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The Shot: Corey's Thoughts:
Both "The Shot" and "The Snowstorm" are tales of the Russian countryside as told by a subversive narrator who sometimes refuses to disclose vital information. The most notable aspect of these stories is the idea of their supposed writer I.P. Belkin, which is actually a pen name employed by the renowned author Alexander Pushkin. There are many important facets to this "author", but none more interesting than Pushkin's choice to even use a pen name, since he had already made a name for himself as a great poet. However, the use of such a name could not only save him much embarrassment if his foray into short stories failed, but it also distanced him from all of the pressures and expectations carried by his famous name. It also afforded him the ability to add another level of abstraction to his writing and to perfect his idea of the subversive narrator. His narrators would be subversive from their inception, as they were the products of an imaginary man's imagination, and as such could act in an extremely non-traditional way by withholding vital information from the reader and even lying to him or her. This was not simply a way for Pushkin to create more dramatic endings to his stories, though. In creating a narrator such as this, Pushkin also forces the reader to question everything that he says, creating a whole new dimension in which the reader does not simply absorb the information presented but interacts with it and decides what he or she believes to be true. This interaction with the narrator's ideas brings a powerful feeling of reality to these tales and engages the reader in a way unimaginable without this subversive element.
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Remembrance
by Aleksandr Pushkin
When the loud day for men who sow and reap
Grows still, and on the silence of the town
The unsubstantial veils of night and sleep,
The meed of the day's labour, settle down,
Then for me in the stillness of the night
The wasting, watchful hours drag on their course,
And in the idle darkness comes the bite
Of all the burning serpents of remorse;
Dreams seethe; and fretful infelicities
Are swarming in my over-burdened soul,
And Memory before my wakeful eyes
With noiseless hand unwinds her lengthy scroll.
Then, as with loathing I peruse the years,
I tremble, and I curse my natal day,
Wail bitterly, and bitterly shed tears,
But cannot wash the woeful script away.
--Translated by Maurice Baring
From "World Poetry," edited by Katharine Washburn, John S. Major and Clifton Fadiman (W.W. Norton: 1,338 pp.) |