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[Up] [Contents] [Preface]
[Bibliographical Note]
[A Note on the Text]
[WHAT IS ART?]
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
[CONCLUSION]
[Appendix I]
[Appendix II]
[Notes]
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WHAT IS ART?
¿¹¼úÀº ¹«¾ùÀΰ¡?
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TRANSLATED BY RICHARD PEVEAR AND LARISSA VOLOKHONSKY
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¿ªÀÚ ¼¹®
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A friend of mine turned on his radio early one morning in Moscow about twenty years ago and heard a rasping old recording of an old man¡¯s voice saying, ¡®It is impossible to live like this - impossible, impossible, impossible!¡¯ Then a calm Soviet announcer interrupted: ¡®You have just been listening to the voice of the great Russian writer Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy.¡¯ The words come in fact from Tolstoy¡¯s article of
1882 On the Occasion of the Moscow Census, but they are the refrain of almost all he wrote in the last thirty years of his life. |
¾à ÀÌ½Ê ³â
Àü ³ªÀÇ Ä£±¸ Çϳª´Â ¾î¶² À̸¥ ¾ÆÄ§ ¸ð½ºÅ©¹Ù¿¡¼ ¶óµð¿À¸¦ Ʋ¾ú´Ù ±×¸®°í, 'ÀÌ·¸°Ô »ì¾Æ¼± ¾ÈµÅ-¾ÈµÅ, ¾ÈµÅ, ¾ÈµÅ!'¶ó°í
¸»ÇÏ´Â ¾î¶² ³ëÀÎÀÇ ¸ñ¼Ò¸®¸¦ ´ãÀº °ÅÄ£ ³ìÀ½ ¼Ò¸®¸¦ µé¾ú´Ù. ÀÌ¾î¼ Á¶¿ëÇÑ ¼Òºñ¿¡Æ® ¾Æ³ª¿î¼°¡ ³¢¾îµé¾î ¸»Çß´Ù: '¿©·¯ºÐÀº ¹æ±Ý
·¯½Ã¾ÆÀÇ À§´ëÇÑ ÀÛ°¡ ·¹¿À ´ÏÄݶ󿹺ñÄ¡ Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ ¸ñ¼Ò¸®¸¦ µéÀ¸¼Ì½À´Ï´Ù.' ±× ¸»Àº »ç½Ç '1882³â ¸ð½ºÅ©¹Ù Àμ¼Á¶»ç¿¡
ÁîÀ½ÇÏ¿©(1882 On the Occasion of
the Moscow Census)'¶ó´Â Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ ³í¹®¿¡¼ ³ª¿Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù, ÇÏÁö¸¸ ±× ¸»µéÀº ±×ÀÇ »îÀÇ ÈÄ¹Ý »ï½Ê¿© ³â ±×°¡ ÁýÇÊÇÑ °ÅÀÇ ¸ðµç °Í¿¡ µé¾îÀÖ´Â
Èķű¸¿´´Ù. |
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Anger, but also anguish, spurred Tolstoy to a long series of polemical books and tracts, culminating in What is Art?, which he worked at for fifteen years and finally completed in 1898. They also, nourished in a more complex and ambiguous way his artistic works of the same period —
The Death of Ivan Ilych, The Devil,
The Kreutzer Sonata,
Master and Man,
Father Sergius. Only his very last novella, the serene and perfect
Hadji Murat, is free of these enormous inner tensions, as if through art Tolstoy had attained a moment of reconciliation, returning in spirit to the Caucasus he had first known as a young man in 1851. |
ºÐ³ë´Â,
»Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó °í³ú´Â, Å罺ÅäÀÌ·Î ÇÏ¿©±Ý À屸ÇÑ ³íÀïÀû Àú¼úµé ¹× ¼Ò ³í¹®µé¿¡ À̸£µµ·Ï ´Ù±×ÃÆ°í, "¿¹¼úÀº ¹«¾ùÀΰ¡?(What
is Art?)¿¡¼ ÀýÁ¤¿¡ À̸£·¯¼, ±×´Â 15³â µ¿¾È
ÀÌ ÀÛ¾÷¿¡ ¸ôµÎÇÏ¿© ¸¶Ä§³» 1898³â Å»°íÇÏ¿´´Ù. ±×°ÍµéÀº ¶ÇÇÑ, ´õ º¹ÀâÇÏ°í ¾Ö¸ÅÇÑ ¹æ¹ýÀ¸·Î °°Àº ½Ã±âÀÇ ±×ÀÇ ¿¹¼úÀû ÀÛǰµé—ÀÌ¹Ý Àϸ®ÀÌÄ¡ÀÇ Á×À½(The Death of Ivan Ilych),
¾Ç¸¶(The Devil), Å©·ÎÀÌó ¼Ò³ªÅ¸(The
Kreutzer Sonata), ÁÖÀΰú ÇÏÀÎ(Master and Man), ½ÅºÎ ¼¼¸£°ÔÀÌ(Father Sergius)—ÀÇ
¾çºÐÀÌ µÇ¾ú´Ù. ¿ÀÁ÷ ±×ÀÇ ¸¶Áö¸· ÁßÆí ¼Ò¼³, Â÷ºÐÇÏ¸ç ¿Ïº®ÇÑ ÇÏÁö ¹«¶óµå(Hadji Murat)¸¸ÀÌ
ÀÌ·¯ÇÑ ±¤´ëÇÑ ³»ÀûÀÎ °¥µîµé¿¡¼ ÀÚÀ¯·Î¿ì¸ç, ¸¶Ä¡ ¿¹¼úÀ» ÅëÇÏ¿© Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â Á¶ÈÀÇ ¼ø°£¿¡ µé¸é¼ ¿µÀûÀ¸·Î´Â 1851³â û³âÀ¸·Î¼ ±×°¡ óÀ½
¾Ë¾Ò´ø ÄÚÄ«»ç½º·Î µÇµ¹¾Æ °£ °Í °°¾Ò´Ù. |
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The anger that prompted Tolstoy¡¯s polemical campaign of the 1880s and 1890s, which made him world-famous and brought him flocks of disciples and visitors in his last years, was both an expression of his will to dominate others, to be a ¡®spiritual master¡¯, and a shield or cover to conceal his inner anguish. The first intense experience of this anguish came upon him strangely and suddenly one night in 1869. He was then forty-one years old, a famous author (the final part of
War and Peace was given to the publisher in October
1869; the earlier parts were already in their second edition), happily married, the father of a young family, and on his way to Penza to buy some land. On 4 September, 1869 he wrote to his wife: |
Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ
1880³â´ë ¹× 1890³â´ëÀÇ ³íÀïÀû ¿îµ¿À» ÀçÃËÇÑ ºÐ³ë´Â, ±×·Î ÇÏ¿©±Ý ¼¼°èÀûÀ¸·Î À¯¸íÇÏ°Ô ¸¸µé¾úÀ¸¸ç ±×¿¡°Ô ±×ÀÇ ¸¸³â¿¡ Á¦ÀÚµé°ú
¹æ¹®°´µéÀÌ ¶¼Áö¾î ¿À°Ô ¸¸µé¾ú´Âµ¥, ´Ù¸¥ »ç¶÷µéÀ» ¾ÐµµÇϰíÇÂ, '¿µÀûÀÎ ½º½ÂÀÌ µÇ°íÀÚ" ÇÏ´Â ±×ÀÇ ÀÇÁöÀÇ Ç¥ÇöÀÌÀÚ, ±×ÀÇ ³»ÀûÀÎ °í³ú¸¦
°¨Ãß·Á´Â ¹æÆÐ³ª µ¤°³¿´´Ù. ÀÌ·¯ÇÑ °íÅëÀÇ Ã¹ ¹øÂ° °Ý·ÄÇÑ °æÇèÀº ÀÌ»óÇÏ°Ô ±×¸®°í °©ÀÚ±â 1869³â ¾î¶² ¹ã¿¡ ±×¿¡°Ô ´Ù°¡¿Ô´Ù. ±×´Â ´ç½Ã
41»ìÀÇ ³ªÀÌ¿´À¸¸ç, À¯¸íÇÑ ÀúÀÚ (±×ÀÇ ÀüÀï°ú ÆòÈ(War and Peace)ÀÇ
¸¶Áö¸· ±ÇÀÌ 1869³â ÃâÆÇ¾÷ÀÚ¿¡°Ô º¸³»Á³À¸¸ç; ÃʱâÀÇ ±ÇµéÀº ÀÌ¹Ì ÀçÆÇ¿¡ µé¾î¼¹´Ù)À̸ç, ÇູÇÏ°Ô °áÈ¥ÇÏ¿©¼, ÀþÀº °¡Á¤ÀÇ °¡ÀåÀ̾úÀ¸¸ç,
¾à°£ÀÇ ÅäÁö¸¦ ¸ÅÀÔÇϰíÀÚ ÆæÀÚ·Î °¡´Â ±æÀ̾ú´Ù. 1869³â 9¿ù 4ÀÏ ±×ÀÇ ¾Æ³»¿¡°Ô ÀÌ·¸°Ô ½è´Ù: |
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The day before yesterday I spent the night in Arzamas, and an extraordinary thing happened to me. At two o¡¯clock in the morning, a strange anxiety, a fear, a terror such as I have never before experienced came over me. I¡¯ll tell you the details later, but never have I known such painful sensations, and may God keep everyone else from them. I got up quickly and gave orders to harness the horses. While they were harnessing up, I slept and awoke again feeling quite well. Yesterday these feelings came back while we were on the road, but much attenuated; I was prepared and resisted them, the more so as they were less strong. Today I feel quite well, cheerful, so far as that is possible away from you. In the course of this trip, I have felt for the first time how close you are to me, you and the children. I can be alone as long as I am constantly occupied, as in Moscow, but once I have nothing to do, I feel clearly that I cannot be alone. |
³ª´Â
±×Àú²² ¾Æ¸£ÀÚ¸¶½º¿¡¼ ¹ãÀ» º¸³Â¼Ò,±×·±µ¥ ³ª¿¡°Ô ÀÌ»óÇÑ ÀÏÀÌ ÀϾ¼Ò. »õº® µÎ ½Ã¿¡, ³»°¡ Àü¿¡ °æÇèÇÏÁö ¸øÇß´ø ÀÌ»óÇÑ °ÆÁ¤, µÎ·Á¿ò,
°øÆ÷°¡ ³ª¸¦ ¾ö½ÀÇß¼Ò. ÀÚ¼¼ÇÑ ³»¿ëÀº µÚ¿¡ ¸»Çϸ®´Ù, ÇÏÁö¸¸ ³ ±×Åä·Ï °íÅ뽺·± ´À³¦µéÀ» °áÄÚ ¸ô¶ú¾ú¼Ò, ºÎµð Çϳª´Ô²²¼ ¸ðµç À̵éÀ»
±×°Íµé¿¡¼ º¸È£ÇØ Áֽñ⸦. ³ª´Â ±ÞÈ÷ ÀϾ¼ ¸»µé¿¡ ¸¶±¸¸¦ ´Þµµ·Ï ¸í·ÉÇÏ¿´¼Ò. ±×µéÀÌ ¸¶±¸¸¦ ´Ù´Â µ¿¾È, ³ª´Â Àáµé´Ù ´Ù½Ã ±ú¾î³µ°í
´À³¦ÀÌ ÁÁ¾ÆÁ³´Ù¿À. ¾îÁ¦ ³»°¡ ±æÀ» °È´ø Áß¿¡ ÀÌ·± ´À³¦µéÀÌ ´Ù½Ã ã¾Æ ¿ÔÁö¸¸ ¸¹ÀÌ Àæ¾Æµé¾ú°í; ´ëºñÇÏ¿´´Ù°¡ ±×°ÍµéÀ» ¹°¸®ÃƼÒ, ±×·²¼ö·Ï
±×°ÍµéÀÌ ¾àÇØÁ³¼Ò. ´ç½Å¿¡°Ô¼ ÀÌÅä·Ï ¸Ö¸® À־ ³ª´Â ¿À´Ã ¸Å¿ì ´À³¦ÀÌ ÁÁ°í À¯ÄèÇÏ´Ù¿À. ³ª´Â À̹ø ¿©Çà Áß¿¡ óÀ½À¸·Î ´ç½ÅÀÌ, ´ç½Å°ú
¾ÆÀ̵éÀÌ ³»°Ô ¾ó¸¶³ª °¡±î¿îÁö ±ú´Þ¾Ò´Ù¿À. ³ª´Â ¸ð½ºÅ©¹Ù¿¡¼Ã³·³ ²÷ÀÓ¾øÀÌ ºÐÁÖÇÏ´Ù¸é È¥ÀÚ ÀÖÀ» ¼ö ÀÖÁö¸¸, ¼ÒÀϰŸ®°¡ ¾ø¾îÁø´Ù¸é, È¥ÀÚ Áö³¾
¼ö ¾ø´Ù´Â °ÍÀ» ºÐ¸íÈ÷ ´À³¢°í ÀÖ¼Ò. |
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In 1884 Tolstoy began to write a slightly fictionalized account of this night of sudden, inexplicable terror, to which (borrowing from Gogol) he gave the title Diary of a Madman. The story was left unfinished, but the experience obviously continued to haunt him. ¡®An abyss had opened before him which threatened to swallow him,¡¯ wrote the philosopher Lev Shestov, ¡®he saw the triumph of death on earth, he saw himself a living corpse.¡¯ This was the ¡®madness¡¯ behind all his reasoning. |
1884³â Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ÀÌ ¹ãÀÇ °©ÀÛ½º·±, ¼³¸íÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø´Â °øÆ÷¿¡
´ëÇÑ ¾à°£ÀÇ Ç㱸°¡ ±êµç À̾߱⸦ ¾²±â ½ÃÀÛÇßÀ¸¸ç, ±×°ÍÀ» (°í°ñ¿¡°Ô¼ Â÷¿ëÇÏ¿©)±¤ÀÎÀÇ Àϱâ (Diary
of a Madman)¶ó´Â Á¦¸ñÀ» ºÙ¿´´Ù. À̾߱â´Â ¹Ì¿Ï¼ºÀ¸·Î ³²°ÜÁ³Áö¸¸, ±× °æÇèÀº ºÐ¸íÈ÷ ±×¸¦ Áý¿äÇÏ°Ô ±«·ÓÇû´Ù. '±×ÀÇ ¾Õ¿¡
½É¿¬ÀÇ ¹®ÀÌ ¿·Á ±×¸¦ »ïŰ·Á À§ÇùÇÏ¿´´Ù,"¶ó°í öÇÐÀÚ ·¹¿À ½¦½ºÅäÇÁ´Â ½èÀ¸¸ç, '±×´Â Áö»ó¿¡¼ Á×À½ÀÇ ½Â¸®¸¦ º¸¾ÒÀ¸¸ç, ÀÚ½ÅÀÌ »ì¾ÆÀÖ´Â
½ÃüÀÓÀ» º¸¾Ò´Ù'¶ó°í Çß´Ù. À̰ÍÀÌ ¹Ù·Î ÀÌ ¸ðµç Ãß·ÐÀÇ µÚ¿¡ ³õ¿©ÀÖ´Â '±¤±â'ÀÎ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. |
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In
Anna Karenina, finished in 1877, Tolstoy shows his semi-autobiographical hero, Konstantin Levin, as similarly death-infected, struggling with this power that threatened to tear him away from all that he loved and lived for. In the eighth and final part of the novel we read:
All that spring he was not himself and lived through terrible moments.
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¾È³ª Ä«·¹´Ï³ª(Anna
Karenina)¿¡¼ Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ±×ÀÇ ¹Ý ÀÚ¼ÀüÀûÀÎ ÁÖÀΰø, ÄܽºÅºÆ¾ ·¹ºóÀ» µîÀå½Ã۸ç, ±×´Â ºñ½ÁÇÏ°Ô Á×À½¿¡ °¨¿°µÇ¾î ÀÖÀ¸¸ç ±×°¡
»ç¶ûÇÏ°í »ì¾Æ ¿Ô´ø ¸ðµç °ÍµéÀ» ±×·ÎºÎÅÍ °¥±â°¥±â Âõ¾î ³»·Á À§ÇùÇÏ´Â ÀÌ·¯ÇÑ Èû°ú ÅõÀïÇϰí ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. ¼Ò¼³ÀÇ Á¦ 8±Ç ¹× ¸¶Áö¸· ±Ç¿¡¼ ¿ì¸®´Â
´ÙÀ½À» ÀÐ°Ô µÈ´Ù:
±× º½ ³»³» ±×´Â Á¦Á¤½ÅÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï¾úÀ¸¸ç
¹«½Ã¹«½ÃÇÑ ¼ø°£µéÀ» °ÞÀ¸¸ç »ì¾Ò´Ù.
