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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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Тут можно читать бесплатно Комментарии к «Евгению Онегину» Александра Пушкина - Владимир Набоков. Жанр: Критика. Так же Вы можете читать полную версию (весь текст) онлайн книги без регистрации и SMS на сайте Knigi-online.info (книги онлайн) или прочесть краткое содержание, описание, предисловие (аннотацию) от автора и ознакомиться с отзывами (комментариями) о произведении.
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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Onegin'S Letter To Tatiana
I foresee everything: the explanation of a sad secret will offend you. What bitter scorn 4 your proud glance will express! What do I want? What is my object in opening my soul to you? What wicked merriment 8 perhaps I give occasion to!Chancing to meet you once, noting in you a spark of tenderness, I did not venture to believe in it:12 did not give way to a sweet habit; my tedious freedom I did not wish to lose. Another thing yet separated us:16 a hapless victim Lenski fell. From all that to the heart is dear then did I tear my heart away; alien to everybody, tied by nothing,20 I thought: liberty and peace are a substitute for happiness. Good God! How wrong I was, how I am punished!
No — every minute to see you; to follow24 you everywhere; the smile of your lips, movement of your eyes, to try to capture with enamored eyes; to listen long to you, to comprehend28 all your perfection with one's soul; to melt in agonies before you, grow pale and waste away... that's rapture!
And I'm deprived of that; for you32 I drag myself at random everywhere; to me each day is dear, each hour is dear, while I in futile dullness squander the days told off by fate — they are36 sufficiently oppressive anyway. I know: my span is well-nigh measured; but that my life may be prolonged I must be certain in the morning40 of seeing you during the day.
I fear: in my meek plea your severe gaze will see the schemes of despicable cunning —44 and I can hear your wrathful censure. If you hut knew how terrible it is to languish with the thirst of love, burn — and by means of reason hourly48 subdue the tumult in one's blood; wish to embrace your knees and, in a burst of sobbing, at your feet pour out appeals, avowals, plaints,52 all, all I could express, and in the meantime with feigned coldness arm speech and gaze, maintain a placid conversation,56 glance at you with a cheerful glance!...
But let it be: against myself I've not the force to struggle any more; all is decided: I am in your power,60 and I surrender to my fate.
XXXIII
There is no answer. He sends a new missive. To the second, to the third letter — there is no answer. He drives out to some 4 reception. Hardly has he entered — there she is coming in his direction. How severe! He is not seen, to him no word is said. Ugh! How surrounded she is now 8 with Twelfthtide cold! How anxious are to hold back indignation her stubborn lips! Onegin peers with a keen eye:12 where, where are discomposure, sympathy, where the tearstains? None, none! There's on that face but the imprint of wrath...XXXIV
plus, possibly, a secret fear lest husband or monde guess the escapade, the casual foible, 4 all my Onegin knows.... There is no hope! He drives away, curses his folly — and, deeply plunged in it, 8 the monde he once again renounces and in his silent study comes to him the recollection of the time when cruel chondria12 pursued him in the noisy monde, captured him, took him by the collar, and shut him up in a dark hole.XXXV
Again, without discrimination, he started reading. He read Gibbon, Rousseau, Manzoni, Herder, 4 Chamfort, Mme de Staël, Bichat, Tissot. He read the skeptic Bayle, he read the works of Fontenelle, he read some [authors] of our own, 8 without rejecting anything — the “almanacs” and the reviews where sermons into us are drummed, where I'm today abused so much12 but where such madrigals addressed tome I used to meet with now and then: e sempre bene, gentlemen.XXXVI
And lo — his eyes were reading, but his thoughts were far away; chimeras, desires, sorrows 4 kept crowding deep into his soul. Between the printed lines he with spiritual eyes read other lines. It was in them 8 that he was utterly absorbed. These were the secret legends of the heart's dark ancientry; dreams unconnected12 with anything; threats, rumors, presages; or the live tosh of a long tale, or a young maiden's letters.XXXVII
And by degrees into a lethargy of feelings and of thoughts he falls, while before him Imagination 4 deals out her motley faro deck. Now he sees: on the melted snow, as at a night's encampment sleeping, stirless, a youth lies; and he hears 8 a voice: “Well, what — he's dead!” Now he sees foes forgotten, calumniators, and malicious cowards, and a swarm of young traitresses,12 and a circle of despicable comrades; and now a country house, and by the window sits she... and ever she!XXXVIII
He grew so used to lose himself in this that he almost went off his head or else became a poet. (Frankly, 4 that would have been a boon, indeed!) And true: by dint of magnetism, the mechanism of Russian verses my addleheaded pupil 8 at that time nearly grasped. How much a poet he resembled when in a corner he would sit alone, and the hearth blazed in front of him,12 and he hummed “Benedetta” or “Idol mio,” and into the fire dropped now a slipper, now his magazine!XXXIX
Days rushed. In warmth-pervaded air winter already was resolving; and he did not become a poet, 4 he did not die, did not go mad. Spring quickens him: for the first time his close-shut chambers, where he had been hibernating like a marmot, 8 his double windows, inglenook — he leaves on a bright morning, he fleets in sleigh along the Neva's bank. Upon blue blocks of hewn-out ice12 the sun plays. In the streets the furrowed snow thaws muddily: whither, upon it, his fast courseXL
directs Onegin? You beforehand have guessed already. Yes, exactly: apace to her, to his Tatiana, 4 my unreformed eccentric comes. He walks in, looking like a corpse. There's not a soul in the front hall. He enters the reception room. On! No one. 8 A door he opens.... What is it that strikes him with such force? The princess before him, alone, sits, unadorned, pale, reading12 some kind of letter, and softly sheds a flood of tears, her cheek propped on her hand.XLI
Ah! Her mute sufferings — in this swift instant who would not have read! Who would not have the former Tanya, 4 poor Tanya, recognized now in the princess? In throes of mad regrets, Eugene falls at her feet; she gives a start, 8 and is silent, and looks, without surprise, without wrath, at Onegin.... His sick, extinguished gaze, imploring aspect, mute reproof,12 she takes in everything. The simple maid, with the dreams, with the heart of former days again in her has resurrected now.XLII
She does not bid him rise and, not taking her eyes off him, does not withdraw 4 her limp hand from his avid lips.... What is her dreaming now about? A lengthy silence passes, and finally she, softly: 8 “Enough; get up. I must frankly explain myself to you. Onegin, do you recollect that hour when in the garden, in the avenue, fate brought us12 together and so meekly your lesson I heard out. Today it is my turn.XLIII
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