January 1st, 2009

cea pro choice

Icy Chily



Лёд в Голландии не замерзал последние лет десять (но таки встал в этом). То есть, выросло поколение детёнышей, которые не катались на "настоящем" льду. Мы как-то подумали в этой связи, что некоторые культурные инстинкты могли уже и ослабнуть - однако фигвам. На небольшом озерце неподалёку от нашего дома свалка, там и стар, и млад, и весь имеющийся лёд сточен до дыр.

Некоторое количество Collapse )
cea pro choice

Выкарабкивающиеся выхухоли таки околели

Verses and Versions: Three Centuries of Russian Poetry, by Vladimir Nabokov - судя по всему, роскошная книга; до нас ещё не доехала, поэтому полагаюсь на реценции пока. Из LA Times очень хвалебная - Verses. Versions. Voices. Be careful: This is a book filled with a chorus of many voices... You must stay alert and cannot nod if you want to remember who is speaking! In any case, this is a book, part of the oeuvre, that true Nabokovians will want.

Истинному набоковеду эта цитата уже плеш проела, а мне пригодится, пусть копия и тут будет:

"Three grades of evil can be discerned in the queer world of verbal transmigration. The first, and lesser one, comprises obvious errors due to ignorance or misguided knowledge. This is mere human frailty and thus excusable.

The next step to Hell is taken by the translator who intentionally skips words or passages that he does not bother to understand or that might seem obscure or obscene to vaguely imagined readers; he accepts the bank look that his dictionary gives him without any qualms; or subjects scholarship to primness; he is as ready to know less that the author as he is to think he knows better.

The third, and worst, degree of turpitude is reached when a masterpiece is planished and patted into such a shape, vilely beautified in such a fashion as to conform to the notions and prejudices of a given public. This is a crime, to be punished by the stocks as plagiarists were in the shoebuckle days."


Как и красивый стёб стих про переводы:

What is translation? On a platter
A poet's pale and glaring head,
A parrot's screech, a monkey's chatter,
And profanation of the dead.

The parasites you were so hard on
Are pardoned if I have your pardon,
O, Pushkin, for my stratagem:
I traveled down your secret stem,

And reached the root, and fed upon it;
Then, in a language newly learned,
I grew another stalk and turned
Your stanza patterned on a sonnet,

Into my honest roadside prose -
All thorn, but cousin to your rose.

This is my task - a poet's patience
And scholiastic passion blent:
Dove-droppings on your monument.

Для полноты ряда пусть будет и полный пример из сабджекта:

"This is one of the nicest tongue twisters I could invent: Выкарабкивающиеся выхухоли околели у колеблющегося колокольчика - the martins that had scrambled out died a beast's death at the hesitating maker's of church bells."