Книжки - Маргарет Атвуд
Не помню, что заставило меня обратить внимание на книжку "The Robber Bride" в магазине подержанных книг в 1999 году. Я тогда, перед длинным дежурством, купил несколько книжек. Они были того размера, который легко помещается в кармане армейских штанов, и эта была самая потрёпанная из них. Имя канадской писательницы мне ничего не говорило. Книжка мне неожиданно очень понравилась, хотя было совершенно непонятно, чем именно. Написанная девчонкой книжка про девчонок для девчонок - всякие там подружки, ревность, одежда, разговоры.
Она читается легко и приятно. Несмотря на неспешный сюжет и грустные темы, она насыщенная и яркая. Язык в ней просто замечательный. Главная героиня не столько действует, сколько смотрит со стороны, наклонив голову, внимательным, понимающим взглядом. Потом оказалось, что героини всех книжек Маргарет Атвуд такие. И им удаётся передать свои впечатления, показать себя и окружающих так понятно, как никому другому:
Tony gets up at six-thirty, as she always does. West sleeps on, groaning a little. Probably in his dreams he’s shouting; sounds in dreams are always louder. Tony inspects his sleeping face, his angular jaw-line relaxed to softness, his unearthly blue hermit’s eyes so gently closed. She’s happy he’s still alive: women live longer than men and men have weak hearts, sometimes they just keel over, and although she and West aren’t old-they’re hardly old at all-still, women her age have awakened in the morning to find dead men beside them. Tony does not consider this a morbid thought.
...
“Speaking of the Middle East,” says Roz, “what’s happening there? That thing with Iraq. Your specialty, I guess, Tony.” The two of them look at Tony. “Actually, it’s not,” says Tony. The whole point about being a historian, she’s tried to tell them, is that you can successfully avoid the present, most of the time. Though of course she’s been following the situation; she’s been following it for years. Some interesting new technology will be tested, that much is certain.
...
“It’s not like the stock market,” says Tony. “It’s already been decided. It was decided as soon as Saddam crossed that border. Like the Rubicon.”
“The what?” says Charis.
“Never mind, sweetie, it’s just something historical,” says Roz. “So is this really bad, or what?”
“Not in the short run,” says Tony. “In the long run-well, a lot of empires have folded because they overextended themselves. That could go for either side. But right now the States isn’t thinking about that. They love the idea. They’ll get a chance to try out their new toys, drum up some business. Don’t think of it as a war, think of it as a market expansion.”
Charis forks up the grated carrot; she has a shred of it on her upper lip, an endearing orange whisker. “Well, anyway, it won’t be us doing it,” she says.
...
But she has it at last, the thread: it’s Saddam Hussein and the invasion of Kuwait, and what will happen next. “It’s already been decided,” says Tony, “like the Rubicon,” and Charis says, “The what?”
“Never mind, sweetie. it’s just something historical,” says Roz, because she at least does understand that this is not Charis’s favourite topic of conversation, she’s giving her permission to drift off.
But then it comes to Charis what the Rubicon is. It’s something to do with Julius Caesar, they took it in high school. He crossed the Alps with elephants; another of those men who got famous for killing people. If they stopped giving medals to such men, thinks Charis, if they stopped giving them parades and making statues out of them, then those men would stop doing it. Stop all the killing. They do it to get attention. Maybe that’s who Tony was, in a previous life: Julius Caesar. Maybe Julius Caesar has been sent back in the body of a woman, to punish him. A very short woman, so he can see what it’s like, to be powerless. Maybe that is the way things work.
...
“It’s already been decided,” says Tony. “It was decided as soon as Saddam crossed that border. Like the Rubicon:”
The Rubicon, the Rubicon. Roz knows she’s heard that word before. A river; somebody crossed it. Tony has a whole list of rivers that people crossed, with world-changing results, at some time or another. The Delaware, that was Washington. The Germanic tribes crossing the Rhine and overthrowing the Roman Empire. But the Rubicon? Well, how stupid of Roz! Julius Caesar, for a full ten points!
