Porque era un maniático y creía en la perfección.
Me parece una versión estupenda, por lo menos por como suena en inglés; pero tiene sus fallos, como todos estos trabajos imposibles. También se ha criticado la versión del matrimonio Maude, y se lee deliciosamente.
Un articulo muy, muy interesante:
http://www.newyorker.com/archive/2005/1 ... ct_remnick¿Por cierto, chatos, alguien puede decirme cómo son las traducciones del Onegin al español, o al inglés? ¿Qué tal la edición bilingüe de Cátedra? Quiero leer el poema, y la cosa de las versiones tiene su miga:
Александр Пушкин (1825)
Ей рано нравились романы;
Они ей заменяли все;
Она влюблялася в обманы
И Ричардсона и Руссо.
Отец ее был добрый малый,
В прошедшем веке запоздалый;
Но в книгах не видал вреда;
Он, не читая никогда,
Их почитал пустой игрушкой
И не заботился о том,
Какой у дочки тайный том
Дремал до утра под подушкой.
Жена ж его была сама
От Ричардсона без ума.
Vladimir Nabokov (1964)
She early had been fond of novels;
for her they replaced all;
she grew enamored with the fictions
of Richardson and of Rousseau.
Her father was a kindly fellow
who lagged in the precedent age
but saw no harm in reading books;
he, never reading,
deemed them an empty toy,
nor did he care
what secret tome his daughter had
dozing till morn under her pillow.
As to his wife, she was herself
mad upon Richardson.
Babette Deutsch (1936)
She found in a romantic story
All one might care to be or know;
Living the chapters through, she’d glory
In Richardson as in Rousseau.
Her father saw no harm in reading
(He was a decent chap, conceding
He lived in quite another age);
But then he never read a page.
He did not know that books could say things
To move you even while you slept;
He thought the tomes his daughter kept
Beneath her pillow, empty playthings;
While, on the other hand, his wife
Held Richardson as dear as life.
Oliver Elton (1937)
Romances were her only passion,
And all the world to her; and so
She fell in love, the dupe of fashion,
With Richardson, and with Rousseau.
Quite a good fellow was her father,
Of the last age, belated rather;
He saw no mischief in a book,
Though in one he would never look;
Thought it a toy, and held it lightly,
And cared not what his daughter did
When she a private volume hid
Beneath her pillow, slumbering nightly.
His lady wife was mad upon
The tales of Samuel Richardson.
Walter Arndt (1963)
But novels, which she early favored,
Replaced for her all other treats;
With rapturous delight she savored
Rousseau’s and Richardson’s conceits.
Her honest father, though old-fashioned,
Last century’s child, grew not impassioned
About the harm that books might breed;
He, who was never known to read,
Regarded them as empty thrillers
And never thought to bring to light
Which secret volume dreamt at night
Beneath his little daughter’s pillows.
His wife had had a crush herself
On Richardson — still on her shelf.
Charles Johnston (1977)
From early on she loved romances,
they were her only food... and so
she fell in love with all the fancies
of Richardson and of Rousseau.
Her father, kindly, well-regarded,
but in an earlier age retarded,
could see no harm in books; himself
he never took one from the shelf,
thought them a pointless peccadillo;
and cared not what his daughter kept
by way of secret tome that slept
until the dawn beneath her pillow.
His wife, just like Tatyana, had
on Richardson gone raving mad.
James Falen (1990)
From early on she read romances,
And novels set her heart aglow;
She loved the fictions and the fancies
Of Richardson and of Rousseau.
Her father was a kindly fellow
Lost in a past he found more mellow;
But still, in books he saw no harm,
And, though immune to reading’s charm,
Deemed it a minor peccadillo;
Nor did he care what secret tome
His daughter read or kept at home
Asleep till morn beneath her pillow;
His wife herself, we ought to add,
For Richardson was simply mad.
Douglas Hofstadter (1999)
From early on, she read romances;
True life they were for her, not show.
She fell for all the moods and trances
Induced by authors like Rousseau
And Richardson. A friendly fellow,
Her father was old-fashioned, mellow,
And saw in books no cause for dread;
Instead, because he never read,
He thought of them as dull and boring,
And didn’t give a tinker’s damn
What brand of frivolous flim-flam
His daughter clutched all night while snoring.
But on the other hand, his wife
Thought Richardson the spice of life.
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