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¡®Without knowing what I am and why I am here, it is impossible for me to live. And I cannot know that, and consequently it is impossible for me to live,¡¯ Levin would say to himself. |
'³»°¡
¹«¾ùÀÎÁö ±×¸®°í ³»°¡ ¿Ö À̰÷¿¡ ÀÖ´ÂÁö ¾ËÁö ¸øÇϰí¼, »ì¾Æ°£´Ù´Â °ÍÀº ºÒ°¡´ÉÇÏ´Ù. ±×¸®°í ³ª´Â ±×°ÍÀ» ¾Ë ¼ö ¾ø´Ù, °á±¹ ³»°¡ »ì¾Æ
°£´Ù´Â °ÍÀº ºÒ°¡´ÉÇÏ´Ù,'¶ó°í ·¹ºóÀº µ¶¹éÇϰï Çß´Ù. |
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¡®In infinite time, in the infinity of matter, in infinite space, a bubble-organism separates itself, this bubble holds out for a while and then bursts, and this bubble is me.¡¯ |
¹«ÇÑÇÑ ½Ã°£,
¹«ÇÑÇÑ ¹°Áú, ¹«ÇÑÇÑ °ø°£ ¾È¿¡¼, ÇϳªÀÇ °Åǰ °°Àº »ý¹°Ã¼°¡ ºÐ¸®µÈ´Ù, ÀÌ °ÅǰÀº Àá½Ã Áö¼ÓµÇ´Ù°¡ ÅÍÁ® ¹ö¸°´Ù, ±×¸®°í ÀÌ °ÅǰÀÌ ¹Ù·Î
³ª´Ù.' |
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This was a tormenting untruth, but it was the sole, the ultimate result of age-long
labors of human thought in that direction. |
À̰ÍÀº ±«·Î¿î °ÅÁþÀÌÁö¸¸, ÀÌ´Â ±×·¯ÇÑ ¹æÇâ¿¡¼ Àΰ£ÀÇ »ç»óÀÇ ¿À·£
³ë·Âµé ³¡¿¡ ³»·ÁÁø À¯ÀÏÇÏ¸ç ±Ã±ØÀûÀÎ °á°úÀÌ´Ù. |
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This was the ultimate belief on which all the researches of the human mind in almost all fields were built. This was the reigning conviction, and from among all other explanations Levin, himself not knowing when and how, had involuntarily adopted precisely it, as being at any rate the most clear. |
À̰ÍÀº °ÅÀÇ
¸ðµç ºÐ¾ß¿¡¼ Àΰ£ÀÇ ¸¶À½¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ¸ðµç ޱ¸µéÀÌ ±âÃÊ·Î Çϰí ÀÖ´Â ±Ã±ØÀûÀÎ ¹ÏÀ½À̾ú´Ù. À̰ÍÀº Áö¹èÀûÀÎ ½Å³äÀ̾úÀ¸¸ç, ´Ù¸¥ ¸ðµç ¼³¸íµé
°¡¿îµ¥¼µµ ·¹ºóÀº, ½º½º·Î ¾ðÁ¦ ±×¸®°í ¾î¶»°Ô ÀÎÁö ¾ËÁö ¸øÇϸé¼, ÀÇÁö¿Í °ü°è¾øÀÌ Á¤È®ÇϰÔ, ¾î·µç °¡Àå ¸í¹éÇϰÔ, ±×°ÍÀ» ¹Þ¾ÆµéÀ̰í
ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. |
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Yet it was not only untrue, it was the cruel mockery of some evil power, evil, adverse, and such as it was impossible to submit to. |
ÇÏÁö¸¸ ±×°ÍÀº
Áø½ÇÀÌ ¾Æ´Ò »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó, ¾î¶² ¾ÇÇÑ Èû, ½ÉÁö¾î ¾ÇÀÇ ÀÜÀÎÇÑ ºñ¿ôÀ½À̸ç, ±×·¯¹Ç·Î ±×°Í¿¡ ±¼º¹ÇÑ´Ù´Â °ÍÀº ºÒ°¡´ÉÇÏ¿´´Ù. |
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It was necessary to be delivered from this power. And deliverance was in everyone¡¯s reach. It was necessary to stop this dependence on evil. And there was one means — death. |
ÀÌ·¯ÇÑ Èû¿¡¼
±¸¿øµÉ Çʿ䰡 ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. ±×¸®°í ±¸¿øÀº ¸ðµç »ç¶÷µé °¡±îÀÌ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. ÀÌ·¯ÇÑ ¾Ç¿¡ ÀÇÁ¸ÇÔÀ» ¸ØÃß´Â °ÍÀÌ ÇÊ¿äÇÏ¿´´Ù. ±×¸®°í ÇѰ¡Áö ¹æ¹ýÀÌ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù
- Á×À½. |
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And, happy in his family life, a healthy man, Levin was several times so near to suicide that he hid a rope lest he hang himself with it, and was afraid to go about with a rifle lest he shoot himself. |
±×·¡¼, ±×ÀÇ
°¡Á·°úÀÇ »î¿¡¼ ÇູÇÏ¿´À¸¸ç, °Ç°ÇÑ »ç¶÷À̾úÁö¸¸, ·¹ºóÀº ¿©·¯ ¹øÀ̳ª °ÅÀÇ ÀÚ»ìÇÒ Áö°æ¿¡ À̸£·¯¼ ½º½º·Î ¸ñÀ» ¸ÅÁö ¾ÊÀ¸·Á°í ¹åÁÙÀ»
°¨Ãß¾î¾ß¸¸ ÇßÀ¸¸ç, ½º½º·Î ÃÑÀ» ½ò °Í °°¾Æ¼ ÃÑÀ» µé°í ´Ù´Ï´Â °ÍÀ» µÎ·Á¿ö ÇÏ¿´´Ù. |
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But Levin did not shoot himself or hang himself and went on living. |
ÇÏÁö¸¸ ·¹ºóÀº
ÃÑÀ» ½î°Å³ª ¸ñÀ» ¸Å¾î Á×Áö ¾Ê°í »îÀ» ÀÌ¾î ³ª°¬´Ù. |
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A few pages further on, Levin is watching his peasants at the threshing. It is one of his ¡®most tormenting¡¯ days: |
¸î ÆäÀÌÁö ´õ
³ª¾Æ°¡¸é, ·¹ºóÀº ŸÀÛ¸¶´ç¿¡¼ ±×ÀÇ ³óºÎµéÀ» ¹Ù¶óº¸°í ÀÖ´Ù. ±×°ÍÀº ±×¿¡°Ô¼ '°¡Àå °íÅ뽺·±' ³¯µéÀÇ Çϳª´Ù. |
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¡®Why is all this being done?¡¯ he thought. ¡®What am I standing here and making them work for? Why are they all bustling about and trying to show me their zeal? Why is this old woman, Matryona, my acquaintance, toiling so? (I treated her when a beam fell on her during the fire),¡¯ he thought, looking at a thin woman who, as she moved the grain with a rake, stepped tensely with her black-tanned bare feet over the hard, uneven threshing floor. ¡®That time she got well; but today or tomorrow, or in ten years, they¡¯ll bury her and nothing will be left of her, nor of that saucy one in the red skirt who is beating the grain from the chaff with such a deft and easy movement. She¡¯ll be buried, too, and so will this piebald gelding, very soon,¡¯ he thought, looking at the heavy-bellied horse, breathing rapidly with flared nostrils, that was treading and turning the slanted wheel. ¡®He¡¯ll be buried, and Fyodor the feeder, with his curly beard full of chaff and the shirt torn on his white shoulder, will also be buried. And now he¡¯s ripping the sheaves open, and giving orders, and yelling at the Women, and straightening the belt on the flywheel with a quick movement. And moreover, not only they, but I, too, will be buried and nothing will be left. What for?¡¯ |
'¿Ö ÀÌ ¸ðµç
°ÍÀÌ ÇàÇØÁ®¾ß Çϳª?' ±×´Â »ý°¢Çß´Ù. '³ª´Â ¹«¾ùÀ» À§ÇØ ¿©±â ¼ÀÖÀ¸¸ç Àúµé¿¡°Ô ÀÏÀ» ½Ã۴°¡? Àúµé ¸ðµÎ´Â ¿Ö ºÐÁÖÈ÷ ¿òÁ÷ÀÌ¸é¼ ³»°Ô
±×µéÀÇ ¿½ÉÀ» º¸ÀÌ·Á Çϴ°¡? ¿Ö ÀÌ ´ÄÀº ¿©ÀÚ ¸¶Æ®¸®¿ä³ª, ³ªÀÇ Ä£Áö´Â ÀÌÅä·Ï Èû½á ÀÏÇϴ°¡? (ÈÀç°¡ ³µÀ» ´ç½Ã µéº¸°¡ ±×³à¿¡°Ô ¶³¾î
Á³À» ¶§ ³»°¡ ±×³à¸¦ Ä¡·áÇß´Ù),' °¥Äû·Î ¾Ë°îÀ» Ä¡¿ì¸é¼ °Ë°Ô ±×À»¸° ¸Ç¹ßÀ» ´Ü´ÜÇÏ°í °ÅÄ£ ŸÀÛ¸¶´çÀ§·Î Á¶½É½º·¹ °È´Â °¡³ÇÇ ¿©ÀÚ¸¦
¹Ù¶óº¸¸é¼, ±×´Â »ý°¢Çß´Ù. '±×¶§´Â Àß °ßµ±´Ù; ÇÏÁö¸¸ ¿À´Ã ¶Ç´Â ³»ÀÏ, ¾Æ´Ï 10³âÀÌ Áö³ª¸é, ±×³à´Â ¹¯Èú °ÍÀÌ¸ç ±×³à¿¡ ´ëÇØ, ±×Åä·Ï
´É¼÷ÇÏ°í ¼Õ½¬¿î µ¿ÀÛÀ¸·Î °Ü¿¡¼ ¾Ë°îÀ» µÎµé°Ü ³»´Â »¡° Ä¡¸¶¸¦ ÀÔÀº ¸ÚÁø »ç¶÷¿¡ ´ëÇØ, ¾Æ¹« °Íµµ ³²Áö ¾ÊÀ» °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ±×³à ¿ª½Ã
¹¯Èú °ÍÀ̸ç, ÀÌ ¾ó·èÁø ¸»µµ ¾ó¸¶Áö ¾Ê¾Æ ±×·¸°Ô µÉ °ÍÀÌ´Ù,' Ä¿´Ù¶õ ¹èÀÇ ¸»ÀÌ, Ä౸¸ÛÀ» ½Ç·è°Å¸®¸ç °¡»Ú°Ô ¼ûÀ» ½¬¸é¼, ±â¿î
¹ÙÄû¸¦ µû¶ó°¡¸ç µ¹¸®´Â °ÍÀ» ¹Ù¶óº¸¸ç »ý°¢Çß´Ù. '°ö½½ ¼ö¿°¿¡ °Ü°¡ ÀÜ¶à ¹¯Àº ä ÇÏ¾á ¾î±ú¿¡ °Áø ¼ÅÃ÷¸¦ ÀÔÀº »çÀ°»ç Çǿ䵵¸£µµ ¿ª½Ã ¹¯Èú
°ÍÀÌ´Ù. ±×´Â ÀÌÁ¦ °î½Ä ´Ù¹ßÀ» Ç®¸é¼ ¸í·ÉÀ» ³»¸®¸ç, ¿©Àڵ鿡°Ô ¼Ò¸®Ä¡°í Àçºü¸¥ µ¿ÀÛÀ¸·Î ÇöóÀÌÈÙÀÇ º§Æ®¸¦ ¹Ù·ÎÀâ°í ÀÖ´Ù. ±×¸®°í ´õ¿ì±â,
±×µé »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó ³ª ¿ª½Ã ¹¯Èú °ÍÀÌ¸ç ¾Æ¹« °Íµµ ³²Áö ¾ÊÀ» °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ¹«¾ù ¶§¹®¿¡?' |
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But in another moment this same Fyodor will be responsible for Levin¡¯s sudden ¡®conversion¡¯. They get into a discussion of human character, and Fyodor says: |
±×·¯³ª ´Ù¸¥
ÇÑÆíÀ¸·Î ¹Ù·Î ÀÌ Çǿ䵵¸£´Â ·¹ºóÀÇ °©ÀÛ½º·± '°³Á¾'¿¡ Ã¥ÀÓÀÌ ÀÖ´Ù. ±×µéÀº Àΰ£Àû ¼º°ÝÀÇ Åä·Ð¿¡ Á¥¾î µç´Ù, ±×¸®°í Çǿ䵵¸£°¡ ¸»ÇÑ´Ù: |
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¡®Just so, then — people are different. One man lives only for his own needs—take Mityukha even, he just stuffs his belly full, but Fokanych— he¡¯s an upright old man. He lives for the soul. He remembers God.¡¯ |
'¹Ù·Î
±×·¸´Ù, ±×·±µ¥—»ç¶÷µéÀº ´Ù¸£´Ù. ¾î¶² »ç¶÷Àº ¿ÀÁ÷ ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ¿å±¸µéÀ» À§ÇØ
»ê´Ù—½ÉÁö¾î ¹ÌÃòÄ«¸¦
º¸¶ó, ±×´Â ´ÜÁö ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ¹è¸¦ ä¿î´Ù, ÇÏÁö¸¸ Æ÷Ä«´ÏÄ¡´Â—±×´Â ¿Ã°ðÀº ³ëÀÎÀÌ´Ù. ±×´Â ¿µÈ¥À» À§ÇØ »ê´Ù. ±×´Â Çϳª´ÔÀ» ±â¾ïÇÑ´Ù.' |
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¡®How is it he remembers God? How is it he lives for the soul?¡¯ Levin almost cried out. |
'¾î¶»°Ô
Çϳª´ÔÀ» ±â¾ïÇÑ´Ù´Â °ÍÀΰ¡? ¾î¶»°Ô ¿µÈ¥À» À§ÇØ »ê´Ù´Â °ÍÀΰ¡?' ·¹ºóÀº °ÅÀÇ ¼Ò¸® Áú·¶´Ù. |
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¡®We all know how — according to the truth, to God. People are different. Now, take you even, you wouldn¡¯t offend anyone either . . .¡¯ |
'¿ì¸® ¸ðµÎ´Â
¹æ¹ýÀ» ¾È´Ù—Áø¸®¸¦
µû¶ó¼, Çϳª´Ô¿¡ ÀÇÇØ¼. »ç¶÷µéÀº ´Ù¸£´Ù. ÀÌÁ¦ ´ç½ÅÀ» ¿¹·Î µé¸é, ´ç½ÅÀº ´Ù¸¥ ¾î¶² »ç¶÷µµ ¼º³ª°Ô ÇÏÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù...' |
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¡®Yes, yes, good-bye!¡¯ Levin said, breathless with excitement, and, turning, he took his stick and quickly walked towards home. At the peasant¡¯s words about Fokanych living for the soul, according to the truth, to God, it was as if vague but important thoughts burst in a crowd from some locked-up place and, all straining for the same goal, whirled in his head, blinding him with their light. |
'¾Ë°Ú¼Ò,
¾Ë°Ú¼Ò, ¾È³çÈ÷ °è½Ã¿À!' ·¹ºóÀº ¸»Çß´Ù, ÈïºÐÀ¸·Î ¼ûÀÌ ¸ÜÀ» °Íó·³, ±×¸®°í µ¹¾Æ ¼¸ç ±×ÀÇ ÁöÆÎÀ̸¦ µé°í ¼µÑ·¯¼ ÁýÀ» ÇâÇØ °É¾î°¬´Ù.
Æ÷Ä«´ÏÄ¡°¡ Áø¸®¿¡ ÀÇÇØ¼ Çϳª´ÔÀ» µû¶ó ¿µÈ¥À» À§ÇØ »ê´Ù´Â ³óºÎÀÇ ¸»Àº, ±×°ÍÀº ¸ðÈ£ÇÑ °Í °°Áö¸¸ ¾î¶² °¤Çô ÀÖ´ø Àå¼Ò¿¡¼ ÇѲ¨¹ø¿¡ ÅÍÁ®
³ª¿Í ¸ðµÎ ¶È°°Àº ¸ñÇ¥·Î Ä¡´Ý´Â, Áß¿äÇÑ »ý°¢µéÀ̾úÀ¸¸ç, ±×ÀÇ ³ú¸®¿¡ ¼Ò¿ëµ¹ÀÌÃļ, ±×µéÀÇ ºûÀ¸·Î ±×¸¦ ´«ºÎ½Ã°Ô Çß´Ù. |
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Suddenly Levin knows. He realizes that ¡®nobody is free of doubt about other things, but nobody ever doubts this one thing, everybody always agrees with it¡¯. This certainty was what Levin needed and could not find for himself — a collective certainty, a universal agreement, beyond reason. This is what the peasant¡¯s words suddenly revealed to him. Certainty of what? Levin thinks to himself: |
°©Àڱ⠷¹ºóÀº
¾È´Ù. ±×´Â ±ú´Ý´Â´Ù, '¾Æ¹«µµ ´Ù¸¥ »ç¹°¿¡ ´ëÇÑ Àǽɿ¡¼ ÀÚÀ¯·ÓÁö ¾Ê´Ù, ±×·¯³ª ¾Æ¹«µµ ÀÌ ÇÑ °¡Áö¿¡ ´ëÇØ ÀǽÉÇÏÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù,
¸ðµç »ç¶÷Àº ¾ðÁ¦³ª À̰Ϳ¡ Âù¼ºÇÑ´Ù.' ÀÌ·± È®½Ç¼ºÀº ·¹ºóÀÌ ÇÊ¿ä·Î ÇÏ¸ç ½º½º·Î ãÀ» ¼ö ¾ø´ø—À̼ºÀ»
ÃÊ¿ùÇÑ,
ÁýÇÕÀû È®½Ç¼º, º¸ÆíÀû µ¿ÀÇ—°ÍÀ̾ú´Ù. À̰ÍÀÌ ¹Ù·Î ³óºÎÀÇ ¸»ÀÌ °©ÀÚ±â
±×¿¡°Ô °è½ÃÇÑ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ¹«¾ù¿¡ ´ëÇÑ È®½Ç¼º? ·¹ºóÀº »ý°¢¿¡ Àá±ä´Ù: |
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. . . Fyodor says it is bad to live for one¡¯s belly, and that one must live for truth, for God, and I understand him from a single hint! And I, and millions of people who lived ages ago and are living now, peasants, the poor in spirit, and wise men who have thought and written about it and who in their obscure language say the same thing — we all agree on this one thing: what one must live for, and what is good. I, together with all people, have only one firm, unquestionable and clear knowledge, and this knowledge cannot be explained by reason
— it is outside it, and has no causes, and can have no consequences.
