The Art of Translation.

This is Nabokov's essay on the art of translation, that appears in his lecture book on Russian literature. It ends with a tutorial on translating one line of Pushkin :)

sample this:

But masking and toning down seem petty sins in comparison with those of the
third category; for here he comes strutting and shooting out his bejeweled
cuffs, the slick translator who arranges Scheherazade's boudoir according to
his own taste and with professional elegance tries to improve the looks of
his victims.

and this

Now comes the authentic poet who has the two last assets and who finds
relaxation in translating a bit of Lermontov or Verlaine between writing poems
of his own. Either he does not know the original language and calmly relies upon
the so-called "literal" translation made for him by a far less brilliant but a
little more learned person, or else, knowing the language, he lacks the
scholar's precision and the professional translator's experience. The main
drawback, however, in this case is the fact that the greater his individual
talent, the more apt he will be to drown the foreign masterpiece under the
sparkling ripples of his own personal style. Instead of dressing up like the
real author, he dresses up the author as himself.

Poshlust : The Blond and his Swans…

Here Nabokov explains intricacies of poshlust using a story.

To exaggerate the worthlessness of a country at the awkward moment when one is at war with it — and would like to see it destroyed to the last beer-mug and last forget-me-not, — means walking dangerously close to that abyss of poshlust which yawns so universally at times of revolution or war. But if what one demurely murmurs is but a mild pre-war truth, even with something old-fashioned about it, the abyss is perhaps avoidable. Thus, a hundred years ago, while civic-minded publicists in St. Petersburg were mixing heady cocktails of Hegel and Schlegel (with a dash of Feuerbach), Gogol, in a chance story he told, expressed the immortal spirit of poshlust pervading the German nation and expressed it with all the vigor of his genius.

The conversation around him had turned upon the subject of Germany, and after listening awhile, Gogol said: "Yes, generally speaking the average German is not too pleasant a creature, but it is impossible to imagine anything more unpleasant than a German Lothario, a German who tries to be winsome. . . . One day in Germany I happened to run across such a gallant. The dwelling place of the maiden whom he had long been courting without success stood on the bank of some lake or other, and there she would be every evening sitting on her balcony and doing two things at once: knitting a stocking and enjoying the view. My German gallant being sick of the futility of his pursuit finally devised an unfailing means whereby to conquer the heart of his cruel Gretchen. Every evening he would take off his clothes, plunge into the lake and, as he swam there, right under the eyes of his beloved, he would keep embracing a couple of swans which had been specially prepared by him for that purpose. I do not quite know what those swans were supposed to symbolize, but I do know that for several evenings on end he did nothing but float about and assume pretty postures with his birds under that precious balcony. Perhaps he fancied there was something poetically antique and mythological in such frolics, but whatever notion he had, the result proved favorable to his intentions: the lady's heart was conquered just as he thought it would be, and soon they were happily married."

Here you have poshlust in its ideal form, and it is clear that the terms trivial, trashy, smug and so on do not cover the aspect it takes in this epic of the blond swimmer and the two swans he fondled.

[…]

Literature is one of its best breeding places and by poshlust-literature I do not mean the kind of thing which is termed "pulp" or which in England used to go under the name of "penny dreadfuls" and in Russia under that of "yellow literature." Obvious trash, curiously enough, contains sometimes a wholesome ingredient, readily appreciated by children and simple souls. Superman is indubitable poshlust, but it is poshlust in such a mild, unpretentious form that it is not worth while talking about; and the fairy tales of yore contained, for that matter, as much trivial sentiment and naive vulgarity as these yarns about modern Giant Killers. Poshlust, it should be repeated, is especially vigorous and vicious when the sham is not obvious and when the values it mimics are considered, rightly or wrongly, to belong to the very highest level of art, thought or emotion. It is those books which are so poshlustily reviewed in the literary supplement of daily papers—the best sellers, the "stirring, profound and beautiful" novels; it is these "elevated and powerful" books that contain and distill the very essence of poshlust. I happen to have upon my desk a copy of a paper with a whole page advertising a certain novel, which novel is a fake from beginning to end and by its style, its ponderous gambols around elevated ideas, and absolute ignorance of what authentic literature was, is and always will be, strangely reminds one of the swan-fondling swimmer depicted by Gogol. "You lose yourself in it completely,"—says one reviewer;—"When the last page is turned you come back to the world of everyday a little thoughtful, as after a great experience" (note the coy "a little" and the perfectly automatic "as after a great"). "A singing book, compact of grace and light and ecstasy, a book of pearly radiance,"—whispers another (that swimmer was also "compact of grace," and the swans had a "pearly radiance, too"). "The work of a master psychologist who can skillfully probe the very inner recesses of men's souls." This "inner" (mind you—not "outer"), and the other two or three delightful details already mentioned are in exact conformity to the true value of the book. In fact, this praise is perfectly adequate: the "beautiful" novel is "beautifully" reviewed and the circle of poshlust is complete—or would be complete had not words taken a subtle revenge of their own and smuggled the truth in by secretly forming most nonsensical and most damning combinations while the reviewer and publisher are quite sure that they are praising the book, "which the reading public has made a (here follows an enormous figure apparently meaning the quantity of copies sold) triumph." For in the kingdom of poshlust it is not the book that "makes a triumph" but the "reading public" which laps it up, blurb and all.