Then it comes to Roz in a flash of light-what a great lipstick name! A great series of names, names of rivers that have been crossed, crossed fatefully; a mix of the forbidden, and of courage, of daring, a dash of karma. Rubicon, a bright hollyberry. Jordan, a rich grape-tinged red. Delaware, a cerise with a hint of blue-though perhaps the word itself is too prissy. Saint Lawrence-a fire-and-ice hot pink-no, no, out of the question, saints won’t do. Ganges, a blazing orange. Zambezi, a succulent maroon. Volga, that eerie purple that was the only shade of lipstick those poor deprived Russian women could lay their hands on, for decades-but Roz can see a future for it now, it will become avant-retro, a collector’s item like the statues of Stalin.
Roz carries on with the conversation, but in her head she’s furiously planning. She can see the shots of the models, how she wants them to look: seductive, naturally, but challenging too, a sort of meet-your-destiny stare. What was it Napoleon crossed? Only the Alps, no memorable rivers, worse luck. Maybe a few snippets from historical paintings in the background, someone waving a gusry, shredded flag, on a hill-it’s always a hill, never for instance a swamp-with smoke and flames boiling around. Yes! It’s right! This will go like hotcakes! And there’s one final shade needed, to complete the palette: a sultry brown, with a smouldering, roiling undernote. What’s the right river for that?
Styx. It couldn’t be anything else.
Потом я об этом забыл на несколько лет, но вспомнил, когда увидел имя писательницы в списках премии Букера. Маргарет Атвуд, оказывается, знаменитая серьёзная писательница, получившая уйму призов за свои многочисленные романы, рассказы и стихи. А то, что Нобелевской премии у неё пока нет, говорит плохо о премии, а не о писательнице. С тех пор я прочёл несколько её книжек - теперь, вот, дочитываю "Cat's Eye". Все они замечательные, и я до сих пор не знаю, как ей это удаётся. В них нет никаких особенных трюков (три взгляда на Рубикон не в счёт), сюжетной пиротехники или заморских стран. Даже, когда дело происходит не в понятнейшей Канаде ХХ века, как в большинстве её книжек, а в пред- или пост-апокалиптическом будущем, в колониальном прошлом, в фашистской альтернативной реальности или даже в гомеровской Греции, люди остаются совершенно такими же - понятными, сложными, человеческими, разными, естественными, не-экзотичными. Знакомыми.
Это настоящая литература, причём оказывается, что умные книжки - совсем не обязательно занудная тягомотина. Похожее свежее удивление у меня было, когда я читал Джейн Остин. Но Джейн Остин уже двести лет, как померла, а Маргарет Атвуд пишет про наше время. Такие сравнения вообще несправедливы, ведь Маргарет Атвуд явно читала Джейн Остин, но не наоборот. Современный писатель, даже если он послабее, чем старый, имеет преимущество - у него было больше хороших учителей. Кроме того, в любой старой книжке свежесть всегда борется с протухшим запахом - ведь времена меняются и книжки меняются временами. Поэтому я предпочитаю новых авторов, даже если они не очень талантливы. Но Маргарет Атвуд талантом, кажется, не уступит никому - её тоже наверняка будут читать и через двести лет.
Трудно выбрать, что процитировать - я начинаю перечитывать с любого места и не могу остановиться, хочется откопировать сюда книжку целиком, все книжки. Вот отрывок из "Blind Assassin", который я помню ярко и с восторгом пять лет и пятьсот книжек спустя (очень пожилая героиня вручает приз, учреждённый в память её сестры):
“Mrs. Griffen,” hissed the politician.
I teetered, regained my balance. Now what had I been intending to say?
“My sister Laura would be so pleased,” I gasped into the microphone. My voice was reedy; I thought I might faint. “She liked to help people.” This was true, I’d vowed not to say anything untrue. “She was so fond of reading and books.” Also true, up to a point. “She would have wished you the very best for your future.” True as well.
I managed to hand over the envelope; the girl had to bend down. I whispered into her ear, or meant to whisper-Bless you. Be careful. Anyone intending to meddle with words needs such blessing, such warning. Had I actually spoken, or had I simply opened and closed my mouth like a fish?
She smiled, and tiny brilliant sequins flashed and sparkled all over her face and hair. It was a trick of my eyes, and of the stage lights, which were too bright. I should have worn my tinted glasses. I stood there blinking. Then she did something unexpected: she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Through her lips I could feel the texture of my own skin: soft as kid-glove leather, crinkled, powdery, ancient.
