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№ 144 сентябрь 2019 г.
» » Александр Чанцев. СИЛЬВИЯ ПЛАТ: НАГАСАКИ

Александр Чанцев. СИЛЬВИЯ ПЛАТ: НАГАСАКИ

Редактор: Ольга Девш


Избранные цитаты из дневников
(С. Плат: The Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950-1962. Ed. by Karen V. Kukil. UK: Faber and Faber, 2014. 732 p.)



Сильвия Плат всю жизнь вела дневник – вплоть до ремарок в тексте, что сейчас её везут на операцию, продолжит после неё. Первые дневники – с надписью очень старательным почерком, в духе девичьих тетрадей, кому эти тетради принадлежат, последние – нарратив часто распадается, идут отрывки, между собственно дневниковым, прозаически-поэтическим и чем-то ещё. 
Между первыми и последними журналами (если в русском «дневник» - намёк на школьный табель, отчёт и оценку, то jounal европейских языков тут ближе – и дневник, и журнал) – вся Плат. В начале совершенно девическая – школа, учителя, как бы не остаться без свидания этим вечером, когда все подружки «заняты». В конце – регистрирующая свои болезни, ссоры с мужем, (так толком и не состоявшуюся) измену, гостей, поездки и, конечно, литературу, возьмёт ли TheNewYorker её новые стихи/рассказ. Между – её главные темы: оправдание её жизни, тяга к суициду, пол-секс-тело и беспрестанный анализ, смогла ли она что-то сделать в новом своём произведении или нет.
Цвет её мочи и мнение о поздней поэзии Пастернака – эти страницы сохранили все. Не дошли до читателя только две последние тетради – муж Сильвии Тед Хьюз (он и его наследники занимались первоначальной подготовкой к их изданию), которого многие винят в ее самоубийстве, утверждал, что они утрачены. 
Нужно ли констатировать очевидное, говоря, что дневники Сильвии Плат – такая же литература, как её стихи, проза, детские книги? Изданные, переизданные и прокомментированные на Западе, у нас они ещё ждут своей очереди – как и многое другое в наследии последней проклятой американской писательницы.
Мне показалось, что в ожидании перевода лучше всего расскажет об этой книге её автор. В конце концов, издавались же Венедиктом Ерофеевым и Дмитрием Галковским отдельными произведениями цитаты из Ленина? Чем хуже Сильвия Плат? Всю жизнь депрессивно мучавшаяся, достойна ли она быть человеком, женщиной, писателем.

Lisping along the street
In dry and deathless dance
The leaves on slipshod feet
Advance.

I: how firm a letter; how reassuring the three strokes: one vertical, proud and assertive, and then the two short horizontal lines in quick, smug succession. The pen scratches on the paper... I... I... I... I... I... I.

... What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid. I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones, and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.

... They're really going to mash the world up this time, the damn fools. When I read that description of the victims of Nagasaki I was sick: "And we saw what first looked like lizards crawling up the hill, croaking. It got lighter and we could see that it was humans, their skin burned off, and their bodies broken where they had been thrown against something."

How to return to the smallness, the imperfection, which is home?

Why am I obsessed with the idea I can justify myself by getting manuscripts published? Is it an escape - an excuse for any social failure - so I can say "No, I don't go out for many extra-curricular activities, but I spend alot(1) of time writing." Or is it an excuse for wanting to be alone and meditate alone, not having to brave a group of women?

Victimized by sex is the human race. Animals, the fortunate lower beasts, go into heat. Then they are through with the thing, while we poor lustful humans, caged by mores, chained by circumstance, writhe and agonize with the apalling and demanding fire licking always at our loins.

I long for a noble escape from freedom - I am weak, tired, in revolt from the strong constructive humanitarian faith which presupposes a healthy, active intellect and will.

Over orange juice & coffee even the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.

Your room is not your prison. You are.

artificial fires burn here: leaping red in the heart of wineglasses, smouldering gold in goblets of sherry, cracking crimson in the fairytale cheeks of a rugged jewish hercules hewn fresh from the himalayas and darjeeling to be sculpted with blazing finesse by a feminine pygmalion whom he gluts with mangoes and dmitri karamazov fingers blasting beethoven out of acres of piano and striking scarlatti to skeletal crystal.

In the beginning was the word and the word was sassoon and it was a terrible word for it created eden and the golden age back to which fallen eva looks mingling her crystal tears with the yellow dahlias that sprout from the lips of her jaundiced adam.

What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination. When the sky outside is merely pink, and the rooftops merely black: that photographic mind which paradoxically tells the truth, but the worthless truth, about the world. It is that synthesizing spirit, that "shaping" force, which prolifically sprouts and makes up its own worlds with more inventiveness than God which I desire. If I sit still and don't do anything, the world goes on beating like a slack drum, without meaning.

Men's voices downstairs. I am sick, sick. With this desperate fury. God knows what will happen to me in Paris. Love turns, lust turns, into the death urge. My love is gone, gone, and I would be raped. "It is night."

Writing breaks open the vaults of the dead and the skies behind which the prophesying angels hide. The mind makes and makes, spinning its web.

And waking, with my skin not yet quite on, to Ted bringing cold orange juice to quench sleep-thirst, and the bowls of coffee, green china-glass bowls.

Style is the thing. "I love you" needs my own language.

Made myself a pot of too-strong tea & drank three cups while I read Frank Sousa's story about two drunk women which is a steal from Salinger's "Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut" and then read "Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut" and four or five other Salinger stories. I have no energy. Feel strong as a wet nylon stocking. And not half as clean. Ted's key is at last turning in the lock.

I start, like a race horse at the bugle, or whatever, hearing about schools opening - I get weird impulses to rush to Harvard, to Yale, begging them to take me on for a Phd, a master's, anything - only to take my life out of my own clumsy hands.

However, I am the victim, rather than the analyst. My "fiction" is only a naked recreation of what I felt, as a child and later, must be true.

I feel outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.

sexual act not shameful, word not shameful either.

love will consume us only in the measure of our self-surrender.
"God will do all I wish in Heaven, because I have never done my own will on earth..."



1. - Здесь и далее  сохранены авторская орфография и пунктуация.

скачать dle 12.1




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