ナボコフの恐怖(Terror)語れる人いない?

まぢ内容わかんない　誰か解説してぇ〜

ん？　大学生が論文に行き詰まったかなんかか？
自分でやりたまえ。

―――――――終了―――――――――――

783 ：無垢：2005/10/09(日) 09:37:02
恐怖（Terror)ていう短編読んだ人いる？　内容がよく解らん

出版社は？

>>1
俺読んだことないから
ここに全文うｐしろ。

そしたら解説してやる。

まじで頼むよう〜　ナボコフの文体、内容とかについて詳しいひとぅぅ〜！！

ナボコフのスレ、あったよ。

http://book3.2ch.net/test/read.cgi/book/1024407321/701-800

ここで聞けば？と言おうと思ったら既に聞いてたんだね。
単発質問スレはマナー違反よ〜ん。
こちらのスレをアゲて、答えを辛抱強く待つんだね。

＞こちらのスレをアゲて
>>8に貼ったスレのことね。

TERROR
Here is what sometimes happened to me: after spending the first part of the night at my
desk--that part when night trudges heavily uphill--I would emerge from the trance of
my task at the exact moment when night had reached the summit and was teetering on
that crest, ready to roll down into the haze of dawn; I would get up from my chair,
feeling chilly and utterly spent, turn on the light in my bedroom, and suddenly see
myself in the looking glass. Then it would go like this: during the time I had been deep
at work, I had grown disacquainted with myself, a sensation akin to what one may
experience when meeting a close friend after years of separation: for a few empty, lucid,
but numb moments you see him in an entirely anesthesia will presently wear off, and
the person you are looking at will revive, glow with warmth, resume his old place,
becoming again so familiar that no effort of the will could possibly make you recapture
that fleeting sensation of estrangedness. Precisely thus I now stood considering my own
reflection in the glass and failing to recognize it as mine. And the more keenly I
examined my face--those unblinking alien eyes, that sheen of tiny hairs along the jaw,
that shade along the nose-and the more insistently I told myself "This is I, this is
So-and-so," the less clear it became why this should be "I," the harder I found it to make
the face in the mirror merge with that "I" whose identity I failed to grasp. When I spoke
of my odd sensations, people justly observed that the path I had taken led to the
madhouse. In point of fact, once or twice, late at night, I peered so lengthily at my
reflection that a creepy feeling came over me and I put out the light in a hurry. Yet next
morning, while shaving, it would never occur to me to question the reality of my image.

Another thing: at night, in bed, I would abruptly remember that I was mortal. What
then took place within my mind was much the same as happens in a huge theater if the
lights suddenly go out, and someone shrilly screams in the swift-winged darkness, and
other voice join in, resulting in a blind tempest, with the black thunder of panic growing
-until suddenly the lights come on again, and the performance of the play is blandly
resumed. Thus would my soul choke for a moment while, lying supine, eyes wide open,
I tried with all my might to conquer fear, rationalize death, come to terms with it on a
day-by-day basis, without appealing to any creed or philosophy. In the end, one tells
oneself that death is still far away, that there will be plenty of time to reason everything
out, and yet one knows that one never will do it, and again, in the dark, from the
cheapest seats, in one's private theater were warm live thoughts about dear earthly
trifles have panicked, there comes a shriek-and presently subsides when one turns
over in bed and starts to think of some different matter.

I assume that those sensations-the perplexity before the mirror at night or the
sudden pang of death's foretaste-are familiar to many, and if I dwell on them it is only
because they contain just a small particle of that supreme terror that I was destined
once to experience. Supreme terror, special terror-Aim groping for the exact term but
my store of ready-made, words, which in vain I keep trying on, does not contain even
one that will fit.

