Aleksandr Pushkin

[Boris239]

Where have you read abou Mayakovsky living in the US for a long time? He spent some time there, but he definitely lived most of his life in Russia/USSR. I actually can't imagine Mayakovsky being translated. What have you read- his plays or only poems? My grandmother actually lived in the same apartment as Mayakovsky's last love Lilya Brik.
Gorky has spent a while abroad, but still he lived most of his life in Russia.
Nabokov wrote in both English and Russian, and left Russia when he was young, so he can be considered part of both Russian and American literature.

[Evi]

Boris,

The citizenchip can be gained either by birth ( being a Russian -for example -because you have been borned there and your parents are Russian , or at least one of your parents) either becaue you are married to a Russian ( for example) or generally you have applied for a reason for the citizenship.

But the nationality doesnt change. If you want to moove in another country and you can moove ( if you have all the legal documents requested etc) and if the other country ( the foreign one) accepts you, that doesnt mean that you are not the person you were from the nation you came for.

A lot of Greeks emigrated to many countries during the years beacuse of the poverty ( for " a better luck") or because of other reasons. This doesnt stop them being Greeks. ONLY if they wanted to forget their own language they will become something "strange" as the citizens of the new country they wont exactly welcome them at least for the first years!

I have read Mayakofsky when i was younger , many years ago. I remember ( if i am not totaly uncorrect ) that he died in America ( US) That he lived a lot of years there and that he died there. I have to search my books in order to answer you about Mayakofsky.
Evi

[Boris239]

I am sorry to tell you but you are mistaken, and Mayakovsky died in USSR. In fact, his death was very mysterious- although officially he commited suicide, a lot of people suspected some NKVD involvement.
I don't understand what about Nabokov you don't agree with. I am not saying that he stopped being Russian, but because most of his books are written in English, he is part of American literature as well as Russian. And don't worry I know how citizenship is being granted and all about emigration- after all I am one myself.

[Evi]

Boris,

I told you from teh beginning that i am not sure where he died. I have to reread my old book and i will come back with this.

As about Nabokov, i havent said anything bad. I just said that the fact that he is born Russian doesnt change. Doesnt make him American. Nana Muskuri is a famous Greek singer who lived many years in France. French consider her a French value but she is still Greek and she feels Greek.

I am sure you know everything about citizenhsip,sorry if i gave the impression that i wanted "to teach you anything". I was just discussing.

Evi

[bazarov]

Nabokov wrote in both English and Russian, and left Russia when he was young, so he can be considered part of both Russian and American literature.

I don't understand what about Nabokov you don't agree with. I am not saying that he stopped being Russian, but because most of his books are written in English, he is part of American literature as well as Russian.

Boris,

As about Nabokov, i havent said anything bad. I just said that the fact that he is born Russian doesnt change. Doesnt make him American.

Evi

Boris didn't say that Nabokov became an American, he said that he became a part of American literature!

[bazarov]

By A. Pushkin



If I walk the noisy streets,
Or enter a many thronged church,
Or sit among the wild young generation,
I give way to my thoughts.

I say to myself: the years are fleeting,
And however many there seem to be,
We must all go under the eternal vault,
And someone's hour is already at hand.

When I look at a solitary oak
I think: the patriarch of the woods.
It will outlive my forgotten age
As it outlived that of my grandfathers'.

If I caress a young child,
Immediately I think: farewell!
I will yield my place to you,
For I must fade while your flower blooms.


Each day, every hour
I habitually follow in my thoughts,
Trying to guess from their number
The year which brings my death.


And where will fate send death to me?
In battle, in my travels, or on the seas?
Or will the neighbouring valley
Receive my chilled ashes?

And although to the senseless body
It is indifferent wherever it rots,
Yet close to my beloved countryside
I still would prefer to rest.


And let it be, beside the grave's vault
That young life forever will be playing,
And impartial, indifferent nature
Eternally be shining in beauty.

[bazarov]

By Alexander Pushkin


The storm wind covers the sky
Whirling the fleecy snow drifts,
Now it howls like a wolf,
Now it is crying, like a lost child,
Now rustling the decayed thatch
On our tumbledown roof,
Now, like a delayed traveller,
Knocking on our window pane.


Our wretched little cottage
Is gloomy and dark.
Why do you sit all silent
Hugging the window, old gran?
Has the howling of the storm
Wearied you, at last, dear friend?
Or are you dozing fitfully
Under the spinning wheel's humming?


