tjorn: (Лето)
Оригинал взят у [livejournal.com profile] vardanna в Преображение глины
Я же обещала выложить интервью с Любой Грачевой! И как нельзя кстати, между прочим, - мы с ней говорили ровно о том, что отзывается все эти дни. Ну вот, например, о том, зачем сознательно "быть добрым", даже если сам ты не всегда белый и пушистый.

- Зрители часто называют твой стиль «добрым» и «сказочным»: на твоих картинах птицы вьют гнезда в волосах улыбчивых домовых, ласковые девочки встречаются с единорогами, тихо и нежно улыбаются ангелы, радуются жизни коты, ежи и мышата. Но в жизни ты совсем не девочка-колокольчик, витающая среди облаков и радуг, скорее, сильная женщина с явными лидерскими качествами. Почему ты выбрала именно эти темы?

- Мне было важно преобразить глину, найти связь между этим материалом и великими мифами, согласно которым глина была той первоосновой, из которой был создан весь мир. Эти мифы – о преобразовании материи силой творчества, одухотворения. Участвуя в этом мифе, художник сам становится Творцом. Глина сама по себе ведь, прямо скажем, похожа на какашки и грязь. Когда плотную красную глину мнешь в руках, а она, будучи пластичной, принимает в пальцах форму характерных «собачьих радостей», иной раз думаешь: наверное, со стороны это неприятно смотрится. И самым простым было бы следовать по тому пути, который подсказывает природная фактура глины: создавать «какашечное» искусство. Насколько мне легче было бы поставить в выставочном зале несколько тазов с замешанной глиной, раздеться догола, устроить перформанс, самой перемазаться с ног до головы и зрителей измазать! Минутное дело, и я уже современный художник-перформер. Или налепить абстрактные кучки, быстренько обжечь, и получившиеся «лепехи» объявить метафорой нашей сегодняшней жизни. Ценители актуального искусства, наверное, мне бы за это «творчество» еще и платили. Но миссия художника на земле – воссоздавать высший замысел по преображению хаоса и некрасоты в гармонию и красоту. И я хочу, чтобы похожая на грязь и нечистоты глина, пройдя через руки художника – мои руки – стала выражать самые важные идеи и чувства: любовь, тепло сочувствия, утешение, веру в чудо, надежду. Поэтому я дала себе слово, что всю жизнь буду делать только добрые работы.

P1060004 - копия

Дальше - о том, зачем Любе в ее работе капроновые чулки и почему она никогда заранее не знает, как будет выглядеть работа после обжига.
и Сирина-Алконоста-Гамаюна еще покажу )
tjorn: (Дара)
Much recent comment on Ukraine in the British press has been marked by a barely forgivable ignorance about its history and politics, an overhasty willingness to put the blame for all its troubles on Vladimir Putin, and an almost total inability to suggest practical ways of bringing effective Western influence to bear on a solution.
So perhaps we should start with a short history lesson.


Ukraine crisis: No wonder Vladimir Putin says Crimea is Russian.
Rodric Braithwaite

So perhaps we should start with a short history lesson. A thousand years ago Kiev was the capital of an Orthodox Christian state called Rus with links reaching as far west as England. But Rus was swept away by the Tatars in the 13th century, leaving only a few principalities in the north, including an obscure town deep in the forests, called Moscow.

What became known as Ukraine – a Slav phrase meaning “borderlands” – was regularly fought over by Tatars, Poles, Lithuanians, Russians, Turks, Swedes and Cossacks. One large chunk, including Kiev itself, joined Russia in the 17th century. Galicia in the west fell to the Austrians in the following century, but was taken by Poland after the First World War, when the rest of Ukraine joined the Soviet Federation. Churchill, Roosevelt and Stalin handed Galicia and its capital Lviv to Ukraine in 1945. All these changes were accompanied by much bloody fighting.

Ukraine’s Crimean peninsula followed a different but equally tumultuous path. The seat of a powerful and predatory Tatar state, it was conquered and settled by the Russians in the 18th century. Stalin deported its Tatar minority in 1944 because, he said, they had collaborated with the Germans. They were later allowed to return. Crimea only became part of Ukraine in 1954, when Khrushchev gave it to Kiev as a present.

Ukraine became an independent country for the first time since the Middle Ages when the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991. It had many of the requirements for success: an educated population, good links with the outside world and substantial industry, though its economy remained distorted by the Soviet legacy. But it was still divided, with an uncertain sense of nationhood. Today 77 per cent of the country’s population is Ukrainian. But 17 per cent is Russian, a third of the population speak Russian and many of these people have strong family ties with Russia. Only the Ukrainians from Galicia look unequivocally to the West.