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. . . Çǿ䵵¸£´Â ¸»ÇÑ´Ù ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ¹è¸¦ ä¿ì±â À§ÇØ »ç´Â °ÍÀº ³ª»Ú´Ù, ±×¸®°í ¿ì¸®´Â Áø¸®¸¦ À§ÇØ, Çϳª´ÔÀ» À§ÇØ »ì¾Æ¾ß ÇÑ´Ù, ±×¸®°í
³ª´Â ´Ü ÇѰ¡ÁöÀÇ ¾Ï½Ã·Î¼ ±×¸¦ ±ú´Ý´Â´Ù. ±×¸®°í ³ª´Â, ÀÌÀü¿¡ »ì¾Ò´ø ±×¸®°í Áö±Ý »ì°í ÀÖ´Â ¼ö¹é¸¸ÀÇ »ç¶÷µé, ³óºÎµé, ¸¶À½ÀÌ °¡³ÇÑ
»ç¶÷µé, ±×°Í¿¡ ´ëÇØ »ý°¢Çß°í ±â·ÏÇß´ø ±×¸®°í ±×µéÀÇ Èñ¹ÌÇÑ ¾ð¾î·Î ¶È°°Àº °ÍÀ» ¸»ÇÏ´Â Çö¸íÇÑ »ç¶÷µé—¿ì¸®´Â ¸ðµÎ ÀÌ ÇÑ °¡Áö¿¡ µ¿ÀÇÇÑ´Ù:
¿ì¸®´Â ¹«¾ùÀ» À§ÇØ »ì¾Æ¾ß Çϴ°¡, ±×¸®°í ¹«¾ùÀÌ ¼±Àΰ¡. ³ª´Â, ¸ðµç »ç¶÷µé°ú ÇÔ²², ¿ÀÁ÷ ÇѰ¡Áö È®°íÇÑ, Àǹ®ÀÇ ¿©Áö°¡ ¾ø´Â ±×¸®°í
¸í¹éÇÑ Áö½ÄÀ» °¡Áö°í ÀÖ´Ù, ±×¸®°í ÀÌ Áö½ÄÀº À̼ºÀ¸·Î ¼³¸íµÉ ¼ö ¾ø´Ù—±×°ÍÀº ±× À̼ºÀÇ ¹Û¿¡ ÀÖ´Ù, ±×¸®°í ¿øÀε鵵 ¾øÀ¸¸ç, °á°úµéµµ °¡Áú
¼ö ¾ø´Ù. |
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If the good has a cause, it is no longer the good; if it has a consequence— a reward— it is also not the good. Therefore the good is outside the chain of causes and effects. |
¸¸ÀÏ ¼±ÀÌ
¿øÀÎÀ» °¡Áø´Ù¸é, ±×°ÍÀÎ ´õ ÀÌ»ó ¼±ÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï´Ù; ¸¸ÀÏ ±×°ÍÀÌ °á°ú—º¸´ä—¸¦
°¡Áø´Ù¸é ±×°ÍÀº ¶ÇÇÑ ¼±ÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï´Ù. ±×·¯¹Ç·Î ¼±Àº ¿øÀΰú °á°úÀÇ »ç½½ ¹Û¿¡ ÀÖ´Ù. |
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And it is precisely this that I know, and that we all know. |
±×¸®°í ³»°¡
¾Æ´Â °Í, ±×¸®°í ¿ì¸® ¸ðµÎ°¡ ¾Æ´Â °ÍÀº Á¤È®È÷ ¹Ù·Î À̰ÍÀÌ´Ù. |
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And when Levin¡¯s thoughts turn to the Church, from which he has always kept his distance, he now sees it in the light of his new faith: |
±×¸®°í ·¹ºóÀÇ
»ý°¢µéÀÌ ±³È¸·Î ÇâÇßÀ» ¶§, ¾ðÁ¦³ª °Å¸®µé µÎ°í ÀÖ¾ú´ø °÷ÀÌÁö¸¸, ±×´Â ÀÌÁ¦ ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ »õ·Î¿î ½Å¾ÓÀÇ ºûÀ¸·Î ±×°ÍÀ» ¹Ù¶ó º»´Ù: |
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In place of each of the Church¡¯s beliefs there could be put the belief in serving truth instead of needs. And each of them not only did not violate it, but was necessary for the accomplishment of that chief miracle, constantly manifested on earth, which consists in it being possible for each person, along with millions of the most diverse people, sages and holy fools, children and old men — along with everyone, with some peasant, with Lvov, with Kitty, with beggars and kings—to understand with certainty one and the same thing and to compose that life of the soul which alone makes life worth living and is alone what we value. |
Á¦°¢±â ±³È¸ÀÇ
¹ÏÀ½µéÀ» ´ë½ÅÇÏ¿© ¿å±¸µéÀÌ ¾Æ´Ñ Áø¸®¸¦ µû¸£´Â ¹ÏÀ½ÀÌ ÀÖ¾î¾ß ÇÑ´Ù. ±×¸®°í ±×µé °¢°¢Àº ±×°ÍÀ» ¹üÇÏÁö ¾ÊÀ» »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó ±×ó·³
Áß¿äÇÑ ±âÀûÀÇ ¼ºÃ븦 À§ÇØ ÇÊ¿äÇÑ °ÍÀ¸·Î, Áö»ó¿¡ ºÎ´ÜÈ÷ ³ªÅ¸³µÀ¸¸ç, ±×°ÍÀº Á¦°¢±â »ç¶÷—¸ðµÎ¿Í
ÇÔ²², ¾î¶² ³óºÎ¿Í, ¸£º¸ÇÁ¿Í, ŰƼ¿Í, °ÅÁöµé ¹× ¿Õµé°ú ÇÔ²²—°¡Àå ´Ù¾çÇÑ »ç¶÷µé, ÇöÀÚµé ±×¸®°í ¼º½º·¯¿î ±¤´ëµé, ¾ÆÀ̵é°ú
³ëÀε闿¡°Ô, ÇϳªÀ̸ç
µ¿ÀÏÇÑ °ÍÀ» È®½ÇÇÏ°Ô ±ú´Ý´Â °Í ±×¸®°í ¿ÀÁ÷ »ì °¡Ä¡°¡ ÀÖ´Â »îÀ» ¸¸µé°í ¿ì¸®°¡ ¿ÀÁ÷ °¡Ä¡ ÀÖ´Ù°í ¿©±â´Â ±×·± ¿µÈ¥ÀÇ »îÀ» ¿µÀ§ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀÌ
°¡´ÉÇÔÀ¸·Î½á ±¸¼ºµÈ´Ù. |
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Finally, at the very end of
Anna Karenina, Levin comes to his fullest affirmation: |
¸¶Ä§³»,
¾È³ª Ä«·¹´Ï³ª(Anna Karenina)ÀÇ ´ë¹Ì¿¡¼,
·¹ºóÀº ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ÃÖ´ëÀÇ È®½Å¿¡ À̸¥´Ù: |
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Yes, the one obvious, unquestionable manifestation of the divinity is the laws of the good disclosed to the world by revelation, and which I feel in myself, and in the acknowledgement of which I do not so much unite myself as I am united, whether I will or no, with others in one community of believers which is called the Church. |
±×·¸´Ù,
½Å¼º¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ÇϳªÀÇ ¸í¹éÇÑ, ÀǽÉÇÒ ¹Ù ¾ø´Â Ç¥½Ã´Â °è½Ã¿¡ ÀÇÇØ ¼¼»ó¿¡ µå·¯³»¾îÁø ¼±ÀÇ À²¹ýµéÀÌ´Ù, ±×¸®°í ³ª´Â ±×°ÍÀ» ½º½º·Î ´À³¤´Ù,
±×¸®°í ±×°ÍÀ» ÀÎÁ¤Çϸé¼, ¿øÇÏµç ¾Êµç, ³ª´Â ÀÚ½ÅÀÌ ¹¿© ÀÖ´Â °Íó·³ ±³È¸¶ó°í ºÒ¸®´Â ÇϳªÀÇ ¹Ï´Â ÀÚµéÀÇ °øµ¿Ã¼ ¾È¿¡ ´Ù¸¥ »ç¶÷µé°ú ÀÚ½ÅÀ»
¹Áö ¾Ê´Â´Ù. |
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Readers of Tolstoy¡¯s later philosophical and polemical writings, of What is Art? in particular, will find in them many of the features of Levin¡¯s new faith
— the absolute and revealed nature of the good, the identification of the good with God, the unity and unanimity of mankind in service of the good
— what Tolstoy came to call ¡®true Christianity¡¯. They will also find some crucial differences, which I will come to in a moment. But if I have quoted at such length from
Anna Karenina, it is because in his artistic works Tolstoy reveals more than his conclusions; he reveals what lies behind the struggle to arrive at them and to hold to them
— here, that inexplicable terror, that sense of nullity, that obsession with death which Tolstoy shared with his hero. He also shows, perhaps not altogether unintentionally, the human situation of his ¡®thinker¡¯, the figure of the landowner as home-grown philosopher, the sort of village explainer we meet later in Tolstoy¡¯s own tracts. And by this constant reasoning and substituting of one belief for another, he hints at the instability of such conversions. |
Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ
ÈıâÀÇ Ã¶ÇÐÀûÀÌ¸ç ³íÁõÀûÀÎ ÀÛǰµé, ƯÈ÷ ¿¹¼úÀº ¹«¾ùÀΰ¡?(What is Art?)ÀÇ
µ¶ÀÚµéÀº ±×°Íµé ¾È¿¡¼ ·¹ºóÀÇ »õ·Î¿î ½Å¾ÓÀÇ ¸¹Àº Ư¡—Å罺ÅäÀ̰¡ 'ÂüµÈ ±×¸®½ºµµ±³'¶ó ºÎ¸£´Â °ÍÀ¸·Î, ¼±¿¡ ´ëÇÑ Àý´ëÀûÀÌ¸ç µå·¯³ º»Áú,
¼±À» Çϳª´Ô°ú µ¿ÀϽÃÇÔ, ¼±À» Ãß±¸ÇÔ¿¡¼ ÀηùÀÇ ÀÏÄ¡¿Í ÇÕÀÇ—µéÀ» ¹ß°ßÇÒ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ±×µéÀº ¶ÇÇÑ ³»°¡ °ð µµ´ÞÇÏ°Ô µÇ´Â ¾à°£ÀÇ
Áß´ëÇÑ Â÷À̵éÀ» ¹ß°ßÇÒ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ±×·¯³ª ³»°¡ ¾È³ª Ä«·¹´Ï³ª(Anna Karenina)¿¡¼ ±×Åä·Ï ±æ°Ô ÀοëÇÏ¿´´Ù¸é,
±×°ÍÀº ±×ÀÇ ¿¹¼úÀû ÀÛǰµé¿¡¼ Å罺ÅäÀ̰¡ ±×ÀÇ °á·Ðµé º¸´Ù ¸¹Àº °ÍÀ» ³ªÅ¸³»°í Àֱ⠶§¹®ÀÌ´Ù; ±×´Â ±×°Íµé¿¡ µµ´ÞÇϱâ À§ÇÑ ±×¸®°í
±×°Íµé—¿©±â¼, Å罺ÅäÀ̰¡ ±×ÀÇ ÁÖÀΰø°ú °øÀ¯Çß´ø, ±×ó·³ Çü¾ðÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø´Â °øÆ÷, ±×ó·³ ¹«°¡Ä¡ÇÑ ´À³¦,±× °°Àº Á×À½¿¡ ´ëÇÑ
ÁýÂø—À» °í¼öÇϱâ À§ÇÑ ÅõÀï µÚ¿¡ ³õÀÎ °ÍÀ» ¹àÈù´Ù. ±×´Â ¶ÇÇÑ ÀüÀûÀ¸·Î ºñÀǵµÀûÀÌ ¾Æ´ÒÁö¶óµµ, ±×ÀÇ '»ç»ó°¡'ÀÇ, Áö¹æÀÇ Ã¶ÇÐÀڷμ ÁöÁÖÀÎ
Àι°ÀÇ, ÈÄ¿¡ Å罺ÅäÀÌ ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ³í¹®µé¿¡¼ ¸¸³ª°Ô µÇ´Â ÀÏÁ¾ÀÇ ¸¶À»ÀÇ ´ëº¯ÀÎÀÇ, Àΰ£Àû »óȲÀ» µå·¯³½´Ù. ±×¸®°í ÀÌ·¯ÇÑ ²÷ÀÓ¾ø´Â Ãß·Ð ¹×
ÇϳªÀÇ ¹ÏÀ½À» ´Ù¸¥ °ÍÀ¸·Î ´ëüÇÔ¿¡ ÀÇÇØ¼, ±×´Â ±×·¯ÇÑ °³Á¾µéÀÇ ºÒ¾ÈÁ¤ÇÔÀ» ¾Ï½ÃÇÑ´Ù. |
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Tolstoy converted himself momentarily along with his hero, and turned to the community of the Orthodox Church. He became a practising Christian. In July 1877, just after finishing
Anna Karenina, he made the first of four visits to the monastery of Optino, famous at the time for its elders (startsy) and for its translation and publication of the major works of Eastern Orthodox spirituality. (Gogol had visited Optino in the 1850s, and in 1878 Dostoevsky made a pilgrimage there with the young poet and philosopher, Vladimir Soloviev.) Tolstoy met the elder Amvrosy, now Saint Amvrosy, and was deeply impressed by his wisdom and spiritual force. Afterwards, he continued to attend church services for another year or so, noting some of the occasions in his diary (¡®took communion,¡¯ ¡®went to matins¡¯). But a new crisis was brewing in him. Suddenly, in a diary entry dated 30 October 1879, we read: ¡®Only the persecuted are in the truth, the Paulicians, Donatists, Bogomils, and others like them. And fully so, because they have suffered violence.¡¯ So he ranged himself on the side of the heretics, purifiers or opponents of the Church (almost the same list of sects is repeated approvingly twenty years later in What Is Art?). There was too much in the dogmas, the mysteries and the authority of the Church that his reason and conscience could not accept. Later in that same year he turned his back just before taking communion and walked out of the church, never to return. |
Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â
±×ÀÇ ÁÖÀΰø°ú ÇÔ²² Àá½Ã °³Á¾ÇÏ¿© ±×¸®½º Á¤±³È¸ ±³´ÜÀ¸·Î ÇâÇß´Ù. ±×´Â ½ÇõÇÏ´Â ±×¸®½ºµµ±³ÀÎÀÌ µÇ¾ú´Ù. 1877³â 7¿ù, ¾È³ª Ä«·¹´Ï³ª
(Anna Karenina)¸¦ ¸¶Ä£ ¹Ù·Î µÚ¿¡, ¿ÉƼ³ë
¼öµµ¿ø—´ç½Ã
Àå·Îµé·Î ±×¸®°í ±×¸®½º Á¤±³È¸ÀÇ ¿µ¼º¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ÁÖ¿ä ÀÛǰµéÀÇ ¹ø¿ª°ú ÃâÆÇÀ¸·Î À¯¸íÇÑ °÷—ÀÇ
³× ¹ø ¹æ¹® Áß Ã¹ ¹øÂ°·Î ¹æ¹®ÇÏ¿´´Ù. (°í°ñÀº 1850³â¿¡ ¿ÉƼ³ë¸¦ ¹æ¹®ÇÏ¿´À¸¸ç, 1878³â µµ½ºÅ俹ÇÁ½ºÅ°´Â ÀþÀº ½ÃÀÎÀ̸ç öÇÐÀÚÀÎ
ºí¶óµå¹Ì¸£ ¼Ö·Îºñ¿¡ÇÁ¿Í ÇÔ²² ±×°÷À» ¼ø·ÊÇß´Ù.) Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â Àå·Î ¾Ïºê·Î½Ã, Áö±ÝÀÇ ¼º ¾Ïºê·Î½Ã¸¦ ¸¸³µÀ¸¸ç, ±×ÀÇ ÁöÇý¿Í Á¤½ÅÀû ´É·Â¿¡ ±íÀÌ
°¨¸í ¹Þ¾Ò´Ù. ÈÄÀÏ, 1³â ¿©¸¦ °è¼ÓÇØ¼ ±³È¸ÀÇ ¿¹¹èµé¿¡ Âü¼®Çϸé¼, ±×ÀÇ Àϱ⿡ ¸î °¡Áö Çà»çµéÀ» ±â·ÏÇÏ¿´´Ù('¼ºÂù½Ä Âü¿©,'¾ÆÄ§±âµµ¿¡
°¡´Ù'). ÇÏÁö¸¸ »õ·Î¿î À§±â°¡ ±× ¾È¿¡¼ ²ÞƲ°Å¸®°í ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. °©ÀÚ±â, 1879³â 10¿ù 30ÀÏÀ̶ó°í µÇ¾î ÀÖ´Â ±×ÀÇ Àϱâ´Â ÀÌ·¸°Ô µÇ¾î
ÀÖ´Ù: '¿ÀÁ÷ ¹ÚÇØ ¹ÞÀº »ç¶÷µé ¸¸ÀÌ Áø¸®¿¡ ¼ÀÖ´Ù, Æú¸®½Ã¾È, µµ³ªÅõ½ºÆÄ, º¸°í¹Ð, ±×¸®°í ±×µé°ú °°Àº ´Ù¸¥ »ç¶÷µé. ±×¸®°í ¿ÂÀüÈ÷
±×·¯ÇÏ´Ù, ¿Ö³ÄÇÏ¸é ±×µéÀº Æø·ÂÀ» °Þ¾ú±â ¶§¹®ÀÌ´Ù.' ±×¸®ÇÏ¿© ±×´Â ÀÚ½ÅÀ» ÀÌ´ÜÀÚµé, ¼ø°áÁÖÀÇÀÚµé ¶Ç´Â ±³È¸¿¡ ´ëÀûÇÏ´Â ÀÚµé Æí¿¡ µÎ¾ú´Ù
(ÀÌ½Ê ³â µÚ¿¡ ¿¹¼úÀº ¹«¾ùÀΰ¡?(What Is Art?)¿¡¼
°ÅÀÇ µ¿ÀÏÇÑ ºÐÆÄµéÀÇ ¸ñ·ÏÀÌ ±×´ë·Î ¹Ýº¹µÈ´Ù). ±³È¸ÀÇ ±³¸®µé, ½Åºñµé ¹× ±ÇÀ§µé¿¡´Â ±×ÀÇ À̼º°ú ¾ç½ÉÀÌ ¹Þ¾Æ µéÀÏ ¼ö ¾ø´Â ³Ê¹« ¸¹Àº
°ÍµéÀÌ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. °°Àº ÇØ ÈÄÀÏ ¿µ¼ºÃ¼¸¦ ¹Þ±â ¹Ù·Î Àü ±×ÀÇ µîÀ¸·Î µ¹¸®°í¼ ±³È¸¸¦ °É¾î ³ª¿Í¼, °áÄÚ µ¹¾Æ°¡Áö ¾Ê¾Ò´Ù. |
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Tolstoy referred to this rejection as the moment of his conversion to ¡®true Christianity¡¯. In his Confession, written in December 1879 but left unfinished and published only in 1911, he described his spiritual state in anguished terms and gave the reasons for his sudden break with the Church. By March of the next year, he had produced a
Critique of Dogmatic Theology, the first of his attacks on the Church¡¯s supposed perversion of the Christian truth, a work which, as Shestov wrote, ¡®in its sacrilegious raillery yields nothing to the writings of Voltaire¡¯. He then began work on a
Conflation and Translation of the Four Gospels, his personal version of the New Testament, purged of references to Christ¡¯s divinity, to miracles, the supernatural, redemption, immortality, all of which he considered irrational and pernicious additions to the teaching of Christ. This work occupied him sporadically for several years. Returning to Optino in the summer of 1881, he presented his new views to the elder Amvrosy, denouncing the Church and disputing certain points in the Gospels, and this time he came away disappointed with the elder¡¯s ¡®blind faith¡¯. He was then drafting a full explanation of ¡®true Christianity¡¯, which was published in 1884 under the title What I Believe. And he was beginning to attract disciples. |
Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ÀÌ
°ÅºÎ¸¦ 'Âü ±×¸®½ºµµ±³"·Î °³Á¾ÇÔÀÇ ¼ø°£À¸·Î ÀÏİí ÀÖ´Ù. 1879³â 12¿ù¿¡ ¾²¿©Á³°í ¹Ì¿Ï¼ºÀ̸ç 1911³â ÃâÆÇµÈ ±×ÀÇ
°í¹é(Confession)¿¡¼,
±×ÀÇ ¿µÀûÀÎ »óŸ¦ ±«·Î¿òÀ» ³ªÅ¸³»´Â ¿ë¾îµé·Î ¹¦»çÇßÀ¸¸ç ±³È¸¿ÍÀÇ °©ÀÛ½º·± ´Ü±³¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ÀÌÀ¯µéÀ» Àû¾ú´Ù. ´ÙÀ½ÇØ 3¿ù¿¡, ±×´Â ±³¸®Àû
½ÅÇÐ ºñÆÇ (Critique of Dogmatic Theology)À» ÃâÆÇÇßÀ¸¸ç, ±×¸®½ºµµÀÇ Áø¸®¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ±³È¸ÀÇ ÀǵµÀû
¿Ö°î¿¡ ´ëÇÑ Ã¹ ¹øÂ° °ø°Ýµé·Î, ÀÌ ÀÛǰÀº ½¦½ºÅäÇÁ°¡ ¾´ ¹Ù¿¡ µû¸£¸é, '±×°ÍÀÇ ½Å¼º¸ðµ¶Àû ¾ßÀ¯´Â º¼Å׸£ÀÇ ÀÛǰµé¿¡ µÚÁöÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù'¶ó°í
Çß´Ù. ±×´Â ´ÙÀ½À¸·Î 4º¹À½¼ÀÇ ÇÕÀϰú ¹ø¿ª (Conflation and Translation of the
Four Gospels)À» Àú¼úÇϱ⠽ÃÀÛÇßÀ¸¸ç, ¿©±â¼ ½Å¾à¼º¼¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ±×ÀÇ °³ÀÎÀû ¹öÀüÀ¸·Î, ±×¸®½ºµµÀÇ ½Å¼º, ±âÀûµé, ÃÊÀÚ¿¬¼º,
¼ÓÁË, ºÒ¸ê¼º¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ÂüÁ¶¸¦ Á¦°ÅÇϰí, ±×´Â ±× ¸ðµç °ÍµéÀ» ±×¸®½ºµµÀÇ °¡¸£Ä§¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ºñÀ̼ºÀûÀ̸ç ÇØ·Î¿î ÷°¡¹°·Î ¿©°å´Ù. ±×´Â ¼ö³â µ¿¾È
ÀÌ ÀÛǰ¿¡ À̵û±Ý¾¿ ¸ôµÎÇÏ¿´´Ù. 1881³â ¿ÉƼ³ë¿¡ µ¹¾Æ°¡¼, ±×´Â ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ »õ·Î¿î °üÁ¡µéÀ» Àå·Î ¾Ïºê·Î½Ã¿¡°Ô Á¦½ÃÇϸé¼, ±³È¸¸¦ ºñ³Çϰí
º¹À½¼µéÀÇ Æ¯Á¤ÇÑ ¿äÁ¡µé¿¡ ´ëÇØ ³íÀïÀ» ¹ú¿´°í, À̹ø¿¡´Â Àå·ÎÀÇ '¸Í¸ñÀû ½Å¾Ó'¿¡ ½Ç¸ÁÇÏ¿© µ¹¾Æ¿Ô´Ù. ±×´Â ´ç½Ã¿¡ 'Âü ±×¸®½ºµµ±³'¿¡ ´ëÇÑ
¿ÏÀüÇÑ ¼³¸íÀ» ÃʾÈÇϰí ÀÖ¾úÀ¸¸ç, ±×°ÍÀº 1884³â ³ª´Â ¹«¾ùÀ» ¹Ï´Â°¡ (What I Believe)¶ó´Â Á¦¸ñ ¾Æ·¡
ÃâÆÇµÇ¾ú´Ù. ±×¸®°í ±×´Â Á¦ÀÚµéÀ» ²ø±â ½ÃÀÛÇß´Ù. |
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The castigator of the Church soon became the castigator of the State and society as well. This was a result of his return to Gospel purity, but also of his move in 1882 from his country estate at Yasnaya Polyana to Moscow, where he reluctantly settled with his family for the sake of the children¡¯s education and entry into social life. There for the first time he became conscious of the horrors of urban poverty. He encountered the homeless in charity shelters during his work for the Moscow census, and felt that it was, ¡®impossible, impossible, impossible¡¯ for the wealthy to live as they did in the face of such wretchedness and hopelessness. He gave money to some of these people, but quickly realized that personal charity was not enough. He used the occasion to lash out at society, at his own class, in his article on the Moscow census and in its fuller development,
What Then is to Be Done?, published in 1886. This was followed by Church and State (1891), and then by the most complete expression of his combined social and spiritual message,
The Kingdom of God is Within You (1894). |
±³È¸¿¡ ´ëÇÑ
ºñÆÇÀÚ´Â µ¿½Ã¿¡ °ð ±¹°¡¿Í »çȸ¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ºñÆÇÀÚ°¡ µÇ¾ú´Ù. ÀÌ´Â º¹À½ ¼ø¼ö¼º¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ±×ÀÇ È¸±Í »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó 1882³â ¾ß½º³ª¾ß Æú¸®¾ß³ª¿¡ ÀÖ´Â
±×ÀÇ ½Ã°ñ »çÀ¯Áö·ÎºÎÅÍ ¸ð½ºÅ©¹Ù·ÎÀÇ ÀÌ»çÀÇ °á°úÀ̱⵵ ÇßÀ¸¸ç, ±×°÷¿¡ ±×´Â ÀÚ³àµéÀÇ ±³À° ¹× »çȸÀû »îÀÇ ÀÔ¹®À» À§ÇØ ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ °¡Á·°ú ¸¶Áö
¸øÇØ Á¤ÂøÇß´Ù. ±×°÷¿¡¼ ±×´Â óÀ½À¸·Î µµ½Ã ºó°ïÀÇ °øÆ÷¸¦ ÀǽÄÇÏ°Ô µÇ¾ú´Ù. ±×´Â ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ¸ð½ºÅ©¹Ù Àμ¼Á¶»ç Ȱµ¿ µ¿¾È ÀÚ¼± ±¸È£¼Ò¿¡¼
³ë¼÷ÀÚµéÀ» ¸¸³µÀ¸¸ç, ºÎÀ¯ÇÑ ÀÚµéÀÌ ±×¿Í °°Àº ºñÂüÇÔ°ú Àý¸Á°¨À» ¸é´ëÇÏ¸é¼ »ì¾Æ °£´Ù´Â °ÍÀº '¾ÈµÅ, ¾ÈµÅ, ¾ÈµÅ'¶ó°í ´À²¼´Ù. ±×´Â À̵é
ÀϺο¡°Ô µ·À» ÁÖ¾úÁö¸¸, À̳» °³ÀÎÀûÀÎ ÀÚ¼±ÀÌ ÃæºÐÇÏÁö ¾Ê´Ù´Â °ÍÀ» ±ú´Þ¾Ò´Ù. ±×´Â ¸ð½ºÅ©¹Ù Àμ¼Á¶»ç¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ³í¹®¿¡¼ ±×¸®°í ±×¿¡
´ëÇÑ ´õ Ãæ½ÇÇÑ ³»¿ëÀÎ, 1886³â ÃâÆÇµÈ, ´ÙÀ½À¸·Î ¹«¾ùÀ» ÇàÇØ¾ß Çϴ°¡?(What
Then is to Be Done?)¿¡¼, »çȸ¸¦ ÇâÇØ¼ ±×¸®°í ÀÚ±â ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ °è±ÞÀ» ÇâÇØ ÁúŸÇÒ ±âȸ¸¦ °¡Á³´Ù. ÀÌ µÚ¸¦ ÀÌÀº °ÍÀº
±³È¸¿Í ±¹°¡(Church and State) (1891), ±×¸®°í ´ÙÀ½À¸·Î ±×ÀÇ ÅëÇÕµÈ »çȸÀû ¹× ¿µÀû ¸Þ½ÃÁöÀÇ
°¡Àå ¿ÏÀüÇÑ Ç¥ÇöÀÎ, Çϳª´ÔÀÇ ³ª¶ó´Â ³ÊÈñ ¾È¿¡ ÀÖ´À´Ï¶ó ( The Kingdom of God is Within You)
(1894)°¡ À̾îÁ³´Ù. |
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Essentially, Tolstoy¡¯s teaching is a form of Christian anarchism, based on the principle of brotherly love and on certain precepts from the Sermon on the Mount: do not be angry; do not commit adultery; do not swear oaths; do not resist evil; love your enemies (see Matthew 5:21-43). With this Gospel distillation he combined the general outlook of a nineteenth-century liberal and specifically the view of history as the process of moral evolution of the masses and the effacement of governments. The good, he believed, would lead mankind eventually to a stateless, egalitarian, agrarian society of non-smoking, teetotal vegetarians dressed as peasants and
practicing chastity before and after marriage. This would be the Kingdom of God on earth. |
±Ùº»ÀûÀ¸·Î,
Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ °¡¸£Ä§Àº ±×¸®½ºµµ±³Àû ¹«Á¤ºÎÁÖÀÇÀÇ ÇÑ ÇüÅ·Î, Àηù¾ÖÀÇ ¿ø¸® ¹× »ê»ó¼öÈÆÀÇ Æ¯Á¤ °¡¸£Ä§µé¿¡ ±âÃÊÇϰí ÀÖ´Ù: ȸ¦ ³»Áö ¸¶¶ó;
°£À½ÇÏÁö ¸»¶ó; ¸Í¼¼ÇÏÁö ¸»¶ó; ¾Ç¿¡ ÀúÇ×ÇÏÁö ¸»¶ó; ¿ø¼ö¸¦ »ç¶ûÇ϶ó (¸¶Åº¹À½ 5:21-43 ÂüÁ¶). ÀÌ °°Àº º¹À½ÀÇ Á¤¼ö¿Í ÇÔ²² 19¼¼±â
ÀÚÀ¯ÁÖÀÇÀÇ ÀϹÝÀû °ßÇØ, ƯÈ÷ ´ëÁßµéÀÇ µµ´öÀû ÁøÈ °úÁ¤ ¹× Á¤ºÎµéÀÇ ¼Ò¸ê·Î¼ÀÇ ¿ª»çÀÇ ½Ã°¢À» Á¶ÇÕÇÏ¿´´Ù. ±×°¡ ¹Ï´Â ¹Ù, ¼±ÇÑ
ÀÚµéÀÌ Àηù¸¦ °á°úÀûÀ¸·Î ±¹°¡°¡ ¾ø´Â, ÆòµîÁÖÀÇÀÇ, ³óº»ÁÖÀÇÀÇ—³óºÎµéó·³ Â÷·Á
ÀÔ°í¼ ±Ý¿¬ ¹× ±ÝÁÖÇϴ ä½ÄÁÖÀÇÀÚÀÇ ±×¸®°í °áÈ¥ ÀüÈÄ¿¡ ¼ø°áÀ» Áö۴—»çȸ·Î À̲ø¾î °¥ °ÍÀ̶ó ÇÑ´Ù. À̰ÍÀÌ ¹Ù·Î Áö»ó¿¡¼
Çϳª´ÔÀÇ ³ª¶óÀÏ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ¡¡ |
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In fact, the idea was not at all new to Tolstoy. In a diary entry dated 4 March 1855, we read: |
»ç½Ç, ±×
°³³äÀº Å罺ÅäÀÌ¿¡°Ô ÀüÇô »õ·Î¿î °ÍÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï¾ú´Ù. 1855³â 3¿ù 4ÀÏÀÚ Àϱ⸦ º¸¸é: |
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Yesterday a conversation on the divine and faith led me to a great, an immense thought, to the realization of which I feel capable of devoting my life. This thought is to found a new religion corresponding to the evolution of humanity, a religion of Christ, but stripped of faith and mysteries, a practical religion which promises no future blessedness, but grants blessedness on earth. . . . To act consciously for the union of men with the help of religion, that is the basis of a thought which, I hope, will sustain me. |
¾îÁ¦
½Å°ú ½Å¾Ó¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ´ëÈ´Â ³ª·Î ÇÏ¿©±Ý °Å´ëÇÑ, ¾öû³ »ý°¢À¸·Î, ³ªÀÇ »îÀ» Çå½ÅÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖ´Ù°í ´À³¢´Â Çö½ÇÈ·Î À̲ø¾î ÁÖ¾ú´Ù. ÀÌ »ý°¢Àº
Àηù¾ÖÀÇ ÁøÈ, ±×¸®½ºµµÀÇ Á¾±³¿Í ºÎÇÕÇÏ´Â »õ·Î¿î Á¾±³¸¦ ¼¼¿ì´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù, ÇÏÁö¸¸ ½Å¾Ó°ú ½ÅºñµéÀ» ¹èÁ¦Çϰí, ¹Ì·¡¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ¾Æ¹«·± Ãູµµ
¾à¼ÓÇÏÁö ¾ÊÀ¸¸ç ¿ÀÁ÷ Áö»ó¿¡¼ÀÇ ÃູÀ» ÀÎÁ¤ÇÏ´Â ½Ç¿ëÀû Á¾±³ÀÌ´Ù...Á¾±³ÀÇ µµ¿òÀ¸·Î »ç¶÷µéÀ» ¿¬ÇÕÇϱâ À§ÇØ ÀǽÄÀûÀ¸·Î ÇൿÇÏ´Â
°Í, ±×°ÍÀÌ, Èñ¸ÁÄÁ´ë, ³ª¸¦ ÁöÅÊÇÏ´Â »ý°¢ÀÇ ±âÃÊÀÌ´Ù. |
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Tolstoy was then twenty-seven years old. What is remarkable is that the same thought could still sustain him at the age of seventy, when he finally sat down and wrote What is Art? |
Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â
´ç½Ã 27»ìÀ̾ú´Ù. ³î¶ó¿î °ÍÀº µ¿ÀÏÇÑ »ý°¢ÀÌ 70ÀÇ ³ªÀÌ¿¡µµ ¿©ÀüÈ÷ ±×¸¦ ÁöÅÊÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖ¾úÀ¸¸ç, ¸¶Ä§³» ¾É¾Æ¼ ¿¹¼úÀº ¹«¾ùÀΰ¡?(What is Art?)¸¦
½è´Ù´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù. |
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The figure Tolstoy made for himself, or of himself, has the age-old features of the sectarian
—the claims of purity and truth in his teaching, coming from a direct relation to God; the denial of all authority other than God¡¯s and of all responsibility other than to God; the rejection of all forms of ritual, sacrament, symbolism, mediation; the condemnation of luxury, inequality and other social abuses; the call for plain living and abstention; the Manichaean notion that the flesh and matter in general are evil. However, perhaps not surprisingly, he also has certain traits of the Russian nihilists of the 1860s. He has the heavy rationalism and moralism of the nihilists, their defiant manner, their deliberately crude and emphatic prose style. His polemical treatment of the question of art, in particular, has much in common with nihilist criticism. |
Å罺ÅäÀ̰¡
½º½º·Î¸¦ À§ÇØ, ¶Ç´Â Àڽſ¡ ´ëÇØ¼ ¸¸µç ±×¸²Àº ¿À·¡ ¹Àº ºÐÆÄÁÖÀÇ—±×ÀÇ °¡¸£Ä§¿¡¼,
Çϳª´ÔÀ» ÇâÇÑ Á÷Á¢ÀûÀÎ °ü°è¿¡¼ ºñ·ÔµÇ´Â, ¼ø°á°ú Áø¸®¸¦ ÁÖÀåÇÔ; Çϳª´ÔÀ» Á¦¿ÜÇÑ ¸ðµç ±Ç´É ¹× Çϳª´Ô²²¸¦ Á¦¿ÜÇÑ ¸ðµç Ã¥ÀÓÀÇ ºÎÀÎ; ¸ðµç
ÇüÅÂÀÇ ÀǽÄ, ¼º·Ê, »ó¡, ¸í»óÀÇ °ÅºÎ; »çÄ¡, ºÒÆòµî ¹× ´Ù¸¥ »çȸÀû ¾Ç½ÀµéÀ» Á¤ÁËÇÔ; Æò¹üÇÑ »î°ú ±Ý¿å¿¡ ´ëÇÑ Àǹ«; À°½Å°ú ¹°ÁúÀº
ÀϹÝÀûÀ¸·Î ¾ÇÇÏ´Ù´Â ¸¶´ÏŰ¾ÆÁÖÀÇ ½Å³ä—ÀÇ
Ư¡µéÀ» °¡Áø´Ù. ±×·¯³ª, ¾Æ¸¶ ³î¶øÁö ¾Ê°Ôµµ, ±×´Â ¶ÇÇÑ 1860³â´ë ·¯½Ã¾Æ Ç㹫ÁÖÀÇÀÚµéÀÇ ÀϺΠƯ¡À» °¡Áö°í ÀÖ´Ù. ±×´Â Ç㹫ÁÖÀÇÀÚµéÀÇ
À°ÁßÇÑ ÇÕ¸®ÁÖÀÇ ¹× µµ´öÁÖÀÇ, ±×µéÀÇ ÀúÇ×Àû ŵµ, ±×µéÀÇ ÀǵµÀûÀ¸·Î °ÅÄ¥°í °·ÂÇÑ »ê¹® Çü½ÄÀ» Áö´Ñ´Ù. ¿¹¼úÀÇ ¹®Á¦¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ±×ÀÇ ³íÀïÀû
Ãë±ÞÀº, Ưº°È÷, Ç㹫ÁÖÀÇ ºñÆò°ú ¸¹Àº °øÅëÁ¡ÀÌ ÀÖ´Ù. |
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The ambition of young radical writers like Nikolai Dobrolyubov (1836-61) and Dmitri Pisarev (1840-68) was to serve the advancement of the people, to destroy all that enslaved them, to achieve social justice in Russia, and through Russia to save the world. They were ¡®idealists¡¯ who clothed their ideals in the terms of positivism, utilitarianism, rational egoism. Service in the cause of the people was the only criterion they allowed. It was Pisarev especially who raised the question of the utility of art, attacked ¡®art for art¡¯s sake¡¯, proclaimed that ¡®boots are higher than Pushkin¡¯, and denounced poetry that gives pleasure to the wealthy few while the people suffer. The nihilists reproached Pushkin not only for his trivial verses, but for dying in a duel, and they condemned the raising of a monument to ¡®the singer of women¡¯s little feet¡¯. All this anger from the 1860s sounds again in Tolstoy¡¯s writing of 1898. |
´ÏÄݶóÀÌ
µµºê·Î·ùº¸ÇÁ(1836-61) ¹× µå¹ÌÆ®¸® Çǻ緹ÇÁ(1840-68) °°Àº ÀþÀº ±ÞÁø ÀÛ°¡µéÀÇ ¾ß¸ÁÀº ¹ÎÁßµéÀÇ ÀüÁøÀ» µ½°í, ±×µéÀ» ¿¹¼ÓÇÏ´ø
¸ðµç °ÍÀ» ÆÄ±«Çϰí, ·¯½Ã¾Æ¿¡¼ »çȸÀû Á¤ÀǸ¦ ´Þ¼ºÇϰí, ·¯½Ã¾Æ¸¦ ÅëÇØ¼ ¼¼°è¸¦ ±¸ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ̾ú´Ù. ±×µéÀº ±×µéÀÇ ÀÌ»óµéÀ» ½ÇÁõÁÖÀÇ,
°ø¸®ÁÖÀÇ, ÇÕ¸®Àû ÀÚ¾ÆÁÖÀǶó´Â ¿ë¾îµé·Î ¿ÊÀ» ÀÔÈù 'ÀÌ»óÁÖÀÇÀÚ'µéÀ̾ú´Ù. ±×µéÀÌ Çã¿ëÇÏ´Â À¯ÀÏÇÑ ±âÁØÀº »ç¶÷µéÀ» À§ÇÑ ºÀ»ç¿¡ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. ƯÈ÷
¿¹¼úÀÇ À¯¿ë¼º¿¡ ´ëÇÑ Àǹ®À» Á¦±âÇÑ °ÍÀº Çǻ緹ÇÁ¿´À¸¸ç, '¿¹¼úÀ» À§ÇÑ ¿¹¼ú'À» °ø°ÝÇÏ¿´À¸¸ç, ÀåȰ¡ Ǫ½¬Å²º¸´Ù ³ô´Ù°í ÇßÀ¸¸ç, ¹ÎÁßµéÀÌ
