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

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Часть текста: of one double unit, each containing a double bed. I wondered what type of foursome this arrangement was even intended for, since only a pharisaic parody of privacy could be attained by means of the incomplete partition dividing the cabin or room into two communicating love nests. By and by, the very possibilities that such honest promiscuity suggested (two young couples merrily swapping mates or a child shamming sleep to earwitness primal sonorities) made me bolder, and every now and then I would take a bed-and-cot or twin-bed cabin, a prison cell or paradise, with yellow window shades pulled down to create a morning illusion of Venice and sunshine when actually it was Pennsylvania and rain. We came to know nous connmes, to use a Flaubertian intonationthe stone cottages under enormous Chateaubriandesque trees, the brick unit, the adobe unit, the stucco court, on what the Tour Book of the Automobile Association describes as “shaded” or “spacious” or “landscaped” grounds. The log kind, finished...

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Часть текста: of Tragedy" and "Playwriting" were composed for a course on drama that Nabokov gave at Stanford during the summer of 1941. We had arrived in America in May of 1940; except for some brief guest appearances, this was Father's first lecturing engagement at an American university. The Stanford course also included a discussion of some American plays, a survey of Soviet theatre, and an analysis of commentary on drama by several American critics. The two lectures presented here have been selected to accompany Nabokov's plays because they embody, in concentrated form, many of his principal guidelines for writing, reading, and performing plays. The reader is urged to bear in mind, however, that, later in life, Father might have expressed certain thoughts differently. The lectures were partly in typescript and partly in manuscript, replete with Nabokov's corrections, additions, deletions, occasional slips of the pen, and references to previous and subsequent installments of the course. I have limited myself to what editing seemed necessary for the presentation of the lectures in essay form. If Nabokov had been alive, he might perhaps have performed more radical surgery. He might also have added that the gruesome throes of realistic suicide he finds unacceptable onstage (in "The Tragedy of Tragedy") are now everyday fare on kiddies' TV, while "adult" entertainment has long since outdone all the goriness of the Grand Guignol. He might have observed that the aberrations of theatrical method wherein the illusion of a barrier between stage and audience is shattered - a phenomenon he considered "freakish" - are now commonplace: actors wander and mix; the audience is invited to participate; it is then applauded by the players in a curious reversal of roles made chic by Soviet performers ordered to emulate the...

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Часть текста: chapter of Eugene Onegin, and to sacrifice one of its closing stanzas [Eight: XLVIIIa]: 'Tis time: the pen for peace is asking nine cantos I have written; my boat upon the joyful shore 4 by the ninth billow is brought out. Praise be to you, O nine Camenae, etc. “P[avel] A[leksandrovich] Katenin (whom a fine poetic talent does not prevent from being also a subtle critic) observed to us that this exclusion, though perhaps advantageous to readers, is, however, detrimental to the plan of the entire work since, through this, the transition from Tatiana the provincial miss to Tatiana the grande dame becomes too unexpected and unexplained: an observation revealing the experienced artist. The author himself felt the justice of this but decided to leave out the chapter for reasons important to him but not to the public. Some fragments [XVI–XIX, l–10] have been published [Jan. 1, 1830, Lit. Gaz. ] ; we insert them here, subjoining to them several other stanzas.” E. [sic] Onegin drives from Moscow to Nizhni Novgorod: [IX] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . before him Makariev bustlingly bestirs itself, 4 with its abundance seethes. Here the Hindu brought pearls, the European, spurious wines, the breeder from the steppes 8 drove a herd of cast steeds, the gamester brought his decks, fistful of complaisant dice, the landowner ripe daughters, 12 and daughterlings, the fashions of last year; each bustles, lies enough for two, and everywhere there's a mercantile spirit. [X] Ennui!... Onegin fares to Astrahan [XI], and from there to the[Caucasus: [XII] He sees the wayward Térek ...

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Часть текста: Chapter eight CHAPTER EIGHT Fare thee well, and if for ever, Still for ever, fare thee well. Byron I In those days when in the Lyceum's gardens I bloomed serenely, would eagerly read Apuleius, 4 did not read Cicero; in those days, in mysterious valleys, in springtime, to the calls of swans, near waters shining in the stillness, 8 the Muse began to visit me. My student cell was all at once radiant with light: in it the Muse opened a banquet of young fancies, 12 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...