Meanwhile, most Russians feel strong emotional links to Ukraine as the cradle of their civilisation. Even the most open minded feel its loss like an amputated limb.

Things started well enough. Russia and Ukraine negotiated a sensible agreement to allow the Russian Black Sea Fleet to remain in Crimea. With well-judged concessions, the Ukrainians assuaged the demands of Crimea’s Russian inhabitants for closer ties with the motherland. But the Ukrainians were unlucky in their country’s new leaders, most of whom were incompetent or worse. They failed to modernise the economy; corruption ran out of control. Then Putin arrived in 2000, ambitious to strengthen Russia’s influence with its neighbours. And the West began its ill-judged attempts to draw Ukraine into its orbit regardless of Russian sensitivities.

Despite his best efforts, both overt and covert, Putin has failed to shape Ukraine to his will. He got his puppet Yanukovych elected president in 2004, only to see him overthrown in an Orange Revolution supported by millions of dollars of Western money. The “democratic” leaders who then emerged proved incompetent as well as corrupt. Yanukovych was re-elected in a fair election in 2010, but was even more incompetent and corrupt. His forceful ejection at the height of the Winter Olympics in Sochi, intended to showcase a modern and powerful Russia, was a humiliation for Putin and an unintended consequence of his intrigues. He is a vindictive man who will want revenge.

Although he is also a cunning politician, he already looks incapable of calm calculation. His apparent threat – or intention – to use force in Crimea would up the stakes in ways whose consequences neither he nor anyone else can foresee.

He may of course believe that the West will be unable to find an adequate response, and he may not be wrong. Western policy towards Ukraine has had two inadequate parts. The first is respectable but merely rhetorical: Ukraine is entitled to decide its future for itself, and Russia has no legitimate claim to a voice. The second is a piece of old-fashioned geopolitics: Russia can never again become an imperial threat if Ukraine is incorporated into Nato and the European Union. This part of the policy is impractical to the point of irresponsibility. It ignores four things. The members of Nato and the EU have lost their appetite for further enlargement. Most Ukrainians do not want their country to join Nato, though they would be happy to join the EU. A majority want to remain on good terms with Russia.

Above all, the West does not have the instruments to impose its will. It has no intention of getting into a forceful confrontation with Russia. Lesser sanctions are available to it, both economic and political, but they will hardly be sufficient to deflect a determined Russia from its meddling.

The alternative is for the West to talk to the Russians and to whoever can speak with authority for Ukraine. So far the Americans have been ineffective on the sidelines, the British seem to have given up doing foreign policy altogether, and only the Germans, the Poles and the French have shown any capacity for action.

An eventual deal would doubtless have to include verifiable agreement by the West as well as the Russians to abandon meddling in Ukrainian affairs, a credible assurance that Nato will not try to recruit Ukraine and arrangements for the both the Russians and the West to prop up Ukraine’s disastrous economy. The sums involved are vast ($35bn has been mentioned). The task of ensuring that they are properly spent will be taxing in the extreme.

All that would involve much eating of words on all sides. It would enable the West to show that it can move beyond fine rhetoric about democracy to real deeds. It will be very hard to achieve. It may already be too late. But the alternatives are liable to be far worse.

Rodric Braithwaite was ambassador in Moscow in 1988-92. His last book was Afgantsy: The Russians in Afghanistan 1979-89
tjorn: (Дара)
Причём, человек, подозревать которого в "путинизме" или иной форме про российской ангажированности ... ну, просто уже как-то не здраво на голову.
http://jackmatlock.com/2014/03/ukraine-the-price-of-internal-division/
И продолжение
http://jackmatlock.com/2014/03/obama’s-confrontation-over-ukraine-has-increased-putin’s-support-at-home/
Не для дискуссии, просто для сведения. Нужные и точные формулировки умного и опытного дипломата, способного анализировать поступки "своих" и "чужих" без эмоций, и при этом владеющего реалиями.
tjorn: (кто здесь?)
"Тот, кто ЭТО ВСЁ придумал..."



