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• 作者：小眼镜儿 发布时间：2021-03-20 21:30:15

  就着大秦赋 在喜马拉雅听完 李斯死得也太惨了…………

• 作者：太空猫 发布时间：2015-12-26 01:18:42

  也是门相当高深的学问呢。。。。。

• 作者：王大天.cpp 发布时间：2010-03-10 12:43:46

  十几年后再次读起这本书，才觉得原来当年我根本没有读过这本书，才真正明白：天才的预言不是科幻小说。

• 作者：苏格拉有底 发布时间：2021-04-03 16:21:00

  不推荐高植译本，语言生硬到不像汉语。

  小说艺术性极高。虽然有着无异于折磨的大段说教，只有熬过折磨才能继续享受甘甜，但是小说的艺术光辉太过耀眼，尤其在人物刻画上已至化境，角色的话语、动作、姿态、心理都是无比生动，安娜最后一天的描写犹如上帝之笔，令人叹服。

  小说的两条线看似毫无无关联，靠着安娜哥哥一家“强融”在一起，却使得整本书达到了一定的广度，精彩地呈现了爱情、婚姻、家庭、宗教、社会等多个主题。纳博科夫认为两条线的对比传达了一层道德寓意：只有肉欲没有精神的爱情是有罪的、注定毁灭的。

  托尔斯泰对于道德与信仰的执着令人感动，列文在小说最后依靠启示善的法则的上帝找寻到了生命意义，而我们依靠什么呢？这种托式新宗教对于我们更像一座空中楼阁，我们得不到真正的答案，或许只能靠自己寻找，或许永远也找不到。

• 作者：愤怒的精子 发布时间：2016-07-05 16:35:10

  要看全本还是要中华书局四卷本的。。还有翻译。。不过说实话，聊斋志异的文学性不强，想象力还可以。

• 作者：无名的戈多 发布时间：2016-05-11 06:24:57

  我们看似源自一个世界 事实上 却身在两个世界

• 危险的是人长狗心，还是狗长人心？

  作者：耶利哥的玫瑰 发布时间：2021-01-30 17:07:05

  ——试评布尔加科夫《狗心》

  在布尔加科夫的中篇小说《狗心》里，我们看到一个形似弗兰克斯坦的情节：一位疯狂的天才科学家，在阴暗的实验室中抄起银亮的手术刀，创造出新生命体，而这新生的个体则险些毁了创造者。布尔加科夫天马行空，呼应这一古老母题。但机智狡黠的他，却不把奇诡创造当作小说发展的终结，而是操起他一贯俏皮讽刺的口吻，针砭苏联社会处处“狗长人心”的现状。

  《狗心》的序幕在苏联时期的大街上拉开。一条饿狗被炊事员泼了开水，烫毁半边身子，风雪中呜呜哀嚎，哀叹自己悲惨的命运。它跟上了喂它灌肠的有钱人菲利普·菲利波维奇——一个专治性能力衰弱的外科医生。菲利普将这条无主的邋遢狗带回家，不是做慈善，而是为了进行活体科学实验。他将死人的睾丸和脑垂体缝在狗的身体上，希望研究脑垂体同恢复人的青春间的关系。然而，实验的产物却是令人震悚的混合体：那条狗变成了沙里科夫，一条长着人心的“狗”。

  拥有人形的沙里科夫四处坑蒙拐骗，但一遇事又展现出怯弱与无耻。他满口街上的脏字，缺乏清醒独立的头脑，却时不时发表自以为无懈可击的长篇阔论；他出于本性抓捕猫，却弄得浴室一片狼藉，又拒绝承担损失；他认为，所谓社会主义便是“拿来一切，大家分分”，自己却不事任何有益社会的劳动。在公寓管委会主任施翁德尔的力挺下，沙里科夫拥有了自己的户口、住宅，最后甚至谋取了一官半职。小说的结尾，沙里科夫诬赖菲利普，最终被医生擒获，将狗的脑垂体重新缝回。于是，沙里科夫又变成了一条狗。

