S. Agnon - Shira

Здесь есть возможность читать онлайн «S. Agnon - Shira» весь текст электронной книги совершенно бесплатно (целиком полную версию без сокращений). В некоторых случаях можно слушать аудио, скачать через торрент в формате fb2 и присутствует краткое содержание. Год выпуска: 2014, Издательство: Toby Press, Жанр: Современная проза, на английском языке. Описание произведения, (предисловие) а так же отзывы посетителей доступны на портале библиотеки ЛибКат.

Shira: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

Предлагаем к чтению аннотацию, описание, краткое содержание или предисловие (зависит от того, что написал сам автор книги «Shira»). Если вы не нашли необходимую информацию о книге — напишите в комментариях, мы постараемся отыскать её.

Shira is Nobel laureate S.Y. Agnon’s final, epic novel. Unfinished at the time of his death in 1970, the Hebrew original was published a year later. With this newly revised English translation by Zeva Shapiro, including archival material never before published in English, The Toby Press launches its S.Y. Agnon Library — the fullest collection of Agnon’s works in new and revised translations. “Shira is S. Y. Agnon’s culminating effort to articulate through the comprehensive form of the novel his vision of the role of art in human reality…Enacted against the background of Jerusalem life in the gathering shadows of a historical cataclysm of inconceivable proportions, Shira is so brilliantly rendered that, even without an ending, it deserves a place among the major modern novels."

Shira — читать онлайн бесплатно полную книгу (весь текст) целиком

Ниже представлен текст книги, разбитый по страницам. Система сохранения места последней прочитанной страницы, позволяет с удобством читать онлайн бесплатно книгу «Shira», без необходимости каждый раз заново искать на чём Вы остановились. Поставьте закладку, и сможете в любой момент перейти на страницу, на которой закончили чтение.

Тёмная тема
Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

Herbst walks down Ben Yehuda Street with all the other pedestrians, past stores, business offices, printing houses, cafés, peddlers’ stalls, newspaper stands, offices. The street noise becomes more and more intrusive. One sound fuses with another. Each and every sound generates another sound, and these sounds, compounded by one another, make an infinite number of sounds. They fill the ear as well as the eye, which was created for vision and flinches before the noise. When Herbst came to Jerusalem, the entire space this street occupies was empty. Herbst was fond of the spot because of its restful silence; because of the olive, almond, and eucalyptus trees that cheered the eye on a winter day and provided shade in the summer; because of the mossy stones; because of a lizard sunning itself; because of a bird flying through the sky; because of a chicken pecking at the garbage near the hovel of a contented pauper. Now all the plants have been uprooted, all the fruit trees cut down, the stone walls destroyed. The birds and fowl have migrated. Instead, there are houses, built of stone and concrete, raising the noise level, increasing the tumult, adding to the din, producing dust, din, and tumult. The air is filled with the aroma of coffee, cocoa, baked goods, warm butter, grilled cheese, fruit preserves. It is the coffee hour; cafés are bustling with men, women, and children. Not every mother who wants to be out in the world can hire a maid to leave her children with, so she has no choice but to bring the child along, feed him ice cream and all sorts of sweets, soda, ice water — anything to entertain the child, so the mother can have a cigarette and conversation with a friend, male or female. Several years ago, Herbst ran into Lisbet Neu and went to the Café Zichel with her. He had coffee, and she had cocoa without milk. She told him many things that were new to him. Afterward, he walked her home and promised he would call her. By and by, intending to keep his promise, he went to call. He got to the telephone booth and found Shira. When was this? After he left Henrietta when she was about to give birth to Sarah. Many days have passed since, and many things have happened. If we were to try to recount them, we would not be able to. The events consume time, and time consumes memory. Which is to suggest that not everyone must always remember what is best forgotten.

Herbst had already put the past out of mind and was trying to picture what he hoped to find in one of the new books he planned to borrow. This was not too difficult, because he had read some reviews and recognized the names of some authors, and because of the powerful imagination to which he occasionally had access. Before he could conjure up a clear image, he found that he was standing on a rug that was spread out in front of an antiquities store. Before he could get his bearings, he was studying the window display. The objects on display had been thrown together with no connection to each other except physical proximity. Surely the dealer knew why he had placed a portrait of a monk next to a statue of a nude woman, the idols of some extinct people next to a mezuzah case, a Torah cover near a piece of needlework found in the tomb of an Egyptian king. We can only note this arrangement and wonder about it. Whoever is equipped to do so will invent a rationale suited to his sensibilities and talent. When he turned away from the window, Herbst heard someone say hello to him. He looked around, but, since the street was so crowded, he couldn’t see who was greeting him. He did, however, recognize the voice. It was the voice of Anita Brik, whose two poems he had read.

