I basically agree, sionnach, about Nabokov's translation. Of course, Nabokov was probably, given his astonishing command of both Russian and English and his intense love and appreciation of all things Pushkinian, the one person of his generation best able to produce the definitive English translation of E.O. And he didn't. He refused to do this. That he refused to do this (and not that he was incapable of doing this) is clear from the tantalizing places in his Commentary to E.O. where he gives the reader a sample of what the verse would sound like if he tried to render Pushkin's music. As gorgeous and brilliant as we would expect from Vladimir Vladimirovich. One theory I read, which seemed to make some sense, was that Nabokov viewed the Russian language, and Pushkin especially, as his personal secret country -- the place he was really exiled from -- and was loath to cast its pearls before swine who couldn't be bothered to learn the language and read the original.
Ah yes, the infamous "translation" where he apparently doesn't find it important that Pushkin took a certain amount of time and effort to implement a rather nifty (some might say sublime) rhyme scheme.
What a lazy sod (Nabokov, not Pushkin). I mean, why bother, if you can't be bothered?
That goes for you too, Robert Pinsky and all you other Dante desecrators who take refuge behind the "English is a rhyme-poor language" excuse.
I first came across this word in Nabokov's translation of Pushkin's Eugene Onegin, in the stanza describing Lensky's death (Chapter 6, Stanza xxxii), and have loved it ever since:
Stirless he lay, and strange was his brow's languid peace. Under the breast he had been shot clean through; steaming, the blood flowed from the wound. One moment earlier in _this_ heart had throbbed inspiration, enmity, hope, and love, life effervesced, blood boiled; now as in a deserted house, all in it is both still and dark, it has become forever silent. The window boards are shut. The panes with chalk are whitened over. The chatelaine is gone. But where, God wot. All trace is lost.
I basically agree, sionnach, about Nabokov's translation. Of course, Nabokov was probably, given his astonishing command of both Russian and English and his intense love and appreciation of all things Pushkinian, the one person of his generation best able to produce the definitive English translation of E.O. And he didn't. He refused to do this. That he refused to do this (and not that he was incapable of doing this) is clear from the tantalizing places in his Commentary to E.O. where he gives the reader a sample of what the verse would sound like if he tried to render Pushkin's music. As gorgeous and brilliant as we would expect from Vladimir Vladimirovich. One theory I read, which seemed to make some sense, was that Nabokov viewed the Russian language, and Pushkin especially, as his personal secret country -- the place he was really exiled from -- and was loath to cast its pearls before swine who couldn't be bothered to learn the language and read the original.
Ah yes, the infamous "translation" where he apparently doesn't find it important that Pushkin took a certain amount of time and effort to implement a rather nifty (some might say sublime) rhyme scheme.
What a lazy sod (Nabokov, not Pushkin). I mean, why bother, if you can't be bothered?
That goes for you too, Robert Pinsky and all you other Dante desecrators who take refuge behind the "English is a rhyme-poor language" excuse.
And Vlad: "God wot"! Really?
End of completely random rant.
I first came across this word in Nabokov's translation of Pushkin's Eugene Onegin, in the stanza describing Lensky's death (Chapter 6, Stanza xxxii), and have loved it ever since:
Stirless he lay, and strange
was his brow's languid peace.
Under the breast he had been shot clean through;
steaming, the blood flowed from the wound.
One moment earlier
in _this_ heart had throbbed inspiration,
enmity, hope, and love,
life effervesced, blood boiled;
now as in a deserted house,
all in it is both still and dark,
it has become forever silent.
The window boards are shut. The panes with chalk
are whitened over. The chatelaine is gone.
But where, God wot. All trace is lost.