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

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Часть текста: corner of a city bus full of straphanging school children. But for almost three weeks I had been interrupted in all my pathetic machinations. The agent of these interruptions was usually the Haze woman (who, as the reader will mark, was more afraid of Lo’s deriving some pleasure from me than of my enjoying Lo). The passion I had developed for that nymphetfor the first nymphet in my life that could be reached at last by my awkward, aching, timid clawswould have certainly landed me again in a sanatorium, had not the devil realized that I was to be granted some relief if he wanted to have me as a plaything for some time longer. The reader has also marked the curious Mirage of the Lake. It would have been logical on the part of Aubrey McFate (as I would like to dub that devil of mine) to arrange a small treat for me on the promised beach, in the presumed forest. Actually, the promise Mrs. Haze had made was a fraudulent one: she had not told me that Mary Rose Hamilton (a dark little beauty in her own right) was to come too, and that the two nymphets would be whispering apart, and playing apart, and having a good time all by themselves, while Mrs. Haze and her handsome lodger conversed sedately in the seminude, far from prying eyes. Incidentally, eyes did pry and tongues did wag. How queer life is! We hasten to alienate the very fates we intended to woo. Before my actual arrival, my landlady had planned to have an old spinster, a Miss Phalen, whose mother had been cook in Mrs. Haze’s family, come to stay in the house with Lolita and me, while Mrs. Haze, a career girl at heart, sought some suitable job in the nearest city. Mrs. Haze had seen the whole situation very clearly: the bespectacled, round-backed Herr Humbert...

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Часть текста: приоритетное значение. Это было время бурного расцвета набоковской прозы на фоне подготовки к переходу на английский язык, хотя стихи продолжали появляться и сами собой — параллельно с прозаическими произведениями 99 и как вставные номера в их составе 100 . Бегство из фашистской Германии, а затем судорожные попытки найти себе применение в Англии и удержаться на плаву во Франции завершились в конце концов в 1940 г. неслыханной удачей: «образовалась», пусть на первых порах и временная, преподавательская работа в Америке, с переездом туда всей семьи. Судьба решила повторить сценарий двадцатилетней давности. Снова Набоковым удалось ускользнуть от смертельной опасности да еще с внезапно заболевшим сыном в самый последний момент. И снова морским путем: на этот раз на корабле, перевозившем еврейских беженцев в Соединенные Штаты. 20 мая 1940 г. судно «Шамплен», миновав статую Свободы, причалило в нью-йоркском порту у Французской линии. Настоящее эмоциональное потрясение, которое испытал новоявленный американец, замечательно передал во втором томе его биографии Б. Бойд, приведя в эпиграфе восторженное признание самого писателя: «В Америке я счастливее, чем в любой другой стране. В интеллектуальном отношении Америка стала моим домом. Вторым домом в подлинном смысле слова» («Твердые убеждения») и подытожив от себя: «После двадцатилетнего маяния по Европе без гражданства, без защиты от всяческой пограничной бюрократии Америка показалась Набокову пробуждением от кошмарного сна к дивному рассвету» 101 . Правда, верный истине биограф тут же оговаривается: «Для Набокова как писателя 1940 год нес за собой еще худшие муки, чем 1919-й, когда ему пришлось навсегда покинуть Россию. Тогда он боялся, что в негостеприимной атмосфере изгнания не сможет достичь нужного ему уровня мастерства в русском языке. Вопреки обстоятельствам, ему это удалось, а теперь, спустя два десятилетия, потраченных на то, чтобы...

Входимость: 2. Размер: 10кб.

Часть текста: run off in the middle of his story. The next day I told him that my aunt had recently died, that we had never been close, that there was residual ill will between us over a trifling incident involving her adolescent grandson, my nephew, many years ago, and that I sorely wished to contact her. He looked at me strangely, suspecting, I think, a joke, but surrendered the name of his friend in Omaha without asking any questions. Discretion is a rare thing indeed. I called the professor of French, who confirmed the red scarf story and enthusiatically provided Madame Fat’s address. She had moved to Lincoln, whither I betook myself the following morning by car. (For those readers keen on fatidic dates, I note that this was the 2nd of July.) Nowadays I drive a powerful white Volvo station wagon, and the trip from Cedarn to Lincoln, pleasantly free from state troopers and jack-knifed semis, was effected beneath cloudless skies in under five hours. In keeping with her name, and contrary to the description I had received of her as frailly skeletal, Madame Fat was fat. When she answered her door, this fact created a burst of cognitive dissonance that momentarily struck me dumb: I would have had no problem referring to a bony Asian lady as Madame Fat to her face, but calling a fat woman Fat strayed well beyond the bounds of my personal sense of decorum. I quickly began considering a series of...

