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Примерный текст на первых найденных страницах
Входимость: 3. Размер: 59кб.
Часть текста: in evergreen shrubbery. To the anatomical right of this car, on the trim turn of the lawn-slope, an old gentleman with a white mustache, well-dresseddouble-breasted gray suit, polka-dotted bow-tielay supine, his long legs together, like a death-size wax figure. I have to put the impact of an instantaneous vision into a sequence of words; their physical accumulation in the page impairs the actual 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 laya banked banker so to speakwas not in a dead faint, but was comfortably and methodically recovering from a mild heart attack or its possibility; and, finally, that the laprobe on the sidewalk (where she had so often pointed out to me with disapproval the crooked green cracks) concealed the mangled remains of Charlotte Humbert who had been knocked down and dragged several feet by the Beale car as she was hurrying across the street to drop three letters in the mailbox, at the...
Входимость: 3. Размер: 52кб.
Часть текста: Lo’s visible annoyanceto spend another night at Chestnut Court; definitely waking up at four in the morning, I ascertained that Lo was still sound asleep (mouth open, in a kind of dull amazement at the curiously inane life we all had rigged up for her) and satisfied myself that the precious contents of the “luizetta” were safe. There, snugly wrapped in a white woolen scarf, lay a pocket automatic: caliber. 32, capacity of magazine 8 cartridges, length a little under one ninth of Lolita’s length, stock checked walnut, finish full blued. I had inherited it from the late Harold Haze, with a 1938 catalog which cheerily said in part: “Particularly well adapted for use in the home and car as well as on the person.” There it lay, ready for instant service on the person or persons, loaded and fully cocked with the slide lock in safety position, thus precluding any accidental discharge. We must remember that a pistol is the Freudian symbol of the Ur-father’s central forelimb. I was now glad I had it with meand even more glad that I had learned to use it two years before, in the pine forest around my and Charlotte’s glass lake. Farlow, with whom I had roamed those remote woods, was an admirable marksman, and with his. 38 actually managed to hit a hummingbird, though I must say not much of it...
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Часть текста: с календарем реальным. Многие упоминания об исторических событиях 1920-х годов представляют собой явные анахронизмы; иногда расходится с календарным временем и фабула. Так, по календарю романа, 29 июня 1929 года и следующий за ним день – будни (Зина приходит домой с работы и сообщает, что завтра получит жалованье), тогда как на самом деле это были суббота и воскресенье. В этом смысле «Дар» действительно начинается и заканчивается в 192 … году (подробнее о временной структуре романа см.: Долинин 2004: 297–300). 1–2 … иностранный критик заметил как-то, что хотя многие романы, все немецкие например, начинаются с даты, только русские авторы – в силу оригинальной честности нашей литературы – не договаривают единиц … – Замечание «иностранного критика», по всей вероятности, выдумано Набоковым, так как не соответствует действительности. В большинстве русских романов, начинающихся с даты, она приводится полностью. См., например, однотипные начала романов Тургенева: «В тени высокой липы, на берегу Москвы-реки, недалеко от Кунцева, в один из самых жарких летних дней 1853 года лежали на траве два молодых человека» ( «Накануне» [Тургенев 1978–2014: VI, 161] ); «Что, Петр? не видать еще? – спрашивал 20 мая 1859 года, выходя без шапки на низкое крылечко постоялого двора на *** шоссе, барин лет сорока с небольшим, в запыленном пальто и клетчатых панталонах, у своего слуги, молодого и щекастого малого с беловатым пухом на подбородке и маленькими тусклыми глазами» ( «Отцы и дети» [Там же: VII, 7] ); «10 августа 1862 года, в четыре часа пополудни, в Баден-Бадене, перед известною „Conversation“ толпилось множество народа» ( «Дым» [Там же, 249] );...
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Часть текста: 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...
Входимость: 2. Размер: 53кб.
Часть текста: 1 . В публикации в журнале «Звезда» (1999. № 4) подготовленной Е. Б. Белодубровским, эти строки сопровождаются следующей историко-литературной справкой: «Роберт Лоуэлл (1917-1977) - американский поэт. Ольга Карлайл, урожд<енная> Андреева - внучка русского писателя Леонида Андреева, дочь его сына, эмигрантского поэта и прозаика Вадима Андреева, - переводчица, журналистка, автор мемуаров, в том числе о встречах с Борисом Пастернаком» 2 . Справка эта нуждается в существенных дополнениях. В частности, что такое те «мерзостны<е> “преображен- ии<я>”», о которых с таким гневом пишет своему адресату Набоков? Очевидно, что речь здесь идет об одной из тогдашних новинок - антологии “Poets on Street Corners” («Поэты на уличных углах») под редакцией О. В. Андреевой-Карлайль. В антологию эту вошли переводы из пятнадцати русских поэтов: А. Блока, Анны Ахматовой, Б. Пастернака, О. Мандельштама, М. Цветаевой, В. Маяковского, С. Есенина, Н. Заболоцкого, Б. Поплавского, Е. Евтушенко, А. Вознесенского, И. Холина, Г. Сапгира, Б. Ахмадулиной и И. Бродского 3 . Переводы из Мандельштама, выполненные Робертом Лоуэллом, лауреатом Bollingen Poetry Translation Prize 1962 г., помещены в антологии с указанием на их подчеркнуто вольный характер. Уже этого одного обстоятельства было достаточно для того, чтоб Набоков счел Лоуэлла оскорбителем тени покойного Мандельштама - поэта, который Набокову был особенно дорог в те годы 4 . В 1964 г. в предисловии к своему комментированному переводу пушкинского «Онегина» Набоков писал, что попытки поэтического перевода подпадают под три категории: 1) парафрастический перевод (создание вольного переложения исходного текста с купюрами и конъектурами), 2) лексический перевод...
