Я таки соизволил прочитать "Над пропастью во ржи" в оригинале
Давно дочитал, только руки не доходили сформулировать мысли по поводу.
Жаль, что эта книга не попалась мне раньше, лет этак в пятнадцать - в смысле, в возрасте Холдена. Тогда бы пробило гораздо больше. А может, как раз всё правильно, бо в возрасте Холдена оно совсем пожрало бы мне мозг и научило неправильному. :)
Ещё подумалось, что отношения Холдена с его школами напоминают мои отношения с работами - прогибаться Агнеты не умеют, либо делаю всё честно и чётко вижу цель и результат, либо не делаю никак. "Некоторые называют это искренностью"(с)The Sound of Music, угумс.
Насколько это "правильно" - тот ещё вопрос, и однозначного ответа на него, собственно, и нет, видимо, буду искать в течение всей жизни.
Сэлинджер вообще, кстати, не даёт однозначных ответов ни на один вопрос, вся книга - один большой знак вопроса.
...и ни одного положительного персонажа.:) Только я влюбилась в мистера Антолини за его тирады, как оказалось...впрочем, совсем гадом Антолини явно не может, даже если всё, что показалось Холдену, правда. Тот же Холден вспоминает, что Антолини оказался единственным человеком, который не побоялся подойти к мёртвому мальчику и отнести его в медблок.
Но по-любому, цитаты об образовании и о "зрелых и незрелых" я давно занёс в свой личный мемориз.
Mr. Antolini lit another cigarette. He smoked like a fiend. Then he said, “Frankly, I don’t know what the hell to say to you, Holden.”
“I know. I’m very hard to talk to. I realize that.”
“I have a feeling that you’re riding for some kind of a terrible, terrible fall. But I don’t honestly know what kind. . . Are you listening to me?”
“Yes.”
You could tell he was trying to concentrate and all.
“It may be the kind where, at the age of thirty, you sit in some bar hating everybody who comes in looking as if he might have played football in college. Then again, you may pick up just enough education to hate people who say, ‘It’s a secret between he and I.’ Or you may end up in some business office, throwing paper clips at the nearest stenographer. I just don’t know. But do you know what I’m driving at, at all?”
“Yes. Sure,” I said. I did, too. .....
Mr. Antolini didn’t say anything for a while. He got up and got another hunk of ice and put it in his drink, then he sat down again. You could tell he was thinking. I kept wishing, though, that he’d continue the conversation in the morning, instead of now, but he was hot. People are mostly hot to have a discussion when you’re not.
“All right. Listen to me a minute now . . . I may not word this as memorably as I’d like to, but I’ll write you a letter about it in a day or two. Then you can get it all straight. But listen now, anyway.” He started concentrating again. Then he said, “This fall I think you’re riding for-it’s a special kind of fall, a horrible kind. The man falling isn’t permitted to feel or hear himself hit bottom. He just keeps falling and falling. The whole arrangement’s designed for men who, at some time or other in their lives, were looking for something their own environment couldn’t supply them with. Or they thought their own environment couldn’t supply them with. So they gave up looking. They gave it up before they ever really even got started. You follow me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
He got up and poured some more booze in his glass. Then he sat down again. He didn’t say anything for a long time.
“I don’t want to scare you,” he said, “but I can very clearly see you dying nobly, one way or another, for some highly unworthy cause.” He gave me a funny look. “If I write something down for you, will you read it carefully? And keep it?”
“Yes. Sure,” I said. I did, too. I still have the paper he gave me.
He went over to this desk on the other side of the room, and without sitting down wrote something on a piece of paper. Then he came back and sat down with the paper in his hand. “Oddly enough, this wasn’t written by a practicing poet. It was written by a psychoanalyst named Wilhelm Stekel. Here’s what he-Are you still with me?”
“Yes, sure I am.”
“Here’s what he said: ‘The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one.’”
He leaned over and handed it to me. I read it right when he gave it to me, and then I thanked him and all and put it in my pocket. It was nice of him to go to all that trouble. It really was. The thing was, though, I didn’t feel much like concentrating. Boy, I felt so damn tired all of a sudden.
You could tell he wasn’t tired at all, though. He was pretty oiled up, for one thing.
