In the United States, they found an unknown poem by Vladimir Nabokov, dedicated to (suddenly) Superman

Director Mikhail Idov translated him. "Medusa" publishes this text

The literary critic and translator Andrei Babikovfound in the library of rare books of Yale University, Vladimir Nabokov’s poem “The Man of Tomorrrow=, dedicated to Superman and Lois Lane . The poem was written in 1942, it was never published - however, it is known that Nabokov sent the manuscript to The New Yorker (but it was never printed, considering it incomprehensible). Apparently, Nabokov was inspired by the cover of the 16th release of the comic book about the Superman, on which Clark Kent and his friend Lois Lain look at the statue of a superhero. Director and writer Mikhail Idov have repeatedly addressed Nabokov’s work, including he wrote about him several times in The New Yorker. Idov translated the poem found "Crying of a man of tomorrow." "Medusa" publishes this text with the commentary of the author of the translation.

Mikhail Idov

The most amazing, in my opinion, in my opinion, this poem Vladimir Nabokov in 1942 is anticipated not only by the comic book The Watchmen (“Keepers”) and the main plot conflict of the series The Boys (“Boys”), but also by one inhabitant mention of Berchtesgaden (in which the castle “Orline Nest” ) is ahead of 60 years ahead of 60 years is ahead of 60 years. Michael Schoibon’s Pulitzer novel “The Stunning Adventures of the Cavalier and Clay”, in which Superman is allowed to deal with Hitler. Moreover, he invents the concept of Easter clock for fans on the move: the yellow sky, the statue in the central park, and even the Lois Lain replica are taken from a specific cover of the 16th issue of the comic book.

It is unlikely that Nabokov himself considered this poem a great success-at that time he was still mastered in English: “The figure skating champion got into roller skates,” as he would say [his wife] Vera. But 20 years later, having already reached unattainable heights in his second language, he will write the poetic part of “Pale Fire” with a pair of very similar techniques with a pair of very similar techniques. So we have the next and extremely timely reminder that there is no high and low literature, but there are ideas witty and not.

Vladimir Nabokov

Crying of a man tomorrow

Wearing glasses is my duty. Otherwise, at once

And her lungs my superglass

Staging, and the liver trembling lump

It will seem like in algae som,

In the canopy of bones. Exhausted outcast,

I wander around the light like mine

From the "lyre" artisan. My whole look -

I have at least a sore, at least a three-widom-

I hate it: and the mighty torso,

And each muscle ship cable,

And the Blue Chubchik. The key of my spleen -

Not the abyss that divided the worlds

Fantasy and fact from and to

(I do not fly to the "Eagle Nest"

And even not to get on the call);

The worst misfortune befell me.

I'm young, full of juice, that your maple,

And, not surprisingly, in love.

But all the urge to heart and soul

You don't want a steel hand, but souls:

My love is earthquake, tornado,

And the wedding hour promises death to the bride,

The hotel is demolished, and next to him houses

At least the repair of window frames.

And if she survives

This explosion of love? What kind of fruit will it take?

What a baby would rush into the light,

Having knocked down a doctor? He is at the age of two years

I would break every chair and table in the house,

And stomping his leg, collapsed through the floor;

Dived into a well of three; At four to five

Sigal in the stove on "I'm going to search";

To eight would play on trains, lifting

Above the head of the entrusted composition;

And by nine of all my enemies

I got rid of the shackles. And it was like that.

That's why, wherever I fly

How high, no matter how my cloak is,

Puff by pickpockets to me

Boring. Hovering in heavenly yellowness

One. Bracket, but stooped Clark,

From the garbage tank, taking a jacket

Remins a cloak and hides in the same tank.

Year or two later: Alley, Central Park,

And my statue. And female sigh:

"Ah, Clark, how wonderful he is!" Yes, not bad

I mutter, sighing secretly - but

I am not given an ordinary guy.