Playing With Words, Vladimir Nabokov

 

The Underside of Words

“I like to take a word and turn it over to see its underside, shiny or dull or adorned with motley hues absent on its upperside . . . one finds all sorts of curious things by studying the underside of a word—unexpected shadows of other words, harmonies between them, hidden beauties that suddenly reveal something beyond the word.”

When given a demonstration of “serious word play, the good reader suddenly sees a completely new facet of an iridescent sentence.”

Vladimir Nabokov, Think, Write, Speak

[excerpted from book by U.R. Bowie, Here We Be. Where Be We?]

Poem by Bobby Goosey, GROWING

 

 

Bobby Lee Goosey
 
Growing

Are you a kid?
Have you got a big toe?
Have you ever thought to watch it grow?
 
Because it is growing, you know.
Every minute of the day.
And even in the nighttime while you sleep.
 
That toe’s growing. And your ears are too.
And your nose.
And every little hair on your head.
 
They’re all growing.
Every minute of the day.
And even in the nighttime while you sleep.
 
So why not sit down some time
And watch them grow?
You can use a mirror to watch your nose. Grow.
 
You say you can’t see anything growing?
You say nothing’s changing?
You say your nose and toes and hair
Won’t grow?
 
Well, they all do grow,
But they like to go slow,
And maybe they don’t like
Being watched.
 
Tell you what to do.
Tell you how to check.
To be sure.
That everything’s growing
Like it should:
 
Before you go to bed tonight
Take out a ruler.
Measure your big toe.
Write down how many inches.
 
Now then. Do you like to suck a finger?
To help you go to sleep?
You do? Which one?
Not the thumb?
Okay. Right. The index finger.
The one that points.
 
So. Before you go to bed tonight
(And right after you measure your big toe),
Measure that index finger
(The one that points).
Your sucking finger.
 
Okay. Then all you have to do,
When you wake up in the morning,
Is:
 
Grab your big toe and measure it again.
How many inches?
If you’re growing like you should,
The toe will be a half inch longer.
 
Then take your sucking finger
Out of your mouth.
Is it wet? Good.
Measure it again.
 
The finger should be
One inch longer
Because:
Sucking fingers grow faster,
They get more water.
Irrigation.
 
If you find that your big toe
And your sucking finger
Aren’t growing that fast,
Don’t worry.
They’ll grow.
 
Maybe they don’t like being measured.
Put the ruler away. They’ll grow.
And if you want your big toe to grow faster,
Use it tonight and let your sucking finger rest.
Irrigate the toe. Suck the big toe.
 
And if none of this
Makes any sense to you,
Don’t worry about it.
You’ll grow.
No need to worry about growing,
Because:
Your growing grows all by itself.
Just grow. Slow.
And one day you’ll find yourself
All grown up!

 

 [from Bobby Goosey’s Nonsense Verse for Kids]

 

 

Translation of Poem by Vladislav Khodasevich, ВЛАДИСЛАВ ХОДАСЕВИЧ, "Я не знаю худшего мучения," I KNOW OF NO WORSE TORMENT

 

ВЛАДИСЛАВ ХОДАСЕВИЧ
(1886-1939)
 
Я не знаю худшего мучения —
Как не знать мученья никогда.
Только в злейших муках — обновленье,
Лишь за мглой губительной — звезда.
 
Если бы всегда — одни приятности,
Если б каждый день нам нес цветы,
-Мы б не знали вовсе о превратности,
Мы б не знали сладости мечты.
 
Мы не поняли бы радости хотения,
Если бы всегда нам отвечали: «Да».
Я не знаю худшего мученья —
Как не знать мученья никогда.
 
14 января 1905
 
*****
               d

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

I know of no worse torment
Than knowing no torment at all.
Only in agonies lies renewed ferment,
Beyond the most lethal of shoals comes landfall.
 
If nothing but happiness fell to our lot,
If each day brought flowers and never sour grapes,
We’d have no idea of vicissitudes fraught,
Nor any conception of sweetest dreamscapes.
 
We’d not apprehend all the joy of pure yearning
If always receiving the same answer: “Yes.”
I know of no torment more harsh, undiscerning
Than knowing no tormenting aching distress.
 

