Guest Rezure7 Posted July 31, 2001 Report Share Posted July 31, 2001 Well, I've been looking at what I've added to the Pen, and the answer is: not much. I came up with that answer pretty quickly. But then the harder question was how can I change that, without showing my obvious lack of writing skill? That took a while longer. However, I have seen the light. Here is something nobody's done yet: an literary translation. Now, you will read it, and say, the English here is very weird, Impostor either knows no English, or no Russian. This is not exactly the case, my friends. Maybe about 20% of it is, but about 80% of it is the writer, one Mikhail M. Zoschenko (one of my favourites) and his style of writing - purposely mixing slang words and SAT-calibre words in the same story (often even in the same sentence) for comic effect ie "in a hammered state" etc. And yes, the phrase "after all" is used in the original too much as well, and, yes, that too is on purpose. Almost every story has some weird quirk of speech, mind you they're all different (like, in one, the narrator says "utopia" to mean something really bad). It was probably his way of making fun of the dumb ways people spoke.So, in the end do not judge me (or him) too harshly. So, without further ado, here's the first short story, -------- "the Earthquake" Already two years have passed, as everyone knows, since the earthquake in Crimea. Yet the full brunt of the damage is only now coming to light. Ofcourse, there was an official tally of the damages calculated immediately - 2 million Rubles. But, as we have now learned, a small sum of 100 Rubles or so must be added to that conservative estimate. This figure directly represents the damages incurred by one Snopkov, a nice ordinary Crimean man. A cobbler. He was an entrepreneur, so to speak. At the time, he kept his own workshop in Yalta. Well, not a workshop, but a stone cabin - a pillbox. And he worked there, together with a friend of his, the two of them. They were both from out of town. And together they provided shoe repairs to the local inhabitants, as well as various vacationing citizens. And the pare were definitely well off. In winter they starved a bit, yes, no argument there, but in summer, on the other hand, there was too much work, even. Some days they didn't even have the time to go drinking. Well, there probably was time to go drinking. Other things - who knows, but to go drinking... So it's not surprising the day before the earthquake was no different. On the very eve, as they say, of the earthquake, or, to be precise, on Friday, the 11th of September, Ivan Yakovlevich Snopkov, without bothering to wait till Saturday, imbibed a one-and-half bottle of Russian bitter. After all he had finished his work. And after all, he had two bottles saved up. So why exactly should he have had to wait? He just took and imbibed it. After all, he didn't know there'd be an earthquake! And the result? The man drank one and a half bottles of bitter, and ofcourse he stumbled around the streets a bit, sang something or other, and then wandered back home. He wandered back home, and lay down in his yard, and fell asleep, without even waiting for the earthquake. Snopkov always ended up lying in his yard if he drank. But that was only because he did not like to sleep indoors in a hammered state. He didn't feel well being under a roof like that. Too stuffy. He would feel ill. And so, he always preferred the clear sky, thank you very much. This time was no different. So on September 11th, right before the earthquake, Ivan Y. Snopkov took some bitter, got piss-drunk, and fell asleep in the yard, right under the cypress tree. And while he slept, and saw various interesting dreams, the famous earthquake was going on - concurrently. Houses swaying, the ground is rumbling and shaking, but Snopkov is sleeping like a log and is totally oblivious to it all - he doesn't give a damn. What about his friend, you may ask? Well, Snopkov's friend, right after the first shock, split for the city park, because he was scared a stone would get him. Only by early morning, around 6 or so, did Snopkov finally unseal his peepers. So Snopkov's lying under the cypress tree, and, ofcourse, he can't recognize his own yard. After all, the stone pillbox he owned was ruined. Not fully ruined, just one wall split apart, and the fence fell on it. Only the Cypress is the same, but the rest is admittedly hard to recognize. So Snopkov opens his peepers and thinks: "God! Where'd I get to last night? Look at this place! It's a hellhole! Nothing's looked after properly! I wonder where this is, though? Boy," he thinks, after a while, "it's awful for me to get piss-drunk like this. Alcohol is seriously a harmful beverage! You can't remember @#%$!" And he began feeling real awkward, real embarrassed. "Holy smoke," he thinks, "I got to some godawful place! At least, thankfully," he thinks, "I went into a yard and didn't lay on the street! A motor-car could have ran me over, or a dog could have bitten off one thing or another. What I need," he thinks, "is to drink less, or maybe even quit completely." He became sad from all these thoughts, and was feeling utterly dejected, so he took the remaining half-bottle of bitter out of his pocket, and promptly chugged it, on account of his sadness. Snopkov chugged the vodka and went back to being drunk. After all, he hadn't had anything to eat for a long time, and after all, his head was weak because of the hangover. So Snopkov got drunk again, got on his feet, and