Библиотека работ Крэга.
И - большая статья о том самом "Гамлете" Крэга-Станиславского.
И как-то сразу вспоминается вчерашнее интервью Спивака... величайший режиссёр "20-го и 21-го века" - актёр, достигший к 24 годам той степени ... интериоризации актёрства, когда оно уже не воспринимается, как ИСКУССТВО... ну, правда же, не ждёте же вы от дельфина восторгов по поводу его, дельфина, высочайшего умения плавать?!..
tjorn: (Лето)
В обществе существует тенденция негативного отношения к происшествиям такого рода, люди боятся об этом говорить. Если мы просто всего лишь посмотрим на события такого рода, как мы делаем это здесь, то выяснится, что для всех заинтересованных лиц все хорошо так, как есть. Из греха часто получается что-то хорошее, и это плохо для моралистов. Такие вещи невозможно обнаруживать перед кем-то, кто относится к этому отрицательно и смотрит, а хорошо ли это.

Берт Хеллингер - о внебрачных детях. И - не только о них.:-)
tjorn: (кто здесь?)
Пока могу сказать одно: я ещё не видела в кинофильме настолько дивного зрелища обстоятельной и доверительной беседы Сознания и Подсознания.
С нетерпением уже жду вторую часть.:-)
tjorn: (кто здесь?)
Оригинал взят у [livejournal.com profile] bamssi в Бытие есть. Оно не может не есть
Момент приспел. Для начала оговорка по Фрейду: убедительная просьба, в случае моей нескорой кончины, господам Эко, Ницше, Лиатару и Бодрийяр, а также Ортега-и-Гассету с Бартом ко мне с вопросами по этому тексту не обращаться. Я с вами не разговариваю со времен госа по философии и эстетике. Понаписали, понимаешь, всякого, а народ теперь шарахается, как от чумного. Господа, этот текст призван свести термин «постмодернизм» к здоровому восприятию. Полному и частичному освобождению от громоздких терминов и зубодробительных тезисов. Философия постмодернизма (да простит меня Гегель) требует не только опыта, но и эксперимента в постижении основ. Надеюсь запала, Грига и чая мне хватит, чтобы свести всё к простым примерам.



Read more... )
tjorn: (Дара)
Словно маленький, глупый, невежественный и невоспитанный (СОВСЕМ "НЕ") мальчишка публично насрал под дверь старого, почтенного профессора, а когда его, вместо аплодисментов, взяли за ушко, с большим апломбом начал орать, что:
1. это - не я!
2. это вообще - не дерьмо, а элитный шоколад, ничего вы не понимаете!!!
Мерзко это всё до противоестественности. Настолько мерзко, что уже как-то паталогично. В психическом смысле.
Оригинал взят у [livejournal.com profile] irinakiu в Даниил Александрович Гранин: "Нам всегда не везло с министрами культуры"

12 февраля 2014 15:36 / Политика
Даниил Гранин ответил, что он думает о словах Владимира Мединского

Даниил Гранин в интервью "Новой" прокомментировал ситуацию с выступлением чиновника на радио "Эхо Москвы", в которой тот назвал "враньем" слова писателя о том, что в блокадном Ленинграде выпекали ромовые бабы и партийное руководство питалось иначе, чем простые горожане.

– Такие заявления министра происходят от невежества. Нам всегда не везло с министрами культуры. Культурой вообще нельзя руководить. Культуру надо понимать, надо нести в себе, – сказал Даниил Гранин, фронтовик, защитник блокадного Ленинграда, почетный гражданин Санкт-Петербурга.

Вчера депутат Петербургского ЗакСа Борис Вишневский потребовал у Мединского публично извиниться перед писателем. Слова министра имели широкий – негативный – резонанс. Вечером в тот же день пресс-служба Министерства культуры сообщила, что слова их начальника были "вырваны из контекста".

Это было больше похоже на попытку сохранить лицо. Потому что "контекст" в передаче выглядел так:

"Мединский: Мы должны не ерничать на тему пирожных, которых никогда не ел Жданов, это полная… Я исследовал эту тему, полная фантазия. Вот.

Ведущий: А как же дневники? А как же фотографии, которые Даниил Александрович Гранин опубликовал, этот цех ромовых баб?

Мединский: Это вранье. Значит, никаких фактов и доказательств этого нет".


Из "Новой газеты" -СПб
tjorn: (кто здесь?)
Серьёзно! Я видела ЭТО в Москве в Манеже в начале января. Это... неописуемо, это НАДО видеть.
"Я был там... я видел...":-)
Да, это - ШЕДЕВР как в художественном, так и в изначальном, ремесленном, смысле слова.
Я ходила между ними, и любитель искусства во мне восторженно обнимался в едином экстазе с модисткой.:-) "О! ЧТО он сделал! О! КАК он сделал!":-)))

2-22 февраля 2014 года в Российском этнографическом музее пройдет выставка коллекции уникальных кимоно работы знаменитого японского мастера Итику Кубота.