The particular novel referred to here may have been a perfectly honest and sincere (as the saying goes) attempt on the author's part to write something he felt strongly about—and very possibly no commercial aspirations assisted him in that unfortunate process. The trouble is that sincerity, honesty and even true kindness of heart cannot prevent the demon of poshlust from possessing himself of an author's typewriter when the man lacks genius and when the "reading public" is what publishers think it is. The dreadful thing about poshlust is that one finds it so difficult to explain to people why a particular book which seems chock-full of noble emotion and compassion, and can hold the reader's attention "on a theme far removed from the discordant events of the day" is far, far worse than the kind of literature which everybody admits is cheap.

Excerpt from Nikolai Gogol by Vladimir Nabokov.

And here is its companion piece.

PS : After typing this to some extent, I found the full text here.

Chekhovian Hero

A delightful passionate paragraph by Vladimir Nabokov where he describes Chekhovian hero.

What rather irritated his politically minded critics was that nowhere does the author assign this type to any definite political party or give him any definite political program. But this is the whole point. Chekhov's inefficient idealists were neither terrorists, nor Social Democrats, nor budding Bolsheviks, nor any of the numberless members of the numberless revolutionary parties in Russia. What mattered was that this typical Chekhovian hero was the unfortunate bearer of a vague but beautiful human truth, a burden which he could neither get rid of nor carry. What we see is a continuous stumble through all Chekhov's stories, but it is a stumble of a man who stumbles because he is staring at the stars. He is unhappy, that man, and he makes others unhappy; he loves not his brethren, not those nearest to him, but the remotest. The plight of a negro in a distant land, of a Chinese coolie, of a workman in the remote Urals, affects him with a keener pang of moral pain than the misfortunes of his neighbor or the troubles of his wife. Chekhov took a special artistic pleasure in fixing all the delicate varieties of that pre-war, pre-revolution type of Russian intellectual. Those men could dream; they could not rule. They broke their own lives and the lives of others, they were silly, weak, futile, hysterical; but Chekhov suggested, blessed be the country that could produce that particular type of man. They missed opportunities, they shunned action, they spent sleepless nights in planning worlds they could not build; but the mere fact of such men, full of such fervor, fire of abnegation, pureness of spirit, moral elevation, this mere fact of such men having lived and probably still living somewhere somehow in the ruthless and sordid Russia of to-day is a promise of better things to come for the world at large - for perhaps the most admirable among the admirable laws of Nature is the survival of the weakest.

Excerpt from Lectures on Russian Literature by Vladamir Nabokov

Beware of Poshlust

In these times, its very important to understand what Poshlust is and avoid it. Poshlust is everywhere, in every perceivable intelligent field; it is there disguised in the form of literature, films, art, social sciences and religion. Now, it may not come as handy and as easy to spot as self-help, but it is cloaked in most beautiful, wholesome and subtle robes. It might not always seem banal and commercial. It is packaged as carefully as radioactive waste and it is as harmful as that, if not disposed (read attacked) properly. It might be intentional but it can very well be unintentional byproduct of lack of talent, skill and, of course, laziness. We attribute our understanding of this Russian term mainly to Nikolai Gogol and Vladimir Nabokov, the former gave its vivid description in his magnificent novel Dead Souls and the later explained what it is. Here is an excerpt from Nabokov's interview where he explains the term:

"Poshlust" or in a better transliteration poshlost, has many nuances, and
evidently I have not described them clearly enough in my little book on Gogol,
if you think one can ask anybody if he is tempted by poshlost. Corny trash,
vulgar clichés, Philistinism in all its phases, imitations of imitations, bogus
profundities, crude, moronic and dishonest pseudo-literature - these are obvious
examples. Now, if we want to pin down poshlost in contemporary writing, we must
look for it in Freudian symbolism, moth-eaten mythologies, social comment,
humanistic messages, political allegories, over concern with class and race, and
the journalistic generalities we all know. Poshlost speaks in such concepts as
"America is no better than Russia" or "We all share in Germany's guilt". The
flowers of poshlost bloom in such phrases and terms as "the moments of truth",
"charisma", "existential" (used seriously), "dialogue" (as applied to political
talks between nations), and "vocabulary" (as applied to a dauber). Listing in
one breath Auschwitz, Hiroshima, and Vietnam is a seditious poshlust. Belonging
to a very select club (which sports one Jewish name - that's of the treasurer)
is genteel poshlust. Hack reviews are frequently poshlost, but it also lurks in
certain highbrow essays. Poshlost calls Mr. Blank a great poet and Mr. Bluff a
great novelist. One of the poshlost's favorite breeding place has always been
Art Exhibition; there it is produced by so-called sculptors working with the
tools of the wreckers, building crankshaft cretins of stainless steel, Zen
stereos, polystyrene stinkbirds, objects trouves in latrines, cannonballs,
canned balls. There we admire the gabinetti wall patterns of so-called abstract
artists, Freudian surrealism, roric smudges, and Rorschach blots - all of it
corny in its own right as the academic "September Morns" and "Florentine
Flowergirls" of half a century ago. The list is long, and, of course, everybody
has his bete noire, his black pet, in the series. Mine is that airline ad: the
snack served by the obsequious wench to a young couple - she eyeing ecstatically
the cucumber canapé, he admiring wistfully the hostess. And, of course, Death in
Venice. You see the range.

There are vague pointers to find out whether the given material is a poshlust or not. The problems with postulating such list are multifold. First is personal perception that cannot be generalized. Second is the inherent incompleteness of such lists, they miss a point or two and overemphasize something more than the other, when both are equally important. So these are public notes, just for me. I might be appending and updating them from time to time. They might be themselves poshlust but that should not stop you from reading them.

1) First you should ask this question. Whether it is directed towards a specific audience, a group of special people. If the answer is no, it might not be poshlust. One might rightly argue that textbooks of medicine are aimed for doctors. But everybody can read them; they are not propaganda or perceptions to please people or a knowledge show off. Also do not take this argument for generalization. In a way it is against any generalization, as it is against any toning and trimming to make it to accessible for any special world or for that ever-elusive concept 'general audience'.

2) Do not discard works because of the subjects. I am atheist so I will not read about religion is as philistine as to say, I am religious, so I will read only about religion. Subjects and topics are never poshlust. The content could be. One might prioritize based on interest in subject. The last sentence is an example of poshlust. It is generalized common sense, disguised as wisdom.

3) In films and literature, showing poshlust does not necessarily mean that they are poshlust. If they indulge in poshlust, then they are. Observational poshlust can be high art.

4) Wallowing talks about what is 'new' and 'fad' in shops and eateries is mostly poshlust. Also, it does not contradict to point 3. Talk about food and attires are not always poshlust. Poshlust always stinks of sophisticated knowledge about shopworn things and so-called exotica.

5) Generalizations masked as reductionisms, enumerating all the point of views to be politically correct, sophisticated diplomacy of language may result in high-end and impenetrable poshlust.

6) Anything that sounds of general wisdom, smugness of being at a higher plane, superficiality justified because of its commercially viability, self-righteous social commentary passing as literature, lifestyle mixed with spirituality, spirituality mixed with work ethics, anything advocating conformity, any textual or filmic pamphlet which says human happiness is anyway purchasable or human sorrow is anyway disposable, bourgeois mannerisms propagated as etiquette, forced melodrama passing as seriousness, particular experience pretending as general psychology, is invariably poshlust.

7) Vulgar imaginations, illogical rants, sexual fantasies, mundane observations, unimportant details, unrealistic plots, dour descriptions, rock and roll are not poshlust. They can be easily pushed towards poshlust by flavors of sanctimonious smugness, message, acceptable conclusion and obsession to sound deep, real and true.

As poshlust is evolving, its becoming as hazardous as and for human species. Finding the traces of poshlust is a meticulous exercise. Poshlust of higher order make people worship false gods with unshakable conviction. Like the baggage of cultural capital, it is dangerous. Our antennas should smell when we see something excessively respectful by general acceptance. We should get the hold of it, preferably by its slender, spuriously beautiful neck.