November in America

Between luxurious autumn and capricious winter there is a time in America, which eludes the definitions. Neither fish nor meat, November - an intermediate month that is not loved here, because they do not know (at least until thanks) than to occupy themselves. However, it was the worthlessness of November that attracted the attention of the best poet and the best artist of America to him.

My favorite poem by Robert Frost is called the “ November Guest ”.

Unfortunately, in addition to the name, everything else is not submitted to the most tricky translation. After all, translating words does not mean understanding the poems hiding behind them. The semantic cast reveals a layer of content not provided with shape. Moreover, Frost, who was the first to say that writing poetry without rhyme like a tennis game with a lowered net. Sound - the third dimension of poetry - reveals the innermost meaning and hides it in someone else's language. In order to somehow get out of this hopeless position, I retell the poem to myself, hoping to find the author in it and understand what he wanted to say before he said it unequivocally.

The first surprise of the "November" verses of Frost is inconspicuous to us, but not its compatriots grammatical violence. We are used to the fact that sorrow, like longing, sadness and sadness - feminine. They make us weak, worthy of pity, causing compassion, and maybe love, like Othello by Desdemona. But this is in Russian, and not in English, where Frost had to give a sorrow.

Since sorrow is it, then the hero is him. Husband, father, master, he is larger, stronger, older, more experienced, smarter. Having put on a pronoun, Frost brought a scale into a poetic situation. "She" is naive, "he" is wise, for it knows that you can’t get rid of sorrow, you can not do without it. She is inside, and he is outside. It is necessary to live with her and take a walk, especially her beloved, in November.

The landscape seen by the grief seems familiar, but strange, as if the native creature of our breed was looking at him. Unmarried and happy as a puppy, it is joyful to everything that is. Only with such a character can you love the wrong side of beauty - a dirty, devastated nature. Until everything hiding snow fell, November, left without a summer palette, can add only another gray to gray, which in its blinding sorrows "silver".

She is so good that she wants to share with the owner. But what does sorrow have such that he does not know? After all, sorrow is an integral part of the hero, and so that she does not become whole, he recognizes her rights, learns to live with her and love the same that she loves and praises.

Like a shadow, sorrow cannot be driven away like a shadow, it is yours and uninvited, like a shadow, it grows with a calendar. November is its star hour. It is already good that it will not be worse: it is worth experiencing it, as it will become easier.

Such a November can be found in the paintings of the most consonant Frost by the artist of America - Andrew Wyeth. He wrote the world with Burem and Buddy. People do not smile at him, and things are neither new, nor interesting, nor complete: if a bucket, then empty, if a house, then squinted, if a field, then fruitless. A hopeless November always reigns in his paintings. There is no snow yet, there are no more leaves, summer was forgotten, spring is in doubt. Having stuck in the mud, nature does not flicker, looks serious, eternal.

Awaken by her, the artist is not instantaneous, like impressionists, but unchanging as theologians. Walking after them, he depicts the threshold marking the border of the comprehensive. Having reached her, the artist looks into something that does not have a name, but allowing himself to be saturated. Like a witch damage, Whayette brought nostalgia for the viewer. Things become yours, people are close, a landscape is a house, even if it is a barn.

Looking at him - the blinding whiteness of the walls, the muffled brilliance of tin, uncertain snow on the hill - I cannot get rid of the feeling that I have already seen this in another, but also my life. Tearing a fragment frozen with his eye and giving him the highest status of intensity, the artist introduced me a false memory.

Who does not know how it happens?! Words, gesture, shade, flap or aroma acquire a frightening, if you think about, power and inexplicable, if you forget about Freud, meaning. Not a symbol, not an allegory, but that part of reality that serves as a catalyst for an uncontrollable reaction. Having shifted the external into the inner, it turns the material into the experienced.

Without knowing how to describe the transmutation in words, critics habitually call the realism of Wayet magical. But his cows do not fly, like a shagal, but quietly grazed on a hill desired from the window. Fiction is not in extraction, but in materialization.

I saw this only in Solaris Tarkovsky. In the film, a reasonable ocean takes out of the subconscious of heroes not only people, but still lifes and landscapes. Since we are transparent to the ocean, he does not know how to distinguish consciousness from the subconscious and materializes the brightest - radioactive - clots of experience accumulated in the soul. In November, when nothing distracts from itself, they know better.