Алена Антюшко. Структурно-функциональные аспекты самоидентификации К.В. Дэвис на материале сборника «Between Storms». Самоидентификация К. В. Дэвис по социальной активности

Алена Антюшко. Структурно-функциональные аспекты самоидентификации К.В. Дэвис на материале сборника «Between Storms». Самоидентификация К. В. Дэвис по социальной активности

  (Бурятский государственный университет, научный руководитель работы канд. филол. наук Е. Баяртуева)

Самоидентификация К. В. Дэвис по социальной активности

В своих произведениях К.Дэвис пытается проанализировать бытие как самое себя, так и окружающих людей, поэтому можно наблюдать ее роли «я- наблюдатель» и «я – участник». По М.М. Бахтину, в принципе «автора нельзя отделять от образов и персонажей, так как он входит в состав этих образов как их неотъемлемая часть (образы двуедины и иногда двухголосы)» [Бахтин, 1986: 295]. Мы считаем, что именно это также является своего рода свидетельством самоидентификации поэта, ее видения ситуации со стороны или внутри происходящего. Социальная активность является важным качеством социального индивида и формируется в процессе его социализации, через освоение социальных ролей. Если дополнить классификацию самоидентификации Ц. Короленко, Н. Дмитриевой и Е. Загоруйко, было бы уместным назвать данный вид «по уровню социальной активности» как подтип социальной самоидентификации [Загоруйко, 2000: 18].

В стихотворении Leonard Bernstein Speaks to Me мы видим, что в центре внимания оказывается личность самого поэта, раскрывается ее жизненная проблема, в поисках решения которой она находится в данный момент. Мы видим здесь обращение героини к композитору, знакомому с детства, а ее просьба о решении всех напастей проста, словно это можно сделать по взмаху дирижерской палочки: «It is Lennie, a voice I have blown since childhood.Lennie, tell me more, that everything will turn around. Money appear in my bank account, a discovered concerto. Creditors dropped like a revised score. The Largo waiting to catch me before I fall».

Обратившись к стихотворению Laundromat мы можем отметить, что здесь поэтесса лишь зритель всего происходящего, наблюдатель, который не может изменить ситуацию, но внимательно созерцает происходящее: «I look around, tail in contrast to the other women. …If only someone would stop to listen».

Похожим по идее и тематике является стихотворение Cobbler from Erevan. Здесь К. Дэвис также является лишь наблюдателем, т.е., говоря о самоидентификации, она представлена категорией «я – наблюдатель». Здесь, на наш взгляд, как и в предыдущем произведении, описанные события можно спроектировать на личность самой К. Дэвис. Поэтесса рассматривает личность сапожника с точки зрения его собственных размышлений о своей судьбе: «Always enough and never he answers, though I’ve yet to ask a question. He glances at the television, half expecting help. Maybe it doesn’t matter, only that I listen as he pauses». Категория «янаблюдатель» иллюстрируется также в произведениях: Pairing the Animals, The Closing, Summer of Love, Cobber from Yerevan, Laundromat и других.

В стихотворении же Statue поэтесса является непосредственным участником событий, что подтвержд- ается повествованием от первого лица, употреблением местоимения «I»: «the thirty years I have watched him; I was taught to be afraid; I hated that food. I wanted white bread so soft». То есть, К. Дэвис идентифицирует себя как «я – участник».

Мы рассматриваем социальную активность как важное и устойчивое свойство личности, ее характерологическую черту. Категории «я — наблюдатель» и  «я — участник» демонстрируют степень причастности этой личности к социальной действительности.


Leonard Bernstein Speaks to Me
Ten p.m. I drag myself to the car.
Even the security booth is abandoned.
I slide in, check the backseat, lock the doors.
So dark I cannot fit the key into its hole.
The engine grumbles,
roused unhappily from its slumber.
On the radio a man lectures on the symphony.
It is Lennie, a voice I have blown since childhood.
Lennie, tell me more, that everything will turn around.
Money appear in my bank account, a discovered concerto.
Creditors dropped like a revised score.
The Largo waiting to catch me before I fall.
Let me understand how the world is larger than a symphony,
such intricate parts, the delight of a piccolo,
the torrent of kettledrum.
Let me follow your baton as you gather up the violins,
whip them into a crescendo, rein them in,
calm them, then fool them into submission.

Nothing can brighten this laundromat,
not the fake ivy strung like a clothesline
across its middle, washers on one side,
dryers on the other, nor the framed
jigsaw puzzles under smeared glass.
Germanic villages with steepled churches
and quaint squares tucked sleepily
against the shards of mountains.
Tiles broken and missing, as if the
floor had hosted dance parties after the doors

were locked, the machines’ lids lowered.
The twirling stilettos wore it down.
In this giant room on the last Sunday of the year
Guatemalan grandmothers with impossibly
long braids stuff their clothes into the machines,
a locked determination on their faces,
one more obstacle to fight.
While their children watch cartoons,
squeezed into tiny apartments, as the men
drag home without finding work.
I look around, tail in contrast to the other women.
The washers and dryers chatter noisily,
firing up, shaking their hips, flinging wide their mouths.
Oh the stories they could tell,
If only someone would stop to listen.