  故事情节并不复杂，却展现出俄国革命背后种种弊病。

  酷寒里街头走投无路的流浪狗，生活水平低到极致，在手术过后获得人的身份，地位步步提升。这与经历十月革命后俄国中下阶层的人民境况相仿。布尔加科夫把沙里科夫等同于小部分无产阶级的意图，也在管委会主任施翁德尔（此人坚决奉行无产阶级政治政策）对沙里科夫的支持中显露。然而，这只长着人心的狗，才智平平无奇，未受高等教育，还把革命后的指导思想曲解为不劳而获、把自己排除在劳动以外的平均主义。他仅仅是社会的掠夺者、破坏者，从不做生产者。严格来说，他是假冒的无产阶级，只能被称之为”不产阶级“。

  布尔加科夫在这里亮明了对无智小民的批判态度，认为他们凭借革命获得的不是自由，而是无序。他们不把建设视作己任，而是宣扬个人主义思潮。而单一划分的准则（为了践行无产阶级当家做主的原则，而依据身份定官职），却使得部分这样卑劣无能、品德低下的“无产者”当官。这无疑是对新生政权的腐蚀。菲利普在书中冷笑：“施翁德尔是最大的笨蛋。他不了解，沙里科夫不是对我，而是对他更可怕、更危险。他现在极力撺掇沙里科夫反对我，没想到要是有人也来这一手，撺掇沙里科夫反对他施翁德尔，他就完了。”

  第二主角菲利普也有精心设计的痕迹。作为沙里科夫的对立方，菲利普所代表的是小布尔乔亚。他反对布尔什维克的政治，认为革命后，生活质量显著下降，随之而来的是混乱。菲利普抱怨套鞋常丢，定是被那帮无产者偷拿走的。他说过去二十年一共才断了两次电，而如今每个月必断一次。菲利普的私人财产与生活质量不受保护，为此他愤愤不平，希望有警察管住所有唱歌的人才好。他的视角虽有作为上等阶层的刻薄与狭隘，然而却反映了混乱的现实。

  革命后，人民的生活水平似乎并无改观。标准营养食堂在搞标准营养，天天用“臭咸肉熬汤”。小说开头出现的女打字员，吃着价格虚高的伙食（多出的价格被总务主任捞走了），得了肺病，还做某主任的情人，风雪里穿着对方送的薄长袜冻得一句话也说不出来。这个由个体折射群体的女打字员，后来戏剧性地再度出现，险些被沙里科夫哄骗着成婚……这也算是布尔加科夫任性的设计。

  通读一遍下来，还是不免感叹一句：布尔加科夫读起来真是畅快淋漓。我喜欢他，几乎和喜欢科塔萨尔差不多。米兰昆德拉是我这学期读过的另一个好作家，但是比痛快，还是差前两位一截。但是，布尔加科夫这样放荡不羁的一张嘴，放在斯大林时期，是要被封住的。他嬉笑怒骂，终究不得不说给自己听。曹雪芹那句“满纸荒唐言，一把辛酸泪”用在他身上，再合适不过。看他的《大师和玛格丽特》，最能体会到此人荒诞的才华，和他无的放矢的煎熬。

  另，从后记得知，给布尔加科夫绝妙灵感的女性是叶列娜·谢尔盖耶夫娜。谢尔盖耶夫娜放弃少将夫人优渥生活，伴随布尔加科夫。布尔加科夫因这位女性，改变《阴暗魔法师》的构思，写成《大师与玛格丽特》。

• 《洛杉矶书评》对玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃的专访原稿-Mad Russia Hurt Me into Poetry: An Interview with Maria Stepanova

  作者：熬夜看稿五百斤 发布时间：2020-07-31 11:52:33

  《洛杉矶书评》对玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃的专访原稿

  “Maria Stepanova was already an important and innovative poet by the time of Vladimir Putin’s accession, but the times called for a tougher, more public role. Unfortunately, her recognition in the West has lagged behind the high profile she has in Russia.”

