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Cлово "DYING"

Часть текста: logiques , crowed the cocky Gallic part of my brainand proceeded to rout the notion of a Lolita-maddened salesman or comedy gangster, with stooges, persecuting me, and hoaxing me, and otherwise taking riotous advantage of my strange relations with the law. I remember humming my panic away. I remember evolving even an explanation of the “Birdsley” telephone call… But if I could dismiss Trapp, as I had dismissed my convulsions on the lawn at Champion, I could do nothing with the anguish of knowing Lolita to be so tantalizingly, so miserably unattainable and beloved on the very even of a new era, when my alembics told me she should stop being a nymphet, stop torturing me. An additional, abominable, and perfectly gratuitous worry was lovingly prepared for me in Elphinstone. Lo had been dull and silent during the last laptwo hundred mountainous miles uncontaminated by smoke-gray sleuths or zigzagging zanies. She hardly glanced at the famous, oddly shaped, splendidly flushed rock which jutted above the mountains and had been the take-off for nirvana on the part of a temperamental show girl. The town was newly built, or rebuilt, on the flat floor of a seven-thousand-foot-high valley; it would soon bore Lo, I hoped, and we would spin on to California, to the Mexican border, to mythical bays, saguaro desserts, fatamorganas. Jos Lizzarrabengoa, as you remember, planned to take his Carmen to the Etats Unis. I conjured up a Central American tennis...

2. Lolita. Part Two. Chapters 32 - 36

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Часть текста: 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...

3. Чарльз Кинбот: Серебристый свет. Подлинная жизнь Владимира Набокова. Chapter Eight. Dying Is No Fun

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Часть текста: ever longer, parti-colored stream, like the endless rope of silk handkerchiefs a conjuror extracts with mock amazement from his black satin sleeve, or, for that matter, from the mouth of a compliant, if somewhat sheepish, volunteer. But Nabokov's death still comes as an unpleasant shock, an absurdly anomalous element at the end of the series, as if the final section of the streamer were not one last, particularly colorful piece of silk, but a live worm, a rotting plum, or some other equally strange bit of inexplicable detritus. Thank you, Madam, you may return to your seat. That Nabokov did not die of natural causes is only now beginning to be publicly acknowledged. His "mysterious" death, variously attributed to a fall, a viral infection, pneumonia, or mundane cardiac arrest, is now known to have been caused, or at least hastened along, by a special, nearly untraceable poison whose unpronounceable name I will not reveal here for fear that some unbalanced individual bearing a grudge against a family member, former love, noisy neighbor, or Department Head 1 might seek it out. The substance is readily available. It is odorless, flavorless, and difficult to detect unless a thorough autopsy is performed by an experienced medical examiner soon after the victim's death. Nabokov, who had been in and...

4. Lolita. Part One. Chapters 23 - 27

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Часть текста: Chapters 23 - 27 23 I rushed out. The far side of our steep little street presented a peculiar sight. A big black glossy 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;...

5. Eugene Onegin. A Novel in Verse by Aleksandr Pushkin. Chapter eight

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Часть текста: sang childish gaieties, and glory of our ancientry, and the heart's tremulous dreams. II And with a smile the world received her; the first success provided us with wings; the aged Derzhavin noticed us — and blessed us 4 as he descended to the grave. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . III And I, setting myself for law only the arbitrary will of passions, sharing emotions with the crowd, 4 I led my frisky Muse into the hubbub of feasts and turbulent discussions — the terror of midnight patrols; and to them, in mad feasts, 8 she brought her gifts, and like a little bacchante frisked, over the bowl sang for the guests; and the young people of past days 12 would turbulently dangle after her; and I was proud 'mong friends of my volatile mistress. IV But I dropped out of their alliance — and fled afar... she followed me. How often the caressive Muse 4 for me would sweeten the mute way with the bewitchment of a secret tale! How often...

