Путаница

Нет на свете лучше дня,

Чем тот, когда влюбился.

Но только если ты не зря

К той, с душой, оборотился.

 

Коли любишь ты кого

А в ответ никак,

То душе всё тяжело

И нет счастья, будет мрак.

Aug. 28, 2023

Hillbilly Elegy

    I'd heard about Hillbilly Elegy by J. D. Vance in passing many times, but it never really caught my attention. Somewhat recently, I listened to a discussion about it on a literary podcast with a strong liberal bias, which made me curious enough to push it up the nearly endless reading list.

    Filtered through the podcasts biases, this wasn't to be a particularly insightful book. I expected a fairly run-of-the-mill rags to riches story, but that isn't quite what it is. While there is plenty of that, it's a pretty blatant American Dream. Vance's story is fairly troubled, stemming from an unstable childhood of poverty, a drug-addicted mother, and the series of boyfriends that she brought into their life. In the end he's a graduate of Yale Law School. So definitely bootstraps.

    However, I chose to focus on his stories about his grandma. Without her stern guidance, Vance seems unlikely to have succeeded. Tough love can be the best motivator that one can imagine. Another interesting theme is class in society. Now this is a potentially controversial one, occasionally veering into a slightly rude critique of white poverty in the South and Midwest. The discussions about the role of religion in society, though, were pretty interesting, particularly since the previously aforementioned areas also make up the Bible Belt, a more fervently religious part of the United States. It's not a criticism. Religion is important to them. But there is a distinction between Church and Faith, one showing the divergence of belief and organized religion. 

    It's not as controversial as I expected, while not reaching drastically new insights. The overall lifestyle and circumstances are described well an illustrate an American subculture that might not be well known to most US citizens, especially some of the struggles they face, which are unfamiliar from my privileged upbringing. It 's worth a read, so I'll give it a recommendation, but a slightly hesitant one, since this general self-made man story does exist in many works.

Borodino

Literature is amazing in its unique ability to permanently make a mark on your life. Poetry, in particular, has a particular stickiness to it - not only does the content stay, the exact words live on in your head. Great poets create masterpieces that live lives of their own, playing on repeat for years. One such work, for me, is Borodino by Mikhail Lermontov. So, for some reason, I felt an urge to translate it into English. I'm definitely no Lermontov, but I hope I did it justice.

— Скажи-ка, дядя, ведь не даром Москва, спаленная пожаром, Французу отдана? Ведь были ж схватки боевые, Да, говорят, еще какие! Недаром помнит вся Россия Про день Бородина! — Да, были люди в наше время, Не то, что нынешнее племя: Богатыри — не вы! Плохая им досталась доля: Немногие вернулись с поля... Не будь на то господня воля, Не отдали б Москвы! Мы долго молча отступали, Досадно было, боя ждали, Ворчали старики: «Что ж мы? на зимние квартиры? Не смеют, что ли, командиры Чужие изорвать мундиры О русские штыки?» И вот нашли большое поле: Есть разгуляться где на воле! Построили редут. У наших ушки на макушке! Чуть утро осветило пушки И леса синие верхушки — Французы тут как тут. Забил заряд я в пушку туго И думал: угощу я друга! Постой-ка, брат мусью! Что тут хитрить, пожалуй к бою; Уж мы пойдем ломить стеною, Уж постоим мы головою За родину свою! Два дня мы были в перестрелке. Что толку в этакой безделке? Мы ждали третий день. Повсюду стали слышны речи: «Пора добраться до картечи!» И вот на поле грозной сечи Ночная пала тень. Прилег вздремнуть я у лафета, И слышно было до рассвета, Как ликовал француз. Но тих был наш бивак открытый: Кто кивер чистил весь избитый, Кто штык точил, ворча сердито, Кусая длинный ус. И только небо засветилось, Все шумно вдруг зашевелилось, Сверкнул за строем строй. Полковник наш рожден был хватом: Слуга царю, отец солдатам... Да, жаль его: сражен булатом, Он спит в земле сырой. И молвил он, сверкнув очами: «Ребята! не Москва ль за нами? Умремте ж под Москвой, Как наши братья умирали!» И умереть мы обещали, И клятву верности сдержали Мы в Бородинский бой. Ну ж был денек! Сквозь дым летучий Французы двинулись, как тучи, И всё на наш редут. Уланы с пестрыми значками, Драгуны с конскими хвостами, Все промелькнули перед нам, Все побывали тут. Вам не видать таких сражений! Носились знамена, как тени, В дыму огонь блестел, Звучал булат, картечь визжала, Рука бойцов колоть устала, И ядрам пролетать мешала Гора кровавых тел.  Изведал враг в тот день немало, Что значит русский бой удалый, Наш рукопашный бой!.. Земля тряслась — как наши груди; Смешались в кучу кони, люди, И залпы тысячи орудий Слились в протяжный вой… Вот смерклось. Были все готовы Заутра бой затеять новый И до конца стоять... Вот затрещали барабаны — И отступили басурманы. Тогда считать мы стали раны, Товарищей считать. Да, были люди в наше время, Могучее, лихое племя: Богатыри — не вы. Плохая им досталась доля: Немногие вернулись с поля. Когда б на то не Божья воля, Не отдали б Москвы!