°íÅë ¹Þ´Â ÇÑÆí ºÎÀ¯ÇÑ ¼Ò¼ö¿¡°Ô Áñ°Å¿òÀ» ÁÖ´Â ½Ã¸¦ ºñ³ÇÏ¿´´Ù. Ç㹫ÁÖÀÇÀÚµéÀº Ǫ½¬Å²ÀÇ Ãµ¹ÚÇÑ ½Ãµé¿¡ ´ëÇØ¼ »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó °áÅõ¸¦ ÇÏ´Ù Á×À½¿¡
´ëÇØ ºñ³ÇÏ¿´À¸¸ç, ±×µéÀº '¿©¼ºµéÀÇ Á¶±×¸¸ ¹ßÀ» ³ë·¡ÇÏ´Â °¡¼ö'¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ±â³äºñ¸¦ ¼¼¿ì´Â °ÍÀ» Èú³ÇÏ¿´´Ù. 1860³â´ë¿¡ ½ÃÀÛµÈ ÀÌ ¸ðµç
ºÐ³ë´Â 1898³â Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ ÀÛǰ¿¡¼ ´Ù½Ã±Ý ¿ï·Á³ª°í ÀÖ´Ù. |
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But, though he had been no partisan of Pisarev, these attitudes also were not new to Tolstoy. For instance, in a notebook entry dated 13 August 1865, we read: |
ÇÏÁö¸¸, ºñ·Ï Çǻ緹ÇÁÀÇ ÁöÁöÀÚ´Â ¾Æ´Ï¾úÁö¸¸ ÀÌ·± °æÇâµé ¶ÇÇÑ
Å罺ÅäÀÌ¿¡°Ô »õ·Î¿î °ÍÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï¾ú´Ù. ¿¹¸¦ µé¸é, 1865³â 8¿ù 13ÀÏÀÚ ³ëÆ®¸¦ º¸¸é: |
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The universal national mission of Russia consists in introducing into the world the idea of a social structure without landed property. |
·¯½Ã¾ÆÀÇ º¸ÆíÀû ±¹°¡Àû ÀÓ¹«´Â ÅäÁö ¼ÒÀ¯ ¾ø´Â »çȸ ±¸Á¶
°³³äÀ» ¼¼»ó¿¡ µµÀÔÇÔ¿¡ ÀÖ´Ù. |
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La propriete, c¡¯est le vol [¡®Property is theft¡¯] will remain a truth truer than the English Constitution as long as the human race exists. It is the absolute truth . . . The Russian revolution will not be against the Tsar and despotism, but against landed property. |
La propriete, c¡¯est le vol ['¼ÒÀ¯´Â µµµÏÀÌ´Ù']´Â Àηù°¡ Á¸ÀçÇÏ´Â ÇÑ ¿µ±¹ Çå¹ýº¸´Ù ÂüµÈ Áø¸®·Î ³²À»
°ÍÀÌ´Ù. ±×°ÍÀº Àý´ë Áø¸®´Ù... ·¯½Ã¾Æ Çõ¸íÀº ȲÁ¦¿Í µ¶Àç¿¡ ¹Ý´ëÇÏ´Â °ÍÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó ¾Æ´Ï¶ó ÅäÁö ¼ÒÀ¯¸¦ ¹Ý´ëÇÏ´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù. |
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Tolstoy had met the libertarian socialist, Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, whose famous saying he quotes, in Brussels, in 1861, and had obviously been much impressed by him. He also borrowed the title of
War and Peace from one of Proudhon¡¯s books. In the great novel itself there is a debunking of opera very similar in method and tone to the repeated mockery of opera, Wagner¡¯s especially, in What is Art? And then there is also the two-hundred-page epilogue to the novel, in which Tolstoy ¡®voluptuously surrenders to his two demons, didacticism and depoetization¡¯ (the words are Marie Sémon¡¯s, from her excellent book, Les femmes dans l¡¯oeuvre de Léon Tolstoi¡¯). As Lev Shestov wrote more sharply: ¡®. . . the entire epilogue to War and Peace is an impertinent, deliberately impertinent, challenge hurled by Count Tolstoy at all educated men
—
if you will, at the entire conscience of our time.¡¯ |
Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ÀÚÀ¯·ÐÀûÀÎ »çȸÁÖÀÇÀÚ ÇÇ¿¡¸£ Á¶¼Á ÇÁ·çµ·À» 1861³â
ºê·ò¼¿¿¡¼ ¸¸³µ°í, ±×ÀÇ À¯¸íÇÑ ¸»À» ÀοëÇÏ¿´À¸¸ç, ¸í¹éÈ÷ ±×¿¡°Ô¼ ¸¹Àº °¨¸íÀ» ¹Þ¾Ò´Ù. ±×´Â ¶ÇÇÑ ÀüÀï°ú ÆòÈ (War and Peace)ÀÇ
Á¦¸ñÀ» ÇÁ·çµ·ÀÇ Àú¼µé ÁßÀÇ Çϳª¿¡¼ ºô·Á¿Ô´Ù. À§´ëÇÑ ¼Ò¼³ ÀÚü ¾È¿¡´Â ¿ÀÆä¶ó¿¡ ´ëÇÑ À§¼±ÀÇ Å»À» ¹þ±â°íÀÚ ÇÔÀÌ ÀÖÀ¸¸ç ÀÌ´Â ¿¹¼úÀº
¹«¾ùÀΰ¡?¿¡¼ ¿ÀÆä¶ó¸¦, ƯÈ÷ ¹Ù±×³ÊÀÇ °ÍÀ», ¹Ýº¹ÇÏ¿© Á¶·ÕÇÏ´Â °Í°ú ¹æ¹ý ¹× ¾îÁ¶¿¡¼ ¸Å¿ì À¯»çÇÏ´Ù. ±×¸®°í ¼Ò¼³¿¡´Â
200 ÆäÀÌÁö³ª µÇ´Â ¿¡Çʷαװ¡ ÀÖÀ¸¸ç, ¿©±â¼ Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ±×ÀÇ µÎ °¡Áö ¾Ç¸¶, '±³ÈÆÀÚÀû ÀÚ¼¼ ¹× ½Ã¼º Å»ÇÇ'¿¡
'À½ÅÁÇÏ°Ô ±¼º¹ÇÑ´Ù'
(ÀÌ ¸»µéÀº ¸¶¸® ½Ã¸óÀÇ °ÍÀ¸·Î, ±×³àÀÇ ¶Ù¾î³ Ã¥, Les femmes dans l¡¯oeuvre de Léon Tolstoi¡¯<·¹¿À
Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ ÀÛǰ ¾È¿¡ ÀÖ´Â ¿©¼ºµé>¿¡ ÀÖ´Ù). ·¹¿À ½¦½ºÅäÇÁ´Â ´õ¿í ½Å¶öÇÏ°Ô ¾²°í ÀÖ´Ù: '... ÀüÀï°ú ÆòÈ¿¡ ´ëÇÑ Àüü
¿¡Çʷα״ Å罺ÅäÀÌ ¹éÀÛÀÌ Àüü ±³À°¹ÞÀº »ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô—´ç½ÅÀÌ
¶æÇÏ´Â ¹Ù¶ó¸é, ¿ì¸® ½Ã´ëÀÇ Àüü ¾ç½É¿¡°Ô—
´øÁø °Ç¹æÁø, ÀǵµÀûÀ¸·Î °Ç¹æÁø µµÀüÀÌ´Ù.' |
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Didacticism and depoetization are given free rein in What is Art?, which is another ¡®challenge hurled at all educated men¡¯. And here Tolstoy goes further than the nihilists dared to go. He negates more. He condemns not only Pushkin but Shakespeare, Dante, Goethe, Raphael, Michelangelo, Bach, Beethoven
—
and his own novels. As examples of good art he cites an anonymous story about a chicken, the singing of the peasant women on his estate to the banging of scythes, the most sentimental of genre paintings, door¡©knobs, china dolls. There is deliberate provocation in all this, but there is also a sort of logical helplessness, as if he were forced to go where his demons led him. |
±³ÈÆÀÚÀû ÀÚ¼¼
¹× ½Ã¼º Å»ÇÇ´Â ¿¹¼úÀº ¹«¾ùÀΰ¡?¿¡¼ ½ÊºÐ ¹ßÈֵǸç, ÀÌ ÀÛǰÀº '¸ðµç ±³À°¹ÞÀº »ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô ´øÁ®Áø ¶Ç ÇϳªÀÇ µµÀüÀÌ´Ù'. ±×¸®°í
Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ¿©±â¼ Ç㹫ÁÖÀÇÀÚµéÀÌ °¨È÷ ³ª¾Æ°¡°íÀÚ Çß´ø ÀÌ»óÀ¸·Î ³ª¾Æ°£´Ù. ±×´Â ´õ¿í ºÎÁ¤ÇÑ´Ù. ±×´Â Ǫ½¬Å² »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó ½¦ÀͽºÇǾî, ´Üü,
±«Å×, ¶óÆÄ¿¤, ¹ÌÄ̶õÁ©·Î, ¹ÙÇÏ, º£Å亥—±×¸®°í ÀÚ±â ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ¼Ò¼³µé—Á¶Â÷
Èú³ÇÑ´Ù. ÈǸ¢ÇÑ ¿¹¼úÀÇ ¿¹·Î¼ ±×´Â ¾î¶² º´¾Æ¸®¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ÀÛÀÚºÒ¸íÀÇ À̾߱â, ±×ÀÇ ³óÀå¿¡¼ ³´À» µÎµå¸®´Â ³óºÎ¿©¼ºÀÇ ³ë·¡, ¹Ì¼úÀ̶ó´Â
À帣¿¡¼ °¡Àå °¨¼ºÀûÀÎ °ÍÀ» ¹®¼ÕÀâÀÌ, µµÀÚ±â ÀÎÇüÀ̶ó°í ÀοëÇÑ´Ù. ÀÌ ¸ðµç °Í¿¡´Â ÀǵµÀûÀÎ µµ¹ßµµ ÀÖ´Ù, ÇÏÁö¸¸ ¶ÇÇÑ ¸¶Ä¡ ±×ÀÇ ¾Ç¸¶µéÀÌ
±×¸¦ ²ø°í °¡´Â °÷À¸·Î °¡¾ß¸¸ ÇÏ´Â, ÀÏÁ¾ÀÇ ³í¸®Àû ¹«±â·ÂÇÔµµ ÀÖ´Ù. |
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Because Tolstoy conceived his mission in religious terms, his formulation of the question of art is more radical than that of the nihilists. He attacks not only the circumstances in which art is produced or its ideological content, but the very make-up of the work of art, its essence, in his dismissal of the criterion of beauty. It is true, however, that the question of art is ultimately a religious question, and because he conceives it at that level, Tolstoy is able to make some very accurate (and occasionally very funny) observations about modern art and modern artists. For instance, he writes: ¡®In Russia we have the painter Vasnetsov. He painted the icons for the Kiev cathedral; everyone praises him as the founder of some sort of new Christian art of a lofty sort. He worked for decades on these icons. He was paid tens of thousands of roubles. And all these icons are bad imitations of imitations of imitations, and do not contain one scintilla of feeling.¡¯ Vasnetsov was a nineteenth-century painter, trained to work in oils on canvas. His new icons for the Kiev cathedral were as bad as Tolstoy thought, if not for the reasons he thought. I have chosen this example because it allows me to place Tolstoy¡¯s thought in relation to that of a younger Russian contemporary, Pavel Florensky (1882-1937), who also wrote about art and aesthetics and who was also no admirer of Vasnetsov¡¯s icons. In this way two religious formulations of the question can be compared
—
the Tolstoyan, with its rejection of the criterion of beauty, and the traditionally Christian, for which beauty is the criterion not only of art but of all spiritual
endeavor. |
Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â
±×ÀÇ »ç¸íÀ» Á¾±³ÀûÀÎ ¾îÁ¶·Î ±¸»óÇÏ¿´±â¿¡, ±×ÀÇ ¿¹¼ú¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ¹®Á¦¿¡ ´ëÇÑ Ç¥ÇöÀº Ç㹫ÁÖÀÇÀÚµé °Íº¸´Ù ´õ¿í ±ÞÁøÀûÀÌ´Ù. ±×´Â ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀÇ ±âÁØÀ»
Æ÷±âÇÔ¿¡ ÀÖ¾î¼ ¿¹¼úÀÌ »ý»êµÇ´Â »óȲ ¶Ç´Â ±× À̳äÀû ³»¿ë »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó, ¿¹¼ú ÀÛ¾÷ ±¸¼º, Áï ±× º»ÁúÀ» °ø°ÝÇÑ´Ù. ÇÏÁö¸¸, ¿¹¼úÀÇ ¹®Á¦´Â
±Ã±ØÀûÀ¸·Î Á¾±³Àû ¹®Á¦¶ó´Â °ÍÀÌ »ç½ÇÀÌ´Ù, ±×¸®°í ±×°¡ ¿¹¼úÀ» ±×·± ¼öÁØ¿¡¼ ±¸»óÇϹǷÎ, Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â Çö´ë ¿¹¼ú ¹× Çö´ë ¿¹¼ú°¡µé¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ¾î´À
Á¤µµ ¸Å¿ì Á¤È®ÇÑ (±×¸®°í ¶§¶§·Î ¸Å¿ì Èï¹Ì·Î¿î) °üÂûµéÀ» ÇàÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖ´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ¿¹¸¦ µé¸é, ±×´Â ÀÌ·¸°Ô ¾´´Ù: '·¯½Ã¾Æ¿¡¼ ¿ì¸®´Â
¹Ù½ºÅ×ÃÝÇÁ¶ó´Â Ȱ¡°¡ ÀÖ´Ù. ±×´Â Ű¿¡ÇÁ ¼º»óÀÇ ¼º»óµéÀ» ±×·È´Ù; ¸ðµç »ç¶÷µéÀº ±×¸¦ ¾î¶² ¼þ°íÇÑ ÀÏÁ¾ÀÇ »õ·Î¿î ±×¸®½ºµµ±³ ¿¹¼úÀÇ Ã¢½ÃÀÚ·Î
μÛÇÑ´Ù. ±×´Â ÀÌµé ¼º»óµé¿¡¸¸ ¼ö½Ê ³âÀ» ÀÛ¾÷Çß´Ù. ±×´Â ¼ö¸¸ ·çºíÀ» ¹Þ¾Ò´Ù. ±×·±µ¥ ÀÌ ¸ðµç ¼º»óµéÀº ¸ðÁ¶Ç°µéÀÇ ¸ðÁ¶Ç°µéÀÇ ³ª»Û
¸ðÁ¶Ç°µéÀ̸ç, ÇÑ Á¡ÀÇ ´À³¦µµ ´ã°í ÀÖÁö ¾Ê´Ù.' ¹Ù½º³×ÃÝÇÁ´Â 19¼¼±âÀÇ È°¡À̸ç, ĵ¹ö½º¿¡ À¯È·Î ÀÛ¾÷ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ» ÈÆ·ÃÇß´Ù. ±×ÀÇ Å°¿¡ÇÁ
¼º´çÀÇ »õ·Î¿î ¼º»óµéÀº, Å罺ÅäÀ̰¡ »ý°¢ÇÑ ±×·± ÀÌÀ¯°¡ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó¸é, ±×°¡ »ý°¢ÇÑ °Íó·³ ÇüÆí¾ø´Ù. ³»°¡ ÀÌ·± ¿¹¸¦ µç ÀÌÀ¯´Â Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ »ý°¢À»
´õ ÀþÀº µ¿½Ã´ëÀÇ ·¯½Ã¾ÆÀÎ, ÆÄº§ Ç÷η»½ºÅ°(1882-1937)ÀÇ °Í°ú ºñ±³ÇØ º¼ ¼ö Àֱ⠶§¹®À̸ç, ±×´Â ¿¹¼ú°ú ¹ÌÇп¡ °üÇØ ½èÀ¸¸ç ±×
¶ÇÇÑ ¹Ù³×ÃÝÇÁÀÇ ¼º»óµéÀÇ Âù¹ÌÀÚ°¡ ¾Æ´Ï´Ù. ÀÌ·± ¹æ¹ýÀ¸·Î ±× ¹®Á¦¿¡ ´ëÇÑ µÎ °¡Áö Á¾±³Àû Ç¥ÇöµéÀÌ ºñ±³µÉ ¼ö ÀÖ´Ù—Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ
¿ø¸®´Â, ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿ò¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ±âÁØÀ», ±×¸®°í ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀÌ ¿¹¼ú¿¡ ´ëÇÑ °Í »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó ¸ðµç ¿µÀûÀÎ ³ë·Â¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ±âÁØÀÌ µÇ´Â ÀüÅëÀû ±×¸®½ºµµ±³
ÁÖÀǸ¦ °ÅºÎÇÑ´Ù. |
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Florensky, mathematician, theologian and Orthodox priest, was at the centre of what has been called the ¡®renaissance of Russian religious thought¡¯ in the first decades of this century, which produced such thinkers as Vasili Rozanov, Nikolai Berdyaev, Lev Shestov, Sergei Bulgakov, and which drew inspiration from the works of Vladimir Soloviev and Dostoevsky. In his book
Iconostasis, Florensky describes the state of modern (post-medieval) religious art in terms almost identical with Tolstoy¡¯s. He speaks of art beginning to follow ¡®exclusive paths¡¯ and taking on ¡®unusual, mysteriously compound forms, some sort of rebuses of the spiritual world¡¯, of the loss of ¡®contemplative clarity and directness¡¯, resulting in works ¡®accessible only to the few¡¯, ¡®allegorized symbols¡¯, ¡®abstract schemas conventionally expressed with sensuality and frivolity¡¯, revealing ¡®an apostasy from universal mankind¡¯. Virtually the same words appear on page after page of What is Art? But when it comes to the question of Vasnetsov¡¯s icons, the opposition of these two ways of thinking reveals itself: Tolstoy finds Vasnetsov¡¯s icons excessively imitative and lacking in feeling; Florensky finds them excessively original and lacking in truth. |
Ç÷η»½ºÅ°´Â,
¼öÇÐÀÚ, ½ÅÇÐÀÚ ¹× Á¤±³È¸ ½ÅºÎ·Î¼, ÀÌ ¼¼±âÀÇ Ãʱ⠼ö½Ê ³â°£ '·¯½Ã¾Æ Á¾±³ »ç»óÀÇ ºÎÈï'À̶ó ºÒ¸®´Â °ÍÀÇ Á߽ɿ¡ ÀÖ¾úÀ¸¸ç, ÀÌ ½Ã±â¿¡