Cobbler from Yerevan

We lean on either side of the chipped counter as he rotates my shoes.
Always enough and never he answers, though I’ve yet to ask a question.
He glances at the television, half expecting help.
Scraps of words tumble from his mouth in English and Russian.
I’m limping along, trying to keep up, but when
he lapses into default Armenian, he loses me.
Maybe it doesn’t matter, only that I listen as he pauses
to count his sorrows: the wait each Sunday at the prison,
his oldest son busted for drugs, so many years wasted.
If bed stayed in the old country, he’d be slapping worn-out shoes
with new soles made of salvaged tires.
His wife would prepare pilaf with fresh herbs,

a little meat, strong mint tea to wash it down.
She’d squeeze shut her eyes to will her children home for supper.
Now the cobbler flicks his forehead, frowning.
You can only look back for so long.

Pairing the Animals

Watching my cats tumble
like the fury of a riptide,
I know the usual pairings would never work.
The lions would tear each other to strips of rag,
the mourning doves collapse
in a puddle of grief.
We must start again with the unlikely:
panther with possum, for suspicion binds stronger
than love.
Canadian goose with elk.
Both are prepared
for arduous journey.
Who to match
with a woman who aches
with longing?
She stands by the window,
strokes the splintering sill of the cavernous ark,

staring across the water.

The Closing

Parishes vanish in PA as laid-off workers go elsewhere. —Los Angeles Times

For years Rose scrubbed the altar
every Tuesday morning, gossiped with the other
women over tea and babka in the church hall.
Pennies hidden at the bottom of her flour bin
for candles on Sunday morning.
Josef, her husband, worked in the mines.
No God in that hellhole, he said as he rubbed
his hands back and forth over his thighs,
to exorcise more than coal dust,
maybe the boss who laughed at his Slovak accent
or standing in line on payday in snow
that was never cleared, except in front
of management offices.
When he got home, after stopping at George s Bar
for one with the boys, there was Rose at the door,
leaning so hard against the frame the paint rubbed off.
She snatched those bills from him,
clutched the coins in her fists, clinked them
into the pocket of the apron she didnt even
bother to pull off before she walked
the three blocks to Holy Trinity Church.
She talks to that statue of Jesus
who’s dying over and over again.
Josef hates this.
A grown womaii believing in angels.
The light streams onto the angel’s sweet faces
through the stained glass windows,
even when the rain slashes in fury.
You should have seen them, she says.
It was beautiful.


On a corner of Pico Blvd.
stands a statue of Christ
palms facing up in supplication.
He has not stirred
the thirty years I have watched him.
What does he want?
I was taught to be afraid.
My mother s family escaped,
while others not so fortunate.
My father beaten up
by Irish boys in Brooklyn
walking to school.
Why did we children need to hear
these stories at the dinner table
between bowls of borscht I sloshed
to the table and platters of kasha
with spikes of mushrooms.
I hated that food.
I wanted white bread so soft
it stuck to the roof of the mouth
crusts cut off, dignified.
Not what was good for me,
dark grains to put on flesh.
Christ still refuses to move
from that intersection.
His hands must be so tired.
All those years, begging.

Summer of Love

the city shifted under a net of morning fog.
Streets restless as in the wait before
the marionette show at Golden Gate Park
when the audience hunches together for warmth.
She gripped her map, found the narrow Victorian
turquoise as tropical waters, mounted the steps.
When the front door swooned open
the unmarried couple seemed normal enough.
Still she looked around for signs.
Her mother s warning, There must be something there:
wineglasses abandoned half full
tumbled sheets glimpsed down the hall.
It was 1967, a city about to burst
its voluptuous seams.
A sheltered girl let loose for a weekend.
She sat on the faded velvet couch, peeked
under the lid of a candy bowl on the coffee table.
Nestled among the peppermints a pubic hair.
She’d expected this and more.

Основные литературные источники раздела

  1. Бахтин М. М. Автор и герой в эстетической деятельности [Текст] / М.М. Бахтин. – М.: Высшая школа, 1979.- 248 с.
  2. Короленко Ц. П., Дмитриева Н. В., Загоруйко Е. Н. Идентичность в норме и патологии [Текст] / Ц.П.Короленко, Н.В. Дмитриева, Е.Н. Загоруйко. – Новосибирск: НГПУ, 2007. – 256 с.