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آخرین اغواگری زمین: پناه بردن به هنر،� شعر و کلمه
زمین سرشار از بی‌عدالت� و رنج است، اما تا زمانی که هنر وجود دارد جای نگرانی نیست. این دیدگاه مارینا تسوتایوا (Marina Tsvetaeva) در کتاب آخرین اغواگری زمین (Art in the Light of Conscience) است. او طی هفت جستار، از هنر به‌عنوا� تنها مرهم سختی‌ها� زندگی یاد می‌کن�. نویسنده با تمرکز بر شعر، سبک‌ها� مختلف این هنر و تجربه� گم شدن در دنیای کلمات را برای خواننده شرح می‌ده�. همچنین، در جریان تشریح این مباحث، به بررسی زندگی و آثار شاعران بزرگ روسیه می‌پرداز�.
328 pages, ebook
First published January 30, 1991
23 people are currently reading
395 people want to read
About the author
Marina Tsvetaeva
530books543followers Марина Цветаева
Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva was born in Moscow. Her father, Ivan Tsvetaev, was a professor of art history and the founder of the Museum of Fine Arts. Her mother Mariya, née Meyn, was a talented concert pianist. The family travelled a great deal and Tsvetaeva attended schools in Switzerland, Germany, and at the Sorbonne, Paris. Tsvetaeva started to write verse in her early childhood. She made her debut as a poet at the age of 18 with the collection Evening Album, a tribute to her childhood.
In 1912 Tsvetaeva married Sergei Efron, they had two daughters and one son. Magic Lantern showed her technical mastery and was followed in 1913 by a selection of poems from her first collections. Tsvetaeva's affair with the poet and opera librettist Sofiia Parnok inspired her cycle of poems called Girlfriend. Parnok's career stopped in the late 1920s when she was no longer allowed to publish. The poems composed between 1917 and 1921 appeared in 1957 under the title The Demesne of the Swans. Inspired by her relationship with Konstantin Rodzevich, an ex-Red Army officer she wrote Poem of the Mountain and Poem of the End.
After 1917 Revolution Tsvetaeva was trapped in Moscow for five years. During the famine one of her own daughters died of starvation. Tsvetaeva's poetry reveals her growing interest in folk song and the techniques of the major symbolist and poets, such as Aleksander Blok and Anna Akhmatova. In 1922 Tsvetaeva emigrated with her family to Berlin, where she rejoined her husband, and then to Prague. This was a highly productive period in her life - she published five collections of verse and a number of narrative poems, plays, and essays.
During her years in Paris Tsvetaeva wrote two parts of the planned dramatic trilogy. The last collection published during her lifetime, After Russia, appeared in 1928. Its print, 100 numbered copies, were sold by special subscription. In Paris the family lived in poverty, the income came almost entirely from Tsvetaeva's writings. When her husband started to work for the Soviet security service, the Russian community of Paris turned against Tsvetaeva. Her limited publishing ways for poetry were blocked and she turned to prose. In 1937 appeared MOY PUSHKIN, one of Tsvetaeva's best prose works. To earn extra income, she also produced short stories, memoirs and critical articles.
In exile Tsvetaeva felt more and more isolated. Friendless and almost destitute she returned to the Soviet Union in 1938, where her son and husband already lived. Next year her husband was executed and her daughter was sent to a labor camp. Tsvetaeva was officially ostracized and unable to publish. After the USSR was invaded by German Army in 1941, Tsvetaeva was evacuated to the small provincial town of Elabuga with her son. In despair, she hanged herself ten days later on August 31, 1941.
source:
Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva was born in Moscow. Her father, Ivan Tsvetaev, was a professor of art history and the founder of the Museum of Fine Arts. Her mother Mariya, née Meyn, was a talented concert pianist. The family travelled a great deal and Tsvetaeva attended schools in Switzerland, Germany, and at the Sorbonne, Paris. Tsvetaeva started to write verse in her early childhood. She made her debut as a poet at the age of 18 with the collection Evening Album, a tribute to her childhood.
In 1912 Tsvetaeva married Sergei Efron, they had two daughters and one son. Magic Lantern showed her technical mastery and was followed in 1913 by a selection of poems from her first collections. Tsvetaeva's affair with the poet and opera librettist Sofiia Parnok inspired her cycle of poems called Girlfriend. Parnok's career stopped in the late 1920s when she was no longer allowed to publish. The poems composed between 1917 and 1921 appeared in 1957 under the title The Demesne of the Swans. Inspired by her relationship with Konstantin Rodzevich, an ex-Red Army officer she wrote Poem of the Mountain and Poem of the End.