  “玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃早在普京时代前就已经是一位相当重要，充满创造力的诗人，然而时代却呼唤更强硬更公众化的角色。非常不幸，西方对其的认可远远落后于其负盛名的俄罗斯。”

  Mad Russia Hurt Me into Poetry: An Interview with Maria Stepanova

  MARIA STEPANOVA IS AMONG the most visible figures in post-Soviet culture — not only as a major poet, but also as a journalist, a publisher, and a powerful voice for press freedom. She is the founder of Colta, the only independent crowd-funded source of information in Russia. The high-traffic online publication has been called a Russian Huffington Post in format and style, and has also been compared to The New York Review of Books for the scope and depth of its long essays. The Muscovite is the author of a dozen poetry collections and two volumes of essays, and is a recipient of several Russian and international literary awards, including the prestigious Andrei Bely Prize and Joseph Brodsky Fellowship. She was recently a fellow with Vienna’s highly regarded Institut für die Wissenschaften vom Menschen. Her current project is In Memory of Memory, a book-length study in the field of cultural history.

  Stepanova has helped revive the ballad form in Russian poetry, and has also given new life to the skaz technique of telling a story through the scrambled speech of an unreliable narrator, using manic wordplay and what one critic called “a carnival of images.” Stepanova relishes this kind of speech “not just for how it represents a social language but for its sonic texture,” wrote scholar and translator Catherine Ciepiela in an introduction to her poems. “She is a masterful formal poet, who subverts meter and rhyme by working them to absurdity. For her the logic of form trumps all other logics, so much so that she will re-accent or truncate words to fit rigorously observed schemes.” According to another of her translators, Sasha Dugdale, myth and memory play an important part in poems: “She shares with her beloved W. G. Sebald a sense of the haunting of history, the marks it leaves on the fabric of landscape.”

  Maria Stepanova was already an important and innovative poet by the time of Vladimir Putin’s accession, but the times called for a tougher, more public role. Unfortunately, her recognition in the West has lagged behind the high profile she has in Russia. In this interview, she talks about both roles, and the way politics and poetry come together in her work.

  ¤

  CYNTHIA HAVEN: You’re a poet, but also a journalist and the publisher of a major crowd-funded news outlet in Russia, Colta. Yet Joseph Brodsky said, “The only things which poetry and politics have in common are the letters P and O.” Presumably, you disagree.

  MARIA STEPANOVA: There is a third word with the same letters: postmemory. Contemporary Russia is a realm of postmemory. I think it is a territory where poetry and politics still can meet each other on equal terms.

  Equal? Politics is a much more crude beast, surely. Look at our current elections. Look at elections everywhere.

  Well, we know crude and not-so-crude animals coexist in nature — and sometimes even manage to get along.

  So talk about this unusual coexistence, Russian-style.

  Russian reality is wildly political, but what is meant by “politics” is also wildly different — and not only because the Russian political world is one of repression. Remember that the ways and means of talking politics or even doing politics have long been different in Russia — not for a decade or two, but for centuries. Political thinking was impossible in the open, so it had to disguise itself. In order to form your views, or even to take direct instructions on what to do, you had to read some novel, or even a poem.

  People built their political views on Nikolay Chernyshevsky [author of the programmatic utopian novel What Is To Be Done?] or Dostoyevsky, and thus expected a certain level of political engagement from authors, even from poets. This has a flip side: a reader may treat reality more lightly, as if it were a work of fiction. That’s why it was so easy to revise and rewrite official history — in Stalin’s time or right now, under Putin. You are always looking for an example — for something to imitate — but there is nothing final about it.

  This search for an example, for a predecessor, is pervasive. When Russian politicians try to achieve something, they look for validation from the past — to Ivan the Terrible, to Lenin, to Brezhnev, or whatever. The same with Russian poets, who still rely heavily on different traditions. You can choose the one you like. You can look back to Pushkin or Brodsky, but also to, well, T. S. Eliot or Lyn Hejinian. It doesn’t really matter. The important thing is, we behave as if we are ascending the staircase but looking back. One always needs to feel the bannister under one’s hand. That is, we need something solid and from the past, which makes the present feel more real for us.