I led a happy life. I had a girl. I remember well the torture of our first separation. I
had gone on a business trip abroad, and upon my return she met me at the station. I
saw her standing on the platform, caged as it were in tawny sunlight, a dusty cone of
which had just penetrated through the station's glazed vault. Her face kept
rhythmically turning to and fro as the train windows slowly glided by to a stop. With
her I always felt easy and at rest. Once only-and here again I feel what a clumsy
instrument human speech is. Still, I would like to explain. It is really such nonsense, so
ephemeral: we are alone in her room, I write while she darns a silk stocking stretched
taut over the back of a wooden spoon, her head bent low; one ear, translucently pink, is
half concealed by a strand of fair hair, and the small pearls around her neck gleam
touchingly, and her tender cheek appears sunken because of the assiduous pout of her
lips. All at once, for no reason at all, I become terrified of her presence. This is far more
terrifying than the fact that somehow, for a split second, my mind did not register her
identity in the dusty sun of the station. I am terrified by there being another person in
the room with me; I am terrified by the very notion of another person. No wonder
lunatics don't recognize relatives. But she raises her head, all her features participate in
the quick smile she gives me-and trace is left now of the odd terror I felt a moment ago.
Let me repeat: this happened only one single time, and I took it to be a silly trick of my
nerves forgetting that on lonely nights before a lonely mirror I had experienced
something quite similar.

She was my mistress for nearly three years. I know that many people could not
understand our relationship. They were at a loss to explain what there was in that
na?ve little maiden to attract and hold a poet's affection, but good God! How I loved her
unassuming prettiness, gaiety, friendliness, the birdlike flutterings of her soul. It was
exactly that gentle simplicity of hers that protected me: to her, everything in the world
had a kind of everyday clarity, and it would even seem to me that she knew what
awaited us after death, so that there was no reason for us to discuss that topic. At the
end of our third year together I again was obliged to go away, for a rather long time. On
the eve of my departure we went to the opera. She sat down for a moment on the
crimson little sofa in the darkish, rather mysterious vestibule of our loge to take off her
huge gray snowboots, from which I helped her to extricate her slender silk-clad
legs-and I thought of those delicate moths that hatch from bulky shaggy cocoons. We
moved to the front of our box. We were gay as we bent over the rosy abyss of the house
while waiting for the raising of the curtain, a solid old screen with pale-gold decorations
depicting scenes from various operas-Ruslan in his pointed helmet, Lenski in his
carrick. With her bare elbow she almost knocked down from the plush parapet her little
nacreous opera glass.

Then, when all in the audience had taken their seats, and the orchestra drew in its
breath and prepared to blast forth, something happened: every light went out in the
huge rosy theater, and such a dense darkness swooped upon us that I thought I had
gone blind. In this darkness everything at once began to move, a shiver of panic began
to rise and resolved itself in feminine cries, and because men's voices very loudly called
for calm, the cries became more and more riotous. I laughed and began talking to her,
but then felt that she had clutched my wrist and was silently worrying my cuff. When
light again filled the house I saw that she was pale and that her teeth were clenched.
I helped her to get out of the loge. She shook her head, chiding herself with a
deprecatory smile for her childish fright-but then burst into tears and asked to be
taken home. It was only in the close carriage that she regained her composure and,
pressing her crumpled handkerchief to her swimming bright eyes, began to explain how
sad she felt about my going away tomorrow, and how wrong it would have been to spend
our last evening at the opera, among strangers.

Twelve hours later I was in a train compartment, looking out of the window at the
misty winter sky, the inflamed little eye of the sun, which kept up with the train, the
white snow-covered fields which kept endlessly opening up like a giant fan of swan's
down. It was in the foreign city I reached next day that I was to have my encounter with
supreme terror.

To begin with, I slept badly for three nights in a row and did not sleep at all during
the fourth. In recent years I had lost the habit of solitude, and now those solitary nights
caused me acute unrelieved anguish. The first night I saw my girl in dream: sunlight
flooded her room, and she sat on the bed wearing only a lacy nightgown, and laughed,
and laughed, could not stop laughing. I recalled my dream quite by accident, a couple of
hours later, as I was passing a lingerie store, and upon remembering it realized that all
that had been so gay in my dream-her lace, her thrown-back head, her laughter-was
now, in my waking state, frightening. Yet, I could not explain to myself why that lacy
laughing dream was now so unpleasant, so hideous. I had a lot of things to take care of,
and I smoked a lot, and all the time I was aware of the feeling that I absolutely must
maintain rigid control over myself. When getting ready for bed in my hotel room,
I would deliberately whistle or hum but would star like a fearful child at the slightest
noise behind me, such as the flop of my jacket slipping from the chairback to the floor.

