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Примерный текст на первых найденных страницах
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Часть текста: she wanted to go alone), I happened to glimpse from the bathroom, through a chance combination of mirror aslant and door ajar, a look on her face… that look I cannot exactly describe… an expression of helplessness so perfect that it seemed to grade into one of rather comfortable 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...
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Часть текста: Примечания Предисловие 1 “Из переписки Владимира Набокова и Эдмонда Уилсона”. Здесь и далее цитируется по тексту, опубликованному в журнале “Иностранная литература”, №5, 2010 г. Перевод А. Ливерганта и С. Таска. Страницы указываются по оригинальному изданию (DBDV). 2 Nabokov S Butterflies, с. 436-437. 3 Там же, с. 52. 4 “Из переписки Владимира Набокова и Эдмонда Уилсона”. Набоков относился к своим зубам на удивление равнодушно. 25 декабря 1943 г. он писал другу, Роману Гринбергу: “Дантист с треском вырвал у меня все верхние зубы. Я в продолжение месяца ходил с голым ртом, а потом старался привыкнуть к объемистому и хлюпающему ratelier (зубной протез - прим. перев .). Теперь привык - и только иногда замечаю, что собеседник украдкой вытирает то щеку, то бровь (когда слишком стремительно говорю что-нибудь) и перемигивает”. Здесь и далее письма Гринбергу цитируются по изданию: Рашит Янгиров “Друзья, бабочки и монстры: из переписки Владимира и Веры Набоковых с Романом Гринбергом. 1943-1967” // Диаспора: новые материалы. Альманах. 2001, №1. Париж, Atheneum - Спб., Феникс. 5 Pitzer, с. 173-174. Первый французский концлагерь для евреев, Дранси, появился в 1941 г. Рейс, которым уехали Набоковы, стал для “Шамплена” последним: по возвращении во Францию пароход подорвался на мине и затонул на рейде. 6 Bakh, письмо Веры Гольденвейзер, 26 июля 1941 г. 7 DBDV, c.52. 8 Даже в романе...
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Часть текста: 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 the time the weather cleared. I was extremely fond of her, despite the...
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Часть текста: it difficult thus every evening to kill time?” 8 “Not in the least.” “I cannot understand. From here I see what it is like: first — listen, am I right? — a simple Russian family, 12 a great solicitude for guests, jam, never-ending talk of rain, of flax, of cattle yard.” II “So far I do not see what's bad about it.” “Ah, but the boredom — that is bad, my friend.” “Your fashionable world I hate; 4 dearer to me is the domestic circle in which I can…” “Again an eclogue! Ah, that will do, old boy, for goodness' sake. Well, so you're off; I'm very sorry. 8 Oh, Lenski, listen — is there any way for me to see this Phyllis, subject of thoughts, and pen, and tears, and rhymes, et cetera? 12 Present me.” “You are joking.” “No.” “I'd gladly.” “When?” “Now, if you like. They will be eager to receive us.” III “Let's go.” And off the two friends drove; they have arrived; on them are lavished the sometimes onerous attentions 4 of hospitable ancientry. The ritual of the treat is known: in little dishes jams are brought, on an oilcloth'd small table there is set 8 a jug of lingonberry water. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . IV They by the shortest road fly home at full career. 17 Now let us eavesdrop furtively 4 upon our...
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Часть текста: открытия служат метафорой стремления к знанию вообще — в области науки, культуры или метафизики. В творчестве Набокова Ultima Thule означает границу познаваемого мира, место, где начинается мир иной. Этот иной мир — неисследованная территория, Новая Земля (Nova Zembla в латинском и земблянском языках). В представлении Набокова, вечное, бессмертное существование до и после смерти есть истинная реальность, тогда как земная жизнь — лишь бледное ее отражение [335] . Эта идея лежит в основе системы метафор, характерной для всего корпуса текстов писателя. Повествователь «Дара» говорит о «театре земной привычки» (530); метафора жизни как пьесы внутри пьесы неоднократно возникает в творчестве Набокова. Земная жизнь может быть уподоблена театральной пьесе в том смысле, что обе — лишь иллюзии реальности. Мы заточены в мире и лишены возможности видеть потусторонность, поэтому жизнь и соответственно язык, который мы используем для ее описания, могут быть названы метафорической тюрьмой. Представления Набокова близки к идеям русских символистов: формы этого мира — лишь неясные подобия их идеальных соответствий в мире ином. Искусство — средство выразить то немногое, что доступно нашему пониманию [336] . Художник...
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Часть текста: we had ordered at Silver Spur Court, Elphinstone, turned out to belong to the glossily browned pine-log kind that Lolita used to be so fond of in the days of our carefree first journey; oh, how different things were now! I am not referring to Trapp or Trapps. After allwell, really… After all, gentlemen, it was becoming abundantly clear that all those identical 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 ...