T'was not for nothing, tell me sire That Moscow, reduced to ash by fire Was given to the French. Since there'd been battles in that war They say they're too great to ignore There's cause that all of us in Russia Recall Borodino. Yes, we had real people in our day Unlike the folk you see today- You aren’t warriors! A painful lot was dealt their way And in those fields do many stay… Had it not been Fortuna’s say We wouldn’t give Moscow! At length we silently fell back Frustrating us- we craved attack, The elders muttered: “What now? Hide out while winter’s there? Do our commanders just not dare Shred uniforms those strangers wear Against our Russian pikes?” And then we found a field where we Had room to rampage wildly! We built up a redoubt. Our men were ready for the fight! When morning bathed our guns with light And brought the forest out of night The Frenchmen were at hand. I packed the barrel of my gun And thought: I’m sending them some fun! Hold on my dear monsieur! No toying here, the battle call We’ll hit you as one solid wall For our land we will stand tall We’ll sacrifice it all! The shootout lasted two full days What use is there in such delays? We awaited the third day. From every man was heard the thought: “It’s time to start using buckshot!” Then to the field where we had fought Nighttime brought its shade. I lay to nap beneath my gun And heard until the rising Sun The elation of the French. But our encampment silent lay: Who cleaned his shako from the fray, Or chewed his `stache, with angry grunt While sharpening bayonets. As lit up sky above unfurled Noisily awoke the world Gleaming rows formed up abreast. Our colonel with a fiery soul, Served his tsar, a fatherly role, A shame… Another life that shrapnel stole… In sodden soil he will rest. And so he said with flashing eyes, “Ain’t that Moscow that `hind us lies? `Neath Moscow’s walls let death be sought The way our brothers fell before.” A fight to death was then called for, We kept the loyalty we swore When at Borodino we fought. What a day! Through drifting smog The Frenchmen came at us like fog Directly at our wall. Lancers with their motley wear Dragoons with plumes of horse’s hair All flashed before our eyes There they had been all. You’ll never witness such a crush Where, like shades, our standards rush, Fire shone through shadow walls, Buckshot’s scream and steel’s echo Tired arms stab to and fro, Piles of bloodied dead did slow Passing cannon balls.  Our foes were taught a lesson then About the mighty Russian war, Our hand-to-hand fighting. And like our chests then quaked the ground; Horses, men, were piled ‘round, Thousands of guns, their booming sound, All merged in constant howling. And then night fell. But we all knew In the morn we’d fight anew To battle while we could… Just then their drums began to beat- The French had sounded a retreat; Our wounds we then began to treat, To see which friends still stood. Yes, we had real people in our day Unlike the folk you see today- You aren’t warriors! A painful lot was dealt their way And in those fields do many stay… Had it not been Fortuna’s say We wouldn’t give Moscow!