Mikhail Visel. Angels and men and men-Angels

Anne Enraite. The wig of my father. - M.: Agraf, 2000.

The "intellectual bestseller" ≈ that is, books striving to be not only entertaining and sensitive, but also deep (is this not the only normal books?) ≈ It arrived.

These include the novel by Irish Ann Enrait The Wig My Father Wore, translated by Muscovite Svetlana Svetlana and released by the Augraph Publishing House under the provoking name "My Father's Wig." In any case, in the UK this novel (according to the annotations on it) noted literary critics and observers from women's magazines.

The plot of this three times female (hero ≈ author ≈ translator) of the book, so as not to return to him, is simple. To a little-and-thirty director of the idiotic television show "Roulette of Love" is declared to a height of an angel named Stephen. (Angels, so that you know, ≈ not blond babies, who died sinlessly, but adults, “ordinary people who committed suicide because they were bad.” ) The director ≈ something like a midlife crisis, she in the first phrase of the book declares that she needs everything that can be needed. In addition to money, sex and power, she clarifies: these things are easy to get, but one pain from them.

And for 260 pages, she solves two tasks: she seduces the angel and brings up her relationship with her parents again after her father, whom she had rejected all her life for an absurd wig instead of an honest bald head (which she had never seen) was half paralyzed after a stroke.

All this, of course, occurs against the backdrop of a constant surreal cavard at work.

Actually, it is not the first to deal with the angels to be the first to deal with the English literature. With the most cursory recalling, not only the grotesque “angel of the inexplicable” Edgar Poe, but also the “wonderful visit” by Herbert Wells come to mind. Both there and there, the Angelic characters were needed by the authors only for pointing and removing the situation.

Enraite continues this tradition. Her angel from a certain angle and at certain moments is simply indistinguishable from a normal man. I repeat: a normal man. It seems that the heroine came across only non -therapists and/or egoists. ( "We diverge in the nightclub. I notice a man with whom I slept once or two. I elake him, shouting the music. I say:" You consider me a woman. You consider me a woman. You consider me a woman. "And he calls me to yourself." ). And now it turns out that a normal man is an angel. Or vice versa: an angel ≈ this is a normal man. And all that the heroine is happening to him, ≈ only this is probably normal relations.

I say "probably" because they are described with the opposite ≈ for me ≈ Parts. Perhaps this was precisely in this is my main interest in reading: “┘ Following this, the wrong amnesia-expansion begins, as in films ( in the vast majority of men filmed by men. ≈ MV ) , but there is a clear and simple procedure, accompanied by a tasting of several varieties of the skin. Cool infant leather lining the back of his ear, hot and fluffy of his ear, his ear, his ear, his ear, his ear, his ear. Fat, but hairless, ≈ on his throat, a friendly skin of his abdomen and intricate, salty fold of his eye, tasted similar to sleep┘.

I was curious to me the fragrance of the descriptions ≈ with the opposite sign. Usually, the heroes of the books of the male authors do not notice their body, while the bodies of the heroines are written out carefully and frankly. There is an inversion. The heroine speaks of her nature, not embarrassed by any physiologisms, but completely without describing. We still do not know what is it ≈ thin? Fat? blonde? Red? Stephen’s body is described in the smallest details, but with funny figures of silence: “ The hair is wrapped in all his body ≈ more crimson than golden ones, so that the reflection of the sun on his hip may well go for a portable sunset. Hair streams to the wasteland at the place where the Angel is supposed to be , do not take it . Spiral┘ Further, the hair, shimmering over the edge, falls into a decayed rope in its geometric-beads, where, it seems, they become a support for a certain organ. "

Yes, it's just a feminist book! ≈ they will tell me. Not quite so. Firstly, the feminists have not accepted any silence, and secondly, it is not customary to sign so openly in their own weakness, in the impossibility of following his own principles: “He (the former lover of the heroine. ≈ M.V. ) leaves the cabinet in the postcoiteal eclipse of feelings. (That is, he simply received a bruise from the boss. ≈ MV ) here ) Pinch it ≈ but for some reason I touch his hand.

You were not embarrassed by the words "pin" and "garbage"? At first I was embarrassed. We are not used to such a vocabulary in translated texts: “≈ You don’t know about me about me, ≈ Joe says, dismissing him. ≈ I was the personification of the country once ≈ when I was raped by one rich goat. A couple with a tax inspectorate. Lawyer. Vidal-Mindal? About the mutual agreement, he hasn’t heard with him.

Not all translation decisions of the book seemed organic to me. But, of course, the language of translation in the novel is of separate interest.

40 years ago, Protasov and Khinkis, translating Prostli, wrote: “It doesn’t suit me, ≈ said Dimmok, throwing a sketch on the table. ≈ And the firm“ Zhui-da-Plyui ”will not suit me. And most importantly, the buyer will not peck. No, it will not work,“ ≈ and a stupid, impossible name of the company was perceived for granted such names. the same extent as the such remarks themselves.

Now the above phrase from the "thirty -first of June" may sound in the Moscow office as naturally as in London. Therefore, the translator is simply obliged to try to “root” the text in his native language realities and replace “chew-yes-plui” with something more believable. This is Svetlana Silakova and is engaged in each page of her text.

How does the translator have the right to produce these bold manipulations?

In this case, ≈ certainly has the right. The fact is that these very “intellectual bestsellers”, having taken a place on the shelves of bookstores, have not yet had time, unlike translated encyclopedias and commercial novels, to become a “industry of industry” ≈ it is impossible to live on them to translators (see the report on the translator in the “Ex translator in Time” in “Ex Libris NG”).

So the scheme and motives of the appearance of such books are completely different: the translator is taken (for resting from the dubbing of militants, for example) for his “caught” his work simply because he likes it, it is called up, and only when the work is almost or completely ready, searches for the publisher.

Therefore, books similar to the “wig of my father” would like to call Bakhtinsky two-named: the translator has so much in common with the author and they merge so much that it is no longer possible to distinguish which of them said.

They are interesting.

The final of the novel, as they say, is open and quite frivolous. The wig finally jumps off the father’s head, and the heroine understands that her parents are essentially good people who lived their lives in love and harmony.

But the angel, as soon as they became normal lovers, disappears. The heroine goes on a bicycle towards a new love, which, according to indirect signs, is a well -forgotten old one.

"There are a lot of dead ≈ almost every person oncoming. In front of a member, a wallet at the back. Of course, there are easy to shield ≈ who argues? But they are dangerous ≈ you become infected with snow blindness." Apparently (I try to reproduce the female male logic), the heroine was able to get rid of snow blindness. It’s only sad that for this she needed an angel ≈ Normal men in Ireland, apparently, transferred.

And ≈ Mindful of the "bicentified word" ≈ Really in Russia too?