After 1917 Revolution Tsvetaeva was trapped in Moscow for five years. During the famine one of her own daughters died of starvation. Tsvetaeva's poetry reveals her growing interest in folk song and the techniques of the major symbolist and poets, such as Aleksander Blok and Anna Akhmatova. In 1922 Tsvetaeva emigrated with her family to Berlin, where she rejoined her husband, and then to Prague. This was a highly productive period in her life - she published five collections of verse and a number of narrative poems, plays, and essays.
During her years in Paris Tsvetaeva wrote two parts of the planned dramatic trilogy. The last collection published during her lifetime, After Russia, appeared in 1928. Its print, 100 numbered copies, were sold by special subscription. In Paris the family lived in poverty, the income came almost entirely from Tsvetaeva's writings. When her husband started to work for the Soviet security service, the Russian community of Paris turned against Tsvetaeva. Her limited publishing ways for poetry were blocked and she turned to prose. In 1937 appeared MOY PUSHKIN, one of Tsvetaeva's best prose works. To earn extra income, she also produced short stories, memoirs and critical articles.
In exile Tsvetaeva felt more and more isolated. Friendless and almost destitute she returned to the Soviet Union in 1938, where her son and husband already lived. Next year her husband was executed and her daughter was sent to a labor camp. Tsvetaeva was officially ostracized and unable to publish. After the USSR was invaded by German Army in 1941, Tsvetaeva was evacuated to the small provincial town of Elabuga with her son. In despair, she hanged herself ten days later on August 31, 1941.
source:
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Displaying 1 - 15 of 15 reviews
November 15, 2023
این کتاب شامل ۷ جستار هست.نویسنده، در این کتاب معتقد هست مه هنر تنها پناه آدم ها در برابر نا‌ملایما� هست؛ مخصوصا شعر! نویسنده میگه: «زمین سرشار از بی‌عدالت� و رنج است، اما تا زمانی که هنر وجود دارد جای نگرانی نیست.»
نویسنده با تمرکز بر شعر، سبک‌ها� مختلف این هنر و تجربه� گم شدن در دنیای کلمات را برای خواننده شرح می‌ده�. همچنین، در جریان تشریح این مباحث، به بررسی زندگی و آثار شاعران بزرگ روسیه هم می‌پرداز�.
نویسنده با تمرکز بر شعر، سبک‌ها� مختلف این هنر و تجربه� گم شدن در دنیای کلمات را برای خواننده شرح می‌ده�. همچنین، در جریان تشریح این مباحث، به بررسی زندگی و آثار شاعران بزرگ روسیه هم می‌پرداز�.
June 17, 2019
This was the first non poetry book I'd read by Tsvetaeva, and her remarkable prose is evident to see.
These richly diverse essays provided much insight into not only her poetry and the poetic process, but also her life, and the admiration for other Russian poets. It was a quite fascinating read, and I don't think I will get to read essays on poetry as unique, as moving, or as passionately written ever again.
As a poet, Tsvetaeva wrote on male themes such as war and valor as well as on traditional female ones such as love, jealousy, and abandonment. Her voice throughout is unapologetically, and her poetic personae are the whole of female mythology, from peasant girl to the Tsar-Maiden, Joan of Arc to Phaedra. Her insistent, magnetic voice, her innovative modernist poetics were officially ignored in the Soviet Union for decades but nevertheless influenced several generations of Russian poets.
She began writing in short lyric forms, then gradually moved on to greater depth and length with complexities in epic poems, before eventually arriving at prose. The move to prose was both natural and necessary, and a stroke of genius. She found her true voice, and it's a voice that never go away.
These richly diverse essays provided much insight into not only her poetry and the poetic process, but also her life, and the admiration for other Russian poets. It was a quite fascinating read, and I don't think I will get to read essays on poetry as unique, as moving, or as passionately written ever again.
As a poet, Tsvetaeva wrote on male themes such as war and valor as well as on traditional female ones such as love, jealousy, and abandonment. Her voice throughout is unapologetically, and her poetic personae are the whole of female mythology, from peasant girl to the Tsar-Maiden, Joan of Arc to Phaedra. Her insistent, magnetic voice, her innovative modernist poetics were officially ignored in the Soviet Union for decades but nevertheless influenced several generations of Russian poets.
She began writing in short lyric forms, then gradually moved on to greater depth and length with complexities in epic poems, before eventually arriving at prose. The move to prose was both natural and necessary, and a stroke of genius. She found her true voice, and it's a voice that never go away.