She in her turn whispered something, but I couldn’t quite catch it. Was it a simple thank you, or some other message in-could it be?-a foreign language?
She turned away. The light streaming out from her was so dazzling I had to shut my eyes. I hadn’t heard, I couldn’t see. Darkness moved closer. Applause battered my ears like beating wings. I staggered and almost fell.
Some alert functionary caught my arm and slotted me back into my chair. Back into obscurity. Back into the long shadow cast by Laura. Out of harm’s way.
Я надеюсь, что журналисточка тут слева, Елена Аджич, не читала "Cat's Eye" - едва ли этот взгляд Маргарет Атвуд значит для неё что-то лестное:
Andrea checks out my powder-blue jogging suit. She herself is wearing black, approved, glossy black, not early-sixties holdover as mine would be. She has red hair out of a spray can and no apologies, cut into a cap like an acorn. She’s upsettingly young; to me she doesn’t look more than a teenager, though I know she must be in her twenties. Probably she thinks I’m a weird middle-aged frump, sort of like her high school teacher. Probably she’s out to get me. Probably she’ll succeed.
We sit across from each other at Charna’s desk and Andrea sets down her camera and fiddles with her tape recorder. Andrea writes for a newspaper. “This is for the Living section,” she says. I know what that means, it used to be the Women’s Pages. It’s funny that they now call it Living, as if only women are alive and the other things, such as the Sports, are for the dead.
“Living, eh?” I say. “I’m the mother of two. I bake cookies.” All true. Andrea gives me a dirty look and flicks on her machine.
“How do you handle fame?” she says.
“This isn’t fame,” I say. “Fame is Elizabeth Taylor’s cleavage. This stuff is just a media pimple.”
She grins at that. “Well, could you maybe say something about your generation of artists-your generation of woman artists-and their aspirations and goals?”
“Painters, you mean,” I say. “What generation is that?”
“The seventies, I suppose,” she says. “That’s when the women’s-that’s when you started getting attention.”
“The seventies isn’t my generation,” I say.
She smiles. “Well,” she says, “what is?”
“The forties.”
“The forties?” This is archaeology as far as she’s concerned. “But you couldn’t have been…”
“That was when I grew up,” I say.
“Oh right,” she says. “You mean it was formative. Can you talk about the ways, how it reflects in your work?”
“The colors,” I say. “A lot of my colors are forties colors.” I’m softening up. At least she doesn’t say like and you know all the time. “The war. There are people who remember the war and people who don’t. There’s a cut-off point, there’s a difference.”
“You mean the Vietnam War?” she says.
“No,” I say coldly. “The Second World War.” She looks a bit scared, as if I’ve just resurrected from the dead, and incompletely at that. She didn’t know I was that old. “So,” she says. “What is the difference?”
“We have long attention spans,” I say. “We eat everything on our plates. We save string. We make do.”
Кстати, только что законченная "Cat's Eye" мне кажется лучшей книжкой Атвуд, возможно, вообще лучшей книжкой из всех, что я когда-либо читал. И я всё ещё не понимаю, каким образом это получается. Никаких особенных "тем", issues - кое-что про детскую жестокость, про Канаду, псевдо-автобиографическое про жизнь художницы, не-агрессивно-феминистическое про женщин в обществе, про ностальгию, про детей-и-родителей. Наверное, просто так совпало, что наклон головы у героини похож на мой. И вообще, секрет Атвуд просто в том, что она умеет писать. Она каким-то образом проведала, какого стиля мысли и впечатления, reflections, у меня бывают, и записывает их своим замечательным языком. Она просто вербализует то, что я и сам думаю, но сказать не умею... Кажется, такая иллюзия, будто книжка звучит у читателя в голове не снаружи, а изнутри - это высшее достижение писателя.
The Edible Woman (1969) - to read
Surfacing (1972) - to read
Lady Oracle (1976) - to read
Life Before Man (1979) - to read
Bodily Harm (1981) - 8/10
The Handmaid's Tale (1985) - 8/10
Cat's Eye (1988) - 10/10
The Robber Bride (1993) - 9/10
Alias Grace (1996) - 8/10
The Blind Assassin (2000) - 10/10
Oryx and Crake (2003) - 9/10
The Penelopiad (2005) - 9/10
The Year of the Flood (2009) - 9/10
Удивительное совпадение - Атвуд и Гош