On the fifth day, after a bad night, I took time out for a stroll. I wish the part of my
story to which I am coming now could be set in italics; no, not even italics would do:
I need some new, unique kind of type. Insomnia had left me with an exceptionally
receptive void within my mind. My head seemed made of glass, and the slight cramp in
my calves had also a vitreous character. As soon as I came out of the hotel- Yes, now I
think I have found the right words. I hasten to write them down before they fade. When
I came out on the street, I suddenly saw the world such as it really is. You see, we find
comfort in telling ourselves that the world could not exist without us, that it exists only
inasmuch as we ourselves exist, inasmuch as we can represent it to ourselves.

Death, infinite space, galaxies, all this frightening, exactly because it transcends the limits of
our perception. Well-on into the center of an incidental city, and saw houses, trees
automobiles, people, my mind abruptly refused to accept them as "houses," "trees," and
so forth-as something connected with ordinary human life. My line of communication
with the world snapped, I was on my own and the world was on its own, and that world
was devoid of sense. I saw the actual essence of all things. I looked at houses and they
had lost their usual meaning-that is, all that we think when looking at a house: a
certain architectural style, the sort of rooms inside, ugly house, comfortable house-all
this had evaporated, leaving nothing but an absurd shell, the same way an absurd
sound is left after one has repeated sufficiently long the commonest word without
heeding its meaning: house, howss, whowss. It was the same with trees, the same with
people. I understood the horror of a human face. Anatomy, sexual distinctions, the
notion of "legs," "arms," "clothes"-all that was abolished, and there remained in front of
me a mere something-not even a creature, for that too is a human concept, but merely
something moving past. In vain did I try to master my terror by recalling how once in
my childhood, on waking up, I raised my still sleepy eyes while pressing the back of my
neck to my low pillow and saw, leaning toward me over the bed head, an
incomprehensible face, noseless, with a hussar's black mustache just below its octopus
eyes, and with teeth set in its forehead. I sat up with a shriek and immediately the
mustache became eyebrows and the entire face was transformed into that of my mother,
which I had glimpsed at first in an unwonted upside-down aspect.

And now, too, I tried to "sit up" mentally, so that the visible world might resume its
every day position-but I did not succeed. On the contrary: the closer I peered at people
the more absurd their appearance looked to me. Overwhelmed with terror, I sought
support in some basic idea, some better brick than the Cartesian one, with the help of
which to begin the reconstruction of the simple, natural, habitual world as we know it.
By that time I was resting, I believe, on the bench of a public park. I have no precise
recollection of my actions. Just as a man who is having a heart attack on a sidewalk
does not give a hoot for the passersby, the sun, the beauty of an ancient cathedral, and
has only one concern: to breathes, so I too had but one desire: not to go mad. I am
convinced that nobody ever saw the world the way I saw it during those moments, in all
its terrifying nakedness and terrifying absurdity. Near me a dog was sniffing the snow. I
was tortured by my efforts to recognize what "dog" might mean, and because I had been
staring at it hard, it crept up to me trustingly, and I felt so nauseated that I go up from
the bench and walked away. It was then that my terror reached its highest point. I gave
up struggling. I was no longer a man, but a naked eye, an aimless glance moving in an
absurd world. The very sight of a human face made me want to scream.

Presently I found myself again at the entrance of my hotel. Someone came up to me,
pronounced my name, and thrust a folded slip of paper into my limp hand.
Automatically I unfolded it, and at once my terror vanished. Everything around me
became again ordinary and unobtrusive: the hotel, the changing reflections in the glass
of the revolving door, the familiar face of the bellboy who had banded me the telegram. I
now stood in the middle of the spacious vestibule. A man with a pipe and a checked cap
brushed against me in passing and gravely apologized. I felt astonishment and an
intense, unbearable but quite human pain. The telegram said she was dying.