  Do you find that poetry, for you, is a space of freedom, even though it’s affected by your political predicament?

  I feel that the poetry is a powerful tool of inner resistance, because what’s important, what really counts, is how much you let the outer forces deform you. Poetry keeps you in shape. More important than outward protests is inner freedom, the ability to stay yourself. That is usually the first thing you lose. You can imitate the motions and doings of free people but be utterly unfree inside. You become an expert in deforming your inner reality, to bring it into accord with what the state wants from you — and this could be done in a number of subtle, unnoticed ways. This kind of damage weighs on us the most.

  I like what you said at Stanford, that poetry is, by definition, a form of resistance, because the first thing it resists is death.

  Absolutely. After all, it is one of the few known forms of secular immortality — and one of the best: your name may well be forgotten, but a line or two still have a life of their own, as it happened to lines of classic poetry. They come to life anew every time people fill them with their own voice or meaning.

  In fact, any activity that involves creating something from nothing — or almost nothing — is a way of taming death, of replacing it with new forms of life. When you are making a pie out of disparate substances — grains of sugar, spoons of loose flour that are suddenly transformed into something alive and breathing — it’s a living miracle. But this is even more evident when it comes to poetry, where the operative space is pure nothing, a limited number of vowels and consonants, which doesn’t need anything to stay alive besides the human mind; poetry doesn’t even need ink and paper, because it can be memorized. We are more lucky than musicians or artists, who need working tools, and budgets, and audience halls — poetry is a lighter substance. You know it was essential in the concentration camps and gulags — if you knew a good amount of verse by heart, they couldn’t take it away from you. Maybe I’m overly optimistic, but I think that poetry is better equipped to withstand political oppression. If you want to make movies or build opera houses, you have to bargain with the state, to make deals, and inevitably to lose.

  And yet you are a publisher and journalist, too. How do you balance the two worlds you inhabit?

  Strange as it may seem, it was never a serious matter for me. I never felt that these two levels were connected, or even coexisted. Maybe this also has something to do with what I was referring to — the schizoid way of addressing the present. It’s quite common in Russia: you can be thinking “this” and “that” at the same time, as if two notions were commenting on each other. This is very typical of the Soviet or post-Soviet space, with its sharp cleavage between the official way of behavior and the way you behave at home, between the official history and the hidden familial history, or what we call the “minor history (malaya istoriia).”

  And come to think of it, maybe I also divide my official face from my inner life. When I was a teenager, a student, I saw how the people who belonged to the previous generation were traumatized by the crash of the Soviet system of literary education and literary work. The Soviet Writers’ Union had been able to give writers enough to live on after publishing a book or a collection of poems in some literary magazine — for the official writers, of course, not to the authors of samizdat. You could live for three years after publishing a book, but it had to be a bad book, because it was the result of an inner compromise. Nevertheless, lots of people had the feeling that they could stay themselves and still, somehow, occupy some cozy step on the enormous staircase of the official Soviet literary establishment. When the system crashed, people were disappointed and disorientated. By 1992 or 1993, it became evident that the utopia wasn’t working anymore, especially for poets. It became evident that a book of poetry would never have a press run of more than 2,000 copies. It would never bring you money or even fame. I saw people crushed, melted, changed because of that. They had relied on a system that had suddenly vanished into thin air. They were still willing to make compromises, but there was no longer anyone to make a compromise with.

  And where did you fit into that architecture? You weren’t tempted to put a foot on that staircase?

  I was quite young and opinionated, so my attitude was rather harsh. I didn’t want to have anything in common with them. I refused to rely on poetry to make a living, to attain a position in the world. I would find some other professional occupation and would be as free as I could be in terms of poetry. It was the easiest way for me to stay independent. I split my world into halves.

