Все Верины документы и большая часть ранних изданий мужа были спрятаны в подвале у Ильи Фондаминского, и из этого имущества после удалось отыскать лишь малую толику. В тридцать восемь лет Вера оказалась с шестилетним сыном на руках [85], примерно с сотней долларов, а также с мужем без особых перспектив на...

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Часть текста: Т. Локрантц, обсуждала в связи с этой книгой теоретические вопросы, а рецензия на статью К. Р. Проффера — их приложение к наиболее в тот момент [95] актуальному и сложному тексту Набокова. В 1973 г. эта статья была отдана Карлу Профферу, редактору журнала «Russian Literature Triquarterly», но не появилась в книге под его редакцией [96] и долго не появлялась в журнале. В конце концов, лет через пять она (т. е. только первая ее половина) была напечатана в № 14, на котором стояла дата 1976, но реально он вышел значительно позже [97] — и напечатана в искаженном виде. Во-первых, анонимно, во-вторых — пропала вторая половина статьи [98] . Я написал язвительное (или, может быть, просто злобное) предисловие, в котором обвинил редактора во всех смертных грехах, включая плагиат [99] , и скандальное письмо, в котором грозил напечатать статью с этим предисловием [100] . Действия это не возымело, и вспоминая тогдашние почтовые «оказии» (а эта переписка была к тому же и небезопасной), я не могу быть уверен даже в том, получил ли мои послания адресат. Но что сейчас сводить счеты с покойным редактором журнала. Его безвременная смерть списала все подобные мелкие претензии, и я...

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Часть текста: 3 В Зазеркалье Да, зеркальное отображение присутствует всегда. Набоков. Письмо Марку Шефтелю 1 «Когда мы познакомились, Вера была светлая блондинка, но очень скоро она сделалась у меня седой», — посмеиваясь, говорил Набоков одному журналисту. Увы, Владимир почти не захватил период природного цвета Вериных волос. Уже в первые годы брака в волосах, тающих в солнечных лучах, стали проблескивать голубовато-серые нити. Вера с гордостью сообщала, что голова у нее начала седеть уже с двадцати пяти лет. В возрасте тридцати с небольшим она, молодая мать, еще больше поседела (и похудела). Вид ее определялся неважным, как отмечалось, самочувствием. Еще через пару лет волосы Веры стали почти сплошь жемчужно-серыми. В сорок с хвостиком опаловые пряди терялись в сияющих клубах седины. (С волосами Лены Массальской происходило то же и в том же возрасте, однако сестры заговорили об этом лишь в более поздние годы.) Вере не терпелось ускорить процесс. «Скорей бы уж вся поседела, — вздыхая, говорила она в 1948 году, хотя почти так оно и было. „Люди подумают, что я женился на старухе“, — возражал муж, на что Вера, глазом не моргнув, отвечала: „Глядя на тебя, не подумают!“» В конце сороковых она, с ее жемчужными волосами и алебастровой кожей — несоответствие между цветом волос и молодостью лица особенно бросалось в глаза, — станет не менее эффектна, чем в двадцатые годы, в период маски. Вера очень гордилась своим седым...

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Часть текста: consecutive pages of my typescript were apparently lost in transit. Egreto perambis doribus! With the American publication of Lolita in 1958, your fame and fortune mushroomed almost overnight from high repute among the literary cognoscenti-- which you bad enjoyed for more than 30 years-- to both acclaim and abuse as the world-renowned 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, ...

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Часть текста: несчастливые в общем-то похожи друг на друга», 1* — утверждает один великий русский писатель, начиная свой знаменитый роман («Anna Arkadievitch Karenina» , как это выглядит по-английски в исполнении Р. Дж. Стоунлоуэра, Mount Tabor Ltd., 1880). Данное высказывание если и имеет, то весьма незначительное отношение к истории, которую нам предстоит рассказать, к той семейной хронике, первая часть которой, возможно, напомнит еще одно произведение Толстого: «Детство и отрочество» ( «Childhood and Fatherland» {2} , Pontius Press, 1858). Бабка Вана по материнской линии — Дарья («Долли») Дурманова, была дочерью князя Петра Земского, губернатора Бра д'Оры, американской провинции на северо-востоке нашей огромной и многокрасочной страны, который в 1824 году женился на великосветской ирландке Мэри О'Рейли. Долли, произведенное на свет в Бра их единственное дитя, в 1840 году, когда ей минуло пятнадцать (возраст нежный и полный своенравия), отправилась замуж за генерала Ивана...

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Часть текста: perfection which made my wild delight also perfect, just because the vision was out of reach, with no possibility of attainment to spoil it by the awareness of an appended taboo; indeed, it may well be that the very attraction immaturity has for me lies not so much in the limpidity of pure young forbidden fairy child beauty as in the security of a situation where infinite perfections fill the gap between the little given and the great promisedthe great rosegray never-to-be-had. Mes fentres! Hanging above blotched sunset and welling night, grinding my teeth, I would crowd all the demons of my desire against the railing of a throbbing balcony: it would be ready to take off in the apricot and black humid evening; did take offwhereupon the lighted image would move and Even would revert to a rib, and there would be nothing in the window but an obese partly clad man reading the paper. Since I sometimes won the race between my fancy and nature’s reality, the deception was bearable. Unbearable pain began when chance entered the fray and deprived me of the smile meant for me. “ Savez-vous qu’ dix ans ma petite tait folle de voius?” said a woman I talked to at a tea in Paris, and the petite had just married, miles away, and I could not even remember if I had ever noticed her in that garden, next to those tennis courts, a dozen years before. And now likewise, the radiant foreglimpse, the promise of reality, a promise not only to be simulated seductively but also to be nobly heldall this, chance denied mechance and a change to smaller characters on the pale beloved writer’s part. My fancy was both Proustianized and Procrusteanized; for that...

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Часть текста: 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 collections at a lepidopterological society or in the cellar of some museum, does not satisfy the true enthusiast, who needs to have the boon always at hand), had no choice but to hope for a miracle. And that miracle dawned in 1912 with the appearance of my father's four-volume work The Butterflies and Moths of the Russian Empire. Although in a hall adjoining the library dark-red cabinets contained my father's supremely rich collections, consisting of specimens complete with thoroughly accurate names, dates, and places of...

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Часть текста: Вновь открывая Набокова. (Проект CNN, 1999 г.) Nabokov's Pictorial Biography Nabokov's Pictorial Biography 1. Russia 1899-1919 Earliest memories Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov was born into an old, wealthy and aristocratic Russian family in St. Petersburg, on April 23, 1899. In his memoir, "Speak, Memory," he notes that his first childhood memories can be dated to 1903. Discovering butterflies Nabokov reads a book of butterflies in 1907 at Vyra, the summer estate of his maternal grandfather located about 50 miles south of St. Petersburg. During his youth, Nabokov spent his time collecting butterflies around the Vyra estate, a place which would come to represent the essence of childhood for the writer. Fleeing Russia The Nabokov family fled Russia in 1919 after the Bolshevik revolution led to instability at home. This photo, taken less than six months before they were to leave Russia, shows the five Nabokov children: from left, Vladimir, Kirill, Olga, Sergei and Elena. 2. Exile 1919-1940 Exile in England After fleeing Russia, the family moved to England, where Nabokov attended Trinity College at Cambridge from 1919-1922. He began his studies in zoology but later focused on Russian and French literature. Death of his father Nabokov, shown in larger photo, spends the ...

Поиск по творчеству и критикеCлово "CHILDHOOD"

Поиск по творчеству и критике
Cлово "CHILDHOOD"