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Часть текста: of its contents through a glassed slit. Several times already, a trick of harlequin light that fell through the glass upon an alien handwriting had twisted it into a semblance of Lolita’s script causing me almost to collapse as I leant against an adjacent urn, almost my own. Whenever that happenedwhenever her lovely, childish scrawl was horribly transformed into the dull hand of one of my few correspondentsI used to recollect, with anguished amusement, the times in my trustful, pre-dolorian past when I would be misled by a jewel-bright window opposite wherein my lurking eye, the ever alert periscope of my shameful vice, would make out from afar a half-naked nymphet 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...

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Часть текста: In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style. Ladies 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 neglected, served in my immediate family as a kind of unpaid governess and housekeeper. Somebody told me later that she had been in love with my father, and that he had lightheartedly taken advantage of it one rainy day and forgotten it by ...

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Часть текста: 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 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...

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Часть текста: 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...

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Часть текста: Чарльз Кинбот (Джефф Эдмундс): Серебристый свет. Подлинная жизнь Владимира Набокова Глава первая. При посещенье могилы Набокова Глава вторая. Пресный приступ Глава третья. "Машенька" Глава четвертая. Ночь бродит по полям Глава пятая. Кафка Глава шестая. Медовый реющий туман Глава седьмая. "Король, дама, валет" Глава восьмая. Смерть не смешна От переводчика Внимание ! Последние двае главы не переведены. Их можно прочитать в английсокм варианте ниже. Chapter One. On Visiting Nabokov's Tomb Chapter Two. An Insipid Incipit Chapter Three. Mashen'ka Chapter Four. Night Roams the Fields Chapter Five. Kafka Chapter Six. This Hovering Honeyed Mist Chapter Seven. King, Queen, Knave Chapter Eight. Dying Is No Fun Chapter Nine. Zashchita Luzhina Chapter Ten. America

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Часть текста: but I knew I would not dare be too tender with cornered Lolita yet, and therefore agreed it was not worth while tearing the child away from her beloved Camp Q. My soi-disant passionate and lonely Charlotte was in everyday life matter-of-fact and gregarious. Moreover, I discovered that although she could not control her heart or her cries, she was a woman of principle. Immediately after she had become more or less my mistress (despite the stimulants, her “nervous, eager chri a heroic chri ! had some initial trouble, for which, however, he amply compensated her by a fantastic display of old-world endearments), good Charlotte interviewed me about my relations with God. I could have answered that on that score my mind was open; I said, insteadpaying my tribute to a pious platitudethat I believed in a cosmic spirit. Looking down at her fingernails, she also asked me had I not in my family a certain strange strain. I countered by inquiring whether she would still want to marry me if my father’s maternal grandfather had been, say, a Turk. She said it did not matter a bit; but that, if she ever found out I did not believe ...

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Часть текста: замысел и его литературное воплощение как истинное произведение искусства, хотя его план примитивен, а рассказ о нем пестрит отголосками темы двойника из русской классики. {9} В качестве сквозного символа романа Набоков выбрал вполне традиционный образ — зеркало. Более тонкое сплетение темы, сюжета и лейтмотива можно найти в романе «Камера обскура»: главный герой этого романа, не отличающийся проницательностью знаток живописи, мечтает оживить работы старых мастеров с помощью мультипликации. Его брак и вся жизнь рушатся, когда, в результате связи с корыстолюбивой девчонкой, помешанной на том, чтобы стать киноактрисой, он теряет зрение в автокатастрофе. Намеренно избитый сюжет книги воплощается с помощью техники кинематографа, вероятно, выступающего здесь в качестве тематической метафоры искаженного восприятия. Здесь Набоков снова вводит мотив, который резонирует с темой и сюжетом — рамы: дверные и оконные рамы, рамы зеркал и картин, иначе говоря, объектив камеры обскуры, сквозь который зритель следит за развитием истории. В первом зрелом романе Набокова...

Поиск по творчеству и критикеCлово "HONEY"

Поиск по творчеству и критике
Cлово "HONEY"