went strolling down the street. He's strolling down his street, but his drunk eyes can't recognize it, and you can't blame him. After all, it was just after the earthquake, and all the people were out in the streets. No one at all in the houses. And everyone looked haphazard - they were all only half-dressed. So Snopkov's strolling down the street, and his heart is sinking. "Good Lord!" he thinks, "what kind of god-forsaken hole is this? I wonder, did I travel to Batumi on the ferry? Or maybe I somehow wound up in Turkey? These people walk half-dressed - like in the South! So he's strolling, he's drunk, and now he's almost crying. Somehow he got out on the highway, and started walking straight along it, not being able to tell what was going on. He walked some, and then, because of overexertion and strong alcohol, he fell in a heap by the roadside and slept. When Snopkov wakes up, it's already dark - it's evening. The stars are shining overhead, and it's decidedly cool. And why is it cool? - because he's lying by the roadside without his clothes and shoes - in just his underpants. He's lying on the roadside, completely fleeced, and he thinks. "Good golly," he's thinking, " son of gun, where is it this time?" Thinking that, Snopkov suddenly became scared for real, so he jumps up on his shoeless feet, and starts walking down the road. In this agitated stated, he walked 7 miles or so, and once he did that, he sat down on a boulder by the road. He sat down on a boulder, and filled with self-pity. He doesn't recognize the landscape, and he can't get his thoughts together. His heart is sinking, and so is the temperature. And on top of that, he wants to eat real bad. Only when it was already nearly morning, did our Ivan Yakovlevich Snopkov learn what was going on. He learnt it from some passerby. Some passerby tells him "what in hell are you doing lurching around here in just your longjohns?" And Snopkov says "I haven't a clue myself! Say, good sir, where am I?" So they got to talking, and the passerby says: "It's another 9 miles or so to Yalta. My God, did you ever walk far!" Then the passerby told him about the earthquake, and what places the earthquake ruined, and what places were still being ruined. Snopkov became very upset about the earthquake happening, and started hurrying towards Yalta. And he walked across the whole of Yalta in just his underpants. But of course, it shocked nobody, on account of the earthquake. Then again, under normal circumstances, nobody would be surprised anyway. Later Snopkov totaled his losses: 60 Rubles in cash, his coat - 8 Rubles or so, his pants - around 2, and his sandals - they were almost new, too. So all in all it ran up to around 100 Rubles, not counting the damage to his workshop. Currently, I. Y. Snopkov is planning to travel to Kharkov. He wants to go into a rehabilitation clinic there. Because alcoholism ended up being an expensive habit in more ways than one. What does the author wish to say with this piece of literature? The author feels this piece is a strong statement against drunkenness. The sting of this literary satire is aimed squarely against drinking and alcoholism. The author wishes to say that the drunk can miss even an earthquake, to speak nothing of more subtle things. Or, as one propaganda poster says "Don't drink! When you're drunk, you may embrace your class enemy!" So it's all very simple. 1927 -------- And that's that. I'd be interested in doing this more, its a good way to "hone" my translating skills, plus some of the stories are really good. Please note that this is not, in my opinion, the best story, simply it is the first one in my book. Please also note, this is one of only two stories that is showingly "educational" of over 50 that I've read, and in the other one, the message is so unrelated as to render it useless. Zoschenko is actually quite dissident in most of his stories, but I guess he leans both ways depending on which way it sounds funnier hope you enjoyed it, Impostor Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Rezure7 Posted August 1, 2001 Report Share Posted August 1, 2001 I'm the only one responding to me, hope I'm not annoying you guys too much or anything... well, here's another Zoschenko story, this one is a bit shorter (I don't like to read long things so I sympathise with you all) ------- Three Letters Life is a funny thing. Some think that in life, everything is simple and straightforward, bu that isn't the case. Oh no, my friends, that isn't the case at all. Consider, for example, Konstantin "Kosty" Pechenkin - the clerk. About a year ago, Kosty Pechenkin, returning home with a pleasant buzz, was robbed. His fur coat was stolen, he was beaten up, and then he was let go peacefully. I bet that you, innocent reader, think Kosty is now down in the dumps, wears some torn old summer-coat and no galoshes, and has chronic bronchitis. Well, you couldn't be further from the truth. Kosty Pechenkin has taken it all very well - heroically, you might say. And he wears a brand new winter overcoat with beaver trim, flannel-padded galoshes, and even has a new striped scarf. What's more, Kosty Pechenkin is not at all avers to discussing his adventure, and when he does, it's not without a certain amount of flamboyance and pride. And they say Kosty recently wed his girlfriend, Lydia Lytkina. This too, they say, has happened in part because of Kosty's adventure. "Why would the robbery have benefitted Kosty so much?" a simple-minded reader would ask. Why? Oh, dear reader! Because