September 23, 2023
تسوتایوا در یکی از مقاله‌ه� اشاره می‌کن� که با اصطلاحات تخصصی شعر آشنا نیست و از آنها سر درنمی‌آور�. جالب این‌ک� فروغ هم بارها در نوشته‌ه� و مصاحبه‌های� گفته بود وزن عروضی شعر فارسی را نخوانده و بلد نیست، بلکه وزن را غریزی می‌شناس�
July 10, 2010
Thanks to a wealth of publications since the �60s, there are lots of ways into Marina Tsvetaeva’s work via English. For my money though, few capture her force of mind and powerful wit as vividly as Angela Livingstone does in these essays, most written during Tsvetaeva’s prose-heavy émigré period in Paris in the �30s. Watching Tsvetaeva clarify for herself and her public where she’s been, what poetry means, and what value it has in the political roar through which she lived is fascinating, in part for the uncompromising way she responds to her contemporaries, partly for the rigorous measure of the art she leaves for us.
The circumstances that history forced upon Tsvetaeva and her cohort make our own hand-wringing about the efficacy of poetry look like a grade school play. I don’t mean that to put us down (well, maybe a little) so much as to elevate Tsvetaeva’s razor-sharp and intensely particular approach to poetics, which for her reaches beyond any syllabus or specialty to become a manual of how to stay human in a world with shrinking space for that.
The circumstances that history forced upon Tsvetaeva and her cohort make our own hand-wringing about the efficacy of poetry look like a grade school play. I don’t mean that to put us down (well, maybe a little) so much as to elevate Tsvetaeva’s razor-sharp and intensely particular approach to poetics, which for her reaches beyond any syllabus or specialty to become a manual of how to stay human in a world with shrinking space for that.
November 6, 2013
Thank you Bloodaxe Books. These are profound and passionate essays, written with a sense of urgency, coming from the heart of a poet.
May 24, 2021
(and I think silently:
love is a bow-string pulled
back to the point of breaking).
This little snippet of a poem was the inspiration one of Marina Abramovic's earlier works: in 1980, an audacious piece of performance art that I can't get out of my mind.
Excerpt from the book:
"No one has the right to judge a poet who has not read every line that poet has written. Creation takes place gradually and successively. What I was in 1915 explains what I am in 1925. Chronology is the key to understanding.
� Why are your poems so different from one another?
� Because the years are different.
The ignorant reader takes for a manner of writing something incomparably more simple and more complex: time.
To expect identical poems from a poet in 1915 and 1925 is like expecting identical facial features in 1915 and 1925. ‘Why have you altered so much in ten years?� Nobody asks this, the matter is so obvious. They won’t ask, they’ll just look, and after looking they themselves will say: ‘Time has passed.� It’s exactly the same with poems. The parallel is so close I’ll continue it. Time, as we all know, does not make us prettier, unless in childhood. And no one who knew me at twenty will say to me now I’m thirty: ‘How much prettier you’ve become.� At thirty I’ve become more defined, more significant, more original � more beautiful, perhaps. But not prettier.
It is the same with poems as with features. Poems do not get prettier with time. The freshness, spontaneity, accessibility, beauté du diable, of poetry’s face give way to � features. ‘You used
to write better� � a remark I hear so often! � only means the reader prefers my beauté du diable to my essence.
Prettiness � to beauty.
Prettiness [krasivost’] is an external criterion, beauty [prekrasnost’] an internal one. A pretty woman � a beautiful woman; a pretty landscape � beautiful music. The difference is that a landscape may be beautiful as well as pretty (an intensification, elevation, of the external to the
internal), while music can be beautiful but not pretty (an enervation, reduction, of the internal to the external).
What’s more, the moment a phenomenon leaves the realm of the visible and the material, the word ‘pretty� can no longer be applied to it. A pretty landscape by Leonardo, for example. One wouldn’t say this.
‘Pretty music�, ‘pretty poems� � a measure of musical and poetic illiteracy. Bad common parlance."
Note from this reader: Tsvetaeva’s liking for puns and homonyms is fundamental in these essays. The word for art, [iskusstvo], is related to words meaning temptation, [iskus] and [iskushenie]; and enticement and seduction occur throughout her writing � art is a seduction away from matters of conscience. But [iskus] also suggests artifice, as well as meaning a test, or even a novitiate, and the texts bring to surface these notions submerged in [iskusstvo]. The main point of the essays is that art is not ‘holy� as people think, but is Power and Magic: ‘When shall we finally stop taking power for truth and magic for holiness?' Art is not virtuous, but elemental, coming upon the poet in a [naitie]: one computes this word as ‘visitation�, but it means a ‘coming upon� � no personal being is implied.
love is a bow-string pulled
back to the point of breaking).
