Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Maxim Gorky

Pseudonym of Aleksei Maximovitch Pshkov (Nizhni Novgorod 03/28/1868 to Moskvo 06/18/1936). A protégé of Stalin, though that should not count against him. Being a protégé was anyway better than being a victim.

The pseudonym means 'bitter Max'.

E-kvetcher gave me a link to a translation he made of one of Gorky's stories.

Black hair and blue eyes? I have NEVER seen that. But I have seen Arabs and Persians with blue eyes. Maybe Moldovians are related to Arabs? But maps show their country being nowhere near any Arab countries. What does Bessarabia mean? Not Arab, but a local dynasty, the Basarab. It is within Moldova.
Black hair and blue eyes.

'Greasy earth evaporations'? This in a passage that starts with music and ends with a painting of the sky.

'Old men are you Russians'? No wonder I then read "all dark, like lemons".

Part one: Pride, eagle son, arrows, murder, theft, immortality while waiting for death. Painful song.

Part two: Life, love, kisses. Dry cracked lips. Wine and boiled pork. A love life that reads like a travelogue. Polish is a hissing snake tongue. A long rant about her lovers. Of whom she had very many.

Part three: The handsome ones are always brave. But in the faces of those who follow is no nobility, no bravery, no balls. A ripped heart like a burning orb leads scared people through a dark forest to a river and the open steppes (prairies), which are freedom and release. A leader glowingly (gloriously) sacrifices himself for others, they do not notice. But maybe not. It is an old woman speaking to a young man, about an ideal of young men, and her ideal young men.

There is a river of images in the story, like series of connected rocks that each look different, some in the shade, some in bright sunlight. Many words to set atmosphere, less actual action. Which, in speech, is not so usual. The woman who speaks paints a shimmering picture of memories for the man who listens. Then she sleeps, and he looks at her, and notices the dark clouds scooting over the landscape.


The back of the hill said...

It would either make one hell of a movie, or one hellish movie.

Depends on whether the Brits did it, or Holloywood.

Or, mirabile possu, Bollywood. Imagine the conversations between two people interrupted by thouosands of extras singing and dancing. In the rain. At night. On a rooftop.


Only Bollywood movie I have seen was Monsoon Wedding.

Are Indians really like that?

Anonymous said...

Yes, all Indians are like that. We sing. We dance. We do neat tricks with our eyebrows.

---Grant Patel