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Cлово "VENERABLE"
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Часть текста: о его приключениях, а история развития его стиля». [1] В случае самого Набокова у этой истории есть два варианта — русский и английский, и всякий, кто хочет рассказать эту историю, должен быть готов объяснить оба варианта, охарактеризовав не только их свойства по отдельности, но и их взаимосвязь. Конечно, из-за величины творческого наследия Набокова на обоих языках, множества произведений художественной и документальной прозы, поэтических произведений, а также автопереводов и переводов произведений других авторов, то есть всего, созданного Набоковым с 1923 года до его смерти в 1977 году, любое исследование его стиля натолкнется на лингвистические, текстологические и эстетические вопросы необычайной сложности. [2] Возможно, единственный выход в условиях ограниченного объема данной статьи — обобщающее сокращение; в данном случае замещение творчества писателя одним репрезентативным текстом, охватывающим два языка, и анализ существенно важного аспекта этого текста на конкретных примерах. Текст, выбранный мною, — автобиографический диптих «Speak, Memory»/ «Другие берега», а стилистический аспект, который я собираюсь рассматривать, — образование звуковых повторов, или инструментовка. [3]...
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Часть текста: distance, 8 before it, freaked and flowered, lay meadows and golden grainfields; one could glimpse hamlets here and there; herds roamed the meadows; 12 and its dense coverts spread a huge neglected garden, the retreat of pensive dryads. II The venerable castle was built as castles should be built: excellent strong and comfortable 4 in the taste of sensible ancientry. Tall chambers everywhere, hangings of damask in the drawing room, portraits of grandsires on the walls, 8 and stoves with varicolored tiles. All this today is obsolete, I really don't know why; and anyway it was a matter 12 of very little moment to my friend, since he yawned equally amidst modish and olden halls. III He settled in that chamber where the rural old-timer had for forty years or so squabbled with his housekeeper, 4 looked through the window, and squashed flies. It all was plain: a floor of oak, two cupboards, a table, a divan of down, and not an ink speck anywhere. Onegin 8 opened the cupboards; found in one a notebook of expenses and in the other a whole array of fruit liqueurs, pitchers of eau-de-pomme, 12 and the calendar for...
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Часть текста: abysmal bed, drowsily raising her foot, fumbling at the shoelaces and showing as she did so the nether side of her thigh up to the crotch of her pantiesshe had always been singularly absentminded, or shameless, or both, in matters of legshow. This, then, was the hermetic vision of her which I had locked inafter satisfying myself that the door carried no inside bolt. The key, with its numbered dangler of carved wood, became forthwith the weighty sesame to a rapturous and formidable future. It was mine, it was part of my hot hairy fist. In a few minutessay, twenty, say half-an-hour, sicher its sicher as my uncle Gustave used to sayI would let myself into that “342” and find my nymphet, my beauty and bride, imprisoned in her crystal sleep. Jurors! If my happiness could have talked, it would have filled that genteel hotel with a deafening roar. And my only regret today is that I did not quietly deposit key “342” at the office, and leave the town, the country, the continent, the hemisphere,indeed, ...
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Часть текста: мне готовитъ? «Его мой взоръ напрасно ловитъ, «Въ глубокой мгле таится онъ. 8 «Нетъ нужды; правъ судьбы законъ. «Паду ли я, стрелой пронзенный, «Иль мимо пролетитъ она, «Все благо: бденiя и сна 12 «Приходитъ часъ определенный; «Благословенъ и день заботъ, «Благословенъ и тмы приходъ! 1 на случай [= случайно]. «Стихи на случай сохранились». Пушкин не сохранял их так «свято», как он хранил письмо Татьяны (см. коммент. к главе Третьей, XXXI, 1–4). 3 Куда, куда вы удалились. Я предпочел бы повторить возглас, так часто слышимый в английской поэзии семнадцатого и восемнадцатого веков: Джон Коллоп, «Дух, Плоть» (1656): Куда? ах, куда летит моя душа… Томас Флетчер (1692): Куда, любящая душа, ах, куда ты полетишь? Поуп, переделка стихотворения императора Адриана «Душа моя, скиталица…», строка 5: Куда, ах, куда, ты устремляешь свой полет! (В 1713 г. Поуп послал Джону Кэриллу два перевода произведения Адриана; именно во втором из них, начинающемся «Ах, быстро улетающий дух!» и озаглавленном «То же самое другой рукой» — вероятно, другой рукой Поупа, — встречается это «куда»). Джеймс Битти, «Ода к Надежде» (ок. 1760 г.), строка 78: Куда, ах, куда вы мчитесь? Анна Легация Барбо, «Жизнь» (ок. 1811 г.): О, куда, куда же ты летишь… Барри Корнуолл, «Песня» (ок. 1820 г.): Куда, ах! куда пропала моя потерянная любовь… Китс, «Эндимион» (1818), кн. 1, строки 970–71: …Ах! Где Те быстрые мгновения? Куда они умчались? 4 Весны моей… дни. Часто использовавшийся галлицизм. Приведу только несколько примеров, отмеченных при случайном чтении: Клеман Маро,...