  And that’s how it worked. I started in the mid-1990s as a copywriter in a French advertising agency, and then I switched to TV. Journalism happened rather late in my life. I cannot say it doesn’t affect my poetry, because it does. Of course it does. The things I deal with as a journalist get mixed up with the problems that make me tick as a poet. That space I was hoping to make — you know, the enclosed garden — is not secluded enough. It’s not enclosed now — the doors are wide open, and the beasts of the current moment are free to enter. Because I’m changing, too. You have to open the doorways to let the world in — to make the words come in, in fact. Because if poetry is a means of changing language, and changing the language is a means of changing the world around you, you must make sure that you’re ready to receive new words — words you find foreign or even ugly.

  That awareness is evident in your poetry, which features different voices, different registers, and discordant uses of language. Is that how today’s Russia affects your poetry?

  I think so, yes — “mad Russia hurt me into poetry.” You could say that the poet — that is, the author as a working entity — always has a kind of narrative mask or an optical system to serve a special purpose in the moment. The need to invent and reinvent the self never stops: you cannot do it just once, and every single thing that happens demands a complete change. The “you” who deals with new phenomena — birth, death, shopping, an idle conversation at the bus stop — is a new entity that hardly recognizes the previous ones. You know that all the cells of the human body are constantly replacing each other, and in seven years not a single cell of your old body is left. All that holds our personalities together is mere willpower — and our selves are as replaceable as brain cells. The human mind is a flowing thing, it is a process, and it happens somehow that the only solid and constant thing we can cling to is the inner zoo of the soul. I mean the persons and stories from the past that have no relationship to our own stories. Antigone or Plato or Brutus, invented or real, are actors in the theater of the mind. They do not change; they are strong enough for us to test them with our projections and interpretations. You could call the destructive element in yourself Medea or Clytemnestra — but it is you who is switching from one identity to another. In a mental theater, a single person plays all the parts.

  And that’s how you see the poetic process?

  I guess it is a fair description. A play is being performed, or maybe improvised, and there is an actor for every part, and a certain idiosyncratic language for each of them. But it is all centered on some very urgent question that is formulated from the outside, something you’ve been dealing with all your life: you’re born with this question and the need to answer it again and again. W. H. Auden spoke of neurosis as a life-shaping experience that is to be blessed — we’d never become what we are without it. I’m totally sure that certain patterns are shared, extrapolated to the scale of the whole society, so that everyone you know is shaped, at least partly, by the same problem. I guess this could describe what’s going on in a number of post-Soviet states; one can only wonder if a country can undergo some kind of therapy, if it can do collective work on collective trauma. Especially in times that are rather allergic to any collective project.

  I definitely share my compatriots’, my generation’s full range of traumas and voids. A few years ago, in 2014, in the midst of the Ukrainian wars, I suddenly wrote a longish poem about Russia. It was titled “Spolia” — you know, the architectural term, the densely metaphoric way of building new things, using some bits and parts of previous constructions in the process. You see it everywhere in Rome or Istanbul — pieces of marble, columns, stelae are used as mere bricks in a new wall. Sometimes an old building is demolished in order to provide elements for the new one. This involuntary coexistence of old and new is a good description of what happens to language in “interesting times.”

  And my poem was the result of utter shock: language was changing all around me. Not only was it heavily peppered with hate speech, but it also became utterly hybrid. People were quoting Stalin’s speeches, or brilliantly and unconsciously imitated the style of Pravda’s columns from the 1930s or ’50s, never realizing that they hadn’t invented these words. You have a good example of this now in the United States. When Donald Trump speaks about enemies of the state, he doesn’t know whom he is quoting — or even if he is quoting. I was living in a red-hot climate, and I still needed to find some reasons to continue. I mean, you have to love the place you live in. If it becomes utterly unlovable, you need to leave — or to find some other grounds for love.

  In the poem I quoted some of the criticism I was getting from critics regarding my “impersonality.” After my latest book, a number of them claimed that my work was a trick of sorts, empty and unrelatable, because I didn’t have a distinct and constant lyrical voice. I use other people’s voices, so I’m sometimes seen as an imitator, like Woody Allen’s Zelig, never having a full-grown ego, never able to speak in the first person — of myself, of my own needs and fears.

