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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»".
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🖋️ 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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XXIX
Here you are sure to find two hearts, a torch, and flowerets; here you will read no doubt 4 love's vows “Unto the tomb slab”; some military poetaster here has dashed off a roguish rhyme. In such an album, to be frank, my friends, 8 I too am glad to write, at heart being convinced that any zealous trash of mine will merit an indulgent glance12 and that thereafter, with a wicked smile, one will not solemnly examine if I could babble wittily or not.XXX
But you, odd volumes from the bibliotheca of the devils, the gorgeous albums, 4 the rack of fashionable rhymesters; you, nimbly ornamented by Tolstoy's wonder-working brush, or Baratïnski's pen, 8 let the Lord's levin burn you! Whenever her in-quarto a resplendent lady proffers to me, a tremor and a waspishness possess me,12 and at the bottom of my soul there stirs an epigram — but madrigals you have to write for them!XXXI
Not madrigals does Lenski write in the album of young Olga; his pen breathes love — 4 it does not glitter frigidly with wit. Whatever he notes, whatever he hears concerning Olga, this he writes about; and full of vivid truth 8 flow, riverlike, his elegies. Thus you, inspired Yazïkov, sing, in the surgings of your heart, God knows whom, and the precious code12 of elegies will represent for you someday the entire story of your fate.XXXII
But soft! You hear? A critic stern commands us to throw off the sorry wreath of elegies; 4 and to our brotherhood of rhymesters cries: “Do stop whimpering and croaking always the same thing, regretting 'the foregone, the past'; 8 enough! Sing about something else!” — You're right, and surely you'll point out to us the trumpet, mask, and dagger, and everywhence a dead stock of ideas12 bid us revive. Thus friend? — “Nowise! Far from it! Write odes, gentlemen,XXXIII
“as in a mighty age one wrote them, as was in times of yore established.” Nothing but solemn odes? 4 Oh, come, friend; what's this to the purpose? Recall what said the satirist! Does the shrewd lyrist in “As Others See It” seem more endurable to you 8 than our glum rhymesters? — “But in the elegy all is so null; its empty aim is pitiful; whilst the aim of the ode is lofty12 and noble.” Here I might argue with you, but I keep still: I do not want to make two ages quarrel.XXXIV
A votary of fame and freedom, in the excitement of his stormy thoughts, Vladimir might have written odes, 4 only that Olga did not read them. Have ever chanced larmoyant poets to read their works before the eyes of their beloved ones? It is said, no higher 8 rewards are in the world. And, verily, blest is the modest lover reading his daydreams to the object of songs and love,12 a pleasantly languorous belle! Blest — though perhaps by something quite different she is diverted.XXXV
But I the products of my fancies and of harmonious device read but to an old nurse, 4 companion of my youth; or after a dull dinner, when a neighbor strays in to see me — having caught him by a coat skirt unexpectedly — 8 I choke him in a corner with a tragedy, or else (but that's apart from jesting), haunted by yearnings and by rhymes, roaming along my lake,12 I scare a flock of wild ducks; they, on heeding the chant of sweet-toned strophes, fly off the banks.XXXVII
But what about Onegin? By the way, brothers! I beg your patience: his daily occupations in detail 4 I shall describe to you. Onegin anchoretically lived; he rose in summer between six and seven and, lightly clad, proceeded to the river 8 that ran under the hillside. Imitating the songster of Gulnare, across this Hellespont he swam, then drank his coffee, while he flipped12 through some wretched review, and dressedXXXIX
Rambles, and reading, and sound sleep, the sylvan shade, the purl of streams, sometimes a white-skinned, dark-eyed girl's 4 young and fresh kiss, a horse of mettle, bridle-true, a rather fancy dinner, a bottle of bright wine, 8 seclusion, quiet — this was Onegin's saintly life; and he insensibly to it surrendered, the fair summer days12 in carefree mollitude not counting, oblivious of both town and friends and of the boredom of festive devices.XL
But our Northern summer is a caricature of Southern winters; it will glance by and vanish: this is known, 4 though to admit it we don't wish. The sky already breathed of autumn, the sun already shone more seldom, the day was growing shorter, 8 the woods' mysterious canopy with a sad murmur bared itself, mist settled on the fields, the caravan of clamorous geese12 was tending southward; there drew near a rather tedious period; November stood already at the door.XLI
Dawn rises in cold murk; stilled in the grainfields is the noise of labors; with his hungry female, the wolf 4 comes out upon the road; the road horse, sensing him, snorts, and the wary traveler goes tearing uphill at top speed; 8 no longer does the herdsman drive at sunrise the cows out of the shippon, and at the hour of midday in a circle his horn does not call them together;12 in her small hut singing, the maiden23 spins and, the friend of winter nights, in front of her the splintlight crackles.XLII
And now the frosts already crackle and silver 'mid the fields (the reader now expects the rhyme “froze-rose” — 4 here, take it quick!). Neater than modish parquetry, the ice-clad river shines. The gladsome crew of boys24 8 cut with their skates resoundingly the ice; a heavy goose with red feet, planning to swim upon the bosom of the waters, steps carefully upon the ice,12 slidders, and falls. The gay first snow flicks, whirls, falling in stars upon the bank.XLIII
What can one do at this time in the wilds? Walk? But the country at that time is an involuntary eyesore 4 in its unbroken nakedness. Go galloping in the harsh prairie? But, catching with a blunted shoe the treacherous ice, one's mount 8 is likely any moment to come down. Stay under your desolate roof, read; here is Pradt, here's Walter Scott! Don't want to? Verify expenses,12 grumble or drink, and the long evening somehow will pass; and next day the same thing, and famously you'll spend the winter.XLIV
Onegin like a regular Childe Harold lapsed into pensive indolence: right after sleep he takes a bath with ice, 4 and then, at home all day, alone, absorbed in calculations, armed with a blunt cue, using two balls, 8 ever since morn plays billiards. The country evening comes; abandoned are billiards, the cue is forgot. Before the fireplace the table is laid;12 Eugene waits; here comes Lenski, borne by a troika of roan horses; quick, let's have dinner!XLV
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