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Часть текста: Sunday Times, London. I happened to be greatly annoyed by the editorial liberties that periodicals in other countries had been taking with material I had supplied. When he arrived on June 15, I gave him my written answers accompanied by the following note. When preparing interviews I invariably write out my replies (and sometimes additional questions) taking great care to make them as concise as possible. My replies represent unpublished material, should be printed verbatim and in toto, and copyrighted in my name. Answers may be rearranged in whatever order the interviewer car the editor wishes: for example, they may be split, with insertion of the questioner's comments or bits of descriptive matter (but none of the latter material may be ascribed to me). Unprepared remarks, quips, etc., may come from me during the actual colloquy but may nut be published without my approval. The article will be shown to me before publication so as to avoid factual errors {e. g., in names, dates, etc.). Mr. Oakes' article appeared in The Sunday Times on June 22, 1969. As a distinguished entomologist and...
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Часть текста: 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 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, ...
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Часть текста: 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 fanées. [689] Вольтер, «Послание XV» («Epitre XV», 1719), стихи...
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Часть текста: have run in turbid streams 4 onto the inundated fields. With a serene smile, nature greets through her sleep the morning of the year. Bluing, the heavens shine. 8 The yet transparent woods as if with down are greening. The bee flies from her waxen cell after the tribute of the field. 12 The dales grow dry and varicolored. The herds are noisy, and the nightingale has sung already in the hush of nights. II How sad your apparition is to me, spring, spring, season of love! What a dark stir there is 4 in my soul, in my blood! With what oppressive tenderness I revel in the whiff of spring fanning my face 8 in the lap of the rural stillness! Or is enjoyment strange to me, and all that gladdens, animates, all that exults and gleams, 12 casts spleen and languishment upon a soul long dead and all looks dark to it? III Or gladdened not by the return of leaves that perished in the autumn, a bitter loss we recollect, 4 harking to the new murmur of the woods; or with reanimated nature we compare in troubled thought the withering of our years, 8 for which there is no renovation? Perhaps there comes into our thoughts, midst a poetical reverie, some other ancient spring, 12 which sets our heart aquiver with the dream of a distant clime, a marvelous night, a moon.... IV Now is the time: good lazybones, epicurean sages; you, equanimous fortunates; 4 you, fledglings of the Lyóvshin 41 school; you, country Priams; and sentimental ladies, you; spring calls you to the country, 8 season of warmth, of flowers, of labors, ...
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Часть текста: score and ten" sounded, no doubt, very venerable in the days when life expectancy hardly reached one half of that length. Anyway, Petersburgan pediatricians never thought I might perform the feat you mention: a feat of lucky endurance, of paradoxically detached will power, of good work and good wine, of healthy concentration on a rare bug or a rhythmic phrase. Another thing that might have been of some help is the fact that I am subject to the embarrassing qualms of superstition: a number, a dream, a coincidence 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, only Pegasus. You are, I am told, at work on a new novel. Do you have a working title? And could you give me a...
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Часть текста: 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 and man is immeasurably greater than the one between amoeba and ape. The difference between an ape's memory and human memory is the difference between an ampersand and the British Museum library. Judging from your own awakening consciousness as a child, do you think that the capacity to use language, syntax, relate ideas, is something we learn from adults, as if we were computers being programed, or do we begin to use a unique, built-in capability of our own-- call it imagination? The stupidest person in the world is an all-round genius compared to the cleverest computer. How we learn to imagine and express things is a riddle with premises impossible to express and a solution...