Что это? )
tjorn: (петергоф)
Огромное спасибо за него [livejournal.com profile] bukvoedina и [livejournal.com profile] tec_tecky !
На англицком, но в гуглопереводе всё вполне читаемо. :-)

Pasternak refuses to accept any claim for the primacy of ideological systems. Avoiding any quest for the "essence" of modern terror, he prefers to observe its impact upon the lives of modest and de­cent people. Again and again he returns to what might be called the "organic" nature of experience, those autonomous human rhythms which, in his view, can alone provide a true basis for freedom. The Tolstoyan narrative structure takes on a new and dynamic character, embodying his belief that everything fund­amental in life remains inviolate, beyond the grasp of ideology or the state.
I do not mean to suggest that Paster­nak permits a facile spirituality to blind him to the power of circumstances. He knows how easy it is to debase and kill a man, how often and needlessly it has been done; some of his most poignant chapters register the sufferings of the Russian people during the past forty years. Yet he is driven by an almost instinctive need to cling to other possibilities, and he writes about ordin­ary experience with such affection and steadfastness that, even under the blows of accumulating historical crises, it takes on a halo of sanctity. Not the fanati­cism of the will, but existence as rooted in the natural world, seems to him the crux of things.
Boris Pasternak Lived In The Wrong Century

Irving Howe on the tragedy of our twentieth-century Tolstoy

by Irving Howe | February 10, 2014

Of Freedom and Contemplation
Irving Howe
September 8, 1958

Boris Pasternak was born 124 years ago on this day. In honor of his birthday, here is Irving Howe's appraisal of the unique genius of Pasternak's best-known work, Doctor Zhivago.

Doctor Zhivago, the novel which climaxes the career of the Russian poet Boris Pasternak, is a major work of fiction; but it is also—and for the moment, perhaps more important—a historic utterance. It is an act of testimony as crucial to our moral and intellectual life as the Hungarian revo­lution to our political life. It asks for, and deserves, the kind of response in which one's sense of the purely "liter­ary" becomes absorbed in a total atten­tion to the voice of the writer.

The book comes to us in extraordinary circumstances. A great Russian poet who maintains silence through years of terror and somehow, for reasons no one quite understands, survives the purges that destroy his most gifted colleagues; a manuscript sent by him to an Italian Communist publisher who decides to issue it despite strong pressures from his comrades; the dictatorship mean­while refusing to permit this book, surely the most distinguished Russian novel of our time, to appear in print—all this comprises the very stuff of his­tory, a reenactment of those rhythms of brutality and resistance which form the substance of the novel itself.

Doctor Zhivago opens in the first years of the century, spans the revo­lution, civil war and terror of the thirties, and ends with an epilogue in the mid-1940s. On a level far deeper than politics and with a strength and purity that must remove all doubts, it persuades us that the yearning for free­dom remains indestructible. Quietly and resolutely Pasternak speaks for the sanctity of human life, turning to those "eternal questions" which made the 19th Century Russian novel so magnificent and besides which the formulas of Russia's current masters seem so trivial.

The European novel has traditionally depended on some implicit norm of "the human." In our time, however, this norm has become so imperiled that the novel has had to assume the burdens of prophecy and jeremiad, raising an apocalyptic voice against the false apoca­lypse of total politics. Some of the most serious Western writers have turned impatiently from the task of represent­ing familiar experience and have tried, instead, to make the novel carry an un­precedented amount of speculative and philosophical weight. Sacrificing part of the traditional richness of the Euro­pean novel, they have kept searching for new, synoptic structures that would permit them to dramatize the modern split between historical event and per­sonal existence. As a result, their work has occasionally thinned out into para­bles concerning the nature and possi­bility of freedom.

But where certain Western novelists have wrenched their narrative structures in order to reach some "essence" of modern terror, Pasternak has adopted a quite different strategy. With apparent awareness of the symbolic meaning of his choice, he has turned back to the old-fashioned leisurely Tolstoyan novel. His aim is not to mimic its external amplitude, as do most Soviet writers, but to recapture its spirit of freedom and then bring this spirit to bear upon contemporary Russian life. Given the atmosphere in which Pasternak must live and work, this kind of a return to the Tolstoyan novel comes to seem a profoundly liberating act.

Pasternak refuses to accept any claim for the primacy of ideological systems. Avoiding any quest for the "essence" of modern terror, he prefers to observe its impact upon the lives of modest and de­cent people. Again and again he returns to what might be called the "organic" nature of experience, those autonomous human rhythms which, in his view, can alone provide a true basis for freedom. The Tolstoyan narrative structure takes on a new and dynamic character, embodying his belief that everything fund­amental in life remains inviolate, beyond the grasp of ideology or the state.