6. Лаура и ее оригинал (фрагменты романа). Барабтарло Геннадий: "Лаура" и ее перевод

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Часть текста: слово, в новом американском хождении превратившееся в полуприлагательное, плохо поддается переводу, разве что истолковательному. Веселая смерть? (по образцу провансальской la gaya scienza, веселой науки поэзии). Умирать в свое удовольствие? Умирание уморительно? Умирать, так с музыкой? В "Приглашении на казнь" один из действующих шутов под шумок и как бы ненароком выдает музыкальный ключ к замыслу книги (правда, калейдоскопически зашифрованный): "смерть мила: это тайна". Нужно, конечно, помнить, что все такие максимы дороги в художественных вымыслах, тогда как у самого художника мог быть иной взгляд на эти вещи. Спустя четыре года но смерти Набокова я впервые услышал от его вдовы о начатом последнем романе. "Мне велено было сжечь его". Это было сказано с отдаленной легкой улыбкой, со свойственным ей задержанным прямым взглядом в глаза собеседнику. Мы сидели в маленьком кабинете в начале анфилады гостиничной квартиры Набоковых в Монтрё, об одном большом овальном окне, выходившем на юго-запад, на озеро. "Но я покамест не исполнила этого - рука не поднялась". Подробностей она не предлагала, и я не стал их просить из безотчетного чувства, что все, что касается этой книги, должно соблюдаться в тайне. О главных ее темах я узнал через восемь лет, когда профессор Бойд прислал мне для предварительного чтения манускрипт своей монументальной биографии Набокова. Там они...

7. Lolita. Part Two. Chapters 27 - 31

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Часть текста: stilled in the act of combing her Alice-in-Wonderland hair. There was in the fiery phantasm a 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...

8. Review by Brian Boyd, Robert Michael Pyle

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Часть текста: found in the book. Note: Jay Parini writes in The Guardian : "All translations are, as usual, by Nabokov's son Dmitri, who has lavished time and unusual talent on his father's work over several decades." John Fowles also suggests that all the translations are by Dmitri Nabokov. However, in the introductory A Note on the Texts it clearly states that: "Translations are by Brian Boyd unless otherwise noted." (A number are noted as being by Nabokov fils, but certainly not all.) From the Reviews: "Some selectivity could have made for a more accessible volume, though the care with which it has been assembled is an impressive testament to the deep devotion that Nabokov continues to inspire almost 25 years after his death. Apart from entomologists and Nabokov fans, it is difficult to imagine that many readers will last the enormous distance." - Simon Caterson, The Age "While few readers will want to study the scientific articles reprinted here, their presence in this striking miscellany operates in subtle ways to remind us that Nabokov (who referred to himself as VN), was also a student "of that other VN, Visible Nature"." - Jay Parini, The Guardian...

9. Набоков Дмитрий: Отцовские бабочки. Отцовские бабочки. Father's Butterflies (английский язык)

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Часть текста: 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 ...

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Часть текста: не его литературных достоинств, а предсмертного завещания автора, в котором он распорядился сжечь незавершенное произведение, что потянуло за собой 33-х летнюю историю публикации. По словам переводчика и набоковеда Г. Барабтарло, «многие годы рука сына не поднималась предать рукописи ни огню, ни печати» (1). В своем недавнем интервью Национальному общественному радио Дмитрий Набоков признавался, что не хочет войти в историю как литературный поджигатель, соблазняя любопытных набоковедов утверждением, что это «самый блестящий роман» отца, что он не похож ни на что написанное им прежде. В 2005 году стали появляться истеричные требования американских журналистов, любителей сенсаций: «Дмитрий, не сжигай Лору!» (английское произношение имени Лаура), — так кричал со страниц New York Observer Рон Розенбаум (1). Вступивший в литературную дискуссию драматург Том Стоппард настаивал на сожжении рукописи, прозаик Джон Бэнвилл говорил: «Сохраните ее» (1). Возникла иронично-гамлетовская ситуация «быть или не быть», раздутая во вселенском масштабе, но в действительности на пустом месте. Ситуацию с посмертным распоряжением Набокова во многом прояснил биограф и один из крупнейших специалистов-набоковедов, профессор Оклендского университета Брайан Бойд. По его словам, он прочел рукопись в 1987 году и посоветовал тогда еще живой вдове...

Поиск по творчеству и критикеCлово "DYING"

Поиск по творчеству и критике
Cлово "DYING"