¹Ù½Ç¸® ·ÎÀÚ³ëÇÁ, ´ÏÄݶóÀÌ º£¸£µð¾Æ¿¹ºê, ·¹¿À ½¦½ºÅäÇÁ, ¼¼¸£°ÔÀÌ ºÒ°¡ÄÚÇÁ¿Í °°Àº »ç»ó°¡µéÀ» ¹èÃâÇÏ¿´À¸¸ç, ÀÌ ½Ã±â´Â ºí¶óµå¹Ì¸£ ¼Ö·Îºñ¿¡ÇÁ
¹× µµ½ºÅ俹ÇÁ½ºÅ°ÀÇ ÀÛǰµé¿¡¼ ¿µ°¨À» À̲ø¾î ³»¾ú´Ù. ±×ÀÇ Ã¥ ¼º»óÈ(Iconostasis)¿¡¼,
Ç÷η»½ºÅ°´Â Çö´ë(Áß¼¼ÀÌÈÄ) Á¾±³ ¿¹¼úÀÇ »óŸ¦ Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ °Í°ú °ÅÀÇ ºñ½ÁÇÑ ¿ë¾îµé·Î ¼³¸íÇÑ´Ù. ±×´Â ¿¹¼úÀÌ '¹èŸÀûÀÎ ±æµé'À» µû¸£±â
½ÃÀÛÇÔ, '¿¹¿ÜÀûÀÌ¸ç ½ÅºñÇÏ°Ô º¹ÇÕÀûÀÎ Çüŵé, ÀÏÁ¾ÀÇ ¿µÀû ¼¼°è¿¡ ´ëÇÑ »ó¡À» ¶ï'À¸·Î, '¸í»óÀû ¸í·áÇÔ ¹× Á÷°üÀÇ »ó½Ç'·Î¼ '¿ÀÁ÷
¼Ò¼ö¸¸ Á¢±ÙÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖ´Â' ÀÛǰµéÀ» ³º°Ô µÇ¸ç, '¿ìÈÇÑ »ó¡µé', '°ü´É¼º°ú õ¹ÚÇÔÀ¸·Î °ü·Ê»ó Ç¥ÇöµÇ´Â Ãß»óÀû µµ½Ä', 'º¸ÆíÀû
Àηù¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ¹è½Å'À» µå·¯³¿À¸·Î ¸»ÇÑ´Ù. »ç½Ç ¶È°°Àº ¸»µéÀÌ ¿¹¼úÀº ¹«¾ùÀΰ¡?ÀÇ ÆäÀÌÁö ¸¶´Ù ³ªÅ¸³´Ù. ÇÏÁö¸¸ ¹Ù½º³×ÃÊÇÁÀÇ
¼º»óµé¿¡ À̸£¸é, ÀÌ µÎ °¡Áö »ý°¢ÀÇ ¹æ¹ýµéÀÇ ¹Ý¸ñÀº µå·¯³´Ù: Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ¹Ù½º³×ÃÊÇÁÀÇ ¼º»óµéÀÌ Áö³ªÄ¡°Ô ¸ð¹æÀûÀÌ¸ç ´À³¦ÀÌ °á¿©µÇ¾î ÀÖ´Ù°í
º¸¸ç; Ç÷η»½ºÅ°´Â ±×°ÍµéÀÌ Áö³ªÄ¡°Ô µ¶Ã¢ÀûÀ̸ç Áø½ÇÀÌ °á¿©µÇ¾î ÀÖ´Ù°í º»´Ù. |
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Tolstoy¡¯s most basic tenet, placed in italics in the
fifth section of What Is Art?, is the following: |
Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ
°¡Àå ±âº»Àû °ßÇØ´Â, ¿¹¼úÀº ¹«¾ùÀΰ¡?ÀÇ ´Ù¼¸ ¹øÂ° Àý¿¡ ±â¿ïÀÓ Ã¼·Î ³õ¿© ÀÖÀ¸¸ç, ´ÙÀ½°ú °°´Ù: |
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Art is that human activity which consists in one man¡¯s consciously conveying to others, by certain external signs, the feelings he has experienced, and in others being infected by those feelings and also experiencing them. |
¿¹¼úÀº ÇÑ »ç¶÷ÀÌ, ¾î¶² ¿ÜÀûÀΠǥ½Ãµé·Î¼, ÀÚ½ÅÀÌ °æÇèÇÑ
°ÍÀ» ´Ù¸¥ »ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô ÀǽÄÀûÀ¸·Î Àü´ÞÇÏ´Â °Í°ú, ´Ù¸¥ »ç¶÷µéÀÌ ±×·¯ÇÑ ´À³¦µé¿¡ Àü¿°µÇ´Â °Í°ú ¶ÇÇÑ ±×°ÍµéÀ» °æÇèÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ¸·Î ±¸¼ºµÇ´Â
Àΰ£ Ȱµ¿ÀÌ´Ù. |
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Infectiousness is Tolstoy¡¯s criterion of art, whatever the worth of the feelings it conveys. Good art, then, is art which conveys to others the artist¡¯s experience of the feeling of the good, so that they become infected by the same feeling. In the seventh section, Tolstoy defines the good in contradistinction to the beautiful: |
Àü¿°¼ºÀº,
±×°ÍÀÌ ¾î¶² ´À³¦µé¿¡ ´ëÇÑ °¡Ä¡¸¦ Àü´ÞÇϵçÁö, Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ ¿¹¼ú¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ±âÁØÀÌ´Ù. ÈǸ¢ÇÑ ¿¹¼úÀº, ±×·¡¼, ¿¹¼ú°¡ÀÇ ¼±¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ´À³¦ÀÇ °æÇèÀ»
´Ù¸¥ »ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô Àü´ÞÇϸç, ±×¸®ÇÏ¿© ±×µéÀÌ µ¿ÀÏÇÑ ´À³¦À¸·Î Àü¿°µÇµµ·Ï ÇÏ´Â ±â¼úÀÌ´Ù. Àϰö ¹øÂ° Àý¿¡¼ Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ¼±À» ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿ò°ú ´ëÁ¶
±¸º°ÇÏ¿© Á¤ÀÇÇÑ´Ù: |
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The good is the eternal, the highest aim of our life. No matter how we understand the good, our life is nothing else than a striving towards the good - that is, towards God. |
¼±Àº
¿µ¿øÀ̸ç, ¿ì¸®ÀÇ »îÀÇ ÃÖ°íÀÇ ¸ñÀûÀÌ´Ù. ¿ì¸®°¡ ¼±À» ¾î¶² ¹æ¹ýÀ¸·Î ÀÌÇØÇϵç, ¿ì¸®ÀÇ »îÀº ¼±À» ÇâÇÑ—Áï,
Çϳª´ÔÀ» ÇâÇÑ—ºÐÅõ¿¡ Áö³ªÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù. |
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The good is indeed a fundamental concept, which metaphysically constitutes the essence of our consciousness, a concept undefinable by reason. |
¼±Àº ½Ç·Î
±Ù¿øÀûÀÎ °³³äÀÌ´Ù, ±×¸®°í ÀÌ´Â ÇüÀÌ»óÇÐÀûÀ¸·Î ¿ì¸®ÀÇ ÀǽÄÀÇ º»ÁúÀ» ±¸¼ºÇϸç, À̼ºÀ¸·Î Á¤ÀÇµÉ ¼ö ¾ø´Â °³³äÀÌ´Ù. |
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The good is that which no one can define, but which defines everything else. |
¼±Àº ¾Æ¹«µµ
Á¤ÀÇÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø´Â °ÍÀÌÁö¸¸, ´Ù¸¥ ¸ðµç °ÍÀ» Á¤ÀÇÇÑ´Ù. |
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But the beautiful, if we are not to content ourselves with words, but speak of what we understand
— the beautiful is nothing other than what is pleasing to us. |
±×·¯³ª
¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀº, ¿ì¸® ÀÚ½ÅÀÌ ÀÌ ¸»¿¡ ¸¸Á·ÇÏÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù¸é, ±×·¯³ª ¿ì¸®°¡ ÀÌÇØÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ» ¸»ÇѴٸ闾Ƹ§´Ù¿òÀº
¿ì¸®¿¡°Ô Áñ°Ì°Ô º¸ÀÌ´Â °Í¿¡ Áö³ªÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù. |
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. . . The more we give ourselves to beauty, the more removed we are from the good. I know that the usual response to this is that there exists a moral and spiritual beauty, but that is only a play on words, because by spiritual or moral beauty we mean nothing other than the good. |
... ¿ì¸®°¡
½º½º·Î ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿ò¿¡ ºüÁú¼ö·Ï, ¿ì¸®´Â ¼±¿¡¼ ¸Ö¾îÁø´Ù. ³ª´Â À̰Ϳ¡ ´ëÇÑ ÀϹÝÀû ¹ÝÀÀÀº µµ´öÀûÀÌ¸ç ¿µÀûÀÎ ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀÌ Á¸ÀçÇÑ´Ù°í ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ»
¾È´Ù, ÇÏÁö¸¸ ±×°ÍÀº ¿ÀÁ÷ ¸» Àå³ÀÏ »ÓÀÌ´Ù, ¿Ö³ÄÇÏ¸é ¿µÀûÀÎ ¶Ç´Â µµ´öÀûÀÎ ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀº ´ÜÁö ¼±À» ÀǹÌÇϱ⠶§¹®ÀÌ´Ù. |
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Christian tradition, represented by Florensky but going back to the earliest fathers of the Church, has understood the nature of artistic activity, of the artistic image or symbol, and the relations of beauty and the good in a profoundly different way. Beauty here is that ¡®intelligent light¡¯ which reveals the object in its ¡®first-created¡¯ truth. This simple assertion implies a complex theological understanding which cannot be summarized in so brief a space. In The Pillar and Foundation of Truth (1914), Florensky himself resorts to the analogy of physical light to explain it. Everything else in the material world seems beautiful to us indirectly, by way of a certain intellectual satisfaction it gives us. ¡®Light, on the contrary, is beautiful beyond all fragmentation, beyond all form; it is beautiful in itself, and through itself makes beautiful all that appears.¡¯ Light appears and makes appear. To contemplate the object is also to contemplate the light in which it appears. Light makes contemplation possible; it is that which can be revealed and at the same time that which reveals. ¡®Thus,¡¯ Florensky writes, ¡®if beauty is revealability, and revealability is light, then, I repeat, beauty is light and light is beauty. The absolute light is then the absolutely beautiful
— Love itself in its completeness, which (through itself) makes every person spiritually beautiful. The Holy Spirit, who crowns the love of the Father and the Son, is both the subject and the organ for contemplating the beautiful.¡¯ |
±×¸®½ºµµ±³ÀÇ
Àü½ÂÀº ÇÏÁö¸¸, Ç÷η»½ºÅ°ÀÇ Ç¥Çö¿¡ µû¸£¸é ÃʱâÀÇ ±³È¸ ±³ºÎµé¿¡°Ô °Å½½·¯ ¿Ã¶ó°¡´Â °ÍÀ¸·Î, ¿¹¼úÀû Ȱµ¿ÀÇ, ¿¹¼úÀû ¿µ»óÀ̳ª »ó¡ÀÇ º»ÁúÀ»,
±×¸®°í ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿ò°ú ¼±ÀÇ °ü°èµéÀ» ±í¼÷ÀÌ »óÀÌÇÑ ¹æ¹ýÀ¸·Î ±ú´Ý°í ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. ¿©±â¼ ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀº »ç¹°À» 'óÀ½ âÁ¶µÈ' Âü ¸ð½ÀÀ¸·Î µå·¯³»´Â
'ÁöÀûÀÎ ºû'ÀÎ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ÀÌ °°Àº ´Ü¼øÇÑ ÁÖÀåÀº ÀÌó·³ ©¸·ÇÑ °ø°£¿¡¼ ¿ä¾àµÉ ¼ö ¾ø´Â º¹ÀâÇÑ ½ÅÇÐÀûÀÎ ÀÌÇØ¸¦ ³»Æ÷ÇÑ´Ù. Áø¸®ÀÇ ±âµÕ°ú
±âÃÊ(The Pillar and Foundation of Truth,1914)¿¡¼
Ç÷η»½ºÅ° ÀÚ½ÅÀº ±×°ÍÀ» ¼³¸íÇϰíÀÚ ¹°¸®Àû ºûÀÇ À¯Ãß¿¡ ÀǰÅÇÑ´Ù. ¹°ÁúÀû ¼¼°è¿¡¼ ´Ù¸¥ ¸ðµç °ÍÀº, ¿ì¸®¿¡°Ô ÁÖ´Â ÀÏÁ¤ÇÑ ÁöÀûÀÎ ¸¸Á·À»
ÅëÇØ, °£Á¢ÀûÀ¸·Î ¿ì¸®¿¡°Ô ¾Æ¸§´ä´Ù°í ¿©°ÜÁø´Ù. 'ºûÀº, ¹Ý´ë·Î, ¸ðµç ºÐ¿À» ÃÊ¿ùÇÏ¿©, ¸ðµç ÇüŸ¦ ÃÊ¿ùÇÏ¿© ¾Æ¸§´ä´Ù; ±×°ÍÀº ±× ÀÚü·Î
¾Æ¸§´ä´Ù, ±×¸®°í ±×°ÍÀ» ÅëÇÏ¿© µå·¯³ª´Â ¸ðµç °ÍÀ» ¾Æ¸§´ä°Ô ¸¸µç´Ù. »ç¹°À» °¨»óÇÏ´Â °ÍÀº ¶ÇÇÑ ±×°ÍÀÌ µå·¯³ª´Â ºûÀ» °¨»óÇÏ´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ºûÀº
°¨»óÀÌ °¡´ÉÇÏ°Ô ¸¸µç´Ù; ±×°ÍÀº µå·¯³»¾î Áú ¼ö ÀÖ´Â °ÍÀÌ¸ç µ¿½Ã¿¡ µå·¯³ª´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù. '±×¸®ÇÏ¿©,' Ç÷η»½ºÅ°´Â ±â·ÏÇϱ⸦, '¸¸ÀÏ
¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀÌ µå·¯³¿À̶ó¸é, ±×¸®°í µå·¯³¿ÀÌ ºûÀ̶ó¸é, ³ª´Â ¹Ýº¹ÇϰǴë, ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀÌ ºûÀÌ¸ç ºûÀÌ ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀÌ´Ù. Àý´ëÀû ºûÀº ±×·¸´Ù¸é Àý´ëÀûÀ¸·Î
¾Æ¸§´ä´Ù—±×
¿ÏÀü¼º¿¡¼ »ç¶û ±× ÀÚüÀ̸ç, ÀÌ´Â (±× ÀÚü¸¦ ÅëÇØ) ¸ðµç »ç¶÷À» ¿µÀûÀ¸·Î ¾Æ¸§´ä°Ô ¸¸µç´Ù. ¼º·ÉÀº, ¾Æ¹öÁö¿Í ¾ÆµéÀÇ »ç¶ûÀ» ¿¡¿ö ½Î´Â
°ÍÀ¸·Î, ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀ» °¨»óÇÔ¿¡ ÀÖ¾î¼ µ¿½Ã¿¡ ÁÖüÀÌÀÚ ±â°üÀÌ´Ù.' |
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This light, or beauty, comes to us. That is the most telling point in Florensky¡¯s commentary. It is joined with matter. It ¡®co-inheres¡¯, to use the term of another Christian thinker of this century, the English poet Charles Williams. It makes radiant. |
ÀÌ·¯ÇÑ ºû,
¶Ç´Â ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀº, ¿ì¸®¿¡°Ô ´Ù°¡¿Â´Ù. ±×°ÍÀº Ç÷η»½ºÅ°ÀÇ ÁÖ¼®¿¡ ÀÖ¾î¼ °¡Àå ÀλóÀûÀÎ Á¡ÀÌ´Ù. ±×°ÍÀº ¹°Áú°ú ¿¬°áµÇ¾î ÀÖ´Ù. ±×°ÍÀº, ÀÌ
¼¼±âÀÇ ´Ù¸¥ ±×¸®½ºµµ±³ »ç»ó°¡ Âû½º Àª¸®¾öÁîÀÇ ¿ë¾î¸¦ ºôÀÚ¸é, 'ÇÔ²² ³»ÀçµÇ¾î ÀÖ´Ù'´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ±×°ÍÀº ºûÀ» ¹ßÇÑ´Ù. |
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In Greek, the word for ascetic endeavor, the life of anchorites and elders, is philokalia. As opposed to philosophia, the love of wisdom, philokalia is the love of beauty. The aim of the ascetic life, then, is not the mortification of the flesh but its glorification
— the real creation of real beauty. Florensky comments: ¡®And indeed asceticism creates not a ¡°good¡± man, but a beautiful one, and the distinctive quality of the holy ascetics is not at all their ¡°goodness¡±, which occurs also in carnal men, even in quite sinful ones, but a spiritual beauty, the dazzling beauty of the radiant, light-bearing person . . .¡¯ Philokalia is ¡®not science, not even moral
endeavor, but art, and, moreover, it is art par excellence
— the ¡°art of arts¡±'. |
±×¸®½º¿¡¼,
±Ý¿åÀû Ãß±¸, ¼öµµ»çµé ¹× Àå·ÎµéÀÇ »îÀ» ÀÏÄ´ ´Ü¾î´Â,
philokaliaÀÌ´Ù. ÁöÇýÀÇ »ç¶ûÀ» ÀǹÌÇÏ´Â
philosophia¿Í
´ëºñÇÏ¿©,
philokalia´Â
¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀ» »ç¶ûÇÔÀÌ´Ù. ±×·¸´Ù¸é ±Ý¿åÀû »îÀÇ ¸ñÀûÀº À°Ã¼ÀÇ °íÇàÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó ±×¿¡ ´ëÇÑ Âù¹Ì—»ç½ÇÀû
¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀÇ »ç½ÇÀû âÁ¶—ÀÎ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. Ç÷η»½ºÅ°´Â ¾ð±ÞÇÑ´Ù: '±×¸®°í »ç½Ç»ó ±Ý¿åÁÖÀÇ´Â '¼±ÇÑ' »ç¶÷À» ¸¸µå´Â °ÍÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó '¾Æ¸§´Ù¿î'
»ç¶÷À» ¸¸µç´Ù, ±×¸®°í °æ°ÇÇÑ ±Ý¿åÁÖÀÇÀÚµéÀÇ Â÷º°µÇ´Â ǰ¼ºÀº ÀüÇô ±×µéÀÇ '¼±ÇÔ'ÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï¸ç, ÀÌ´Â ¶ÇÇÑ À°ÀûÀÎ »ç¶÷µé¿¡¼µµ ÀϾ¸ç, ½ÉÁö¾î