While I traveled back, while I sat at her bedside, it never occurred to me to analyze
the meaning of being and nonbeing, and no longer was I terrified by those thoughts. The
woman I loved more than anything on earth was dying. This was all I saw or felt.

She did not recognize me when my knee thudded against the side of her bed She lay,
propped up on huge pillows, under huge blankets, herself so small, with hair brushed
back from the forehead revealing the narrow scar on her temple ordinarily concealed by
a strand brushed low over it. She did not recognize my living presence, but by the slight
smile that raised once or twice the corners of her lips, I knew that she saw me in her
quiet delirium, in her dying fancy-so that there were two of me standing before her:
I myself, whom she did not see, and my double, who was invisible to me. And then I
remained alone: my double died with her.

Her death saved me from insanity. Plain human grief filled my life so completely
that there was no room left for any other emotion. But time flows, and her image within
me becomes ever more perfect, ever more lifeless. The details of the past, the live little
memories, fade imperceptibly, go out one by one, or in tows and threes, the way lights go
out, now here now there, in the windows of a house where people are falling asleep. And
I know that my brain is doomed, that the terror I experienced once, the helpless fear of
existing, will sometime overtake me again, and that then there will be no salvation.

-----------------------End---------------------

>>5
よろしく

無断転載は著作権法違反です。
通報します。

若島のあのたどたどしくて機械的な訳だと非常につまらないのだけども、
一応前に読んだ。詳細は忘れたけど、ナボコフにしては珍しく、
若干サルトルのにおいがしたのを憶えている。
たぶん若くてまだスタイル確立する前の作品だったんじゃないかな。
難しいとは思わなかったけど。
またこんど読み直して来ますわ。

age

ナブコフ２が落ちたけど
新スレある？

http://book3.2ch.net/test/read.cgi/book/1133609517/l50

いい感じに荒れてる

やっぱり新スレは見つけにくいんだな。
あんなスレタイにするからだよ。
立て直すべき。

ていうか前からすでにナボコフスレって重複してるんだよな。
「ナボコフの恐怖(Terror)語れる人いない?」とかいうわけわからんスレがあるし。

>>29
あのスレまだあんのか？

だれか行って本スレへ誘導してはどうかな？

t

t

t

t

t

あ
い
う
え
お

なんだ、この小説たて読みじゃないか

『ロリータ』ナボコフ著／若島正訳
http://www.toshoshimbun.com/SpecialIssuepages/Nabokov/review6.html
＞ その他にいろんなところで日本文学の引用や捩りを入れたりしました。それから私はカラオケ好きなもんですから（笑）、
＞ 日本の演歌の歌詞を3つぐらい入れたり、と、いろいろやってます。それは訳者としての特権と言いますか（笑）、ナボコフはロシア語訳で結構自由なことをしてますので、私も多少の自由が許されてもいいだろう（笑）、という感じです。

「日本の演歌の歌詞」とは、「おふくろ さん よ〜」とか？

ナボコフ２が落ちたけど、新スレすでにある？

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　＿＿＿＿_
　　　　／￣￣￣￣＼,,　　　　　 ／　　　　　　　　＼
　　　/＿＿＿＿＿　　ヽ　　　 /　＿＿＿＿＿_　　 ＼
　　　|　　　　　　　　|　　|　　 / ／　　　　　　　　＼ 　　ヽ
　　　|,,＿ 　 ＿, 　 |___/　　　|/ ,,＿ 　 ＿,　　　 　ヽ　 　|
　　　|

あった。
http://book3.2ch.net/test/read.cgi/book/1133806268/

サルトル『嘔吐』　ナボコフにこういう症状（離人感）あったのか？

漢字を書いてて（手書きで）間違ってる気がしてくるのは私だけじゃないらしい。この場合は書けば書くほど違う気がしてくる。
3　そりは精神分裂病の予兆かも知れん（ﾜﾗ
それわかる。「只」って字、何でこんなんだろ、とか思ってまじまじと見てしまう・・
中島敦の『文字禍』を読みましょう。気が晴れるか、鬱になるかします。

ワラ

うほ