I do not mean to suggest that Paster­nak permits a facile spirituality to blind him to the power of circumstances. He knows how easy it is to debase and kill a man, how often and needlessly it has been done; some of his most poignant chapters register the sufferings of the Russian people during the past forty years. Yet he is driven by an almost instinctive need to cling to other possibilities, and he writes about ordin­ary experience with such affection and steadfastness that, even under the blows of accumulating historical crises, it takes on a halo of sanctity. Not the fanati­cism of the will, but existence as rooted in the natural world, seems to him the crux of things.

Yuri Zhivago, the central figure of the novel and in some ways Pasternak's alter ego, comes to this realization while still a young man. As he is driven from the battlefields of the First World War to revolutionary Moscow to partisan fighting in Siberia, and then back again to Moscow, Zhivago tries to keep hold of a few realities: nature, art, the life of contemplation. No matter how des­perate the moment may be, he feels that the preservation of his inner identity is still possible if he can watch a cow grazing in the fields, read Pushkin's poems and speak freely to himself in the journal he intermittently keeps.

It is this effort to preserve the per­sonal basis of reality which forms the main stress of Zhivago's experience—an effort always secured in a radiantly intense feeling for nature. One of the loveliest episodes in the novel occurs when Zhivago and his family, to avoid starvation during the civil war, decide to leave Moscow. They take a long journey eastward, and at one point their train becomes stalled in drifts of snow. For three days the passengers work in the open, helping to clear the tracks. A light of joy comes over them, a feel­ing of gratification for this gift: "The days were clear and frosty, and the shifts were short because there were not enough shovels. It was sheer pleasure."

Somewhat earlier in the book Zhivago reflects upon his life while traveling homeward from the First World War:

The novel begins with a series of clipped vignettes of pre-revolutionary Russia, apparently meant to suggest a Tolstoyan breadth and luxuriousness of treatment. A few of these vignettes seem hurried and schematic in effect, but many of them are brilliantly evocative, quick and sharp glimpses of another Russia.

But which Russia: the Russia of the Czars or of War and Peace? The country Pasternak remembers from his youth or the marvelous landscape of Tolstoy's imagination? The alternative, of course, is a false one, and I raise it merely to indicate the presence of a real problem. For in the mind of a writer like Pasternak, historical reality and literary herit­age must by now be inseparable: the old Russia is the Russia both of the Czars and of Tolstoy. And as he recreates it stroke by stroke, Pasternak seems intent upon suggesting that no matter what attitude one takes toward the past, it cannot be understood in terms of imposed political cliches.

He is, in any case, rigorously objective in his treatment. He portrays both a vibrant Christmas party among the lib­eral intelligentsia and a bitter strike among railroad workers; he focuses upon moments of free discussion and spontaneous talk such as would make some contemporary Russian readers feel envious and then upon moments of gross inhumanity that would make them think it pointless even to consider turning back the wheel of history. Pas­ternak accepts the unavoidability, per­haps even the legitimacy of the revo­lution, and he evokes the past not to indulge in nostalgia but to insist upon the continuity of human life.

Once, however, the narrative reaches the Bolshevik revolution, the Tolstoyan richness and complexity promised at the beginning are not fully realized. Partly this is due to Pasternak's inex­perience as a novelist: he burdens him­self with more preparations than he needs and throughout the book one is aware of occasional brave efforts to tie loose ends together.

But mainly the trouble is due to a crucial difference between Tolstoy's and Pasternak's situations. Soaring to an incomparable zest and vitality, Tolstoy could break past the social limits of his world—a world neither wholly free nor, like Pasternak's, wholly unfree—and communicate the sheer delight of con­sciousness. Pasternak also desires joy as a token of man's gratitude for ex­istence; his characters reach for it eager­ly and pathetically; but the Russia of his novel is too grey, too grim for a prolonged release of the Tolstoyan ethos. As a writer of the highest in­telligence, Pasternak must have known this; and it is at least possible he also realized that the very difficulties he would encounter in adapting the Tols­toyan novel to contemporary Russia would help reveal both the direction of his yearning and the constrictions of reality.

It is Pasternak's capacity for holding in balance these two elements—the direction of his yearning and the con­strictions of reality—that accounts for the poise and strength of the novel. Like most great Russian writers, he has the gift for making ideas seem a natural part of human experience, though what matters in this novel is not a Dostoev­skian clash of ideology and dialectic but Zhivago’s sustained effort, amount­ing to a kind of heroism, to preserve his capacity for the life of contem­plation.