 

Fear Has Big Eyes У СТРАХА ГЛАЗА ВЕЛИКИ

 

Russian proverb: “Fear has big eyes.”  У СТРАХА ГЛАЗА ВЕЛИКИ

 Don’t let the anxiety get to you: all will come right in the end. Close those big wild eyes that the fear has opened so wide. Relax, homosapien. None of this is real anyway.

 

[excerpted from the book by U.R. Bowie, Here We Be. Where Be We?]

Translations: The Bestest of the Best, FIFTEEN, Afanasy Fet, "Шёпот, робкое дыханье," WHISPERING AND TIMID BREATHING

 

[Note from U.R. Bowie: I am re-posting what I consider the best of my translations of Russian poetry]

Afanasy Fet
(1820-1892)

 

Шёпот, робкое дыханье,
           Трели соловья,
Серебро и колыханье
           Сонного ручья,

Свет ночной, ночные тени,
           Тени без конца,
Ряд волшебных изменений
           Милого лица,

В дымных тучках пурпур розы,
           Отблеск янтаря,
И лобзания, и слёзы,
           И заря, заря!..

 1850

                                                              Literal Translation
 
Whispering, timid breathing,
                The trills of a nightingale,
The silver and the swaying
                Of a sleepy brook,
 
Nocturnal light, the shadows of night,
                Shadows without end,
A lot of magical changes
                Of a dear face,
 
In the hazy clouds the purple of a rose,
                The reflection of amber,
And kisses, and tears,
                And the dawn, the dawn!

Literary Translation/Imitation by U.R. Bowie

 

Whispering and timid breathing,

Nightingale’s trill,

Silver sheen of waters seething,

Sleepy brooklet’s dishabille.

 

Noctilucence, nocturne shades,

Lengthy shadows without end,

Alternating glow cascades,

Charm to dear face lends,

 

On hazy clouds a rose-pink stain,

In answer amber’s antiphon, 

And kisses, weeping, silent pain,

And then the dawn, the dawn!

 

Date of Translation: January, 2019

Translation of Poem by Vladislav Khodasevich, Владислав Ходасевич, "Горит звезда, дрожит эфир," THE TREMBLING ETHER STARLIGHT SUNDERS

 

Владислав Ходасевич
(1886-1939)
 
Горит звезда, дрожит эфир,
Таится ночь в пролеты арок.
Как не любить весь этот мир,
Невероятный Твой подарок?
 
Ты дал мне пять неверных чувств,
Ты дал мне время и пространство,
Играет в мареве искусств
Моей души непостоянство.
 
И я творю из ничего
Твои моря, пустыни, горы,
Всю славу солнца Твоего,
Так ослепляющего взоры.
 
И разрушаю вдруг шутя
Всю эту пышную нелепость,
Как рушит малое дитя
Из карт построенную крепость.
 
4 декабря 1921

d

                                            Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
The trembling ether starlight sunders,
In bays of arches night thoughts lurk.
How not to love the whole world’s wonders,
Thy sumptuous gift, astute earthwork?
 
Thou gavest me five non-precise senses,
Thou gavest me time and teeming space,
In heat haze of art’s doubtful graces
My soul inconstant writhes in place.
 
And I create ex nihilo
Thy seas and deserts, peaks of mountains,
The glories of Thy sun aglow,
Which dazzles eyes, illumines fountains,
 
And then in jest to fluff and flinders
I smash Thy lush, absurd demesne, 
Just as a child leaves naught but splinters
Of what was once his model plane. 
 

