Durante a semana passada comentou-se muito a descoberta de um poema inédito de Vladimir Nabokov sobre alguns problemas de ser o Super-Homem, oferecido à The New Yorker - que devidamente o recusou. As diversas matérias sobre o assunto reproduziam o texto do Times Literary Suplement, mas o poema permaneceu atrás do paywall do TLS.
Procurei em alguns cantos menos populares da Web e aqui está a obra, para seu deleite. (Duvido.)
The Man of To-Morrow's Lament
I have to wear these glasses - otherwise,
when I caress her with my super-eyes,
her lungs ans liver are too plainly seen
throbbing, like deep-sea creatures, in between
dim bones. Oh, I am sick of loitering here,
a banished trunk (like my namesake in "Lear")
but when I switch to tighs, still less I prize
me splendid torso, my tremendous thighs,
the dark-blue forelock of my narrow brow,
the heavy jaw; for I shall tell you
my fatal limitation... not the pact
between the worlds of Fantasy and Fact
wich makes me shun such an attractive spot
as Berchtesgaden, say; and also not
that little business of my draft; but worse:
a tragic misadjustment and a curse.
I'm young and bursting with prodigious sap,
and I'm in love like any healthy chap -
and I must throttle my dynamic heart
for marriage would be murder on my part,
an earthquake, wrecking on the nigth of nights
a woman's life, some palmtrees, all the lights,
the big hotel, a smaller one next door
and half a dozen army trucks - or more.
But even if that blast of love should spare
her fragile frame - what children would she bear?
What monstrous babe, knocking the surgeon down,
would waddle out into the awestruck town?
When two years onl he'd brake the strongest chairs,
fall trough the floor and terrorize the stairs;
at four, he'd dive into a well; at five,
explore a roary furnace - and survice;
at eight he'd ruin the longest railway line
by playing trains with real anos; and at nine,
release all my old enemies from jail,
and then I'd try to break his head - and fail.
So this is why, no matter where I fly,
red-clocked, blue-hosed, across the yellow sky,
I feel no thrill in chasing thugs and thieves -
and gloomily broad-shouldered Kent retrieves
his coat and trousers from the garbage can
and tucks away the cloak of Superman;
and when she sighs - somewhere in Central Park
where my immense bronze statue looms - "Oh, Clark...
Isn't he wonderful!?!", I stare ahead
and long to be a normal guy instead.