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Комментарии к «Евгению Онегину» Александра Пушкина - Владимир Набоков
- Дата:13.07.2024
- Категория: Документальные книги / Критика
- Название: Комментарии к «Евгению Онегину» Александра Пушкина
- Автор: Владимир Набоков
- Просмотров:4
- Комментариев:0
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Описание онлайн-книги Комментарии к «Евгению Онегину» Александра Пушкина - Владимир Набоков:
Комментарии В. В. Набокова освещают многообразие исторических, литературных и бытовых сторон романа. Книга является оригинальным произведением писателя в жанре научно-исторического комментария. Набоков обращается к «потаенным слоям» романа, прослеживает литературные влияния, связи «Евгения Онегина» с другими произведениями поэта, увлекательно повествует о тайнописи Пушкина.Предназначена для широкого круга читателей и в первую очередь — для преподавателей и студентов гуманитарных вузов, а также для учителей и учащихся средней школы.
Критика
Аудиокнига "Комментарии к «Евгению Онегину» Александра Пушкина" от Владимира Набокова
📚 Великий русский поэт Александр Пушкин и его произведение "Евгений Онегин" стали неотъемлемой частью русской литературы. Владимир Набоков, известный писатель и литературовед, предлагает свой взгляд на этот шедевр в своих "Комментариях к «Евгению Онегину»".
🎧 В аудиокниге "Комментарии к «Евгению Онегину» Александра Пушкина" вы найдете глубокий анализ текста, интересные факты о создании произведения и тонкие нюансы, которые помогут вам лучше понять и полюбить эту классическую поэму.
🖋️ Владимир Набоков - выдающийся русско-американский писатель, литературовед и преподаватель. Известен своими романами, такими как "Лолита" и "Защита Лужина". Набоков обладал уникальным стилем письма и глубоким знанием литературы.
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Критика
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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 All this today is obsolete, I really don't know why; and anyway it was a matter12 of very little moment to my friend, since he yawned equally amidst modish and olden halls.III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 eighteen-eight: having a lot to do, the old man never looked into any other books.IV
Alone midst his possessions, merely to while away the time, at first conceived the plan our Eugene 4 of instituting a new system. In his backwoods a solitary sage, the ancient corvée's yoke by the light quitrent he replaced; 8 the muzhik blessed fate, while in his corner went into a huff, therein perceiving dreadful harm, his thrifty neighbor.12 Another slyly smiled, and all concluded with one voice that he was a most dangerous eccentric.V
At first they all would call on him, but since to the back porch habitually a Don stallion 4 for him was brought as soon as one made out along the highway the sound of their domestic runabouts — outraged by such behavior, 8 they all ceased to be friends with him. “Our neighbor is a boor; acts like a crackbrain; he's a Freemason; he drinks only red wine, by the tumbler;12 he won't go up to kiss a lady's hand; 'tis all ‘yes,’ ‘no’ — he'll not say ‘yes, sir,’ or ‘no, sir.’ ” This was the general voice.VI
At that same time a new landowner had driven down to his estate and in the neighborhood was giving cause 4 for just as strict a scrutiny. By name Vladimir Lenski, with a soul really Göttingenian, a handsome chap, in the full bloom of years, 8 Kant's votary, and a poet. From misty Germany he'd brought the fruits of learning: liberty-loving dreams, a spirit12 impetuous and rather queer, a speech always enthusiastic, and shoulder-length black curls.VII
From the world's cold depravity not having yet had time to wither, his soul was warmed by a friend's greeting, 4 by the caress of maidens. He was in matters of the heart a charming dunce. Hope nursed him, and the globe's new glitter and noise 8 still captivated his young mind. With a sweet fancy he amused his heart's incertitudes. The purpose of our life to him12 was an enticing riddle; he racked his brains over it and suspected marvels.VIII
He believed that a kindred soul to him must be united; that, cheerlessly pining away, 4 she daily kept awaiting him; he believed that his friends were ready to accept chains for his honor and that their hands would falter not in smashing 8 the vessel of his slanderer; that there were some chosen by fate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .12 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .IX
Indignation, compassion, pure love of Good, and fame's delicious torment 4 early had stirred his blood. He wandered with a lyre on earth. Under the sky of Schiller and of Goethe, with their poetic fire 8 his soul had kindled; and the exalted Muses of the art he, happy one, did not disgrace: he proudly in his songs retained12 always exalted sentiments, the surgings of a virgin fancy, and the charm of grave simplicity.X
To love submissive, love he sang, and his song was as clear as a naïve maid's thoughts, 4 as the sleep of an infant, as the moon in the untroubled deserts of the sky, goddess of mysteries and tender sighs. He sang parting and sadness, 8 and a vague something, and the dim remoteness, and romantic roses. He sang those distant lands where long into the bosom of the stillness12 flowed his live tears. He sang life's faded bloom at not quite eighteen years of age.XI
In the wilderness where Eugene alone was able to appreciate his gifts, he cared not for the banquets of the masters 4 of neighboring manors; he fled their noisy concourse. Their reasonable talk of haymaking, of liquor, 8 of kennel, of their kin, no doubt did not sparkle with feeling, or with poetic fire, or sharp wit, or intelligence,12 or with the art of sociability; but the talk of their sweet wives was much less intelligent.XII
Wealthy, good-looking, Lenski everywhere was as a marriageable man received: such is the country custom; 4 all for their daughters planned a match with the half-Russian neighbor. Whenever he drops in, at once the conversation broaches a word, obliquely, 8 about the tedium of bachelor life; the neighbor is invited to the samovar, and Dunya pours the tea; they whisper to her: “Dunya, mark!”12 Then the guitar (that, too) is brought, and she will start to shrill (good God!): “Come to me in my golden castle!..”12XIII
But Lenski, having no desire, of course, to bear the bonds of marriage, wished cordially to strike up with Onegin 4 a close acquaintanceship. They got together; wave and stone, verse and prose, ice and flame, were not so different from one another. 8 At first, because of mutual disparity, they found each other dull; then liked each other; then met riding every day on horseback,12 and soon became inseparable. Thus people — I'm the first to own it — out of do-nothingness are friends.XIV
But among us there's even no such friendship: having destroyed all prejudices, we deem all men naughts 4 and ourselves units. We all aspire to be Napoleons; for us the millions of two-legged creatures are but tools; 8 feeling to us is weird and ludicrous. More tolerant than many was Eugene, though he, of course, knew men and on the whole despised them;12 but no rules are without exceptions: some people he distinguished greatly and, though estranged from it, respected feeling.XV
He listened with a smile to Lenski: the poet's fervid conversation, and mind still vacillant in judgments, 4 and gaze eternally inspired — all this was novel to Onegin; the chilling word on his lips he tried to restrain, 8 and thought: foolish of me to interfere with his brief rapture; without me just as well that time will come; meanwhile let him live and believe12 in the perfection of the world; let us forgive the fever of young years both its young ardor and young ravings.XVI
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