 

 

Comparisons of English Translations of Gogol's DEAD SOULS. "Feminine Hypocrisy and Cant"

 

«Мертвые души» на английском языке (переводы)

APPENDIX TWO: TRANSLATIONS INTO ENGLISH

Introduction

How many translations of Gogol’s DS have been published in English? My first estimate is about twelve, but surely it’s even more than that. Since I do not have the twenty years it would require to check all these translations, comparing them line by line with the original Russian, I have proceeded as follows. I take my original Russian text of DS from Vol. 5 in Gogol’s Collected Works (Moskva: Khudozhestvennaja literatura, 1967). When I come upon places in the original that may present special problems for the translator, I check them in five different translations: (1) Bernard Guilbert Guerney (NY: Modern Library, 1965) [originally published in 1942, revised 1948, 1964]; this translation includes passages from early drafts of DS, later cut by Gogol, but that presents no particular problem in comparing translations; in 1996  the American Gogol scholar Susanne Fusso republished the Guerney translation, updated and edited, minus the passages from early drafts (which she includes in an appendix); that book is still in print (Yale University Press); (2) David Magarshack (Penguin Books, 1961); (3) George Reavey (Norton Critical Edition, 1985); (4) Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky (Random House, 1996; Vintage Classics Ed., 1997); (5) Donald Rayfield (Garnett Press, 2008; New York Review, 2012). Page numbers cited in my text refer to the copy in my possession, which is the copy published in the last date given above. Here are the abbreviations I use: BGG for Guerney; SF for Fusso; DM for Magarshack; GR for Reavey; PV for Pevear and Volokhonsky; DR for Rayfield. Although not checking all the passages in her translation, I pay homage to the dean of all translators of Russian literature into English, Constance Garnett (CG), by occasionally consulting her text (my copy: Ottawa, Canada: East India Publishing Co., 2023).

THE TEXTUAL COMPARISONS

[my comments and amendations in brackets within the quoted English text, URB]

d

Feminine Hypocrisy and Cant

Here's how the translators handle a passage that modern-day feminists would pounce upon, flailing whips in hand: Chichikov’s ruminations about the governor’s daughter in Ch. 5. “No ved’ chto, glavnoe, v nej khorosho? . . . chto v nej, kak govoritsja, net eshche nichego bab’ego, to est’ imenno togo, chto u nikh est’ samogo neprijatnogo. Ona teper’ kak ditja, vse v nej prosto, ona skazhet, chto ej vzdumaetsja, zasmeetsja, gde zakhochet zasmejat’sja. Iz nee vse mozhno sdelat’, ona mozhet byt’ chudo, a mozhet vyjti i drjan’, i vyjdet drjan’! Vot pust’-ka tol’ko za nee primutsja teper’ mamen’ki i tetushki. V odin god tak ee napolnjat vsjakim bab’em, chto sam rodnoj otets ne uznaet . . .”

BGG: “But then what, chiefly, is so good about her? . . .  that as yet there isn’t anything womanish about her, as they say derogatively, i.e., precisely that which is most unpleasant about the dear creatures. [SF gets rid of dear creatures] She is now like a child; everything about her is simple—she will say whatever will come to her mind [comes to mind], will laugh outright wherever and whenever she may feel like laughing. One can fashion anything out of her; she can be a miracle, and she may turn out to be so much trash—and will! In one year they’ll [BGG leaves out the mommas and aunties in error here, replacing them with a generalized they; SF brings back the mommas and aunties] pump her so full of all sorts of womanishness that her own father won’t recognize her . . .”

PV: “But what is it, chiefly, that’s so good in her? . . . . . that there’s nothing about her that’s female, as they say, which is precisely what is most disagreeable in them [we would do better with a noun here, women, not the pronoun them]. She’s like a child now, everything is simple in her, she says what she likes, she laughs when she wants to. Anything can be made of her, she may become a wonder or she may turn out trash, and trash is what she’ll turn out [good here, but better: and trash is what she will turn out!]. Just let the mamas and aunties start working on her now. In a year they’ll have her so filled with all sorts of female stuff that her own father won’t recognize her . . .”

GR: “But what is her chief virtue? . . . . that there is nothing feminine about her, nothing of what makes all women so repulsive. At present she is like a child, everything about her is simple, she says what comes into her head, laughs when she feels like it. She might be moulded in any way—either into a miraculous or a worthless person. Most likely the latter! [weak writing here; and there’s no “most likely” in the original; there’s a certainty]. Only wait till the mammas and aunties take her in hand. Within a year they will fill her with so many feminine wiles that her own father would not [won’t] recognize her . . .”