  It rather reflects your views about your country, doesn’t it?

  Well, that is exactly what I can say about Russia. It doesn’t really know what it is; self-definition is not our strong suit. It’s a huge, beautiful, and misused piece of land, inhabited by more ghosts than mortals, full of histories no one cares to remember, so they just keep repeating themselves — full of larger-than-life possibilities and a complete inability to avoid disaster. That was an image of the country I could identify with; in fact, for a while I ceased seeing any difference between myself and Russia, bizarre as it sounds. The Russian Symbolist poet Alexander Blok had called Russia his wife. I had a feeling that Russia was me — that our stigmas were the same.

  I was, in fact, identifying with the country. Not with the awful thing that was happening — the invasion of Donbass, the annexation of Crimea; there is no explanation or excuse for acts of evil, pure and simple, and these are among them. But to oppose the evil you have to learn the language of love. And to love Russia at that moment was a hard job. One had to become Russia, with its wastelands, faded glory, and the horrifying innocence of its everyday life — to speak with its voices and see with its multiple eyes. That’s what I was trying to do: to change my optical system, to dress my hate in a robe of light. You have to be a trickster to do that effectively. Well, my way of writing poetry is distinctive, in that it has to irritate — not only to affect or penetrate, but also to irritate.

  I’m still not sure that I’m answering the question, but maybe it’s the question itself that is important. That multilayered, multifaceted thing I’m trying to create aligns with what is going on in the Russian mind, in the Russian world. There is something very distinctive in the presence of the country, in the way it tends to describe itself, or to be described.

  Of course, we’ve just given a Nobel Prize to a woman who tried to do much of what you’re speaking about in prose, in journalism.

  You’re right, but Svetlana Alexievich writes nonfiction, or documentary fiction, and that’s another story. She is giving voice to real people; there are some true stories behind the books, a number of interviews, the feeling that you are dealing with documented reality. I am speaking with imaginary voices; they are real, but they don’t belong to me. (One Russian poet from the 18th century, Vasily Trediakovsky, used to say that poetic truth doesn’t inhere in what really happened, but in what could and must have happened.) I’m appropriating, or annexing, other people’s lives and voices, as if I were editing an anthology of unused opportunities. Sometimes it means I have to embrace the language of state officials, or criminals, or propaganda. The goal of the poetic, as well as of the political, is to make things visible, to force them into the light, even if they would prefer to stay in the darkness.

  By the way, Marina Tsvetaeva also used those jumbled voices, those different registers. You feel a certain affinity with her, yes?

  My parents conscientiously taught me reading at a very young age — around two-and-a-half, I guess. When I was six, I was reading everything I could lay my hands on, from Pushkin to The Three Musketeers, and lots of suspense novels, too. Then, on New Year’s Eve, someone gave my mother a two-volume edition of Marina Tsvetaeva. That was a rarity in Soviet times. It was an unbelievable gift, a kind of miracle — you couldn’t just go into the bookshop and buy Tsvetaeva or Mandelstam, you had to be a Party member to get it, or spend a fortune on the black market. I knew nothing about Tsvetaeva at the time. I was only seven. My mom read me lots of poetry, but this was something different. I opened the second volume, which had her prose. It was unlike anything I had read before.

  I still have a special affinity with Tsvetaeva. Not in terms of working with the language, because my ways of treating it are different, but in terms of how I see reality. Tsvetaeva lived under ethical standards, a moral pressure that was a constant presence in her life — some moral entity or deity that shaped her life, literally telling her what to do. Sometimes she surrendered to it, sometimes she resisted wildly.

  Nevertheless, she placed all her literary work in some kind of moral coordinate system. I find her example compelling. Because the question that’s essential for me is not the question of “how” or “what,” but rather of “who.” In the case of Tsvetaeva, we get that “who” in its fullest range, larger than life. You still can feel her presence — and that’s what counts.

  https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/mad-russia-hurt-me-into-poetry-an-interview-with-maria-stepanova/