Zhivago’s ideas, it seems fair to assume, are in large measure Pasternak's, and as they emerge in the book, subtly modulated by the movement of portrayed events, it becomes clear that the central point of view can be described as a kind of Primitive Christianity, profoundly heterodox and utterly alien to all dogmas and institutions. I would agree with the remark of Mr. Max Hay­ward, Pasternak's English translator, that Zhivago's Christianity "would be acceptable to many agnostics." Accept­able not merely because of its ethical purity but because it demands to be understood as a historically-determined response to the airless world of Soviet conformity. In such a world the idea of Christ—even more so, the image of Christ facing his death alone—must take on implications quite different from those it usually has in the West. Zhivago's uncle, his intellectual guide, suggests these in an early passage:

Together with this version of Christianity, Zhivago soon develops a per­sonal attitude toward Marxism—an atti­tude, I should say, much more complex than is likely to be noted by American reviewers seeking points for the Cold War. Zhivago cannot help but honor the early Bolsheviks, if only because they did give themselves to "the idea of life as sacrifice." His enthusiasm for the revolution dies quickly, but even then he does not condemn it. He is more severe: he judges it.

Unavoidably Zhivago also absorbs some elements of the Marxist political outlook, though he never accepts its claims for the primacy of politics. In­deed, his rejection of Marxism is not es­sentially a political one. He rejects it because he comes to despise the arro­gance of the totalitarian "vanguard," its manipulative view of man, in short, its contempt for the second "basic ideal of modern man . . . the ideal of free per­sonality":

Still more withering is Zhivago's judg­ment of the Soviet intelligentsia:

Such statements are plain enough, and their significance can hardly be lost upon the powers in Moscow; but it must quickly be added that in the context of the novel they are much less abrupt and declamatory than they seem in isolation. Pasternak is so sensitive toward his own characters, so free from any intention to flourish ideologies, that the novel is never in danger of becoming a mere tract. The spectacle of Zhivago trying to reflect upon the catastrophe of his time is always more interesting than the sub­stance of his reflections. His ideas are neither original nor beyond dispute, but as he experiences them and struggles to articulate them, they take on an enormous dignity and power. If ever a man may be said to have earned his ideas, it is Yurii Zhivago.

Zhivago's opinions reflect the direc­tion of Pasternak's yearning, the long-suppressed bias of his mind; but there is, in the novel itself, more than enough counter-weight of objective presentation. Pasternak is extremely skillful at making us aware of vast historical forces rum­bling behind the lives of his central fig­ures. The Bolshevik revolution is never pictured frontally, but a series of inci­dents, some of them no more than a page or two in length, keep the sense of catas­trophe and upheaval constantly before us—Zhivago fumbling to light an old stove during an icy Moscow winter while in the nearby streets men are shooting at each other, a callow young Menshevik "heartening" Russian troops with demo­cratic rhetoric and meeting an ungainly death as his reward, a veteran Social Revolutionary pouring bile over the Communist leaders, a partisan com­mander in Siberia fighting desperately against the White armies. And as Zhiva­go finds himself caught up by social cur­rents too strong for any man to resist, we remember once again Tolstoy's con­cern with the relationship between his­torical event and personal life.

Once Pasternak reaches the revolu­tionary period, the novel becomes a kind of spiritual biography, still rich in social references but primarily the record of a mind struggling for survival. What now matters most is the personal fate of Zhivago and his relationships with two other characters, Lara, the woman who is to be the love of his life, and Strelni­kov, a partisan leader who exemplifies all of the ruthless revolutionary will that Zhivago lacks.

Zhivago himself may be seen as rep­resentative of those Russian intellectuals who accepted the revolution but were never absorbed into the Communist apparatus. That he is both a skillful doctor and a sensitive poet strengthens one's impression that Pasternak means him to be something more than an individual figure. He speaks for those writers, art­ists and scientists who have been con­signed to a state of permanent inferiority because they do not belong to the "van­guard" party. His sufferings are their sufferings, and his gradual estrangement from the regime, an estrangement that has little to do with politics, may well be shared by at least some of them. Zhivago embodies that which, in Paster­nak's view, man is forbidden to give to the state.