DR: “But the point is, what is actually so good about her? . . . . there’s nothing female about her yet, none of the things that are most unpleasant in women. She’s still like a child, everything about her is straightforward, she’ll say whatever comes into her head, she’ll laugh if she feels like it. You can make anything you like out of her, she could be a wonder, but she could turn out rubbish, and so she will. [!] Just let her mama and aunties start working on her. In a year they’ll fill her with so much female nonsense that her own father won’t recognize her . . .”

DM: “But what is it that is so particularly nice about her? . . . . that there is so far nothing, as they say, [as they say sets up the expectation of a generalized colloquial word, which never appears here] of the female about her, that is to say, nothing of what makes women so distasteful. She is like a child now; everything about her is simple, she says what comes into her head, she laughs when she feels like laughing. You could make anything out of her. She might become something wonderful and she might turn out worthless, and quite likely she will turn out worthless [weak writing; the word trash is strong, as is the original Russian; trash beats worthless here, and the quite likely is in error]. Wait till the mummies and aunties get to work on her. In one year they will [they’ll] stuff her full of all kinds of [so much] female frippery so that her own father won’t recognize her . . .” [Gogol’s rhythms are all-important; think of the rhythm of the sentence here—GR has a faltering, indirect rhythm; a better variant, straight and to the point: “In one year they’ll have her stuffed so full of female fripperies that her own father won’t recognize her.”]

There is not much difference here between the translations. They all make the main points: that a girl may start out well, but by the time she’s into adolescence she is tainted by feminine hypocrisy and cant; soon she is hopelessly lost in banality and fakery. Who, primarily, is at fault for powdering her brains with frivolity? According to the narrator, or Chichikov, it’s the mommas and aunties, which persons BGG, for some reason, leaves out of his translation. But here’s the big problem: none of the translators can find exactly the right word [is there one?] for the strongly derogative bab’ego, which is an adjective that comes from baba, a disparaging word for a woman [broad, a word that sounds too modern to be used in a translation set in the nineteenth century]. Realizing that he can’t come up in English with a good enough derogatory adjective for the ways of muliebrity, BGG tries to prop up his “womanish” by tacking on a phrase, “as they say derogatively.” He even attempts some amelioration by adding condescending words, “the dear creatures.” SF rightly deletes that phrase. The others use “female” or "feminine,” “womanish,” but none of these words have the requisite tone of denigration.

In desperation I turn to Constance (CG), the progenitor of all translators who deal Russian lit into English, but she lets me down as well on the matter of the derogative bab’ego: “But what is it that is especially fine in her? . . . that there is so far nothing of what is called feminine about her, which is precisely what is most distasteful in them.” Weak.

So if all translators have come up lacking, what’s to be done with the beginning of this passage? The best I can do is this: “But then, what, mainly, is so nice about her? It’s nice that . . . she has nothing as yet of the mincing biddy in her, that very thing that makes women so distasteful.”

As for more negative words referring to women, the translators settle on ‘unpleasant’ [the most exact equivalent of the Russian original], ‘disagreeable,’ ‘distasteful.’ GR goes all in on “repulsive” (too strong). As for Gogol’s narrator in the original (Chichikov), he doesn’t go so far as to call women repulsive, but, all in all, he pulls no punches—telling us that the girl could turn out to be a marvel, or could end up rubbish, and she certainly will! Several of the translators soften that slightly, but the unsoftened versions are best. BGG has it right: “she may turn out to be so much trash—and will!”

Note that the same word that gave the translators such trouble at the beginning of the passage shows up again near the end. It was in the genitive case when first used, but here—in the last sentence—it’s in the instrumental (bab’em). BGG (womanishness) and PV (female stuff) still haven’t got the derogatory tone right, but the other translators have figured it out successfully: GR: feminine wiles; DR: female nonsense; DM (best here): female fripperies.

[excerpted from the forthcoming book by U.R. Bowie, The Futile Search for a Living Soul: A New Reading of Gogol's "Dead Souls"]

Translations: The Bestest of the Best, FOURTEEN, Vladislav Khodasevich, "Весенний лепет не разнежит," IF VERSES' TEETH ARE TIGHTLY CLENCHED

 

Vladislav Khodasevich

(1886-1939)

 

Весенний лепет не разнежит
Сурово стиснутых стихов.
Я полюбил железный скрежет
Какофонических миров.

