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Пишет Юлий Давидов Жюльен Давидье Ta6y (![[info]](http://lj.rossia.org/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} pharisee)@ 2007-08-19 19:49:00 |
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мужчина породы азазель
9/1
Слупер лежал лицом в траве слушая Набокова .Его тошнило от изощеренности .Он вдруг представил киллометры под ним ,уходящие до ядра земли и у него закружилась голова от этой невидимой высоты на которой он лежит,пытаясь прислушаться к этому непроходимому пространству, подражая индейцам которые прикладывают ухо к земле как к животу беременной женщины.
Женщина из романа Набокова читала своему любимому пасынку на ночь Расина.Слупер вспомнил как по просьбе хозяйки шотландского терьера по кличке Чита ,писал для ее литературного факультатива сочинение о Федре.Он попытался вспомнить лицо девушки,но вместо него на экране век появлялась бородатая морда собаки сидящей на снегу.Слупер поднялся и походкой диверсанта подобрался к Набокову,вскочил на стул и зажав руками рот чтеца начал громко цитировать свое старое сочинение:
Trying to overcome the fear
Of his stepmother;
He didn’t try to find the words
That could save his mother,
Who turned to fire;
And in her sacred hunger
Was seeking death…
Leaving stories to descendants
Who could see themselves in those stories,
Racine wrote of Phaedra.
If Phaedra wasn’t wife of Hippolytus’ father,
Then maybe he’d be more reasonable
And responsive and sympathetic to Phaedrea’s passion
And lean his head to her breast.
Thus, justified rejection
Gives birth to intrigues;
And we, in our desire to posess,
Find suffering, and every time
We seek for cause to die.
Though Phaedra was his stepmother
And different blood ran through their veins,
And different saliva kept their mouths warm;
Tabu threw gloomy shadows
On fearless forhead of youth.
Phaedra, on the other hand,
like Antigony, not listening to gods---
To those gods, who now exist in only books,
Knew: what was inside of her
Was stronger than the code of heavens.
And so, not looking up at the Olympus,
It, by itself, like god
Bloomed in her heart like flower,
Scratching and ruining her heart…
If only Hippoliytus could find words,
So that his “NO” would not bring such a pain
To the one who was seeking his lips,
There would be no successive wave of deaths
That was caused by his bald and silly put response
To the revealing of Phaedrea’s passion.
Then, also, there’d be no drama
Written by Racine,
There’d be no reaction to the drama…
And Phaedra’d swallow her passion
Like tears and quetly grew old,
In silence taking pleasure in her dreams
About Hippolytus on her husband’s bed…
9/1
Слупер лежал лицом в траве слушая Набокова .Его тошнило от изощеренности .Он вдруг представил киллометры под ним ,уходящие до ядра земли и у него закружилась голова от этой невидимой высоты на которой он лежит,пытаясь прислушаться к этому непроходимому пространству, подражая индейцам которые прикладывают ухо к земле как к животу беременной женщины.
Женщина из романа Набокова читала своему любимому пасынку на ночь Расина.Слупер вспомнил как по просьбе хозяйки шотландского терьера по кличке Чита ,писал для ее литературного факультатива сочинение о Федре.Он попытался вспомнить лицо девушки,но вместо него на экране век появлялась бородатая морда собаки сидящей на снегу.Слупер поднялся и походкой диверсанта подобрался к Набокову,вскочил на стул и зажав руками рот чтеца начал громко цитировать свое старое сочинение:
In the old tale of passion
Told with ancient words
You can find a story of a woman,
Who couldn’t find courage
To breed revenge in her heart
Under the breast, which could be kiss by him----
The one she loved…
Mature Phaedra----a flower
Stiffened in her husband’s bed,
Not finding satisfaction in her posessions,
Found a subject for adoration
In her stepson, Hippolytus.
And this adoration of hers,
As if she was pregnant with it,
Grew stronger by day.
But Hippolytus was pure and silly,
And seeing this passion,
Told with ancient words
You can find a story of a woman,
Who couldn’t find courage
To breed revenge in her heart
Under the breast, which could be kiss by him----
The one she loved…
Mature Phaedra----a flower
Stiffened in her husband’s bed,
Not finding satisfaction in her posessions,
Found a subject for adoration
In her stepson, Hippolytus.
And this adoration of hers,
As if she was pregnant with it,
Grew stronger by day.
But Hippolytus was pure and silly,
And seeing this passion,
Trying to overcome the fear
Of his stepmother;
He didn’t try to find the words
That could save his mother,
Who turned to fire;
And in her sacred hunger
Was seeking death…
Leaving stories to descendants
Who could see themselves in those stories,
Racine wrote of Phaedra.
If Phaedra wasn’t wife of Hippolytus’ father,
Then maybe he’d be more reasonable
And responsive and sympathetic to Phaedrea’s passion
And lean his head to her breast.
Thus, justified rejection
Gives birth to intrigues;
And we, in our desire to posess,
Find suffering, and every time
We seek for cause to die.
Though Phaedra was his stepmother
And different blood ran through their veins,
And different saliva kept their mouths warm;
Tabu threw gloomy shadows
On fearless forhead of youth.
Phaedra, on the other hand,
like Antigony, not listening to gods---
To those gods, who now exist in only books,
Knew: what was inside of her
Was stronger than the code of heavens.
And so, not looking up at the Olympus,
It, by itself, like god
Bloomed in her heart like flower,
Scratching and ruining her heart…
If only Hippoliytus could find words,
So that his “NO” would not bring such a pain
To the one who was seeking his lips,
There would be no successive wave of deaths
That was caused by his bald and silly put response
To the revealing of Phaedrea’s passion.
Then, also, there’d be no drama
Written by Racine,
There’d be no reaction to the drama…
And Phaedra’d swallow her passion
Like tears and quetly grew old,
In silence taking pleasure in her dreams
About Hippolytus on her husband’s bed…