»ó´çÇÑ Á˸¦ ÁöÀº »ç¶÷µé ¾È¿¡¼µµ, ÇÏÁö¸¸ ¿µÀûÀÎ ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀº, ¹ß»êÇÏ´Â Çö¶õÇÑ ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀ̸ç, ºûÀ» ³»Æ÷ÇÑ
»ç¶÷ÀÌ´Ù...' Philokalia´Â 'Çй®ÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï¸ç,
½ÉÁö¾î µµ´öÀû Ãß±¸µµ ¾Æ´Ïµµ, ÇÏÁö¸¸ ¿¹¼úÀ̸ç, ´õ¿ì±â ±×°ÍÀº ÈξÀ ¶Ù¾î³ ¿¹¼ú—"¿¹¼ú ÁßÀÇ ¿¹¼ú"—ÀÌ´Ù'. |
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The reality of beauty, in this Christian understanding, is most fully attained in the flesh, in the face of the saint. It also inheres, or it therefore inheres, in the icon, the symbol of the ¡®light-bearing face¡¯. Symbol is not opposed to reality here, as a ¡®mere¡¯ symbol of it, but expresses the unity of two realms, the penetration of the divine into this world, the ¡®mutual penetration of two beings¡¯. The symbol has an inner connection with what it symbolizes; it manifests the reality of what it symbolizes, and does not merely refer to it. This Florensky calls his ¡®most basic thought: that what is named in the name, what is symbolized in the symbol, the reality of what is pictured in the picture, is indeed present, and therefore the symbol is the symbolized¡¯. |
¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀÇ
Çö½ÇÀº, ÀÌ ±×¸®½ºµµ±³ÀûÀÎ ÀÌÇØ¿¡¼ À°Ã¼ ¾È¿¡¼, ¼ºÀÚÀÇ ¾ó±¼¿¡¼, °¡Àå ¿ÏÀüÈ÷ ¼ºÃëµÈ´Ù. ±×°ÍÀº ¶ÇÇÑ ¼º»ó, 'ºûÀ» ³»´Â ¾ó±¼'ÀÇ »ó¡
¾È¿¡ ³»ÀçÇÑ´Ù, ¾Æ´Ï ±×°ÍÀº ±×·¯¹Ç·Î ³»ÀçÇÑ´Ù. »ó¡Àº, ±×°ÍÀÇ '´Ü¼øÇÑ' »ó¡À¸·Î¼, À̰÷ÀÇ Çö½Ç¿¡ ´ëÄ¡µÇÁö ¾ÊÀ¸³ª, µÎ
¿µ¿ªÀÇ ÇÕÀÏ, ÀÌ ¼¼»ó¿¡ ½Å¼ºÀÌ Ä§ÅõÇÔ, 'µÎ Á¸ÀçÀÇ »óÈ£ ħÅõ'¸¦ Ç¥ÇöÇÑ´Ù. »ó¡Àº ±×°ÍÀÌ »ó¡ÇÏ´Â °Í°ú ³»ÀûÀÎ ¿¬°üÀ» °¡Áø´Ù; ±×°ÍÀº
±×°ÍÀÌ »ó¡ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀÇ Çö½ÇÀ» ³ªÅ¸³»¸ç, ´Ü¼øÈ÷ ±×°ÍÀ» ¾ð±ÞÇÏÁö´Â ¾Ê´Â´Ù. À̰ÍÀ» Ç÷η»½ºÅ°´Â ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ '°¡Àå ±âº»Àû »ý°¢'À̶ó ÀÏÄ´´Ù: À̸§
¾È¿¡ À̸§ Áö¾îÁø °Í, »ó¡ ¾È¿¡ »ó¡µÇ¾î Áø °Í, ±×¸² ¾È¿¡ ±×·ÁÁø °ÍÀÇ Çö½ÇÀº »ç½Ç ÇöÀçÀ̸ç, ±×·¯¹Ç·Î »ó¡Àº »ó¡µÇ¾îÁø
°ÍÀÌ´Ù'. |
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The symbol is what it symbolizes, if only partially, and gives a knowledge of what would not be knowable otherwise. The icon painter does not invent, but ¡®lifts the scales that cover our spiritual vision¡¯ and allows us to see the archetype. The criterion of the truth or spiritual penetration of the painter¡¯s image is its beauty
— what the scholar Sergei Averintsev, in a recent article, calls ¡®the union in severe, chaste expression¡¯ of holiness and beauty, adding that ¡®only the severe meaning of the whole justifies this admiration of beauty . . . vouching that this beauty will not degenerate into out¡©ward show and hedonistic caprice . . .¡¯ (The Baptism of Rus¡¯ and the Path of Russian Culture). The unity of the symbol embodies the mystical structure of reality. |
»ó¡Àº ±×°ÍÀÌ
»ó¡ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ̸ç, ´ÜÁö ´ÜÆíÀûÀÏÁö¶óµµ, ´Þ¸® ¾Ë ¼ö ¾ø´Â °Í¿¡ ´ëÇÑ Áö½ÄÀ» ÁØ´Ù. ¼º»ó Ȱ¡´Â âÀÛÇÏÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù, ±×·¯³ª '¿ì¸®ÀÇ ¿µÀûÀÎ
½Ã¾ß¸¦ µ¤Àº ±Ô¸ð¸¦ ²ø¾î ¿Ã¸°´Ù' ±×¸®°í ¿ì¸®°¡ ¿øÇüÀ» º¸µµ·Ï ÇÑ´Ù. Áø¸®ÀÇ ±âÁØ ¶Ç´Â Ȱ¡ÀÇ ¿µ»óÀÇ ¿µÀûÀΠħÅõ´Â ±×°ÍÀÇ ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀÌ´Ù-
ÇÐÀÚ ¼¼¸£°ÔÀÌ ¾Æº£¸°Ã¼ÇÁ´Â ±×ÀÇ ÃÖ±Ù ³í¹®¿¡¼ À̰ÍÀ» ¼º½º·¯¿ò ¹× ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀÇ ¾ö¼÷ÇÏ°í ¼ø°áÇÑ Ç¥Çö ¾È¿¡¼ °áÇÕ'À¸·Î ºÎ¸£¸ç, '¿ÀÁ÷ Àüü¿¡
´ëÇÑ ¾ö¼÷ÇÑ Àǹ̸¸ÀÌ ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿ò¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ÀÌ·± Âù¹Ì¸¦ Á¤´çÈÇϸç...ÀÌ·± ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀÌ ¿ÜÀûÀÎ °ú½Ã ¹× Äè¶ôÁÖÀÇÀÇ º¯´öÀ¸·Î Åðº¸ÇÏÁö ¾Êµµ·Ï º¸ÁõÇÏ´Â
°ÍÀÌ´Ù...'¶ó°í µ¡ºÙÀδ٠(·¯½Ã¾ÆÀÎÀÇ
¼¼·Ê¿Í ·¯½Ã¾Æ ¹®ÈÀÇ ±æ, The Baptism of Rus¡¯ and the Path of Russian Culture). »ó¡ÀÇ
ÅëÀϼºÀº Çö½ÇÀÇ ½ÅºñÀû ±¸Á¶¸¦ ±¸Ã¼ÈÇÑ´Ù. ¡¡ |
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At some point the co-inherence of the symbol began to come apart, or to be dismantled by a rationalizing critique. According to Florensky, the process dates back to the sixteenth century in Russia and a century or so earlier in the West. The loss of the ¡®meaning of the whole¡¯ led in time to the triumph of ¡®outward show and hedonistic caprice¡¯, and thus to Vasnetsov¡¯s icons. Tolstoy agrees. It was when the upper, educated classes found it no longer possible to believe in the Church¡¯s teaching, he says, that the so-called Renaissance came about. And it was then that art ceased to be of and for the whole people, and became exclusive, addressed to wealthy patrons, flattering to princes and popes. In other words, it was then that art ¡®as we know it¡¯ was born and set out on its few centuries of accelerated development, its evolution and exhaustion of formal possibilities. The dismantling of the symbol begins with the separation of knowledge from mystery, the denial of the archetype, of participation in divine reality. It is true that at the same time, as Tolstoy asserts, mankind also became separated in a new way, ceased to co-inhere, social life became disharmonious, city and country were cut off from each other, the social classes fell into mutual antagonism. But Tolstoy sees no relation between these two developments, and advocates the total dismantling of the symbol even as he proclaims the coming union of all mankind. |
¾î¶² Á¡¿¡¼
»ó¡ÀÌ ÇÔ²² ³»ÀçÇÔÀº ÇÕ¸®ÁÖÀÇÀûÀÎ ºñÆò°¡µé¿¡ ÀÇÇØ¼ °¥¶óÁö°Å³ª ¿ÍÇØµÇ±â ½ÃÀÛÇß´Ù. Ç÷η»½ºÅ°¿¡ µû¸£¸é, ÀÌ °úÁ¤Àº ·¯½Ã¾Æ¿¡¼ 16¼¼±â·Î
¼±¸¿¡¼± 1¼¼±â Á¤µµ ÀÌÀüÀ¸·Î °Å½½·¯ ¿Ã¶ó °£´Ù. 'ÀüüÀÇ ÀǹÌ'ÀÇ »ó½ÇÀº °á±¹ '¿ÜÀûÀÎ °ú½Ã¿Í Äè¶ôÁÖÀÇÀÇ º¯´ö'ÀÇ ½Â¸®·Î, ±×¸®ÇÏ¿©
¹Ù½º³×ÃÊÇÁÀÇ ¼º»óµé·Î À̾îÁø´Ù. Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â µ¿ÀÇÇÑ´Ù. ¼ÒÀ§ ¸£³×»ó½º°¡ µµ·¡ÇÑ °ÍÀº ¹Ù·Î »ó·ùÀÇ ±³À°¹ÞÀº °è±ÞµéÀÌ ±³È¸ÀÇ °¡¸£Ä§À» ´õ ÀÌ»ó
¹ÏÀ» ¼ö ¾ø´Ù´Â °ÍÀ» ¾Ë¾ÒÀ» ¶§´Ù¶ó°í ±×´Â ¸»ÇÑ´Ù. ±×¸®°í ¹Ù·Î ±×¶§¿¡ ¿¹¼úÀÌ Àüü ¹ÎÁß¿¡ ÀÇÇÑ ¹ÎÁßÀ» À§ÇÑ °ÍÀ̱⸦ ¸ØÃß°í, ¹èŸÀûÀÌ
µÇ¾î¼ ºÎÀ¯ÇÑ ÈÄ¿øÀÚµéÀ» ÇâÇÏ°Ô µÇ¾úÀ¸¸ç, ¿ÕÁ·µé°ú ±³È²¿¡°Ô ¾ÆÃ·ÇÏ°Ô µÈ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ´Ù½Ã ¸»ÇÏÀÚ¸é, ¹Ù·Î ±×¶§¿¡ '¿ì¸®°¡ ¾Ë°í ÀÖ´Â ¹Ù'
¿¹¼úÀÌ Å¾À¸¸ç ¼ö¼¼±â µ¿¾È ±×°ÍÀÇ °¡¼ÓÈµÈ ¹ßÀü, ±×°ÍÀÇ ÁøÈ ¹× Çü½ÄÀû °¡´É¼ºµéÀÇ ¼ÒÁøÀ» ½ÃÀÛÇÏ¿´´Ù. »ó¡ÀÇ ºØ±«´Â
½ÅºñÁÖÀÇ¿Í Áö½ÄÀÇ ºÐ¸®, ¿øÇüÀÇ, ½ÅÀûÀÎ Çö½Ç¿¡ÀÇ Âü¿©ÀÇ ºÎÁ¤°ú ÇÔ²² ½ÃÀÛÇÑ´Ù. »ç½ÇÀÎ °ÍÀº µ¿½Ã¿¡, Å罺ÅäÀ̰¡ ´Ü¾ðÇϵíÀÌ, Àηù°¡ ¶ÇÇÑ
»õ·Î¿î ¹æ¹ýÀ¸·Î °¥¶ó¼°í, »óÁ¸Çϱ⸦ ¸ØÃß¾úÀ¸¸ç, »çȸÀû »îÀÌ Á¶È¸¦ »ó½ÇÇϰí, µµ½Ã¿Í ½Ã°ñÀÌ ¼·Î¿¡°Ô Â÷´ÜµÇ°í, »çȸÀû °èÃþµéÀÌ »óÈ£°£
¹Ý¸ñÀ¸·Î µé¾î¼¹´Ù´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ±×·¯³ª Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ÀÌ·¯ÇÑ µÎ °¡Áö ¹ßÀüµé »çÀÌ¿¡¼ ¾Æ¹«·± °ü°è¸¦ º¸Áö ¸øÇÏ°í ½ÉÁö¾î ¸ðµç ÀηùÀÇ ¹Ì·¡ÀÇ ¿¬ÇÕÀ»
ÁÖÀåÇϸ鼵µ »ó¡ÀÇ ¿ÏÀüÇÑ ¿ÍÇØ¸¦ ¿ËÈ£ÇÑ´Ù. |
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Florensky¡¯s meditations on icon and symbol, his return to the integral understanding of Christian religious thought, led him to a radical formulation of the question of art which in its completeness and clarity is far removed from the aesthetics of the Kantians, the Hegelians, the French eclectic spiritualists, the English psycho-physiologists
— all of whom are summed up and dismissed by Tolstoy in the opening chapters of What is Art?. But it is even farther removed from the ¡®true Christian¡¯ aesthetics of the sage of Yasnaya Polyana. |
¼º»ó°ú »ó¡¿¡
´ëÇÑ Ç÷η»½ºÅ°ÀÇ ¸í»óµé, Áï ±×¸®½ºµµ±³Àû Á¾±³ »ç»ó¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ÃÑüÀû ÀÌÇØ¸¦ ÇâÇÑ ±×ÀÇ È¸±Í´Â, ±×·Î ÇÏ¿©±Ý ¿¹¼úÀÇ ¿Ï¼ºµµ ¹× ¸í·áÇÔ¿¡ ÀÖ¾î¼
ÄÆ®ÁÖÀÇÀÚµé, Çì°ÖÁÖÀÇÀÚµé, ÇÁ¶û½º ÀýÃæÁÖÀÇÀÚµé, ¿µ±¹ ½É¸®-»ý¸®ÇÐÀÚµé
— À̵éÀº ¸ðµÎ ¿¹¼úÀº ¹«¾ùÀΰ¡?ÀÇ Ã¹ Àå¿¡¼ Å罺ÅäÀÌ¿¡ ÀÇÇØ ¿ä¾àÇØ¼ ¹è°ÝµÇ¾ú´Ù
— ÀÇ ¹ÌÇаú ÈξÀ ¸Ö¾îÁø ¿¹¼ú ¹®Á¦ÀÇ ±ÞÁøÀû
Ç¥Çö¿¡ À̸£°Ô Çß´Ù. ÇÏÁö¸¸ ±×°ÍÀº ½ÉÁö¾î ¾ß½º³ª¾ß Æú¸®¾ß³ªÀÇ ÇöÀÚÀÇ 'Âü ±×¸®½ºµµ±³ÀûÀÎ' ¹ÌÇеé°úµµ ÈξÀ ¸Ö¸® ÀÖ´Ù. |
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Tolstoy¡¯s reason rejected the mystical structure of reality embodied in what he called ¡®Church Christianity¡¯. He denied the possibility of sacraments, which are symbols in the most real sense. And in art, too, he reserved his greatest scorn for the symbolists
— especially the French poets of that school and their masters, Baudelaire and Verlaine. It is true that symbols cannot be purposely created; there are very few of them, and they are gifts, not human creations. There is, then, something innately absurd in being a ¡®symbolist¡¯. But who was more aware of that absurdity than Baudelaire? Who more than he understood the ambiguous role the artist played in modern life? The symbolists were aware of the separation of the ¡®themes¡¯, the dissolution of the symbol, and that this dissolution did not alter the mystical structure of reality but brought about a ¡®pseudometamorphosis¡¯ in our perception of it. Baudelaire portrays the poet as a sinner who, in his negative creations, holds open the space of the symbol and almost reinvents its lost unity. But only ¡®in art¡¯, of course. |
Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ
À̼ºÀº ¼ÒÀ§ '±³È¸ ±×¸®½ºµµ±³'¶ó ºÒ¸®´Â °Í¿¡ ±¸Ã¼ÈµÈ Çö½Ç¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ½Åºñ½º·± ±¸Á¶¸¦ °ÅºÎÇß´Ù. ±×´Â ¼º·ÊÀÇ °¡´É¼ºµéÀ» ºÎÀÎÇßÀ¸¸ç, ±×°ÍµéÀº
°¡Àå Çö½ÇÀûÀÎ ÀǹÌÀÇ »ó¡µéÀ̱⠶§¹®ÀÌ´Ù. ±×¸®°í ¿¹¼ú¿¡¼, ¿ª½Ã, ±×´Â »ó¡ÁÖÀÇÀÚµé—
ƯÈ÷ ±×·¯ÇÑ ÇÐÆÄÀÇ ÇÁ¶û½º ½ÃÀÎµé ¹× ±×µéÀÇ ½º½Âµé, º¸µé·¹¸£ ¹× º§·¹´À
—
¿¡°Ô ±×ÀÇ °¡Àå Å« °æ¸êÀ» ¿¹ºñÇØ µÎ¾ú´Ù. »ó¡µéÀÌ ÀǵµÀûÀ¸·Î âÁ¶µÉ ¼ö ¾ø´Ù´Â °ÍÀº
»ç½ÇÀÌ´Ù; ±×°ÍµéÀº ¸Å¿ì Àû´Ù, ±×¸®°í ±×°ÍµéÀº Àç´ÉµéÀ̸ç Àΰ£µéÀÇ Ã¢Á¶¹°ÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï´Ù. ±×·¸´Ù¸é '»ó¡ÁÖÀÇÀÚ'°¡ µÊ¿¡´Â ³»ÀûÀ¸·Î ºÎÁ¶¸®ÇÑ
¹«¾ùÀΰ¡°¡ ÀÖ´Ù. ÇÏÁö¸¸ ´©°¡ ±×·¯ÇÑ ºÎÁ¶¸®¸¦ º¸µé·¹¸£º¸´Ù ´õ ÀνÄÇϰڴ°¡? ´©°¡ Çö´ëÀÇ »î¿¡¼ ¿¹¼ú°¡°¡ ÇàÇÑ ¾Ö¸ÅÇÑ ¿ªÇÒÀ» ±×º¸´Ù ¸¹ÀÌ
ÀÌÇØÇϴ°¡? »ó¡ÁÖÀÇÀÚµéÀº 'ÁÖÁ¦µé'ÀÇ ºÐ¸®, »ó¡ÀÇÀÇ ¿ÍÇØ¿¡ ´ëÇØ, ÀÌ·± ¿ÍÇØ´Â Çö½ÇÀÇ ½ÅºñÇÑ ±¸Á¶¸¦ º¯È½ÃŰÁö ¾Ê¾ÒÀ¸¸ç ±×°Í¿¡ ´ëÇÑ
¿ì¸®ÀÇ ÀνĿ¡¼ ''À¯»ç º¯Çü'À» ¾ß±âÇß´Ù´Â °ÍÀ» ÀνÄÇß´Ù. º¸µé·¹¸£´Â ½ÃÀÎÀ» ÁËÀÎÀ¸·Î ¹¦»çÇϸç, ±×ÀÇ ºÎÁ¤Àû âÁ¶µé¿¡¼, ½ÃÀÎÀº
»ó¡ÀÇ °ø°£À» ¿¾îµÎ°í ±× ÀÒ¾î ¹ö¸° ÅëÀϼºÀ» °ÅÀÇ ÀçâÁ¶ ÇÑ´Ù. ÇÏÁö¸¸ ¹°·Ð, ¿ÀÁ÷ '¿¹¼ú ¾È¿¡¼. |
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Tolstoy, on the other hand, saw the artist as a shaper of life itself, as a ¡®teacher of mankind¡¯ and a ¡®leading person¡¯ in mankind¡¯s forward movement towards the good. For him the categories of ¡®poet¡¯ and ¡®sinner¡¯ were mutually exclusive. He wanted to purify art of all non-good feelings, all false and enslaving mysteries, all that is ambiguous, irrational, antinomic. He wanted art to progress towards
— what? More singing and banging on scythes? More stories about chickens? The intensity of the attack and the poverty of the outcome suggest that Tolstoy had other motives for his polemic than an interest in the question of his title. |
Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â,
´Ù¸¥ ÇÑÆíÀ¸·Î, ¿¹¼ú°¡¸¦ 'ÀηùÀÇ ±³»ç' ±×¸®°í ¼±À» ÇâÇÑ ÀηùÀÇ ¾ÕÀ¸·ÎÀÇ ¿òÁ÷ÀÓ¿¡¼ '¼±µµÇÏ´Â »ç¶÷'À¸·Î¼, »î ÀÚüÀÇ Á¶°¢°¡·Î º¸¾Ò´Ù.