В зиянии разверстых гласных
Дышу легко и вольно я.
Мне чудится в толпе согласных —
Льдин взгроможденных толчея.

Мне мил — из оловянной тучи
Удар изломанной стрелы,
Люблю певучий и визгучий
Лязг электрической пилы.

И в этой жизни мне дороже
Всех гармонических красот —
Дрожь, побежавшая по коже,
Иль ужаса холодный пот,

Иль сон, где некогда единый,-
Взрываясь, разлетаюсь я,
Как грязь, разбрызганная шиной
По чуждым сферам бытия.

March 24-27, 1923

Saarow

 

Literal Translation
 
The babble of Spring will not make tender
One’s severely clenched verses.
I’ve come to love the iron-like grinding
Of cacophonous worlds.
 
In the gaping of yawning-wide vowels
I breathe lightly and freely.
In crowds of consonants I sense
The crush of piled-up blocks of ice.
 
It’s dear to me when, out of a tin cloud
Comes the blow [lightning strike] of a broken arrow,
I love the melodious and squealing
Whine of an electric saw.
 
And in this life more dear to me
Then all the harmonious beauties
Is the tremor that runs across my skin,
Or the cold sweat of horror,
 
Or a dream, in which I, once whole,
Have exploded and fly asunder in bits,
Like mud spattered by a tire
Across the alien spheres of existence.

                                    Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
If verses’ teeth are tightly clenched
Spring babbles won’t render them tender.
Steely-rasped grating is lovely, tight-wrenched
When worlds in Cacophonous show off their splendor.
 
If vowels with their mouths opened wide are agape
I suspirate lightly and feel at my ease.
When masses of consonants grimace and scrape,
I see ice-floes in April that abrogate freeze.
 
How precious to me when a tin-tinctured cloud
Sends down booms and a frazzle of lightning;
I love the whines when, travailed but unbowed,
A buzz saw in pain goes on fighting.
 
And more dear, more entrancing than peace on this earth,
Than all of bright harmony’s blooms
Is the tremor of gooseflesh so empty of mirth,
Or the cold sweat when Hideous looms, 
 
Or that dream in which I, once an integral whole,
Blow to pieces and fly off asunder,
Like mud-spattered bits from a passing tire’s roll,
That blast into Nescience and fadeaway wonder.  

                                                                   Ice-Floes on Ob River

Bobby Goosey, from the series Country Music Lyrics: GETTING RICH

 

Country Music Lyrics
Bobby Lee Goosey
 

                                                   Getting Rich
Baby left me,
Long-gone honey,
Found a man with
Hog-farm money.
Living out near Abeline,
Swilling up her hog-farm dream.
Think I miss her? Think I ache?
I’m getting rich off old heartbreak.
 
First Refrain:
 
Getting rich off break-up,
Crawling down that Lonesome Lane,
She’s out there in hog-farm heaven,
I’m here getting rich on pain.
 
Writing music,
Plinking guitar,
Drinking Jack and
Selling sighs,
Turned the tables on you, woman,
Making moolah off your lies.
Think I miss your fat backside?
I’ve found me a new joyride.
 
Second Refrain:
 
Getting rich off heartache,
Crawling down that Lonesome Lane,
Setting here and swilling J.D.,
Getting rich off blues and pain.
 
I sell songs to Willie Nelson,
Ole Hank Jr. buys ‘em too,
Willie wails them tunes so lonesome,
Ole Hank sings ‘em Jim Beam blue.
Think I miss her ugly face?
I’m fine here in my new headspace.
 
Repeat First Refrain
 
 
I write songs and drink straight J.D.,
Too high class for Jim B., son,
I drank Jim when I was poorfolks,
Now ole buddy Jack’s the one,
Think I want her back with me?
I’m getting rich off misery.
 
Repeat Second Refrain
 
Hope she stays out on that hog farm,
If she comes back I might slow down,
Got to keep on writing sad songs,
Can’t afford to not be low down,
Got to write ‘em fast, can’t slow down,
Getting rich off lonesome blues.
 