“I think that one of these days,” he said, “you’re going to have to find out where you want to go. And then you’ve got to start going there. But immediately. You can’t afford to lose a minute. Not you.”
I nodded, because he was looking right at me and all, but I wasn’t too sure what he was talking about. I was pretty sure I knew, but I wasn’t too positive at the time. I was too damn tired.
“And I hate to tell you,” he said, “but I think that once you have a fair idea where you want to go, your first move will be to apply yourself in school. You’ll have to. You’re a student-whether the idea appeals to you or not. You’re in love with knowledge. And I think you’ll find, once you get past all the Mr. Vineses and their Oral Comp-”
“Mr. Vinsons,” I said. He meant all the Mr. Vinsons, not all the Mr. Vineses. I shouldn’t have interrupted him, though.
“All right-the Mr. Vinsons. Once you get past all the Mr. Vinsons, you’re going to start getting closer and closer-that is, if you want to, and if you look for it and wait for it-to the kind of information that will be very, very dear to your heart. Among other things, you’ll find that you’re not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You’re by no means alone on that score, you’ll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them-if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.”
He stopped and took a big drink out of his highball. Then he started again. Boy, he was really hot. I was glad I didn’t try to stop him or anything. “I’m not trying to tell you,” he said, “that only educated and scholarly men are able to contribute something valuable to the world. It’s not so. But I do say that educated and scholarly men, if they’re brilliant and creative to begin with - which, unfortunately, is rarely the case - tend to leave infinitely more valuable records behind them than men do who are merely brilliant and creative. They tend to express themselves more clearly, and they usually have a passion for following their thoughts through to the end. And-most important-nine times out of ten they have more humility than the unscholarly thinker. Do you follow me at all?”
“Yes, sir.”
He didn’t say anything again for quite a while. I don’t know if you’ve ever done it, but it’s sort of hard to sit around waiting for somebody to say something when they’re thinking and all. It really is. I kept trying not to yawn. It wasn’t that I was bored or anything-I wasn’t-but I was so damn sleepy all of a sudden.
“Something else an academic education will do for you. If you go along with it any considerable distance, it’ll begin to give you an idea what size mind you have. What it’ll fit and, maybe, what it won’t. After a while, you’ll have an idea what kind of thoughts your particular size mind should be wearing. For one thing, it may save you an extraordinary amount of time trying on ideas that don’t suit you, aren’t becoming to you. You’ll begin to know your true measurements and dress your mind accordingly.”
Then, all of a sudden, I yawned. What a rude bastard, but I couldn’t help it!
Я читал это и от восторга повизгивал. То есть с Антолини я согласен на 100% - он просто мои мысли озвучивает. Собстна, вопрос залу номер один - а вы с ним согласны или всё-таки поспорили бы?
Вопрос залу номер два - а это программное заявление Сэлинджера или таки нет? Или, напротив, сатира: во-первых, which, unfortunately, is rarely the case, во-вторых, светлый образ самого Антолини - мало того что пьяный так ещё и к детям пристаёт.
А кстати, о светлом образе. Вопрос три - а всё что было потом, оно, по-вашему, действительно было или это глюки Холдена?
Ну и вопрос четыре - как вы относитесь к цитате про зрелых и незрелых? То есть я-то в очередной раз подписываюсь обеими лапами, но, например, на каком-то американском форуме я обнаружил каменты в духе "фу-какая-гадость". Don’t you mean live a life of quiet desperation? Уймляяя-аааа. А что, каждый человек должен гоняться за врагами с топором в руках и намерением "то ли у...ть, то ли вы...ть" (с) ?!!! А созерцательная жизнь и жизнь, допустим, художника - это уже не жизнь? Кто-то же должен нести людям чушь сохранять прекрасное и пытаться его преумножить:) Просто делать своё дело - служить добру и красоте, насколько человек это умеет. И desperation тут рядом не валялся:)
Хочу поговорить об этом, да:)
PS: Правильно кто-то сказал - это книга о том, как человек отчаянно пытается выразить себя, но у него не получается. В конце концов, Холден много читает, много думает и умеет чувствовать. И единственный предмет, который он не заваливает - это английский язык, так, на минуточку:) Просто не хватает жизненного опыта и образования, чтобы сказать то, что рвётся наружу.