Kosty Pechenkin knows the ways of life - that's why! Now let's look at Kosty's story again, but this time dig deeper, and look at the other face of the coin. And what do we get? Well, this is what: Letter #1 (to the Government Company Official) Bring Employed in the office entrusted to your department, I feel I must inform you that yesterday, returning home after a day at work, I was abrupted by a socially dangerous criminal type, who, having come near me, ordered that I take off my fleece wintercoat. Stunned at such brazen treatment, I looked at the criminal in a stunned manner, and replied that I did not have any company funds, and even if I did, I wouldn't give them up and would rather die. The criminal, obviously enraged by his failure, again ordered me to take off my coat. Not missing a beat, I quickly threw off my coat. As a result, however, I remained only in a light jacket, risking a cold at every moment, which would force me to neglect my duties at work. Having also taken my National Rubber Factory galoshes - one might say the property of the nation - the criminal turned to flight. Crying for assistance, I was helped up by a passerby after about a half hour, after which I rode home. Currently having to live without any winter clothes but with an aging mother, and not being able to rely on god's mercy as he is merely a religious superstition, I am forced to come to you with a humble request that some company funds be allotted to me for the express purpose of buying a winter coat - even if it's one without a trim. -Konstantin Pechenkin Letter #2 (to the Mother) My, oh my, dear mommy, such things happen in St. Petersburg - it's really shameful. Last year, you wrote to me that you were unwell and ill - how is your health now? Also, let me belatedly congratulate you on the recent holiday season! These holidays have hit me hard, financially. My dear mom - returning from work I was ambushed and attacked by criminals and was beaten senseless. One of the criminals, having taken my galoshes, punched me in the face. The hit landed on the mouth, which left the fruit of your womb, as they say, lying in a pool of blood. Currently having to live without any winter clothes but with an aged mother, and depending solely on the love and grace of god, I would like to ask you, dear mom, to send me some warm clothes, and, if you have some wollen socks. By the way, I am very thankful for the knit underwear you sent me last year. Thank you. -Your son, Konstantin Pachenkin Letter #3 (to the Girlfriend) Greetings, my dear lovely Lydia! Yesterday, returning from an evening spent with you, I was abrupted by a band of criminals who, with wild cries and screams, ran at me and told me to give them my coat. Not missing a beat, I took off one shoe and started hitting with it left and right, literally spreading panic amongst the robbers, who began to dispers like the rats that they were. Then, since I was all worked up, I threw off my coat and chased after one of those criminals, who hid from me somewhere in a side-alley. When I got back, my coat was gone, the moon was shining, and it was -15. Seeing this, I buttoned up my jacket and ran home, thanking my luck that you did not have to witness such a horrific event, although I'd have saved your life in such a situation. My lovely Lydia, I, currently having to live without any winter clothes but with an aged... Oh, wait, what am I saying? Well, I'm currently sitting at home, and am too sick to go outside. So, dear Lydia, come visit a poor cripple, won't you? -Kosty Pecenkin There you go, dear reader. But don't get me wrong - I have nothing against Kosty. He's marrying? Well good for him! The state needs a new, young generation! I have nothing against Kosty, and do not wish to damage his career. Let him be! All I wanted to show was how complicated life really is. Oh, my friends, living is very hard! 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The Portrait of Zool Posted August 3, 2001 Report Share Posted August 3, 2001 Whoa! How did I miss this? My favorite letter is the one to the Mother, though hearing of his 'heroics' as told to Lydia... Very cool thread. I appreciate it, and would love to hear more. ~Zool~ Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Ozymandias Posted March 30, 2002 Report Share Posted March 30, 2002 Zoschenko makes a strong case for my plans to learn Russian. I love these! Thanks. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Rezure Posted March 30, 2002 Report Share Posted March 30, 2002 Learning Russian, Ozy? Well, I can wish you good luck, and hope you do do it. But since you brought it up, I might as well translate another short story by Zoschenko. As you might have guessed, this one is called 'Pushkin.' Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin (1799-1837) is probably Russia's most famous writer (within Russia, anyway) and definitely it's most celebrated poet. Author of everything from children's stories (Fisherman and the Fish) to Evgeniy Onegin to The Little Tragedies to Boris Godunov, he even had a National Geographic article about him. He is well known to the extent that I didn't have to look up his dates of birth and death, and neither would most Russians. - Damien Bedny (last name is a pen-name which means 'poor'. These type of name changes were popular in the early days of the USSR to show the poet was in solidarity with the Communist movement) is a rather mediocre state poet. I'll be damned if I remember who Meierhold is, but I think he's a painter. I'm probably wrong. Censor, as far as I know is an imaginary figure (and it's probably not too hard to guess what his last name means). - The N.E.P., or New Economic Policy is a policy introduced by Lenin in the early 1920's after the end of the Civil War. During the Civil War, the policy was of War Communism, which needed a great amount of adjustment in a very short period of time under the obvious resource constraints of having a war. So the NEP was a step back from that very harsh Communist policy to a more moderate one, which allowed some forms of free enterprise and entrepreneurship so as to gradually ease the country into communism and not create disorder by moving too abruptly. - The name Golovkin roughly means little head - Just so you know. Anyway, here's the story. ----- It was ninety years ago that Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin was killed in a duel. You could say that all of Russia sheds tears over this unhappy anniversary. But no one is as saddened by it, no one feels as miserable as Ivan Fedorovich Golovkin. This nice gentleman begins trembling and stares into thin air at the very mention of the name 'Pushkin'. And, my brothers, no other reaction could be expected, as he found out about such a, you could say unfortunate, side of the life of the poetic genius. We, of course, must start our story from afar, so as to not besmirch the memory of the famous poet. Let's start around the year 1921. It will be clearer that way. In 1921, in December, Ivan Fedorovich Golovkin came from the army back to his hometown. And the N.E.P. had just began about that time. An economic boom. Pastries being baked everywhere. Trade blossoming, In short, life was a burst of activity. But despite all this, our buddy Golovkin was wandering about town aimlessly. He had no accomodations, and had to sleep on saturdays at his acquaintances'. On the dog mat. By the front door. And, understandably, had quite a skeptical outlook. "This N.E.P.," he used to say "is like some utopia! It's been half a year and I still can't find a place to live!" In 1923, however, Golovkin managed after all to find a place to live. Maybe he paid the rent in advance, or maybe Lady Luck just smiled on him, but he managed to find it. It was a small room. Two windows. Flooring, of course. No cause for complaint. Golovkin furnished it very nicely. He went all out on the wallpaper, but he covered all the walls. He knocked in some nails where it was needed, so it all looked more like a home. And he lived like a sultan. Alas, time never stands still . First it was the 87th anniversary of our dear poet's death. Then the 88th. By the 89th anniversary, people started talking about the apartment. Pushkin, they told him. A writer. Lived, they told him, in this building, at one time. He immortalised this place with his unfathomable genius, as they told him. It would be quite good, then, to put in some sort of plaque with a full and educational description, for posterity's sake. At first, Ivan Fedorovich foolishly went along with the plaque business - to his own ruin, as you shall see. Soon his apartment was beset with visitors. Some ladies he didn't know were scurrying here and there. Cleaning the dishpans. Sweeping in the corners. A commission of five came. To inspect the apartment. As soon as the Commission saw all the common things piled up in the apartment, it sighed a disappointed sigh. "Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin lived here long before!" it said "And how can you have that together with this horrible mess!? There's a broom in the corner! There's dresspants hanging off a hook - and the britches on the wall! This is altogether shameful, and desecrates the memory of the prodigy!" In short, in about three weeks, all the tenants were kicked out of the apartment. Golovkin, to be sure, was very angry. He let it be known. Spoke his mind openly, with no fear of any consequences. "What" he used to say "is this? Fine, so he's some kind of genius. So he wrote some rhymes: "A bird is jumping on the branches" or whatever. But why throw out ordinary citizens? It's a total utopia, if you treat ordinary people like this! Golovkin even wanted to go to the Pushkin National Wildlife Reserve and raise a fuss, but changed his mind and got to finding a place to live once again. He's still looking. He's now frail and gloomy. He's very picky about where to live now. Spends all his time asking who lived in the building before him. And has to be absolutely sure neither Damien Bedny nor Meierhold nor anyone like that lived there, God forbid. And if someone like that did, he, Golovkin, wouldn't take such an apartment if they paid him for it. But he has a point: with some geniuses, all they do is move around from place to place. And later, other people have to pay for it. You don't have to go far for an example. My friend the poet "Mitty" Censor, Dmitry Mihailovich. In the last 12 months alone he lived in no less than seven separate apartments. You know, he can never get comfortable anywhere. Largely because of lack of payments. But what if he was, hell knows what, maybe even a genius. Fifty years later or so, I bet people will curse his name for these seven apartments. Only, maybe the real estate crisis will ease up by then. That's the only hope. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Ozymandias Posted March 31, 2002 Report Share Posted March 31, 2002 Keep 'em coming! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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