Let us drink, dearest friend
To my poor wasted youth.
Let us drink from grief - Where's the glass?
Our hearts at least will be lightened.
Sing me a song of how the bluetit
Quietly lives across the sea.
Sing me a song of how the young girl
Went to fetch water in the morning.


The storm wind covers the sky
Whirling the fleecy snow drifts
Now it howls like a wolf,
Now it is crying, like a lost child.
Let us drink, dearest friend
To my poor wasted youth.
Let us drink from grief - Where's the glass?
Our hearts at least will be lightened.

[bazarov]

By Pushkin.

If I walk the noisy streets,
Or enter a many thronged church,
Or sit among the wild young generation,
I give way to my thoughts.

I say to myself: the years are fleeting,
And however many there seem to be,
We must all go under the eternal vault,
And someone's hour is already at hand.


When I look at a solitary oak
I think: the patriarch of the woods.
It will outlive my forgotten age
As it outlived that of my grandfathers'.


If I dandle a young infant,
Immediately I think: farewell!
I will yield my place to you,
For I must fade while your flower blooms.

Each day, and every hour
I habitually follow in my thoughts,
Trying to guess from their number
The year which brings my death.


And where will fate send death to me?
In battle, in my travels, or on the seas?
Or will the neighbouring valley
Receive my chilled ashes?


And although to the senseless body
It is indifferent wherever it rots,
Yet close to my beloved countryside
I still would prefer to rest.


And let it be, beside the grave's vault
That young life forever will be playing,
And impartial, indifferent nature
Eternally be shining in beauty.

[Evi]

Bazarov,
Literature doesnt have a citizenship and a nationality after all. Everyone can enjoy ( thanks God for that!) all the books and all the authors. Of course Nabokov is a part of American ( and general) literature. And not only. Tolstoy and Shakespeare etc etc are great authors and they represent all citizens of this world. Maybe my writting is wrong? maybe i dont know English anymore? Whatever i said i have to explain it afterwards not to make a problem. anyway, i dint want io insult anybody people!

Bazarov,
Thank you for the verions. Very beautiful.

evi

[bazarov]

Literature doesnt have a citizenship and a nationality after all. Everyone can enjoy ( thanks God for that!) all the books and all the authorsevi

I agree.

Of course Nabokov is a part of American ( and general) literature. And not only. Tolstoy and Shakespeare etc etc are great authors and they represent all citizens of this world.

Nobody is saying that Nabokov isn't part of American literature, actually that was something that Boris also pointed, but Nabokov is also a part of Russian literature, and he is Russian and only a Russian, no mather of being a part of American literature.

Maybe my writting is wrong? maybe i dont know English anymore? Whatever i said i have to explain it afterwards not to make a problem. anyway, i dint want io insult anybody people!

You're writing is OK, but it seems to me you don't fully understand what was Boris saying. I suggest you to read his posts once again

Bazarov,
Thank you for the verions. Very beautiful.

You're welcome.

[d_rebelutionary]

"With a sword he clove my breast
plucked out the heart he made beat higher
and in my stricken bosom pressed
in its stead a coal of living fire"

This is not meticulously stated but spoken truly from the top of my head.
I took this poem and I feel it describes my unspoken philosophies about the human character. I will speak of them once I know the words to describe how much I love Pushkin. I do not know when that day will come.

[bazarov]

This one of my favorite poems...


The Poor Knight
(A.S. Pushkin)

There was once a poor knight living
All alone in the wide world;
His appearance grim and livid,
But his spirit true and bold.

He once saw a saintly vision,
Something dazzling he did see,
And profoundly the impression
Cut into his memory.

For Geneva bound, he tarried
By the road; beside a cross
He beheld the Virgin Mary,
Mother of the Holy Christ.

Since that time, his soul on fire,
He at females never glanced;
Til his dying day drew nigher,
Didn’t address them ever once.

Since that time, an iron lattice
Never lifted from his face –
And the scarf gone – where the neck is,
Hung a rosary in its place.

To take prayers to the Father,
Or the Spirit, or the Son,
Was, it being an odd thing rather,
Something he had never done.

He would spend his nights entire
Bowed before the Virgin’s brow,
Weeping quietly – with dire
Tears, that melancholy flow.