И мне очень хочется придумать продолжение, где Холден всё-таки нашёл своё дело и счастлив.
Жаль, что эта книга не попалась мне раньше, лет этак в пятнадцать - в смысле, в возрасте Холдена. Тогда бы пробило гораздо больше. А может, как раз всё правильно, бо в возрасте Холдена оно совсем пожрало бы мне мозг и научило неправильному. :)
Ещё подумалось, что отношения Холдена с его школами напоминают мои отношения с работами - прогибаться Агнеты не умеют, либо делаю всё честно и чётко вижу цель и результат, либо не делаю никак. "Некоторые называют это искренностью"(с)The Sound of Music, угумс.
Насколько это "правильно" - тот ещё вопрос, и однозначного ответа на него, собственно, и нет, видимо, буду искать в течение всей жизни.
Сэлинджер вообще, кстати, не даёт однозначных ответов ни на один вопрос, вся книга - один большой знак вопроса.
...и ни одного положительного персонажа.:) Только я влюбилась в мистера Антолини за его тирады, как оказалось...впрочем, совсем гадом Антолини явно не может, даже если всё, что показалось Холдену, правда. Тот же Холден вспоминает, что Антолини оказался единственным человеком, который не побоялся подойти к мёртвому мальчику и отнести его в медблок.
Но по-любому, цитаты об образовании и о "зрелых и незрелых" я давно занёс в свой личный мемориз.
Mr. Antolini lit another cigarette. He smoked like a fiend. Then he said, “Frankly, I don’t know what the hell to say to you, Holden.”
“I know. I’m very hard to talk to. I realize that.”
“I have a feeling that you’re riding for some kind of a terrible, terrible fall. But I don’t honestly know what kind. . . Are you listening to me?”
“Yes.”
You could tell he was trying to concentrate and all.
“It may be the kind where, at the age of thirty, you sit in some bar hating everybody who comes in looking as if he might have played football in college. Then again, you may pick up just enough education to hate people who say, ‘It’s a secret between he and I.’ Or you may end up in some business office, throwing paper clips at the nearest stenographer. I just don’t know. But do you know what I’m driving at, at all?”
“Yes. Sure,” I said. I did, too. .....
Mr. Antolini didn’t say anything for a while. He got up and got another hunk of ice and put it in his drink, then he sat down again. You could tell he was thinking. I kept wishing, though, that he’d continue the conversation in the morning, instead of now, but he was hot. People are mostly hot to have a discussion when you’re not.
“All right. Listen to me a minute now . . . I may not word this as memorably as I’d like to, but I’ll write you a letter about it in a day or two. Then you can get it all straight. But listen now, anyway.” He started concentrating again. Then he said, “This fall I think you’re riding for-it’s a special kind of fall, a horrible kind. The man falling isn’t permitted to feel or hear himself hit bottom. He just keeps falling and falling. The whole arrangement’s designed for men who, at some time or other in their lives, were looking for something their own environment couldn’t supply them with. Or they thought their own environment couldn’t supply them with. So they gave up looking. They gave it up before they ever really even got started. You follow me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
He got up and poured some more booze in his glass. Then he sat down again. He didn’t say anything for a long time.
“I don’t want to scare you,” he said, “but I can very clearly see you dying nobly, one way or another, for some highly unworthy cause.” He gave me a funny look. “If I write something down for you, will you read it carefully? And keep it?”
“Yes. Sure,” I said. I did, too. I still have the paper he gave me.
He went over to this desk on the other side of the room, and without sitting down wrote something on a piece of paper. Then he came back and sat down with the paper in his hand. “Oddly enough, this wasn’t written by a practicing poet. It was written by a psychoanalyst named Wilhelm Stekel. Here’s what he-Are you still with me?”
“Yes, sure I am.”
“Here’s what he said: ‘The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one.’”
He leaned over and handed it to me. I read it right when he gave it to me, and then I thanked him and all and put it in my pocket. It was nice of him to go to all that trouble. It really was. The thing was, though, I didn’t feel much like concentrating. Boy, I felt so damn tired all of a sudden.
You could tell he wasn’t tired at all, though. He was pretty oiled up, for one thing.
“I think that one of these days,” he said, “you’re going to have to find out where you want to go. And then you’ve got to start going there. But immediately. You can’t afford to lose a minute. Not you.”
