Anatoly Vorobey (avva) wrote,
Anatoly Vorobey

ещё книги

Я начал читать-перечитывать всего Пинчона. Некоторые из его книг я буду перечитывать в первый раз, некоторые — в очень даже не первый, а некоторые (два последних романа) до сих пор не читал.

На этот раз я решил придерживаться строго хронологического порядка. Я начал со сборника ранних рассказов Slow Learner, оттуда перейду к V., затем The Crying of Lot 49, и так далее.

Стоит ли упоминать, что Пинчон — один из любимейших, а может и самый любимый современный писатель, и что его романы заслуживают все банальные похвальные эпитеты, которые я могу придумать, и ещё несколько сверх того?

Сейчас нахожусь где-то в середине сборника Slow Learner. В нём всего пять рассказов, плюс длинное и подробное введение самого Пинчона, в котором он эти рассказы в основном безжалостно ругает, и объясняет, что в них, на его сегодняшний вкус, особенно плохо.

Рассказы, действительно, во многом слабые. Самый известный из них — Entropy — неплох, но тоже не выдерживает сравнения с романами. Мне, впрочем, больше понравился самый ранний и первый рассказ в сборнике, Small Rain. В нём, между прочим, действие происходит вокруг урагана в Луизиане и жертв наводнения, вызванного ураганом (но не в Новом Орлеане).

Вот, скажем, отрывок из Entropy, где проглядывает настоящий Пинчон, Пинчон первых романов:

This was in early February of '57 and back then there were a lot of American expatriates around Washington, D.C., who would talk, every time they met you, abut how someday they were going to go over to Europe for real but right now it seemed they were working for the government. Everyone saw the irony in this. They would stage, for instance, polyglot parties where the newcomer was sort of ignored if he couldn't carry on simultaneous conversation in three or four languages. They would haunt Armenian delicatessens for weeks at a stretch and invite you over for bulghour and lamb in tiny kitchens whose walls were covered with bullfight posters. They would have affairs with sultry girls from Andalucia or the Midi who studied economics at Georgetown. Their Dôme was a collegiate Rathskeller out on Wisconsin Avenue called the Old Heidelberg and they had to settle for cherry blossoms instead of lime trees when spring came, but in its lethargic way their life provided, as they say, kicks.

А вот отрывок о сумасшедшем психоаналитике из рассказа Low Lands; в нём отчётливо проступают некоторые черты незабываемого доктора Хилариуса из The Crying of Lot 49:

His analyst, a crazed and boozy wetback named Geronimo Diaz, had, of course, a great deal to say about this. For fifty minutes every week Flange would be screamed at over martinis about his mom. [...]

Geronimo Diaz was clearly insane; but it was a wonderful, random sort of madness which conformed to no known model or pattern, an irresponsible plasma of delusion he floated in, utterly convinced, for example, that he was Paganini and had sold his soul to the devil. He kept a priceless Stradivarius in his desk, and to prove to Flange that this hallucination was fact he would saw away at the strings, producing horribly racuous noises, throw down the bow finally and say, “You see. Ever since I made that deal I haven't been able to play a note.” And spend whole sessions reading aloud to himself out of random-number tables or the Ebbinghaus nonsense syllable lists, ignoring everything that Flange would be trying to tell him. Those sessions were impossible: counterpointed against confessions of clumsy adolescent sex play would come this incessant “ZAP. MOG. FUD. NAF. VOB,” and every once in a while the clink and gurgle of the martini shaker. But Flange went back again, he kept going back; realizing perhaps that if he were subjected for the rest of his life to nothing but the relentless rationality of that womb and that wife, he would never make it, and that Geronimo's lunacy was about all he had to keep him going. And the martinis were free.
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