Mr. Hayward reports that Pasternak has apparently referred to Turgenev's Rudin as a distant literary ancestor of Zhivago. Any such remark by a writer like Pasternak has its obvious fascination and one would like very much to know exactly what he had in mind; but my own impression, for what it may be worth, is that the differences between the two characters are more striking than the similarities. Rudin, the man of the 1840's, is a figure of shapeless enthus­iasms that fail to congeal into specific convictions; he is the classical example of the man who cannot realize in action the vaguely revolutionary ideas that fire his mind. Zhivago, by contrast, is a man rarely given to large public enthusiasms; he fails to achieve his ends not because he is inherently weak but because the conditions of life are simply too much for him. Yet, unlike Rudin, he has a genuine "gift for life," and despite the repeated collapse of his enterprises he brings a sense of purpose and exaltation to the lives of those who are closest to him. There is a key passage in his jour­nal which would probably have struck Rudin as the essence of philistinism but which takes on an entirely different cast in 20th Century Russia:

There is undoubtedly a side of Pasternak, perhaps the dominant side, which shares in these sentiments; but it is a tribute to his utter freedom from literary vanity that he remorselessly shows how Zhivago's quest for "a quiet life" leads to repeated failures and catastrophes. For Zhivago's desire for "a big bowl of cab­bage soup" indicates—to twist a sardonic phrase of Trotsky's — that he did not choose the right century in which to be born.

The novel reaches a climax of exalta­tion with a section of some twenty pages that seem to me one of the greatest pieces of imaginative prose written in our time. Zhivago and Lara, who have been living in a Siberian town during the period of War Communism, begin to sense that their arrest is imminent: not because they speak any words of sedition (Zhivago has, in fact, recently returned from a period of enforced service as doc­tor to a band of Red partisans) but simply because they ignore the slogans of the moment and choose their own path in life. They decide to run off to Varykino, an abandoned farm, where they may find a few moments of free­dom and peace. Zhivago speaks:

From this point on, the prose soars to a severe and tragic gravity; every de­tail of life takes on the tokens of sanc­tity; and while reading these pages, one feels that one is witnessing a terrible apocalypse. Begun as a portrait of Rus­sia, the novel ends as a love story told with the force and purity of the greatest Russian fiction; yet its dependence upon the sense of history remains decisive to the very last page.

Through a ruse Zhivago persuades Lara to escape, and then he returns to Moscow. He falls into shabbiness, illness and long periods of lassitude; he dies obscurely, from a heart attack on the streets of Moscow. Lara's fate is given in a fierce, laconic paragraph:

Like the best contemporary writers in the West, Pasternak rests his final hope on the idea that a good life constitutes a decisive example. People remember Zhivago. His half-brother, a mysterious power in the regime who ends as a general in the war, has always helped Zhivago in the past; now he gathers up Zhivago's poems and prints them; appa­rently he is meant to suggest a hope that there remain a few men at the top of the Russian hierarchy who are accessible to moral claims. Other old friends, meeting at a time when "the relief and freedom expected at the end of the war" had not come but when "the portents of freedom filled the air," find that "this freedom of the soul was already there, as if that very evening the future had tangibly moved into the streets below them."

So the book ends—a book of truth and courage and beauty, a work of art toward which one's final response is nothing less than a feeling of reverence.

http://www.newrepublic.com/article/116555/boris-pasternaks-birthday


И - да, с точки зрения Троцкого, Живаго (и сам Пастернак) живут не в том веке. Потому, что "троцкие" всегда уверены, что век  сей - их, а в ИХ веке Живаго и Пастернак - "не те" и "не в том" по определению.
Вот только фокус в том, что всё, на самом деле - наоборот. Живаго и Пастернак - ВСЕГДА в ТОМ веке. Какой бы он ни был по счёту. А вот Троцкий - как повезёт. С ледорубом и мировой революцией.

(Хмыкнула и пошла заливать роман в читалку).
tjorn: (Лето)
Спасибо - за то, что они оба родились на свет (а один - прямо сегодня 124 года назад ;-) ). Пожалуйста... сделай так, что бы второй сыграл первого. Ты же не зря его ТАКИМ сделало... снова... опять...
У тебя же ЕСТЬ ПЛАН!;-)))