I nodded, because he was looking right at me and all, but I wasn’t too sure what he was talking about. I was pretty sure I knew, but I wasn’t too positive at the time. I was too damn tired.
“And I hate to tell you,” he said, “but I think that once you have a fair idea where you want to go, your first move will be to apply yourself in school. You’ll have to. You’re a student-whether the idea appeals to you or not. You’re in love with knowledge. And I think you’ll find, once you get past all the Mr. Vineses and their Oral Comp-”
“Mr. Vinsons,” I said. He meant all the Mr. Vinsons, not all the Mr. Vineses. I shouldn’t have interrupted him, though.
“All right-the Mr. Vinsons. Once you get past all the Mr. Vinsons, you’re going to start getting closer and closer-that is, if you want to, and if you look for it and wait for it-to the kind of information that will be very, very dear to your heart. Among other things, you’ll find that you’re not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You’re by no means alone on that score, you’ll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them-if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.”
He stopped and took a big drink out of his highball. Then he started again. Boy, he was really hot. I was glad I didn’t try to stop him or anything. “I’m not trying to tell you,” he said, “that only educated and scholarly men are able to contribute something valuable to the world. It’s not so. But I do say that educated and scholarly men, if they’re brilliant and creative to begin with - which, unfortunately, is rarely the case - tend to leave infinitely more valuable records behind them than men do who are merely brilliant and creative. They tend to express themselves more clearly, and they usually have a passion for following their thoughts through to the end. And-most important-nine times out of ten they have more humility than the unscholarly thinker. Do you follow me at all?”
“Yes, sir.”
He didn’t say anything again for quite a while. I don’t know if you’ve ever done it, but it’s sort of hard to sit around waiting for somebody to say something when they’re thinking and all. It really is. I kept trying not to yawn. It wasn’t that I was bored or anything-I wasn’t-but I was so damn sleepy all of a sudden.
“Something else an academic education will do for you. If you go along with it any considerable distance, it’ll begin to give you an idea what size mind you have. What it’ll fit and, maybe, what it won’t. After a while, you’ll have an idea what kind of thoughts your particular size mind should be wearing. For one thing, it may save you an extraordinary amount of time trying on ideas that don’t suit you, aren’t becoming to you. You’ll begin to know your true measurements and dress your mind accordingly.”
Then, all of a sudden, I yawned. What a rude bastard, but I couldn’t help it!
Я читал это и от восторга повизгивал. То есть с Антолини я согласен на 100% - он просто мои мысли озвучивает. Собстна, вопрос залу номер один - а вы с ним согласны или всё-таки поспорили бы?
Вопрос залу номер два - а это программное заявление Сэлинджера или таки нет? Или, напротив, сатира: во-первых, which, unfortunately, is rarely the case, во-вторых, светлый образ самого Антолини - мало того что пьяный так ещё и к детям пристаёт.
А кстати, о светлом образе. Вопрос три - а всё что было потом, оно, по-вашему, действительно было или это глюки Холдена?
Ну и вопрос четыре - как вы относитесь к цитате про зрелых и незрелых? То есть я-то в очередной раз подписываюсь обеими лапами, но, например, на каком-то американском форуме я обнаружил каменты в духе "фу-какая-гадость". Don’t you mean live a life of quiet desperation? Уймляяя-аааа. А что, каждый человек должен гоняться за врагами с топором в руках и намерением "то ли у...ть, то ли вы...ть" (с) ?!!! А созерцательная жизнь и жизнь, допустим, художника - это уже не жизнь? Кто-то же должен нести людям чушь сохранять прекрасное и пытаться его преумножить:) Просто делать своё дело - служить добру и красоте, насколько человек это умеет. И desperation тут рядом не валялся:)
Хочу поговорить об этом, да:)
PS: Правильно кто-то сказал - это книга о том, как человек отчаянно пытается выразить себя, но у него не получается. В конце концов, Холден много читает, много думает и умеет чувствовать. И единственный предмет, который он не заваливает - это английский язык, так, на минуточку:) Просто не хватает жизненного опыта и образования, чтобы сказать то, что рвётся наружу.
И мне очень хочется придумать продолжение, где Холден всё-таки нашёл своё дело и счастлив.