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Часть текста: literary characters The studies of dreams in fictional literature form a special area of the literary theory, which is called “literary hypnology” or “oineropoetics.” Scholars try to define the specifics of literary dreams and distinguish them from the reality of life. «Цели такого исследования состоят не в том, чтобы методами психологии анализировать литературный материал, но в том, чтобы методами филологии анализировать то психологическое явление, которое описано литературным материалом» (“The purposes of such studies are not to use the psychological methods for the literary analysis, but to use the literary methods in order to analyze the psychological phenomenon, which is described in the literary text”) [20, с.9]. These studies are interdisciplinary, for they are situated on the boundaries of different academic fields, such as physiology, medicine, philosophy, psychology, literary and cultural studies, and semiotics. V.M.Kovalzon, The Doctor of Biology and a member of the International Association for the Study of Dreams, defines the process of sleeping as “...особое генетически детерминированное состояние организма человека и других теплокровных животных (т.е. млекопитающих и птиц), характеризующееся закономерной последовательной сменой определенных полиграфических картин в виде циклов, фаз и стадий» (“.a special, genetically determined state of the human body and the body of other warm-blooded animals (mammals and birds), which is characterized by the logical succession of certain multi-graphic pictures in the form of cycles, phases and stages” ) [6, с.311]. The process of sleeping is inevitably accompanied by the phases of dreams, which some scholars describe as the period of paradoxical sleeping. According to J.M. Lotman, a dream is «семиотическое...
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Часть текста: the night of the second. Waking early, Tatiana from the window saw at morn the whitened yard, 8 flower beds, roofs, and fence; delicate patterns on the panes; the trees in winter silver, gay magpies outside, 12 and the hills softly overspread with winter's brilliant carpeting. All's bright, all's white around. II Winter! The peasant, celebrating, in a flat sledge inaugurates the track; his naggy, having sensed the snow, 4 shambles at something like a trot. Plowing up fluffy furrows, a bold kibitka flies: the driver sits upon his box 8 in sheepskin coat, red-sashed. Here runs about a household lad, upon a hand sled having seated “blackie,” having transformed himself into the steed; 12 the scamp already has frozen a finger. He finds it both painful and funny — while his mother, from the window, threatens him... III But, maybe, pictures of this kind will not attract you; all this is lowly nature; 4 there is not much refinement here. Warmed by the god of inspiration, another poet in luxurious language for us has painted the first snow 8 and all the shades of winter's delectations. 27 He'll captivate you, I am sure of it, when he depicts in flaming verses secret promenades in sleigh; 12 but I have no intention of contending either with him at present or with you, singer of the young Finnish Maid! 28 IV Tatiana (being Russian at heart, herself not knowing why) loved, in all its cold beauty, 4 a Russian winter: rime in the sun upon a frosty day, and sleighs, and, at late dawn, the radiance of the rosy snows, 8 and gloam of Twelfthtide eves. Those evenings in the...
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Часть текста: 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 misguided, collected plankton. A third studied tuberculosis in the tundra. Bert, a film photographeran...
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Часть текста: 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. Although in a hall adjoining the library dark-red cabinets contained my father's supremely rich collections, consisting of specimens complete with thoroughly accurate names, dates, and places of capture, I personally...
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Часть текста: it, as the Master once wrote. And this I did, many times, savoring the turns of phrase and the shades of words, staunch in my belief that a careful rereader, forearmed with a knowledge of what is to come, is more apt to catch the glimpses of future greatness that the prose of a first novel allows. After having considered and discarded one by one a series of clever but clumsy titles for this chapter I settled on the pedestrian choice above. Engaging in verbal legerdemain while speaking of Nabokov is a perilous and perhaps foolhardy undertaking, given his own multilingual mastery over words--one might compare it to beginning a talk on Nijinsky by stepping from behind the lectern to attempt a jeté or two. While much, indeed too much, has been written about Nabokov's English novels, much less has been said about his earliest Russian fiction. It is to this I must now turn. My editor has chided me for diverging too frequently and too widely from my subject--but what is a life if not a series of diversions from some hidden, ineffable theme? Mashen'ka opens with the tongue-twisting name and patronymic of the protagonist Ganin, Lev Glebovich, which, complains the character Alferov, "iazyk vyzvikhnut' mozhno" (7). Instantly we are made aware of the potential treachery of words. With Alferov's statement a few paragraphs later that "vsiakoe imia obiazyvaet," we are also reminded of their power. The first stylistic glimmer of the mature Nabokov, which comes after the brief dialogue between Ganin and Alferov of which chapter one wholly consists, is the sequence "i...
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Часть текста: 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 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...
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Часть текста: 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 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 knew, talk about music, my Lolita remarked: “You know, what’s so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own”; and it struck me, as my automaton knees went up and down, that I simply did not know a thing about my darling’s mind and that quite possibly, behind the awful juvenile clichs, there was in her a garden and a twilight, and a palace gatedim and adorable regions which happened to be lucidly and absolutely...