This little snippet of a poem was the inspiration one of Marina Abramovic's earlier works: in 1980, an audacious piece of performance art that I can't get out of my mind.
Excerpt from the book:
"No one has the right to judge a poet who has not read every line that poet has written. Creation takes place gradually and successively. What I was in 1915 explains what I am in 1925. Chronology is the key to understanding.
� Why are your poems so different from one another?
� Because the years are different.
The ignorant reader takes for a manner of writing something incomparably more simple and more complex: time.
To expect identical poems from a poet in 1915 and 1925 is like expecting identical facial features in 1915 and 1925. ‘Why have you altered so much in ten years?� Nobody asks this, the matter is so obvious. They won’t ask, they’ll just look, and after looking they themselves will say: ‘Time has passed.� It’s exactly the same with poems. The parallel is so close I’ll continue it. Time, as we all know, does not make us prettier, unless in childhood. And no one who knew me at twenty will say to me now I’m thirty: ‘How much prettier you’ve become.� At thirty I’ve become more defined, more significant, more original � more beautiful, perhaps. But not prettier.
It is the same with poems as with features. Poems do not get prettier with time. The freshness, spontaneity, accessibility, beauté du diable, of poetry’s face give way to � features. ‘You used
to write better� � a remark I hear so often! � only means the reader prefers my beauté du diable to my essence.
Prettiness � to beauty.
Prettiness [krasivost’] is an external criterion, beauty [prekrasnost’] an internal one. A pretty woman � a beautiful woman; a pretty landscape � beautiful music. The difference is that a landscape may be beautiful as well as pretty (an intensification, elevation, of the external to the
internal), while music can be beautiful but not pretty (an enervation, reduction, of the internal to the external).
What’s more, the moment a phenomenon leaves the realm of the visible and the material, the word ‘pretty� can no longer be applied to it. A pretty landscape by Leonardo, for example. One wouldn’t say this.
‘Pretty music�, ‘pretty poems� � a measure of musical and poetic illiteracy. Bad common parlance."
Note from this reader: Tsvetaeva’s liking for puns and homonyms is fundamental in these essays. The word for art, [iskusstvo], is related to words meaning temptation, [iskus] and [iskushenie]; and enticement and seduction occur throughout her writing � art is a seduction away from matters of conscience. But [iskus] also suggests artifice, as well as meaning a test, or even a novitiate, and the texts bring to surface these notions submerged in [iskusstvo]. The main point of the essays is that art is not ‘holy� as people think, but is Power and Magic: ‘When shall we finally stop taking power for truth and magic for holiness?' Art is not virtuous, but elemental, coming upon the poet in a [naitie]: one computes this word as ‘visitation�, but it means a ‘coming upon� � no personal being is implied.
July 8, 2015
You magnificent wizard. I want to talk about her on a first name basis.
September 30, 2023
I kind of agree art is contemporaneous and amoral. But I tire of the romantic and impressionistic approach to poetry.
December 31, 2024
ادبیات همواره برای من پناهگاهی بوده؛ آنسان که انسان ماقبل تاریخ پس از ساعت‌ه� و روزها جنگیدن برای بقا، مدتی آنجا می‌غنود�.
در این کتاب خانم تسوتایوا گفت هرآنچه دلم میخواست این روزها از کسی بشنوم؛ خواندن این اثر عیش بی‌مانند� بود...🍃
در این کتاب خانم تسوتایوا گفت هرآنچه دلم میخواست این روزها از کسی بشنوم؛ خواندن این اثر عیش بی‌مانند� بود...🍃
April 25, 2017
Tsvetaeva's energy and passion are amazingly inspiring and contagious! It was such a joy to read these essays and spend a little time in her head. I was particularly impressed by "The Poet on the Critic", but all of the essays are worthwhile and insightful. Angela Livingstone's translation is smooth, coherent, and conveys Tsvetaeva's voice well. I'm grateful that she chose to translate these essays into English--this volume is a gift.
July 27, 2013
Tsvetaeva is primarily concerned with the nature of poetic creation and what it means to be a poet, and the essays contained in this slim volume are among the most exciting of all explorations of this theme.