Third Refrain:
 
Getting rich on gloom and woe,
Stumbling down ole Heartbreak Lane,
Hope she stays there, hog-farm ho,
Ain’t life great with Jack and pain?

Translation of Poem by Olga Nikitina, Ольга Никитина, "Нас у Бога Много," GOD'S GOT LOTS OF US

 

Olga Nikitina
Ольга Никитина

 

Нас у Бога Много

Нас всех друг другу посылает Бог.
На горе иль на радость – неизвестно…
Пока не проживем цикличный срок,
Пока мы не ответим свой урок,
И не сдадим экзамен жизни честно.

Мы все друг другу до смерти нужны,
Хоть не всегда полезность очевидна…
Не так уж наши должности важны,
И не всегда друг к другу мы нежны -
Бывает и досадно, и обидно…

Как знать: зачем друг с другом мы живем?
Что вместе держит нас, соединяет?
По жизни мы идем, и день за днем
Себя друг в друге лучше узнаем,
И шляпу перед зеркалом снимаем…

 

Нас манит даль непройденных дорог,
А друг в дороге – радость и подмога…
И не сочтем высокопарным слог:
Нас всех друг другу посылает Бог!
И слава Богу – нас у Бога много…

 2006

                                                                                  d

 

                                                  Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

                        God’s Got Lots of Us
 
God sends us each and all to one another.
For grief or joy we’re bound, we don’t know which,
Until the cyclic path of life we’ve covered,
Until we’ve studied hard beside our brothers, 
And passed the test of life with uprightness.

We need each other, all of us till death,
Though what’s the use of us to all’s obscure.
Our duties meager, like our shibboleths,
Our care for others lacks in depth or heft,
We vex our friends, solicitude abjure.

Wherefore with one another do we live?
What holds us close and makes us all cohere?
We pass through life as lumps pass through a sieve,
And see ourselves in others, and forgive,
While doffing hats in mirrors warped and blear.

The roads not taken beckon, curves and bends, 
Along the way a friend brings joy and solace,
Reprising its first line, our plain poem ends:
God each of us to one another sends!
We’re, thank God, legion; God’s got lots of us . . .
 

d

 

Translator’s Note

In her note written in Russian below Olga Nikitina explains how her poem, “God’s Got Lots of Us” (written in 2006), has gained enormous popularity on the internet under the name of Boris Pasternak. Who first posted the poem under Pasternak’s name is unknown, but it now has spread far and wide through the universe known as “ONLINE.”

Since 2011 the critic and writer Rachel Likht, biographer of Pasternak, has been protesting obstreperously that the poem was not written by him. Her demands that Pasternak’s name be removed as the author of this poem have fallen, largely, on deaf ears. Take a look at the internet: all over the place, on all different sites, you’ll still find Pasternak listed as the author of “God’s Got Lots of Us.” At some point, could be, the exasperated Olga Nikitina might just give up: “Okay, he didn’t write it, but let’s just give it to him. And God bless him too.”

 

Мы с Пастернаком

Оля Никитина

На мою страницу cайта Стихи.ру нередко заходят читатели с других сайтов.
Весной 2012 года стал активно читаться стих «Нас у Бога много». Меня заинтересовало, откуда могут заходить поклонники этого стихотворения. Набрала в Яндексе - выдал 11 млн. ссылок, на Рамблере – 12 млн.
Оказалось, что мой родной стих уже давно и прочно проживает на множестве сайтов, в том числе на главных страницах, в многочисленных блогах, ЖЖ, и практически во всех социальных сетях.
Но самое ошеломительное – в большинстве публикаций стихотворения “Нас у Бога много” или (по первой строке стиха) “Нас всех друг другу посылает Бог” обозначено авторство… Бориса Пастернака!!!

С детективным интересом я бродила по ссылкам. География ссылок богата: Россия, Украина, Белоруссия, Израиль, Финляндия, Германия… Сайты знакомств, религиозные и психологические сайты, любовные и женские форумы, творческие и кулинарные, математические и эзотерические, и даже политические...