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Часть текста: 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 forbidden to me, in my polluted rags and miserable convulsions; for I often noticed that living as we did, she and I, in a world of total evil, we would become strangely embarrassed whenever I tried to discuss...
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Часть текста: from Speak, Memory, G. P. Putnam's Sons, N. Y., 1966. The world has been and is open to you. With your Proustian sense of places, what is there in Montreux that attracts you so? My sense of places is Nabokovian rather than Proustian. With regard to Montreux there are many attractions-- nice people, near mountains, regular mails, headquarters at a comfortable hotel. We dwell in the older part of the Palace Hotel, in its original part really, which was all that existed a hundred and fifty years ago (you can still see that initial inn and our future windows in old prints of 1840 or so). Our quarters consist of several tiny rooms with two and a half bathrooms, the result of two apartments having been recently fused. The sequence is: kitchen, living-dining room, my wife's room, my room, a former kitchenette now full of my papers, and our son's former room, now converted into a study. The apartment is! cluttered with books, folders, and files. What might be termed rather grandly a library is a back room housing my published works, and there are additional shelves in the attic whose skylight is much frequented by pigeons and Alpine choughs. I am giving this meticulous description to refute a distortion in an interview published recently in another New York magazine-- a long piece with embarrassing misquotations, wrong intonations, and false exchanges in the course of which I am made to dismiss the scholarship of a dear friend as "pedantry" and to poke ambiguous fun at a...
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Часть текста: of mind. It is a familiar embarrassment that I face with very faint qualms, particularly since I am not really aware of any special similarities-- just as one is not aware of sharing mannerisms with a detestable kinsman. I loathe Van Veen. The following two quotations seem closely related: "I confess I do not believe in time. I like to fold my magic carpet, after use, in such a way as to superimpose one part of the pattern upon another. " (Speak, Memory) and "pure time, perceptual time, tangible time, time free of content, context and running commentary-- this is my time and theme. All the rest is numerical symbol or some aspect of space. " (Ada). Will you give me a lift on your magic carpet to point out bow time is animated in the story of Van and Ada? In his study of time my creature distinguishes between text and texture, between the contents of time and its almost tangible essence. I ignored that distinction in my Speak, Memory and was mainly concerned with being faithful to the patterns of my past. I suspect that Van Veen, having less control over his imagination than I, novelized in his indulgent old age many images of his youth. You have spoken in the past of your indifference to music, but in Ada you describe time as "rhythm, the tender intervals between Stresses. " Are these rhythms musical, aural, physical, cerebral, what? Those "intervals" which seem to reveal the gray gaps of time between the black bars of space are much more similar to the interspaces between a metronome's monotonous beats than to the varied rhythms of music or verse. If, as you have said, "mediocrity thrives on 'ideas, ' " why does Van, who is no mediocrity, start explaining at length near the end of the book bis ideas about time? Is this the vanity of Van? Or is the author commenting on or parodying his story? By...
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Часть текста: nothing better to do. On the other hand, I was urged by a war-time university in New York to complete my comparative history of French literature for English-speaking students. The first volume took me a couple of years during which I put in seldom less than fifteen hours of work daily. As I look back on those days, I see them 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...
Входимость: 1. Размер: 39кб.
Часть текста: головой плавают вдалеке фонари, их лучи беспрерывно протянулись в дождливый сумрак. Вода в бадьях продолжает переливаться через край. Итак, я погружаюсь в твои пасмурные глаза, в мерцающую черноту узких аллей, где журчит и шелестит ночной дождь. Улыбнись мне. Почему ты смотришь на меня так пасмурно и мрачно. Теперь утро. Всю ночь звёзды пронзительно кричали детскими голосами, и, кто-то на крыше терзал и ласкал скрипку острым смычком. Смотри, солнце перевалилось через стену, словно сияющий парусник. Ты выдыхаешь туманом всё обволакивающий дым. Пылинки начинают кружиться в твоих глазах, миллионы золотых миров. Ты улыбнулась! Мы выходим на балкон. Весна. Внизу, посреди улицы, жёлто-кудрявый малыш быстро-быстро рисует бога. Бог растянулся от одной стороны улицы до другой. Малыш сжимает в руке кусок мела, маленький кусок белого угольного карандаша, и сидя на корточках, поворачивается, вычерчивая широкую линию. У этого белого бога большие белые пуговицы и развёрнутые наружу ступни. Распятый на асфальте он смотрит в небеса круглыми глазами. Белой дугой рот. Бревно-образная сигара появилась у него во ...