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Cлово "WISE"
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Входимость: 2. Размер: 54кб.
Часть текста: my fool preferred the corniest movies, the most cloying fudge. To think that between a Hamburger and a Humburger, she wouldinvariably, with icy precisionplump for the former. There is nothing more atrociously cruel than an adored child. Did I mention the name of that milk bar I visited a moment ago? It was, of all things, The Frigid Queen. Smiling a little sadly, I dubbed her My Frigid Princess. She did not see the wistful joke. Oh, d not scowl at me, reader, I do not intend to convey the impressin that I did not manage to be happy. Readeer must understand that in the possession and thralldom of a nymphet the enchanted traveler stands, as it were, beyond happiness. For there is no other bliss on earth comparable to that of fondling a nymphet. It is hors concours , that bliss, it belongs to another class, another plane of sensitivity. Despite our tiffs, despite her nastiness, despite all the fuss and faces she made, and the vulgarity, and the danger, and the horrible hopelessness of it all, I still dwelled deep in my elected paradisea paradise whose skies were the color of hell-flamesbut still a paradise. The able psychiatrist who studies my caseand whom by now Dr. Humbert has plunged, I trust, into a state of leporine fascinationis no doubt anxious to have me take Lolita to the seaside and have me find there, at last, the “gratification” of a lifetime urge, and release from the “subconscious” obsession of an incomplete childhood romance with the initial little Miss Lee. Well, comrade, let...
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Часть текста: 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 repetitious namesall those Sunset Motels, U-Beam Cottages, Hillcrest Courts, Pine View Courts, Mountain View Courts, Skyline Courts, Park Plaza Courts, Green Acres, Mac’s Courts. There was sometimes a special line in the write-up, such as “Children welcome, pets allowed” ( You are welcome, you are allowed). The baths were mostly tiled showers, with an endless variety of spouting mechanisms, but with one definitely non-Laodicean characteristic in common, a propensity, while in use, to turn instantly beastly...
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Часть текста: 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 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...
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Часть текста: (буквой, звуком, словом) и означаемым (смыслом) произвольна. Синестезия и иконизм — два способа соединения этого разрыва. В какой-то степени средство общения становится сообщением, хотя надо подчеркнуть, что уровень коммуникации, возможный благодаря таким явлениям, неизбежно останется весьма примитивным. Эти явления играют подчиненную роль, хотя на эстетическом уровне они эффективны. Синестетические и иконические значения привязываются к отдельным буквам и не могут «складываться». Вспомнив набоковское английское слово-«радугу» KZPSYGV, мы можем убедиться, что из таких образований не получаются «настоящие» слова. Мы попадаем в мир настоящего языка лишь тогда, когда связь между символом и смыслом условна. В предыдущей главе мы рассматривали значение буквы в произведениях Набокова. Сейчас мы перейдем от мира буквы к миру слова, где сходятся звук и смысл. С точки зрения здравого смысла считается, что слово отражает мир, что значение слова, или реальность — первична, а само слово — вторично. Реальность, в том числе и вымышленная, меняется, и соответственно переставляются слова, меняются их комбинации. Говоря о мире Набокова, мы можем сказать, как сказано в Библии: «В начале было Слово». К этому следует добавить «…и Слово было сложено из букв». Для художника слова буквы и слова — средство организации и реорганизации вымышленной вселенной. В «реалистической» литературе сохраняется традиционное положение о том, что слова отражают события (вымышленные). Произведения Набокова явно подрывают авторитет этого положения на каждом шагу. Слова властвуют безраздельно; события согласованы с ними. Единственная «реальность» — это автор. Такое отношение, возможно, наиболее явно отражается в увлеченности Набокова-романиста словесными играми, такими как анаграммы, и их производными —...
Входимость: 1. Размер: 6кб.
Часть текста: quote a passage from my first page which baffled the wise and misled the silly: "When we concentrate on a material object. . . the very act of attention may lead to our involuntarily sinking into the history of that object." A number of such instances of falling through the present's "tension film" are given in the course of the book. There is the personal history of a pencil. There is also, in a later chapter, the past of a shabby room, where, instead of focusing on Person and the prostitute, the spectral observer drifts down into the middle of the previous century and sees a Russian traveler, a minor Dostoevski, occupying that room, between Swiss gambling house and Italy. Another critic has said- Yes, I am coming to that. Reviewers of my little book made the lighthearted mistake of assuming that seeing through things is the professional function of a novelist. Actually, that kind of generalization is not only a dismal commonplace but is specifically untrue. Unlike the mysterious observer or observers in Transparent Things, a novelist is, like all mortals, more fully at home on the surface of the present than in the ooze of the past. So who is that observer; who are those italicized "we" in the fourteenth line of the novel; who, for goodness' sake, is the "I" in its very first...
Входимость: 1. Размер: 73кб.
Часть текста: я отношусь неодинаково. Не могу вообразить, чтобы я писал письмо издателю в ответ на неблагоприятный отзыв, не говоря уже о том, чтобы посвящать чуть ли не целый день сочинению журнальной статьи с объяснениями, ответными выпадами и протестами. По меньшей мере тридцать лет я ждал, чтобы обратили внимание — невзначай и с усмешкой — на грубую брань, что, бывало, раздавалась в мой адрес во времена, когда я выступал в образе «В. Сирина», но пусть этим занимаются библиографы. Мои открытия, мои интересы, мои особые острова бесконечно недоступны раздраженным читателям. Точно также никогда не уступал я безудержному желанию поблагодарить благосклонного критика — или хотя бы намеком показать тому или иному дружески настроенному писателю, что смутно догадываюсь о его ко мне участливом отношении и понимании, которое каким-то невероятным образом, похоже, всегда соответствовало его таланту и оригинальности — интересный, хотя не такой уж необъяснимый феномен. Если, однако, случается, что под прицелом враждебной критики оказываются не акты художества, а такой прозаичный труд, как мой комментированный перевод «Евгения Онегина»...
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Часть текста: of the sudden cessation of a small series of mechanical events (beating heart, expanding lungs) is purely and simply unthinkable--in the literal sense of that term. As a late friend of mine liked to say when confronted by a particularly short-sighted variety of seize-the-day hedonist: Life is not a dress rehearsal, true; but neither is it the final act. Ladies and Gentlemen, I have a confession to make: since beginning this book, I have been haunted. By this I do not mean obsessed by my subject, nor beguiled by a dim whiff of literary fame, nor even the victim of an id?e fixe . I mean haunted, from the Old Zemblan heimte : to bring home, pull, fetch, claim. Someone or something has been haunting me: dogging my mental steps, hiding my pencils and note cards, tapping a disembodied fingernail against my cabin’s windowpanes, whispering seductive doom between gusts of March wind and endeavoring in every conceivable way to coax me through the looking glass. I think I know who it is. *** A colleague to whom I had unbosomed myself the morning after a particularly bad night mentioned, later in the conversation and quite offhandedly, that he had a friend (let’s call her LN) in Omaha who had recently consulted a psychic with the aim of contacting her spouse, who had died unexpectedly a few years prior. The psychic in question, a bony Asian lady with the odd name of Madame Fat, claimed to be a “channeler”, i.e. a medium skilled in acting as a conduit for disembodied spirits, including, of course, the dead, whom she referred to, in an amazingly opaque display of euphemism, as the others . My colleague’s friend, a professor of French lit and until then a hardened skeptic in all matters paranormal, was severely shaken by the...
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Часть текста: 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...
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Часть текста: 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 “Дар”, повествующем о трудной жизни эмигранта...
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Часть текста: 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...