Стихотворение «работает» днем и ночью: помогает выбрать клинику в Москве, призывает составлять гороскопы, найти профессию и свою половинку, помирить поссорившихся друзей, поздравить всех на свете с юбилеями и бракосочетаниями… и жить, в конце концов, счастливей! Однажды даже ураган в США укрощали с помощью ставших чрезмерно популярными стихотворных строк )

В yandex – 152 тыс. картинок с подписью «Нас всех друг другу посылает Бог». В Сети создано несколько плэйкастов на этот стих под разные мелодии. И лишь изредка во всех публикациях стоит мое авторство. Зачастую – автор стихотворения совсем не указан.

И вот находка!
В ноябре 2011 в интернете появляются требования Рахель Лихт (писатель, биограф Бориса Пастернака) снять со стихотворения авторство Б.Пастернака:

Извините, но Пастернак не является автором этого стихотворения. То что оно гуляет по интернету с его именем, оставим на совести тех, кто его запустил таким образом.Настоящего автора я не знаю. Но как специалист по творчеству Пастернака могу с полной ответственностью Вас уверить, что это стихи не Пастернака. Прошу Вас снять его фамилию. Спасибо. Рахель Лихт. http://zhurnal.lib.ru/l/liht_r/

1 апреля 2012 Р.Лихт пишет:
Я могу Вам сказать, что эти стихи не упоминаются ни в одном из сборников Б.Пастернака, так же их нет в полном собрании сочинений поэта (11 томов). Кроме того, прежде, чем обращаться с просьбой к Вам, и к другим, я, на всякий случай, переговорила с сыном поэта, который на сегодняшний день является держателем архива поэта. Все подтверждает: стихи – не Пастернака.  Их кто-то ввел в Интеренет под этой фамилией, так это теперь и гуляет по Интернету. http://blog.kp.ru/users/2180548/post182572557/

Рахель оказалась настойчивым правдоискателем. Ей удалось найти настоящего автора и выйти на наш сайт. Оказалось, что номер авторского свидетельства, который дается каждому стихотворению при публикации на Стихи.ру, имеет большую силу в отстаивании авторских прав.

5 апреля 2012 Рахель Лихт в своем ЖЖ публикует пост "Дон Кихот Ришонского уезда", где рассказывает о недоразумениях интернета и своей борьбе за справедливость. http://lichoman.livejournal.com/195806.html
Ее выводы красноречивы и убедительны.

Я очень благодарна Рахель за ее дон-кихотство - во имя Пастернака, в первую очередь.


***

Многочисленные хвалебные отклики на стихотворение – просто улетная тема.
Столько слов о своей мудрости и гениальности Борис Пастернак, наверно, и не слышал.
А Ольге Никитиной и подавно не слыхать.
Да... Досталось нам с Пастернаком...

Ну, что ж, НАС ВСЕХ ДРУГ ДРУГУ ПОСЫЛАЕТ БОГ.



С П Р А В К А
Ольга Никитина – поэт, критик, художник, автор и исполнитель собственных песен, член Союза писателей России.
Стихотворение Ольги Никитиной «Нас у Бога много» написано в 2006г.
Опубликовано на сайте Стихи.ру в марте 2008г. на странице Оля Никитина,
в книге «Добрые приметы» М., Московский Парнас, 2010,
в Антологии современной поэзии «Созвучье слов живых» том 5, М., Московский Парнас, 2010.

12.11.2012, 00:33 стихотворение удалено модератором с сайта Стихи.ру по пункту 3.1 (как заимствованное у Пастернака)
13.11.2012, 07:30 стихотворение вернулось на место

БЛАГОДАРЮ ВСЕХ ЗА ПОДДДЕРЖКУ И СЕРДЕЧНОЕ ТЕПЛО!



С ЛЮБОВЬЮ,
Оля Никитина

 

Translation of Poem by Afanasy Fet, Афанасий Фет, "Жизнь пронеслась без явного следа," LIFE HAS RUSHED BY

 

Афанасий Фет
(1820-1892)

 

Жизнь пронеслась без явного следа.
Душа рвалась – кто скажет мне куда?
С какой заране избранною целью?
Но все мечты, всё буйство первых дней
С их радостью – всё тише, всё ясней
К последнему подходят новоселью.