±×¿¡°Ô¼ '½ÃÀÎ'°ú 'ÁËÀÎ'ÀÇ ºÐ·ùµéÀº »óÈ£ ¹èŸÀûÀÌ´Ù. ±×´Â ¿¹¼ú¿¡¼ ¸ðµç ¼±ÇÏÁö ¾ÊÀº ´À³¦µé, ¸ðµç À§¼±°ú ¿¹¼ÓÀûÀÎ ½ÅºñÇÔ µé, ¸ðÈ£Çϰí
ºñÇÕ¸®ÀûÀÌ¸ç ´ëÄ¡µÇ´Â °ÍÀ» Á¤ÈÇϱ⸦ ¿øÇß´Ù. ±×´Â ¿¹¼úÀÌ—¹«¾ùÀΰ¡¸¦?—ÇâÇØ
Áøº¸Çϱ⸦ ¿øÇß´Ù. ´õ ¸¹Àº ³ë·¡¿Í ³´À» µÎµå¸²? º´¾Æ¸®¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ´õ ¸¹Àº À̾߱âµé?
°ø°Ý¿¡ ´ëÇÑ °µµ ¹× °á°úÀÇ ºó°ïÀº Å罺ÅäÀ̰¡ ±×ÀÇ ¸íĪ¿¡ ´ëÇÑ Áú¹®¿¡ ´ëÇÑ °ü½Éº¸´Ùµµ ±×ÀÇ ³íÀï¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ´Ù¸¥ µ¿±âµéÀ» Áö´Ï°í ÀÖÀ½À»
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Dante, whom Tolstoy dismisses as both false and outdated, also showed himself as a sinner, a man lost in a dark wood; his vision came to him in that darkness. Tolstoy allows himself no such
candor. As Lev Shestov wrote, he ¡®does not speak with his disciples outside of school; he imparts to them only ¡°conclusions¡± and hides from them that anguished and painful travail of his soul which he considers exclusively ¡°the master¡¯s business¡±. The neo-pagan Nietzsche is one of Tolstoy¡¯s targets in What is Art? Yet Shestov is right when he says that Tolstoy¡¯s ¡®God is the good¡¯ is no different from Nietzsche¡¯s ¡®God is dead.¡¯ Tolstoy¡¯s heaven is empty. It was this that he concealed behind the ¡®brilliant edifice of his preaching¡¯. It is the abyss of the night in Arzamas, and it is within the prophet himself. If he succeeded in hiding it from his followers, he never managed to hide it from his own eyes. |
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Å罺ÅäÀ̰¡ À§¼±ÀûÀÌ¸ç °í·çÇÏ´Ù°í ¹è°ÝÇßÁö¸¸, ¶ÇÇÑ ÀÚ½ÅÀ» ÁËÀÎ, ¾îµÎ¿î ½£ ¼Ó¿¡¼ Çì¸Å´Â »ç¶÷À̶ó°í Çß°í; ±×ÀÇ ÅëÂû·ÂÀº ±× °°Àº ¾îµÒ¿¡¼
±×¿¡°Ô ¿Ô´Ù. Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ½º½º·Î ±×·± ¼ÖÁ÷ÇÔÀ» Çã¿ëÇÏÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù. ·¹¿À ½¦½ºÅäÇÁ°¡ ±â·ÏÇÏ¿´µíÀÌ, ±×´Â 'Çпø ¹Û¿¡¼ ±×ÀÇ Á¦ÀÚµé°ú ´ëÈÇÏÁö
¾Ê´Â´Ù; ±×´Â ±×µé¿¡°Ô ¿ÀÁ÷ '°á·Ðµé'¸¸ ÀüÇØÁØ´Ù ±×¸®°í ±×°¡ ¹èŸÀûÀ¸·Î 'ÁÖ´ÔÀÇ »ç¾÷'À̶ó°í ¿©±â´Â ±×ÀÇ ¿µÈ¥ÀÇ °í³ú¿¡ Âù ±×¸®°í
°íÅ뽺·¯¿î ³ë°í¸¦ ±×µé¿¡°Ô¼ ¼û±ä´Ù. ½Å-À̱³µµÀÎ ´Ïü´Â ¿¹¼úÀº ¹«¾ùÀΰ¡?¿¡¼ Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ ¸ñÇ¥µé ÁßÀÇ ÇϳªÀÌ´Ù. ÇÏÁö¸¸
½¦½ºÅäÇÁ°¡ Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ 'Çϳª´ÔÀº ¼±ÀÌ´Ù'´Â ´ÏüÀÇ 'Çϳª´ÔÀº Á×¾ú´Ù'¿Í ´Ù¸£Áö ¾Ê´Ù°í ¸»ÇÒ ¶§ ±×°¡ ¿Ç´Ù. Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ Ãµ±¹Àº ºñ¾î ÀÖ´Ù.
¹Ù·Î À̰ÍÀÌ ±×°¡ '±×ÀÇ ¼³±³ÀÇ È·ÁÇÑ Àü´ç' µÚ¿¡ ¼û°Ü µÐ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ±×°ÍÀº ¾Æ¸£ÀÚ¸¶½º¿¡¼ÀÇ ½É¿¬ÀÇ ¹ãÀ̸ç, ±×°ÍÀº ¼±ÁöÀÚ ÀڽŠ¾È¿¡ ÀÖ´Â
°ÍÀÌ´Ù. ¸¸ÀÏ ±×°¡ ±×ÀÇ ÃßÁ¾Àڵ鿡°Ô ±×°ÍÀ» °¡¸²¿¡ ¼º°øÇß´õ¶óµµ, ±×´Â °áÄÚ ±×°ÍÀ» ÀÚ±â ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ´«À¸·ÎºÎÅÍ ¼û±âÁö ¸øÇßÀ» °ÍÀÌ´Ù. |
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The last act in the life of this torn man, the avowed enemy of the Church, who in 1901 had finally attained excommunication, was a last journey to the monastery of Optino. In the night of 27 October 1910, at the age of eighty-two, abandoning his family and his disciples, he set out like his own
Father Sergius in search of ¡®solitude and silence¡¯. So he explained in the note he left for his wife. What more he may have been seeking, we do not know. But we do know, from the testimony of the monks, that having arrived at the monastery, he tried three times to call on the elder Iosif. Three times he paced around the monk¡¯s cell, went up to the door, put his hand on the latch, hesitated, and turned away again. In the end he left the monastery, and shortly afterwards he died, still on the road. |
ÀÌ·¸°Ô Âõ°ÜÁø
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1901³â ¸¶Ä§³» ÆÄ¹®À» ´çÇß´Ù—ÀÇ »î¿¡¼ ÃÖÈÄÀÇ
¸·Àº ¿ÉƼ³ë ¼öµµ¿øÀÇ ¸¶Áö¸· ¿©ÇàÀ̾ú´Ù. 1910³â 10¿ù 27ÀÏÀÇ ¹ã¿¡, 82»ìÀÇ ³ªÀÌ¿¡, ±×ÀÇ °¡Á·°ú ±×ÀÇ Á¦ÀÚµéÀ» ¹ö¸®°í, ÀÚ±â ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ
'½ÅºÎ ¼¼¸£°ÔÀÌ'ó·³ '°íµ¶°ú ħ¹¬'À» ã¾Æ ¶°³µ´Ù. ±×ÀÇ ¾Æ³»¿¡°Ô ³²±ä ³ëÆ®¿¡ ±×´Â ±×·¸°Ô ¼³¸íÇß´Ù. ±×°¡ ´õ ÀÌ»ó ¹«¾ùÀ»
Ãß±¸ Çß´ÂÁö ¿ì¸®´Â ¾ËÁö ¸øÇÑ´Ù. ±×·¯³ª ¿ì¸®´Â ¾È´Ù, ¼öµµ»çµéÀÇ Áõ¾ð¿¡ ÀÇÇϸé, ±×´Â ¼öµµ¿ø¿¡ µµÂøÇؼ ¿ä½ÃÇÁ Àå·Î¸¦ ¼¼ ¹øÀ̳ª ¹æ¹®ÇÏ·Á
½ÃµµÇß´Ù. ¼¼ ¹øÀ̳ª ¼öµµ»çÀÇ ¹æ ÁÖÀ§¸¦ °È´Ù°¡, ¹®À¸·Î ´Ù°¡ °¬À¸¸ç, ¼ÕÀ» ºøÀå¿¡ ¿Ã·È´Ù°¡, ¸Ó¹µ°Å¸®´Ù, ´Ù½Ã µ¹¾Æ¼¹´Ù. ¸¶Ä§³» ±×´Â
¼öµµ¿øÀ» ¶°³µ°í, ±× ÈÄ ¾ó¸¶ ¾ÈµÇ¾î ±×´Â Á×¾úÀ¸¸ç, ¿©ÀüÈ÷ ³ë»ó¿¡ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. |
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RICHARD PEVEAR
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RELATED WORKS BY LEO TOLSTOY:
Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ °ü·Ã ÀÛǰµé:
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A Confession and Other Religious Writings, translated and with an introduction by Jane Kentish. London: Penguin, 1988.
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°í¹é ¹× ´Ù¸¥ Á¾±³Àû
ÀÛǰµé, Á¦ÀÎ ÄËÆ¼½¬ ¹ø¿ª ¹× ¼¹®. ·±´ø: 1988³â Æë±Ï
ÃâÆÇ»ç |
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Diaries (two volumes), edited and translated by R. F. Christian. New York: Scribner/Macmillan, 1985.
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Àϱâµé(2±Ç),
R.F. Å©¸®½ºÃÅ ÆíÁý ¹× ¹ø¿ª. ´º¿å: ½ºÅ©¸®ºê³Ê/¸Æ¹Ð¶õ, 1985 |
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The Kingdom of God is Within You,
translated by Constance Garnett. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1984.
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Çϳª´ÔÀÇ ³ª¶ó´Â ³ÊÈñ
¾È¿¡ ÀÖ´Ù, ÄὺÅÁ½º ÀÚ³Ý ¹ø¿ª. ¸µÄÁ: ³×ºê¶ó½ºÄ« ´ëÇÐ ÃâÆÇ»ç, 1984 |
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Letters, selected, edited and translated by R. F. Christian. New York: Scribner, 1978. |
¼½Åµé, R.F
Å©¸®½ºÃµÀÌ Á¤¼±, ÆíÁý ¹× ¹ø¿ª. ´º¿å: 1978 |
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What Then Must We Do?, translated by Aylmer Maude, introduction by Ronald Simpson. Devon: Green Books, 1991.
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±×·¸´Ù¸é ¿ì¸®´Â ¹«¾ùÀ»
ÇØ¾ß Çϴ°¡?, ¾ÆÀÏ¸Ó ¸ðµå ¹ø¿ª, ·Î³Îµå ½É½¼ ¼¹®. µ¥º»: ±×¸°ºÏ½º, 1991 |
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Writings on Civil Disobedience and Non-violence, introduction by David H. Albert, foreword by George Zabelka. Philadelphia and Santa Cruz: New Society Publishers, 1987. |
½Ã¹Î ºÒº¹Á¾°ú ºñÆø·Â¿¡ °üÇÑ
ÀÛǰµé, µ¥À̺ñµå H. ¾Ë¹öÆ® ¼¹®, Á¶Áö ÀÚº§Ä« ¸Ó¸®¸». Çʶóµ¨ÇÇ¾Æ ¹× »êŸũ·çÁî: ´º ¼Ò»çÀÌ¾îÆ¼ ÃâÆÇ¾÷ÀÚµé, 1987. |
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SELECTED REFERENCES: ¹ßÃéµÈ ÂüÁ¶µé:
Averintsev, Sergei. ¡®The Baptism of Rus¡¯ and the Path of Russian Culture¡¯. In One Thousand Years: The Christianization of Ancient Russia, edited by Yves Hamant. Paris: UNESCO, 1989.
Bayley, John. Tolstoy and the Novel. London: Chatto & Windus, 1966. A study of Tolstoy as artist.
Berlin, Isaiah. The Hedgehog and the Fox. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1954.
Fry, Roger. Vision and Design. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1981. Contains an essay on Tolstoy¡¯s aesthetics, originally pub¡©lished in 1909.
Sémon, Marie. Lesfemmes dans l¡¯oeuvre de Léon Tolstoï. Paris: Institut d¡¯Etudes Slaves, 1984.
———. Tolstoi Pèlerin. In Cahiers Léon Tolstoï 7. Paris: Institut d¡¯Etudes Slaves, 1993. An account of Tolstoy¡¯s four ¡®pilgrimages¡¯ to the monastery of Optino.
Shestov, Lev. Dostoevsky, Tolstoy and Nietzsche, translated by Ber¡©nard Martin and Spencer Roberts. Athens: Ohio University Press, 1969. Contains two works: The Good in the Teaching of Tolstoy and Nietzsche (1900), and Dostoevsky and Nietzsche: The Philosophy of Tragedy (1903).
———. In Job¡¯s Balances, translated by Camilla Coventry and C. A. Macartney. Athens: Ohio University Press, 1975. Contains an important essay on Tolstoy¡¯s last works.
———. Speculation and Revelation, translated by Bernard Martin.
Athens: Ohio University Press, 1982. Contains an essay on reason and faith in Tolstoy.
Wilson, A. N. Tolstoy. London: Penguin, 1988. An excellent biography.
¿ø¹®¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ¸Þ¸ð
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Owing to Tolstoy¡¯s difficult relations with the Russian censors in his later years, the first publication of What is Art? in any language was Aylmer Maude¡¯s English translation of 1898, made with the author¡¯s approval and at his urging. Later, Tolstoy changed the selection of poems in the appendix, added a second appendix, and revised the text considerably. That accounts for most of the differences between Maude¡¯s version and the present one, which has been made from the text of the ¡®Jubilee Edition¡¯— of Tolstoy¡¯s works, volume 15 (Moscow, 1983). The translations of French poems in the notes are by Richard Pevear. |
Å罺ÅäÀÌ¿Í ·¯½Ã¾Æ °Ë¿ ´ç±¹°úÀÇ Èı⿡ ÀÖ¾î¼
¾î·Á¿î °ü°èµé·Î ÀÎÇØ, ¾î¶² ¾ð¾î¿¡¼µç ¿¹¼úÀº ¹«¾ùÀΰ¡?ÀÇ Ãʱâ ÃâÆÇÀº 1898³â
¾ÆÀÏ¸Ó ¸ðµåÀÇ ¿µ¾î ¹ø¿ªÆÇÀ̸ç, ÀÛ°¡ÀÇ ½ÂÀΰú ±×ÀÇ ÀçÃË¿¡ ÀÇÇØ ¿Ï¼ºµÈ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ÈÄÀÏ, Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ºÎ·Ï¿¡ ¼±ÅÃµÈ ½ÃµéÀ» ¹Ù²Ù¾úÀ¸¸ç,
¿ø¹®À» »ó´çÈ÷ ¼öÁ¤ÇÏ¿´´Ù. ÀÌ´Â ¸ðµåÀÇ ¹öÀü°ú ÇöÀçÀÇ °Í°úÀÇ ´ëºÎºÐÀÇ Â÷ÀÌÁ¡µé¿¡ ´ëÇØ ¼³¸íÇϸç, ÇöÀçÀÇ °ÍÀº—Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ ÀÛǰµé 15±Ç
(¸ð½ºÅ©¹Ù, 1983)Áß—'±â³äÆÇ'ÀÇ ¿ø¹®¿¡¼ ºñ·ÔµÈ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ¸Þ¸ð¿¡ ÀÖ´Â ÇÁ¶û½º¾î ½ÃµéÀÇ ¹ø¿ªÀº
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[Up] [Contents] [Preface]
[Bibliographical Note]
[A Note on the Text]
[WHAT IS ART?]
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
[CONCLUSION]
[Appendix I]
[Appendix II]
[Notes]
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