Оригинал взят у [livejournal.com profile] vardanna в Большая просьба дорогому мирозданью
Когда пару лет назад я читала ЖЗЛовскую биографию Пастернака, блестяще написанную Дмитрием Быковым, Пастернака в моей голове при прочтении играл Бенедикт Камбербэтч. Потому что это была все-таки не автобиография, а взгляд со стороны, и герой, хотя и мастерски и глубоко осмысленный, все же наверняка имеет существенный зазор с Пастернаком настоящим. А никого ближе Борису Леонидовичу Пастернаку по типу и уровню личности, и при этом действительно похожего внешне (не то что на типическом, а на архетипическом уровне), чем Камбербэтч, я не знаю. Герой книги говорил слова Пастернака голосом Камбербэтча и двигался с его пластикой. Представляя на обратной стороне сетчатки лицо Пастернака, я невольно "анимировала" его мимикой Камбербэтча: я мало видела записей с самим Пастернаком, но благодаря ролям Бенедикта хорошо представляю, как "живут" в моменты радости, напряжения, вдохновения или переживания утраты такие брови, такие скулы и губы. Когда появилось вот это среднее фото, я выдохнула и сказала йессс! Для меня роль сыгралась, сбылась уже окончательно.
Но сегодня, спустя ровно 120 лет со дня рождения Бориса Пастернака, я хожу и бубню мирозданию: а как было бы хорошо, если бы роль состоялась на самом деле, а? В этой судьбе, право слово, есть что играть. И если уж британец до мозга костей Рейф Файнс сыграл Льва Толстого, то...
collage_photocat
tjorn: (кто здесь?)
Попутно возникает другое недоумение. Почему именно посредственность с таким пристрастием занята законами великого? У нее свое представление о художнике, бездеятельное, усладительное, ложное. Она начинает с допущения, что Шекспир должен быть гением в ее понимании, прилагает к нему свое мерило, и Шекспир ему не удовлетворяет.

Его жизнь оказывается слишком глухой и будничной для такого имени. У него не было своей библиотеки, и он слишком коряво подписался под завещанием. Представляется подозрительным, как одно и то же лицо могло так хорошо знать землю, травы, животных и все часы дня и ночи, как их знают люди из народа, и в то же время быть настолько своим человеком в вопросах истории, права и дипломатии, так хорошо знать двор и его нравы. И удивляются, и удивляются, забыв, что такой большой художник, как Шекспир, неизбежно есть все человеческое, вместе взятое.


Суждение Гения о Гение. Честно говоря, такому формату я верю как-то больше...:-) )
tjorn: (вамп)
Собственно, им и Ягуар-то... опционально... то есть - это ОНИ "делают" Ягуар, не наоборот....:-)))
Злоде-е-еищи-и-и-и...:-))))





tjorn: (Солнце ванов)
Даниил Александрович Гранин рассказывает о Блокаде в Бундестаге.
Слушать невыносимо, а выключить невозможно.

3681
tjorn: (кто здесь?)
Ну, дальше все знают...



Ох, чую, порвёт меня на тысячу ма-а-аленьких медвежат...
tjorn: (петергоф)
Вопрос - как её, истину, воспринять. Как к ней отнестись.
В том числе - и вопрос к самому Гению.:-)

Это я тут по случаю узнала, что однажды Христобаля Хозеевича Баленсиага спросили, что делает женщину изысканной?
Понимаете, не красивой, не стильной... ИЗЫСКАННОЙ. Ну, да, смекнули, у кого спросить..:-)
На что Баленсиага вольно процитировал соотечественника, Дали:
"A truly distinguished woman often has a disagreeable air."
По настоящему изысканная/утончённая/выдающаяся/ женщина часто создаёт вокруг себя тяжёлую/раздражающую атмосферу.

ЧТО имел ввиду великий кутюрье, становится ясно, если обратиться к оригинальной фразе самого Дали.

"An elegant woman is a woman who despises you and has no hair under her arms."
Элегантная женщина - женщина, которая вас презирает, и у неё нет волос под мышками.

Христобаль Хозеевич со свойственным ему чувством округло-напряжённой линии заменил определение из сферы fashion и стиля на ... обще экзистенциальное.:-) И заменил пылкую отроческую обиду на грустную, горьковато-честную иронию.
Да. По настоящему выдающаяся личность часто создаёт самим фактом своего существования крайне... нервную атмосферу. Ибо хоть как-то  "вместить в себя" живую реальность её совершенства... а ничего не треснет? ТОЧНО? А - ВДРУГ?!
Паника, даже агрессивная паника в таком случае - дело малопочтенное, но естественное.
А уж если оно, совершенство, ещё и "ведёт себя"... требует замолчать... или, там, тварь какую бесчеловечную собственноручно лишает возможности безнаказанно питаться ближними... да ещё и смеет в этом не раскаиваться... у-у-у-у...
Атмосфера становится просто неподъёмной.

- Ты! Типа самый... САМЫЙ!!! Волосы под мышками есть?!?!
- Нет...
- А ЕСЛИ НАЙДУ?!?!
:-))))

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