Full of faith, enamored dearly
Of his pious dream, with blood
Ave, Mater Dei clearly
He inscribed upon his shield.

While the cavalry of errants
Through the Palestinian plains
Ran at trembling adversaries,
Calling the beloved names,

Lumen coelum, sancta rosa!
He called louder than the rest,
As the Muslim threats came closer
To his head from every nest.

Then, returning to his castle,
Lived, with no one by his side.
Still enamored, still bedazzled,
Uncommunioned he died.

As he readied to expire,
Lo, the Evil Spirit came.
Keen to, as the time drew nigher,
Drag his soul into His realm.

Saying, he has said no prayers.
Saying, he has held no fast;
And not properly made passes
At the mother of the Christ,

But the Holy Virgin pleaded
For his soul before the King,
Letting into Heaven’s kingdom
Her beloved paladin.


Translated by Genia Gurarie

Sended to PM by jersey_bird.

[Newcomer]

An interesting site for discussions of Eugene Onegin is the Russian Literature Message Board
mb.sparknotes.com/mb.epl?b=60&m=541949&f=1&p=2&t=161602#541949

[aeroport]

Bazarov,
Literature doesnt have a citizenship and a nationality after all. Everyone can enjoy ( thanks God for that!) all the books and all the authors. Of course Nabokov is a part of American ( and general) literature. And not only. Tolstoy and Shakespeare etc etc are great authors and they represent all citizens of this world.

Well, yes, more or less. I can agree with the latter part of this, but, quite honestly, I am increasingly unsure about translated literature. (This is why I signed up for Russian in college - only to be disappointed in finding that my university has not been offering it for a few years... ) I only say this because there are a few things - granted only a few, but still - that I simply cannot imagine in translation. One of these is Finnegan's Wake; another is Late James. I'll let the former go, as it is totally unreasonable in English alone (I doubt people are confident enough in reading it, let alone translating!), and there are so many made-up words that it scarcely matters anyway, but the James does present an issue for me, as there is simply no limit to the sheer number of words the man knew, which brings me to the number of words in the English language itself. It is perhaps slightly unfair to point out that it is well over twice as vast as any other language (save perhaps Russian, which I'll come back to momentarily), as it is the very nature of the language to assimilate foreign words; yet it is still a concern that a translated work which does its best to capture the narrative but (necessarily) loses a great deal of the connotation and subtext is almost a total waste of the reader's time. Fortunately, I know English and need not worry about a translation with James, but I worry about similar problems with Russian literature. The impression I get is that Russian has a more or less equal number of words to English. And while this might make English translations of Russian literature somewhat simpler than, say, German or French translations, it still seems that the nature of the words themselves is largely different. (I vaguely recall hearing a joke once about "the Russian word for 'sitting on a rock at night, watching the sea...under the stars...quietly' ", or something like that. A mighty verb, I must say. )

Anyway, I guess what I'm saying amounts to a questioning of whether all literature really can be enjoyed by all literate people. Is there really any point to reading translated literature if it is unable to reproduce the subtleties that can actually give the work its meaning? Just curious what people think. This actually might apply more to poetry, though...

[Newcomer]

“Literature doesn't have a citizenship and a nationality after all.” Nor a unique sensibility of the human condition expressed in a particular language. Transference from the author to the reader is an approximation. Time and experience changes the denotation of words. To the question of “Is there really any point to reading translated literature if it is unable to reproduce the subtleties that can actually give the work its meaning?”, I would ask – to what degree?
Surely you would not maintain that two Russian speakers, one brought up in a hellhole and a Nabakov would derive the same understanding or pleasure from Eugene Onegin?
Onegin has been transferred to opera (Tchaikovsky), to film ( director, Martha Fiennes), to ballet (Cranko) and all to some degree lost the uniqueness of the original. The Russians being particularly scatting in criticism of the foreign productions. And the translations whether the scholarly Nabakov or the versification by Douglas Hofstadter, the rhyming version by Charles Johnson or the James E. Falen's translation must pale to the original. But would we not be impoverished had these attempts not been made?
What of the fragments of Sappho? The archaic Greek is not understood even by the contemporary Greeks. What of the Iliad and Odyssey where the consciousness of self has radically changed? Should we dismiss these translations and loose the perspective offered because we can not recapture the original?
To the question,” whether all literature really can be enjoyed by all literate people”, I would answer “Well, yes, more or less.”