Vladimir Nabokov

NABOKV-L post 0008848, Sun, 2 Nov 2003 10:55:40 -0800

Subject
Fw: Omar Khayyám
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----- Original Message -----
From: Jansy Berndt de Souza Mello
To: D. Barton Johnson
Sent: Saturday, November 01, 2003 6:46 AM
Subject: Omar Khayyám


Don ( and List ),

While reading another chapter of your book on Worlds in Infinite Regression I found a small note in which you commented on an old metaphor that has been in use for centuries and which was employed by VN in "The Luzhin Defense".

This old metaphor may have arisen in twelfth century Persia, or at least, gained poetic expression by one of that country´s leading astronomer and mathematician: Omar Khayáam.

In a dear old High-School anthology I discovered Edward Fitzgerald´s translation of Khayyám which was widely read in England ( and widely quoted by other poets...Even Peanut´s author Charles Schulz sometimes had Linus recite Khayáam! ):

WE ARE NO OTHER THAN A MOVING ROW
OF MAGIC SHADOW-SHAPES THAT COME AND GO
ROUND WITH THE SUN-ILLUMINED LANTERN HELD
IN MIDNIGHT BY THE MASTER OF THE SHOW;

But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.

The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Here or There as strikes the Player goes;
And He that tossed you down into the Field,
He knows about it all - he knows- HE knows!

The Moving Finger writes; and having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.


Not only those lines seem to gain a special light when set in comparison with The Luzhin Defense, but they may also refract it on to ADA or Pale Fire...

I had read Khayámm in Portuguese as a young girl and for the benefit ot those on the list that read Portuguese here it is ( there are at least three different translations for it and they all sound different !):
Somos peões de uma partida de xadrês jogada por Deus
Que nos desloca para trás ou nos põe mais adiante
E enfim nos recolhe, um a um, à caixa do Nada.

Jansy
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