The fact that your mother couldn't understand Master and Margarita in its original Russian sounds distressing. But if she thinks it's fantastic, I can brave the sucky translations. There are two translations that I know of-- Glenny's and Pevear & Volokhonsky's. I'm told that Glenny's translation runs smoother but takes more liberties with the text, but Pevear & Volokhonsky's is more accurate, although it loses a bit of its original idiomatic flow. But Pevear & Volokhonsky are celebrated for their translations of Russian literature into English, and many aficionados will only read their translations. Their translation of Crime and Punishment seems very good anyhow.
Porfiry isn't so obnoxious as his presence is perturbing, or rather, discomforting. Luzhin is the absolute worst; I hate his stupid guts.
Pushkin is the shit, and I knew very little about the Decembrists 'til your anecdote. However, the Decemberists (with an "e" between the "b" and "r") are also a very good band. I suggest you download "The Soldiering Life," "I Was Meant for the Stage," and "Los Angeles, I'm Yours."
I especially like the biography on their official site:
"I'm a poor, drunken orphan with nowhere to go but the grave," wailed a waifish and non-plussed Mr. Chris Funk as he lay supine by the railroad tracks. The crate of records he had been cradling in his nubile appendages now lay in pieces on the ashen ground, his complete collected recordings of sixties psychedelic luminary Rick "Paisley Dave" Rigmore scattered hit her and yon like so many dead leaves beneath a diseased elm. Noting his neglect to accredit this phrase to its rightful owner, chief engineer Jenny Conlee, her accordion neatly strapped to her back, stepped lightly from the caboose and corrected his negligence with the aplomb only an immigrant Hungarian could muster: "Dylan Thomas, sir! Please move along!" But it was too late: an indelible bond had been soldered in that moment of recognition. A few hours later, in a Turkish bath, they revealed their stories to one another between sips of a strange, tangerine liqueur. Not far from that spot, however, two young military dignitaries (Rachel Blumberg, Nate Query), appropriately lathered, overheard our two heroes' stories. Was it chance, then, that lead the four unsuspecting bathers to seek to return their soiled undergarments at the same kiosk where worked the poor, bespectacled Colin Meloy? One can surmise all one wants, but the truth should be known that, after adopting the moniker The Decemberists, these five wan vagabonds began playing their peculiarly styled pop music in various concert-halls and brothels all across the globe.
They're my kind of band. Oooh, and which fairy-tale? How? What? When? Where?
I suppose Dostoevsky's style can be called "psychological realism" to a degree, but I was referring to Milan Kundera when I used the term. Dostoevsky does describe the thought processes of a character's mind, but he also describes a landscape with the same depth. Kundera discards such detail because believes that the reader's imagination automatically completes the writer's.
ZOMG. The Decembrists rock hardcore. I've also read that they exalted Napoleon, and I was reminded of you. XD
Porfiry isn't so obnoxious as his presence is perturbing, or rather, discomforting. Luzhin is the absolute worst; I hate his stupid guts.
Pushkin is the shit, and I knew very little about the Decembrists 'til your anecdote. However, the Decemberists (with an "e" between the "b" and "r") are also a very good band. I suggest you download "The Soldiering Life," "I Was Meant for the Stage," and "Los Angeles, I'm Yours."
I especially like the biography on their official site:
"I'm a poor, drunken orphan with nowhere to go but the grave," wailed a waifish and non-plussed Mr. Chris Funk as he lay supine by the railroad tracks. The crate of records he had been cradling in his nubile appendages now lay in pieces on the ashen ground, his complete collected recordings of sixties psychedelic luminary Rick "Paisley Dave" Rigmore scattered hit her and yon like so many dead leaves beneath a diseased elm. Noting his neglect to accredit this phrase to its rightful owner, chief engineer Jenny Conlee, her accordion neatly strapped to her back, stepped lightly from the caboose and corrected his negligence with the aplomb only an immigrant Hungarian could muster: "Dylan Thomas, sir! Please move along!" But it was too late: an indelible bond had been soldered in that moment of recognition. A few hours later, in a Turkish bath, they revealed their stories to one another between sips of a strange, tangerine liqueur. Not far from that spot, however, two young military dignitaries (Rachel Blumberg, Nate Query), appropriately lathered, overheard our two heroes' stories. Was it chance, then, that lead the four unsuspecting bathers to seek to return their soiled undergarments at the same kiosk where worked the poor, bespectacled Colin Meloy? One can surmise all one wants, but the truth should be known that, after adopting the moniker The Decemberists, these five wan vagabonds began playing their peculiarly styled pop music in various concert-halls and brothels all across the globe.
They're my kind of band. Oooh, and which fairy-tale? How? What? When? Where?
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ZOMG. The Decembrists rock hardcore. I've also read that they exalted Napoleon, and I was reminded of you. XD
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