As it happened, it happened that Anita Brik had reason to retrace her steps. When she came back, she noticed that Herbst was looking somewhat bewildered. She approached him and said, “You don’t recognize me, Dr. Herbst.” He seized both of her hands, clasped them warmly, and said, “Not recognize you! Is it at all remarkable to recognize a young lady such as you? Believe me, even among black women or red-skinned women, I would recognize a woman such as you. How are you, Anita? It’s so noisy here. Let’s find a café to go to. The cafés are hectic too, but, when you have something in your cup, the noise is less irritating. How are you? What have you been doing? Idle questions. I ask them only to pass the time until we can sit down together. Have you written any new poems? Let’s sit down and read them. Which do you prefer, Zichel or Atara? Perhaps you know the utopia of cafés, a place that surpasses them both? Wasn’t it you who said that in Jerusalem new cafés open every day? If you have no preference, we can go to Zichel.” Herbst chose Zichel because, never having heard Tamara mention the place, he concluded that she was not in the habit of going there.

They went in, found a table, and sat down. Anita said to Herbst, “You asked me, Dr. Herbst, whether I have written any new poems. I haven’t written any poems. I stopped writing poems. If you don’t have language, you can’t produce poems. I have almost forgotten my German, and I haven’t learned Hebrew yet. If the present is any indication of the future, I can truthfully say that I won’t ever learn Hebrew, and I never will write in Hebrew either. I never considered my poems essential, but it’s a pleasure to find words — even rhymes — for what is in your heart. In the course of time, my heart began to be empty, and I was no longer confronted with this task. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I think it was a mistake to write poems. The most vile reality is more powerful than fantasy, and it doesn’t promote delusions of grandeur.”

Herbst sat in silence. He looked straight ahead, rather than directly at her. Twice he wanted to light a cigarette, but he didn’t light it. Twice people came to look for lost eyeglasses and the like. Anita kept on talking. Her voice was feeble, but her words had vigor.

The waitress appeared. She was small, blonde, and pretty. Her golden hair encircled her head like a golden tiara, and her dainty cheeks had a golden cast about them. Herbst assumed she was a student, of either music or art, who was waiting on tables temporarily. When she appeared, she forgot about her job and stood chatting with Anita. She asked Anita how she was, and Anita congratulated her for having dealt with the Arab so successfully. Herbst was puzzled by their conversation. Anita said, “I see that Dr. Herbst is puzzled, so, with your permission, Trudel, I will tell the story. Just a few days ago Trudel was walking to work, as she does every morning. She encountered an Arab, who wanted to have his way with her. She was carrying a copper kettle that needed to be repaired. She smashed his nose with the kettle, and, while he was occupied with his nose, she fled. Isn’t Trudel a hero?”

Trudel laughed and said, “Woe unto this hero. She had to pay for her heroics. In that transaction, I lost the kettle I had borrowed from a neighbor so I could make something warm for my little girl to drink. My Zigi is out of work, as usual, earning nothing. And you, Anita? I hear you’re working with children now.” Anita said, “‘Children’ is an exaggeration. Only one child, the son of Professor Weltfremdt’s daughter. Let me introduce you: this gentleman is Dr. Herbst, and this is Trudel, my good friend Trudel. We both worked in that restaurant where you first saw me, Dr. Herbst.” Trudel said, “I’m standing here as if I were on my own time, when, in fact, everyone is after me. So many parched throats demanding something to drink, and the boss, who sees me standing idle, is glaring at me. What can I bring for the doctor? And you, Anita, what would you like? If your tastes are unchanged, I know you would like…” Herbst said, “Pull over a chair and join us. Bring three cups of coffee, cakes, cookies, tarts, pastries — everything good. And if there is something beyond good, bring that too. Not in one of those little dishes meant for the misers you usually serve, but on a platter. And if it gets too heavy for you, we can call Moshe the porter, the he-man who carries pianos from the center of town to Montefiore as easily as I carry this chair.” Trudel laughed and said, “If it were up to me, I would certainly choose to sit with you.” As she spoke, she turned in several directions, calling out, “Right away, right away. I would bring your coffee now, but you asked for café au lait. Yes, madam, I’m bringing ice cream. Yes, yes, vanilla. Also strawberry. Made from fresh strawberries, not preserves. Coffee with cream or without? With cream. Yes, yes, I’m bringing it. Right away.”

Читать дальше
Тёмная тема
Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

Похожие книги на «Shira»

Представляем Вашему вниманию похожие книги на «Shira» списком для выбора. Мы отобрали схожую по названию и смыслу литературу в надежде предоставить читателям больше вариантов отыскать новые, интересные, ещё непрочитанные произведения.


Отзывы о книге «Shira»

Обсуждение, отзывы о книге «Shira» и просто собственные мнения читателей. Оставьте ваши комментарии, напишите, что Вы думаете о произведении, его смысле или главных героях. Укажите что конкретно понравилось, а что нет, и почему Вы так считаете.

x