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Часть текста: Набокова на английском языке. BBC-2, 1968 г. BBC-2 [1968] On September 3, 1968, Nicholas Garnham interviewed me at the Montreux Palace for Release, BBC-2. The interview was faithfully reproduced in The Listener, October 10, of the same year: a neat and quick job. I have used its title for the present collection. You have mid your novels have 'no social purpose, no moral message. ' What is the function of your novels in particular and of the novel in general? One of the functions of all my novels is to prove that the novel in general does not exist. The book I make is a subjective and specific affair. I have no purpose at all when composing my stuff except to compose it. I work hard, I work long, on a body of words until it grants me complete possession and pleasure. If the reader has to work in his turn-- so much the better. Art is difficult. Easy art is what you see at modern exhibitions of things and doodles. In your prefaces you constantly mock Freud, the Viennese witchdoctor. Why should I tolerate a perfect stranger at the bedside of my mind? I may have aired this before but I'd like to repeat that I detest not one but four doctors: Dr. Freud, Dr. Zhivago, Dr. Schweitzer, and Dr. Castro. Of course, the first takes the fig, as the fellows say in the dissecting-room. I've no intention to dream the drab middle-class dreams of an Austrian crank with a shabby umbrella. I also suggest that the Freudian faith leads to dangerous ethical consequences, such as when a filthy murderer with the brain of a tapeworm is given a lighter sentence because his mother spanked him too much or too little-- it works both ways. The Freudian racket...
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Часть текста: 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 in knotty pine, reminded Lo, by its golden-brown glaze, of friend-chicken bones. We held in contempt the plain whitewashed clapboard Kabins, with their faint sewerish smell or some other gloomy self-conscious stench and nothing to boast of (except “good beds”), and an unsmiling landlady always prepared to have her gift (“…well, I could give you…”) turned down. Nous connmes (this is royal fun) the would-be enticements of their ...
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Часть текста: {43} Автор перевода, должного в скором времени выйти в свет, может счесть неловким критиковать только что опубликованное переложение того же произведения, но в данном случае я могу, и обязан, побороть колебания, поскольку надо что-то делать, надо, чтобы прозвучал чей-нибудь одинокий сорванный голос и защитил и беспомощного мертвого поэта, и доверчивых студентов колледжей от беззастенчивого пересказчика, о чьей продукции я намерен говорить. {44} Задача превратить около пяти тысяч строк, написанных русским четырехстопным ямбом с регулярным чередованием мужских и женских рифм, в равное количество английских четырехстопных ямбов, точно так же рифмованных, чудовищно сложна, и упорство г-на Арндта вызывает у меня, ограничившего свои усилия скромным прозаическим и нерифмованным переводом «Евгения Онегина», восхищение, смешанное со злорадством. Отзывчивый читатель, особенно такой, который не сверяется с оригиналом, может найти в переложении г-на Арндта относительно большие фрагменты, звучащие усыпляюще гладко и с нарочитым чувством; но всякий менее снисходительный и более знающий читатель увидит, сколь, в сущности, ухабисты эти ровные места. Позвольте первым делом предложить вам мой буквальный перевод двух строф (Глава шестая, XXXVI–XXXVII) и те же строфы в переводе г-на Арндта, поместив их рядом ( в эл. версии — ниже и нежирным ). Это одно из тех мест в его труде, которые свободны от вопиющих ошибок и которые пассивный читатель (любимчик преуспевающих преподавателей) мог бы одобрить: 1. My friends, you're sorry for the poet 1. My friends, you will lament the poet 2. in the bloom of glad hopes 2. Who, flowering with a happy gift, 3. not having yet fulfilled them for the world, 3. Must wilt before he could bestow it 4. scarce out of infant clothes, 4. Upon the world, yet scarce adrift 5. withered! Where is the ardent stir 5. From...
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Часть текста: at Cornell University in 1954, and the references are to Literature 311-312 (MWF, 12), a course on the Masterpieces of European Fiction (Jane Austen, Gogol, Dickens, Flaubert, Tolstoy, Stevenson, Kafka, Joyce, and Proust). Its enrollment had reached four hundred by the time of Nabokov's resignation in 1959. The footnotes to the interview, except where indicated, are provided by the interviewer, Alfred Appel, Jr. For years bibliographers and literary journalists didn't know whether to group you under "Russian" or "American. "Now that you're living in Switzerland there seems to be complete agreement that you're American. Do you find this kind of distinction at all important regarding your identity as a writer? I have always maintained, even as a schoolboy in Russia, that the nationality of a worthwhile writer is of secondary importance. The more distinctive an insect's aspect, the less apt the taxonomist is to glance first of all at the locality label under the pinned specimen in order to decide which of several vaguely described races it should be assigned to. The writer's art is his real passport. His identity should be immediately recognized by a special pattern or unique coloration. His habitat may confirm the correctness of the determination but should not lead to it. Locality labels are known to have been faked by unscrupulous insect dealers. Apart from these considerations I think of myself today as an American writer who has once been a Russian o! ne. The Russian writers you have translated and written about all precede the so-called "age of realism, " which is more celebrated by English and American readers than is the earlier period. Would you say something about your temperamental or artistic affinities with the great writers of the 1830-40 era of masterpieces? Do you see your own work falling under such general rubrics as a tradition of Russian humor? The question of the affinities I may think I ...