 

Так, заверша беспутный свой побег,
С нагих полей летит колючий снег,
Гонимый ранней, буйною метелью,
И, на лесной остановясь глуши,
Сбирается в серебряной тиши
Глубокой и холодною постелью.

 1864

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

Life has rushed by and left so little trace.
The soul was thrust toward who could say what place?
And with what goal it knew of in advance?
But all my dreams, harsh tumult of first days,
Albeit joyful, languishing in haze,
Approach the final last-abode expanse.
 
Just so, concluding its coarse bawdy spree, 
From naked fields the prickly snow flies free,  
Propelled by early blizzard fiercely blowing,
And halting on a wasteland mist-bedewed,
The flakes cohere in silence argent-hued
To form a frigid snowbed dimly glowing.

Translation of Poem by Innokenty Annensky, Иннокентий Анненский, "Тоска миража," MIRAGE'S ANGUISH

 

 

Иннокентий Анненский
(1855-1909)
 

[from the Anguishing Series]

Тоска миража

Погасла последняя краска,
Как шепот в полночной мольбе…
Что надо, безумная сказка,
От этого сердца тебе?

Мои ли без счета и меры
По снегу не тяжки концы?
Мне ль дали пустые не серы?
Не тускло звенят бубенцы?

Но ты-то зачем так глубоко
Двоишься, о сердце мое?
Я знаю — она далеко,
И чувствую близость ее.

Уж вот они, снежные дымы,
С них глаз я свести не могу:
Сейчас разминуться должны мы
На белом, но мертвом снегу.

Сейчас кто-то сани нам сцепит
И снова расцепит без слов.
На миг, но томительный лепет
Сольется для нас бубенцов…

 

Он слился… Но больше друг друга
Мы в тусклую ночь не найдем…
В тоске безысходного круга
Влачусь я постылым путем…

Погасла последняя краска,
Как шепот в полночной мольбе…
Что надо, безумная сказка,
От этого сердца тебе?

 

d

Literal Translation

The Anguish of a Mirage

The last color has faded,

Like the whisper of a midnight prayer . . .

What do you need, insane folk tale

Of this heart of mine?

 

Are not they without number and measure,

My slogs through the snow toward end games?

Are the empty expanses not gray to me?

Do the sleighbells not ding drearily?

 

But why so deep is the split in you,

O heart of mine?

I know that she’s far away,

And I feel her nearness to me.

 

Right there they are, the snowy mists,

I cannot tear my eyes away from them.

Any minute now we must miss one another as we pass

On the white but dead snow.

 

Any minute now someone will hitch together our sleighs,

And once again silently unhitch them.

The languorous babble of the sleighbells

For a second will merge into one for us . . .

 

It so merged . . . But in the dim night

We won’t find each other again . . .

In the agony of a closed circle

I drag along on my hapless path . . .

 

The last color has faded,

Like the whisper of a midnight prayer . . .

What do you need, insane folk tale

Of this heart of mine?

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

Mirage’s Anguish

 

The last painted colors have faded,

Like whispered soft prayers in the night . . .

What need do you have of my heart worn and jaded,

Insane prattling tale specked with blight?

 

Do they not lack measure and number,

My arduous slogs through the snow?

Are distant expanses not gray-tinged with umber,

Do sleighbells not jingle-ring woe?

 

But why are you rent into shambles,

O sorrowful heartstrings of mine?

I know that she’s off on far rambles

But feel that she’s near, sibylline.

 

Before me are snows rife with mistiness,

I stare at them, gaze in a trance;

All too soon we’ll diverge in that wispiness,

Pass you by, pass me by, look askance. 

 

Some someone will couple our chaise-sleighs,

Then disengage each, one by one.  

For a second the sleighbells liaise,

Until your rings and mine come undone . . .

 

They’ve fused . . . But apart in the murkiness,

We’ll not find each other again . . .

I go round and round in the quirkiness,

I drag my way on through the pain.

 

The last painted colors have faded,

Like whispered soft prayers in the night . . .

What need do you have of my heart worn and jaded,

Insane prattling tale specked with blight?