Море

Imenno za roman 'More' Dzhon Bėnvill, samyĭ znamenityĭ iz nyne zhivushchikh pisateleĭ Irlandii, byl udostoen Bukerovskoĭ premii.Prozu Bėnvilla nedarom sravnivai͡ut s tvorchestvom Vladimira Nabokova, on stolʹ zhe virtuozno vladeet perom, tak zhe bogat ego i͡azyk, on tak zhe izobretatelen i tochen v peredache detaleĭ. 'More' - roman-ispovedʹ, napisannyĭ ot pervogo lit͡sa.Ti͡azhelo perezhiv smertʹ zheny, geroĭ romana priezzhaet v selenie na beregu mori͡a, gde v detstve zhil s roditeli͡ami, i myslenno pogruzhaetsi͡a v proshloe, vspominai͡a do melʹchaĭshikh podrobnosteĭ oshchushchenii͡a rebenka, v kotorom prosypaetsi͡a chuvstvennostʹ, pervui͡u vli͡ublennostʹ, pervui͡u tragedii͡u.'Chto realʹneĭ, ta zhenshchina, lezhavshai͡a na muravchatom sklone moego vospominanʹi͡a, ili struĭka prakha, issokhshie kosti, kotorye, eshche neizvestno, khranit li zemli͡a?.. My tashchim na sebe mertvet͡sov, poka sami ne svalimsi͡a, a dalʹshe uzh nas protashchat nemnozhko, poka ne svali͡atsi͡a tozhe, i tak dalee, cherez nevoobrazimye pokolenii͡a. I͡A pomni͡u Annu, nasha dochʹ Klėr budet pomnitʹ Annu i pomnitʹ meni͡a, potom ne budet i Klėr, no ostanutsi͡a te, kto budut pomnitʹ ee, no uzhe ne nas, ne nas, i ėto budet nasha posledni͡ai͡a, okonchatelʹnai͡a pogibelʹ. Konechno, chto-to ostanetsi͡a, uvi͡adshie fotografii, pri͡adʹ volos, otpechatki palʹt͡sev... no ėto uzhe ne my, kakie my estʹ, - mertvyĭ prakh i bolʹshe nichego'.Laureat Bukerovskoĭ premii 2005 godaDzhon Bėnvill

It was for the novel 'The Sea' that John Banville, the most famous living writer in Ireland, was awarded the Booker Prize.Banville's prose is not without reason compared with the work of Vladimir Nabokov, he is just as masterly with a pen, his language is just as rich, he is just as inventive and accurate in conveying details. 'The Sea' is a confession novel written in the first person.Having grievously experienced the death of his wife, the hero of the novel comes to a village on the seashore, where he lived with his parents as a child, and mentally plunges into the past, recalling to the smallest detail the feelings of a child in whom sensuality, the first love, the first tragedy wakes up.'Which is more real, that woman lying on the ant-like slope of my memory, or a trickle of dust, withered bones, which, it is not yet known whether the earth keeps?.. We drag the dead on ourselves until we fall off ourselves, and then they drag us a little bit until they fall off too, and so on, through unimaginable generations. I remember Anna, our daughter Claire will remember Anna and remember me, then there will be no Claire, but there will be those who will remember her, but not us, not us, and this will be our last, final death. Of course, something will remain, faded photos, a lock of hair, fingerprints... but this is no longer us as we are - dead dust and nothing else.'Booker Prize Winner 2005Ajon Banville