Read Online The Sacred Book of the Werewolf by Victor Pelevin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Victor Pelevin
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Romance, Fantasy, Contemporary, Paranormal, Werewolves, Russia (Federation), Prostitutes
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same old parts with the same old pomposity.
Of course, the scenery keeps changing, sometimes far too much. But the play itself hasn’t changed for a long, long time. And since we can remember more exalted times, we are constantly tormented by a yearning for lost beauty and meaning, so those words touched many strings at once . . . And by the way, that carpet from ‘Paris Poem’ was later inherited by Humbert Humbert:
Where are you riding, Dolores Haze?
What make is the magic carpet?
I know what make it is. It was woven in Paris on a summer day sometime around 1938, under gigantic white clouds frozen in the azure heavens, and it travelled to America in a roll . . . It took all the abomination of the Second World War, all the monstrosity of the choices that it dictated, for that carpet to be hung up in Humbert’s reception room . . . and then this scholar of the humanities blurts out:
‘Happiness, my darling, is such a contradictory thing. Dostoevsky questioned whether it was permissible if it was paid for by a child’s tear. But Nabokov, on the other hand, doubted whether happiness could ever be possible without it.’
I couldn’t tolerate a vile insult like that to a dead writer and threw the whip down on the floor. I mean I didn’t just stop making Pavel Ivanovich think he was being flogged, I made him see the whip hit the floor so hard that it left a dent in the parquet. I had to scrape it out afterwards by hand, when he went to the shower. I always avoid arguing with people, but this time I just exploded and started talking seriously, as if I was with another fox:
‘I feel insulted when someone confuses Nabokov with his characters. Or calls him the godfather of American paedophilia. That’s such a profoundly mistaken view of the writer. Remember this - Nabokov isn’t speaking for himself when he describes the forbidden charms of a nymphet at such length. He speaks for himself when he describes in meagre terms, in the very merest hint, the impressive financial resources that allow Humbert to freewheel round America with Lolita. A writer’s true heart speaks out very furtively . . .’
I remembered where I was and stopped. I took Lolita’s story very personally and very seriously. For me Dolores Haze was a symbol of the soul, eternally young and pure, and Humbert Humbert was the metaphorical chairman of this world’s board of directors. Apart from that, in the line of verse describing Lolita’s age (‘Age: five thousand three hundred days’) it was enough to replace the word ‘days’ with ‘years’ and it would more or less fit me. Naturally, I didn’t share that observation with Pavel Ivanovich.
‘Go on, go on,’ he said in amazement.
‘Of course, what the writer was dreaming about wasn’t a green young schoolgirl, but the modest financial security that would allow him to catch butterflies in peace somewhere in Switzerland. I see nothing shameful in such a dream for a Russian nobleman who has realized the vanity of the heroic feat of a human life. And the choice of subject for the book intended to provide that security offers less insight into the secret aspirations of his heart than what he thought about his new fellow-countrymen and just how indifferent he was to what they thought about him. And the fact that the book turned out to be a masterpiece isn’t hard to explain either - talent is hard to conceal . . .’
As I concluded this tirade, in my own mind I cursed myself, and with good reason.
I’m a professional impersonator of an adolescent girl with big innocent eyes. Creatures like that don’t utter long sentences about the work of writers from the last century. They talk simply in monosyllables, mostly about material, visible things. And now . . .
‘Well, didn’t you get carried away,’ Pavel Ivanovich muttered in astonishment. ‘Eyes blazing, eh? Where did you pick up all that stuff?’
‘Here and there,’ I said in a morose voice.
I swore a solemn oath
Of course, the scenery keeps changing, sometimes far too much. But the play itself hasn’t changed for a long, long time. And since we can remember more exalted times, we are constantly tormented by a yearning for lost beauty and meaning, so those words touched many strings at once . . . And by the way, that carpet from ‘Paris Poem’ was later inherited by Humbert Humbert:
Where are you riding, Dolores Haze?
What make is the magic carpet?
I know what make it is. It was woven in Paris on a summer day sometime around 1938, under gigantic white clouds frozen in the azure heavens, and it travelled to America in a roll . . . It took all the abomination of the Second World War, all the monstrosity of the choices that it dictated, for that carpet to be hung up in Humbert’s reception room . . . and then this scholar of the humanities blurts out:
‘Happiness, my darling, is such a contradictory thing. Dostoevsky questioned whether it was permissible if it was paid for by a child’s tear. But Nabokov, on the other hand, doubted whether happiness could ever be possible without it.’
I couldn’t tolerate a vile insult like that to a dead writer and threw the whip down on the floor. I mean I didn’t just stop making Pavel Ivanovich think he was being flogged, I made him see the whip hit the floor so hard that it left a dent in the parquet. I had to scrape it out afterwards by hand, when he went to the shower. I always avoid arguing with people, but this time I just exploded and started talking seriously, as if I was with another fox:
‘I feel insulted when someone confuses Nabokov with his characters. Or calls him the godfather of American paedophilia. That’s such a profoundly mistaken view of the writer. Remember this - Nabokov isn’t speaking for himself when he describes the forbidden charms of a nymphet at such length. He speaks for himself when he describes in meagre terms, in the very merest hint, the impressive financial resources that allow Humbert to freewheel round America with Lolita. A writer’s true heart speaks out very furtively . . .’
I remembered where I was and stopped. I took Lolita’s story very personally and very seriously. For me Dolores Haze was a symbol of the soul, eternally young and pure, and Humbert Humbert was the metaphorical chairman of this world’s board of directors. Apart from that, in the line of verse describing Lolita’s age (‘Age: five thousand three hundred days’) it was enough to replace the word ‘days’ with ‘years’ and it would more or less fit me. Naturally, I didn’t share that observation with Pavel Ivanovich.
‘Go on, go on,’ he said in amazement.
‘Of course, what the writer was dreaming about wasn’t a green young schoolgirl, but the modest financial security that would allow him to catch butterflies in peace somewhere in Switzerland. I see nothing shameful in such a dream for a Russian nobleman who has realized the vanity of the heroic feat of a human life. And the choice of subject for the book intended to provide that security offers less insight into the secret aspirations of his heart than what he thought about his new fellow-countrymen and just how indifferent he was to what they thought about him. And the fact that the book turned out to be a masterpiece isn’t hard to explain either - talent is hard to conceal . . .’
As I concluded this tirade, in my own mind I cursed myself, and with good reason.
I’m a professional impersonator of an adolescent girl with big innocent eyes. Creatures like that don’t utter long sentences about the work of writers from the last century. They talk simply in monosyllables, mostly about material, visible things. And now . . .
‘Well, didn’t you get carried away,’ Pavel Ivanovich muttered in astonishment. ‘Eyes blazing, eh? Where did you pick up all that stuff?’
‘Here and there,’ I said in a morose voice.
I swore a solemn oath
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