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

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Часть текста: way, had liked to make presentspresents just a prissy wee bit out 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...

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Часть текста: 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...

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Часть текста: throttle my dynamic heart for marriage would be murder on my part, an earthquake, wrecking on the night of nights a woman’s life, some palmtrees, all the lights, the big hotel, a smaller one next door and half a dozen army trucks — or more. But even if that blast of love should spare her fragile frame — what children would she bear? What monstrous babe, knocking the surgeon down, would waddle out into the awestruck town? When two years old he’d break the strongest chairs, fall through the floor and terrorize the stairs; at four, he’d dive into a well; at five, explore a roaring furnace — and survive; at eight, he’d ruin the longest railway line by playing trains with real ones; and at nine, release all my old enemies from jail, and then I’d try to break his head — and fail. So this is why, no matter where I fly, red-cloaked, blue-hosed, across the yellow sky, I feel no thrill in chasing thugs and thieves — and gloomily broad-shouldered Kent retrieves his coat and trousers from the garbage can and tucks away the cloak of Superman; and when she sighs — somewhere in Central Park where my immense bronze statue looms — “Oh, Clark… Isn’t he wonderful!?!”, I stare ahead and long to be a normal guy instead. Vladimir Nabokov Жалоба Человека Будущего Мне приходится носить эти очки, иначе, когда я ласкаю ее своим...

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Часть текста: in Montreux, Switzerland. "The little, simple ones are so touching. But I would rather do a thing like this lucidly. Having seen death close up on three occasions, it's frightening to think you might leave such precious loose ends." Dmitri has no direct heirs, so when his parents were still alive, it was decided that the books would be auctioned before his death. The collection, except for a few items, was sold last week for nearly $750,000, less than anticipated: Various private collections, most from France and Switzerland, bought parts of it, which will now be scattered to the breeze. Vladimir Nabokov died near Montreux in 1977. Dmitri Nabokov's library consisted of a wide array of his father's novels, short stories, poems and translations, as well as a small set of critical studies. Dedicated for the most part to Dmitri and his mother, Vera, the books were often autographed and annotated. Many are deftly adorned with butterflies, drawn in ink or color pencils on the first page. The first major series of Vladimir Nabokov's archives and manuscripts was acquired in 1991 by the Berg Collection of the New York Public Library. This second series, and perhaps the last, constitutes more than 100 volumes and 30 titles, a remarkable medley of Russian and American literature. "I am an American author, born in Russia, educated in England, where I studied French texts," Nabokov once said. After publishing eight novels in Russian, he began a flamboyant writing career in English with "The Real Life of Sebastian Knight," written in 1941 when he was 42. "Lolita" came 14 years later, and Nabokov called it "the record of my love affair with the English language." Others read "Lolita" as a record of a more scandalous sort of...

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Часть текста: 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...

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Часть текста: 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, established a weather station on Pierre Point in Melville Sound. Another group, equally...

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Часть текста: открытые рты, клонящаяся и вдруг поднимающаяся голова, а прямо ей в нос - чужая пятка. Перебираясь из тамбура в тамбур по скрежещущим железным площадкам, Мартын прошел через два вагона третьего класса. Двери некоторых отделений были открыты, в одном голубые солдаты шумно играли в карты. Дальше, в коридоре спального вагона, он остановился у полуспущенного окна и так живо вспомнил вдруг детское свое путешествие по югу Франции, и вот это откидное сидение у окна, и матерчатый ремень, при помощи которого можно было управлять поездом, и дивную мелодию на трех языках, - особенно: периколоза... Он подумал, - какая странная, странная выдалась жизнь, - ему показалось, что он никогда не выходил из экспресса, а просто слонялся из одного вагона в другой, и в одном были молодые англичане, Дарвин, торжественно берущийся за рукоять тормоза, в другом - Алла с мужем, а не то - крымские друзья или храпящий дядя Генрих, или Зилановы, Михаил Платонович, с газетой, Соня, тусклым взглядом уставившаяся в окно. "А потом пешёчком, пешёчком", - взволнованно проговорил Мартын, - лес и вьющаяся в нем тропинка... какие большие деревья! А тут, в этом спальном вагоне, тут ехало должно быть детство его; дрожа, освобождало...

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Часть текста: 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 subsides without revealing its secret. In the meantime, however, a window has opened, an auroral wind has blown, every exposed nerve has tingled. Presently all dissolves: the familiar worries are back and the eyebrow redescribes its arc of pain; but the artist knows he is ready. A few days elapse. The next stage of inspiration is something ardently anticipated-- and no longer anonymous. The shape of the new impact is indeed so definite that I am forced to relinquish metaphors and resort to specific terms. The narrator forefeels what he is going to tell. The forefeeling can be defined as an instant vision turning into rapid speech. If some instrument were to render this rare and delightful phenomenon, the image would come as a shimmer of exact details, and the verbal part as a tumble of merging words. The experienced writer immediately takes it down...

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Часть текста: detectives in prismatically changing cars were figments of my persecution mania, recurrent images based on coincidence and chance resemblance. Soyons 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...

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Часть текста: can affect roe obsessively-- though not in the sense of absurd fears but as fabulous (and on the whole rather bracing) scientific enigmas incapable of being stated, let alone solved. Has your life thus far come up to expectations you bad for yourself as a young man? My life thus far has surpassed splendidly the ambitions of boyhood and youth. In the first decade of our dwindling century, during trips with my family to Western Europe, I imagined, in bedtime reveries, what it would be like to become an exile who longed for a remote, sad, and (right epithet coming) unquenchable Russia, under the eucalipti of exotic resorts. Lenin and his police nicely arranged the realization of that fantasy. At the age of twelve my fondest dream was a visit to the Karakorum range in search of butterflies. Twenty-five years later I successfully sent myself, in the part of my hero's father (see my novel The Gift) to explore, net in hand, the mountains of Central Asia. At fifteen I visualized myself as a world-famous author of seventy with a mane of wavy white hair. Today I am practically bald. If birthday wishes were horses, what would yours be for yourself? Pegasus,...

Поиск по творчеству и критикеCлово "FRAGILE"

Поиск по творчеству и критике
Cлово "FRAGILE"