April 16, 2024
مجموعه جستارهایی زیبا و دلنشین، با نثری قدرتمند و اغواگر
September 25, 2023
"Yet in the very heart of art, and at the same time on its heights, there are works that make you say: ‘This is not art any more. It’s more than art.� Everyone has known works of this sort. Their sign is their effectiveness despite their inadequacy of means, an inadequacy which nothing in the world would make us exchange for any adequacies and abundances, and which we only call to mind when we try to establish: how was it done? An essentially futile approach, for in every born work the ends are hidden. Not yet art, but already more than art."
"The spiritually greater the poet � that is, the loftier the hands that hold him � the more powerfully conscious he is of this being-held. Had Goethe not known a higher force above himself and his work, he would never have written the last lines of the last Faust. Only to the innocent is it given � or to the one who knows everything. In essence, a poet’s whole labour amounts to a fulfilment, the physical fulfilment of a spiritual task. And a poet’s whole will � to the labouring will to realisation."
On Pasternak:
"An impression of always listening to something, incessantly watching, then suddenly he’ll burst out into speech � usually with something primordial, as if a rock had spoken or an oak. When he speaks (in conversation) it’s as if he were breaking an immemorial silence. And not only in conversation � I can say the same of his verse, and with far more experience to back me. Pasternak doesn’t live in his words, as a tree doesn’t live in its obvious foliage but in its root (a secret). Beneath the whole book � like some vast passage beneath the Kremlin � lies a silence.
...
A downpour of light. Pasternak is a major poet, at the moment bigger than any other: most present poets have been, some are, he alone will be. For in reality he isn’t yet: a babbling, a chirping, a clashing � he is all Tomorrow! � the choking cry of a baby, and this baby is the World. A choking. A gasping. Pasternak doesn’t speak, he hasn’t time to finish speaking, he’s wholly exploding � as if there weren’t room in his chest: a-ah! He doesn’t yet know our words; it all seems to come from an island, childhood, the Garden of Eden, and it doesn’t make sense � and knocks you over."
"The spiritually greater the poet � that is, the loftier the hands that hold him � the more powerfully conscious he is of this being-held. Had Goethe not known a higher force above himself and his work, he would never have written the last lines of the last Faust. Only to the innocent is it given � or to the one who knows everything. In essence, a poet’s whole labour amounts to a fulfilment, the physical fulfilment of a spiritual task. And a poet’s whole will � to the labouring will to realisation."
On Pasternak:
"An impression of always listening to something, incessantly watching, then suddenly he’ll burst out into speech � usually with something primordial, as if a rock had spoken or an oak. When he speaks (in conversation) it’s as if he were breaking an immemorial silence. And not only in conversation � I can say the same of his verse, and with far more experience to back me. Pasternak doesn’t live in his words, as a tree doesn’t live in its obvious foliage but in its root (a secret). Beneath the whole book � like some vast passage beneath the Kremlin � lies a silence.
...
A downpour of light. Pasternak is a major poet, at the moment bigger than any other: most present poets have been, some are, he alone will be. For in reality he isn’t yet: a babbling, a chirping, a clashing � he is all Tomorrow! � the choking cry of a baby, and this baby is the World. A choking. A gasping. Pasternak doesn’t speak, he hasn’t time to finish speaking, he’s wholly exploding � as if there weren’t room in his chest: a-ah! He doesn’t yet know our words; it all seems to come from an island, childhood, the Garden of Eden, and it doesn’t make sense � and knocks you over."
August 4, 2020
A good introduction into what Cvetaeva was and thought about Ахматова, Маяковский, Пастернак, Гёте...
* Any offering from the outside world is a blessing, for in that world I am nothing
* Gladness afterwards, when it’s done
* There’s only one teacher: your own labor, / Ans only one judge: the future.
* De Vigny: après avoir réfléchi sur la destinée des femmes dans tout les temps et chez tous les nations, j’ai fini par penser que tout homme devrait dire á chaque femme, au lieu de Bonjour - Pardon
* In der Beschränkung zeigt sich erst der Meister
* Any offering from the outside world is a blessing, for in that world I am nothing
* Gladness afterwards, when it’s done
* There’s only one teacher: your own labor, / Ans only one judge: the future.
* De Vigny: après avoir réfléchi sur la destinée des femmes dans tout les temps et chez tous les nations, j’ai fini par penser que tout homme devrait dire á chaque femme, au lieu de Bonjour - Pardon
* In der Beschränkung zeigt sich erst der Meister
December 3, 2021
A real classic!
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