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Часть текста: в главе автобиографии «Квартирка в Тринити-Лейн». Все три версии мемуаров Набокова и оба его биографа описывают молодого человека, занятого воссозданием потерянной России и относительно равнодушного к английскому окружению. [1] Большинство его друзей в Кембридже были русскими эмигрантами. Молодой Набоков считал себя русским поэтом, и поэзии суждено было стать его основным занятием во время пребывания в Кембридже. Уже являясь автором двух сборников, опубликованных в России, [2] он написал много новых стихотворений во время 16-месячного изгнания в Крыму. Ностальгическое воссоздание «своей» России является самой распространенной темой его стихотворений 1918–1922 годов. Набокова настолько поглотило творчество, что для Англии и Кембриджа оставалось мало эмоциональной энергии. Первый биограф Набокова, Эндрю Филд, приводит его слова, в которых он описывает свои годы в Кембридже как «длинную череду неловкостей, ошибок и всякого рода неудач и глупостей, включая романтические». [3] В «Память, говори» автор даже настаивает на том, что кембриджские годы оставили в его душе «отпечаток столь незначительный, что продолжать его описание было бы просто скучно». [4] Понимая все величие истории Кембриджа, молодой поэт «был совершенно уверен, что Кембридж никак не действует» (IV, 548) на его душу. Позднее Набоков смягчает это высказывание, признавая, что «Кембридж снабжал меня и мое русское раздумье не только рамой, но и красками, и внутренним ритмом» (IV, 548). Только к концу своего трехлетнего пребывания там, завершив свою реконструкцию России, Набоков почувствовал некую привязанность к окружавшей его идиллической обстановке. Это видно в очаровательном описании движения плоскодонки по реке Кэм, впечатление от которого слегка сбивается рассказом о...

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Часть текста: present you with a gage 4 that would be worthier of you — be worthier of a fine soul full of a holy dream, of live and limpid poetry, 8 of high thoughts and simplicity. But so be it. With partial hand take this collection of pied chapters: half droll, half sad, 12 plain-folk, ideal, the careless fruit of my amusements, insomnias, light inspirations, unripe and withered years, 16 the intellect's cold observations, and the heart's sorrowful remarks. CHAPTER ONE To live it hurries and to feel it hastes. Prince Vyazemski I “My uncle has most honest principles: when he was taken gravely ill, he forced one to respect him 4 and nothing better could invent. To others his example is a lesson; but, good God, what a bore to sit by a sick person day and night, not stirring 8 a step away! What base perfidiousness to entertain one half-alive, adjust for him his pillows, 12 sadly serve him his medicine, sigh — and think inwardly when will the devil take you?” II Thus a young scapegrace thought as with post horses in the dust he flew, by the most lofty will of Zeus 4 the heir of all his kin. Friends of Lyudmila and Ruslan! The hero of my novel, without preambles, forthwith, 8 I'd like to have you meet: Onegin, a good pal of mine, was born upon the Neva's banks, ...

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Часть текста: 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....

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Часть текста: 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 ...

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Часть текста: girl of thirteen years! Who will not grow weary of threats, entreaties, vows, feigned fear, notes running to six pages, 12 betrayals, gossiping, rings, tears, surveillances of aunts, of mothers, and the onerous friendship of husbands! IX Exactly thus my Eugene thought. In his first youth he had been victim of tempestuous errings 4 and of unbridled passions. Spoiled by a habitude of life, with one thing for a while enchanted, disenchanted with another, 8 irked slowly by desire, irked, too, by volatile success, hearkening in the hubbub and the hush to the eternal mutter of his soul, 12 smothering yawns with laughter: this was the way he killed eight years, having lost life's best bloom. X With belles no longer did he fall in love, but dangled after them just anyhow; when they refused, he solaced in a twinkle; 4 when they betrayed, was glad to rest. He sought them without rapture, while he left them without regret, hardly remembering their love and spite. 8 Exactly thus does an indifferent ...

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Часть текста: вв.: Джон Коллоп, «Дух, Плоть» (1656): Whither? ah, whither flies my soul… (Куда? ax, куда улетает моя душа…) Томас Флетчер (1692): Whither fond soul, ah, whither wouldst thou fly? (Куда, любимая душа, ax, куда ты полетишь?) Поуп, переложение «Animula vagula blandula» [687] императора Адриана, стих 5: Whither, ah whither art thou flying! (Куда, ax куда ты улетаешь!) (В 1713 г. Поуп отослал Джону Кэриллу два варианта переложения Адриана; второй из них начинается словами «Ах, мимолетный дух!» и озаглавлен «То же другой рукой» — очевидно, другой рукой Поупа — именно там он и вопрошает «куда».) Джеймс Битти, «Ода Надежде» (ок. 1760), стих 78: Whither, ah whither are ye fled? (Куда, ax куда ты улетела?) Анна Летиция Барбо, «Жизнь» (ок. 1811): О whither, whither dost thou fly… (О куда, куда ты улетаешь…) Барри Корнуолл, «Песня» (ок. 1820): Whither, ah! whither is my lost love straying… (Куда, ax! куда устремляется моя потерянная любовь…) Китс, «Эндимион» (1818), кн. 1, стихи 970–971: …Ah! where Are those swift moments? Whither are they fled? (…Ax, где Те мимолетные мгновенья? Куда же они упорхнули?) 4 Весны моей… дни — избитый галлицизм. Упомяну лишь несколько примеров, отобранных при беглом чтении: Клеман Маро, «О себе» («De soy mesme», 1537): Plus ne suis ce que j'ay esté, Et ne le sçaurois jamais estreж Mon beau printemps et mon esté Ont fait le saut par la fenestre. [688] Гильом де Шолье, «О первом приступе подагры» («Sur la première attaque de goutte», 1695), стихи 12–13: Et déjà de mon printemps Toutes les fleurs sont...

Поиск по творчеству и критикеCлово "IDEAL"

Поиск по творчеству и критике
Cлово "IDEAL"