~Read E-pub ☩ Нос ♰ Best Book, Нос By Nikolai Gogol This Is Very Good And Becomes The Main Topic To Read, The Readers Are Very Takjup And Always Take Inspiration From The Contents Of The Book Нос, Essay By Nikolai Gogol. Is Now On Our Website And You Can Download It By Register What Are You Waiting For? Please Read And Make A Refission For You
The Nose is a satirical short story by Nikolai Gogol written during his time living in St. Petersburg. During this time, Gogol's works were primarily focused on surrealism and the grotesque, with a romantic twist. Written between 1835 and 1836, "The Nose" tells the story of a St. Petersburg official whose nose leaves his face and develops a life of its own.
The Nose was originally published in The Contemporary, a literary journal owned by Alexander Pushkin. The use of a nose as the main source of conflict in the story could have been due to Gogol's own experience with an oddly shaped nose, which was often the subject of selfdeprecating jokes in letters.
The use of iconic landmarks in the story, as well as the sheer absurdity of the story, has made "The Nose" an important part of St. Petersburg's literary tradition.
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: سال 1970 میلادی و بار آخر
عنوان: یادادشتهای یک دیوانه: شنل، دماغ؛ نویسنده: نیکلای گوگول؛ مترجم: مصطفی فرزانه؛ تهران، کتابفروشی سپهر، 1329؛ در 131 ص؛ عنوان دیگر: شنلدماغ؛ موضوع: داستانهای کوتاه از نویسندگان روسیهسده 19م
این داستان را باید تسویه حساب «گوگول» با دماغش بدانیم؛ این اثر نخستین بار در نشریهٔ روسی «ساورمینیک (معاصر)» به سردبیری «الکساندر پوشکین» منتشر شد؛ عنوان نخستینش «رویا» بود، و سپس به «دماغ» تغییر عنوان داد
جالب اینکه در زبان روسی به «دماغ» میگویند نوس(ان.او.اس) که اگر برعکسش کنیم میشود سون (اس.ا.ان) یعنی رویا؛ آرزویی برای اینکه نویسنده طوری از شر دماغ نوکتیزش راحت شود
نقل از متن ترجمه جناب خشایار دیهیمی برگرفته از یادداشتهای یک دیوانه – نشر نی: روز بیست و پنجم ماه مارس، در شهر پترزبورگ، اتفاق فوقالعاده غریبی به وقوع پیوست؛ ایوان یاکوولویچ سلمانی که در خیابان وازنسینسکی زندگی میکرد، (نام خانوادگیاش گم شده و تابلوی مغازه اش تنها مردی را با گونه های صابون مالیده نشان میدهد، همراه با این نوشته: «حجامت هم پذیرفته میشود»)؛ روزی خیلی زود از خواب بیدار شد، و بوی نان داغ به مشامش رسید؛ چون از تخت بلند شد، زنش را که بانویی قابل احترام و عاشق قهوه بود، در حال بیرون آوردن گرده های نان از اجاق دید؛ ایوان یاکوولویچ گفت: «من امروز قهوه نمیخورم، پراسکوویا اوسیپوونا، به جایش میخواهم نان و پیاز بخورم» (اینجا باید توضیح بدهم که ایوان یاکوولیچ بیمیل نبود فنجانی هم قهوه بخورد، اما میدانست کامل دور از انتظار است که هم قهوه و هم نان بخواهد، چون زنش روی خوشی به اینگونه هوسهایش نشان نمیداد)؛ زن فکر کرد: «بگذار پیرمرد احمق نانش را بخورد؛ به من چه، عوضش یک فنجان اضافی قهوه به من میرسد» و یک گرده ی نان روی میز پرت کرد؛
ایوان محض آدابدانی، پالتویش را از روی پیراهن شبش پوشید و پشت میز نشست، کمی نمک ریخت، دو تا پیاز پوست کند و چاقو را برداشت و با قیافه ی مصمم مشغول بریدن نان شد؛ وقتی که گرده ی نان را دو قسمت کرده بود، به داخل نان نگاه کرد و با دیدن شیئی سفید رنگ، ماتش برد؛ با دقت ضربه ای با چاقو بدان زد و با دست لمسش کرد و با خودش گفت: «کلفت است، چی میتواند باشد؟» انگشتش را توی نان فرو کرد، و بیرونش کشید؛ یک دماغ! از وحشت یکه خورد؛ چشمهایش را مالید و دوباره لمس کرد؛ بله دماغ بود، بی هیچ شکی؛ مهمتر اینکه، دماغ به نظرش آشنا میآمد؛
صورتش از ترس وحشت پر شد؛ اما ترس او قابل قیاس با خشم و غیظ زنش نبود؛ زنش با غیظ فریاد زد: «حیوان، کجا این دماغ را بریدی؟ رذل! پست! خودم به پلیس گزارش میدهم؛ دائم الخمر! خوب فکر کن، از سه تا از مشتریهایت شنیده ام که موقع تراشیدن صورتشان، آنقدر دماغشان را میکشی که تعجب آور است چطور دماغشان کنده نمیشود!»؛ اما ایوان بیشتر احساس میکرد مرده است تا زنده؛ میدانست که دماغ به کسی جز کاوالیوف، افسر ارزیاب، تعلق ندارد؛ کسی که چهارشنبه ها و یکشنبه ها صورتش را میتراشید؛ «یک لحظه صبر کن پراسکوویا اوسیپوونا! این دماغ را لای پارچه میپیچم و گوشهی اتاق میگذارم. اجازه بده مدتی همانجا باشد، بعد راهی برای خلاصی از شرش پیدا میکنم.»؛ «فکر کردی! خیالت اجازه میدهم دماغ اره شده گوشه ی اتاقم بماند؛ بالا خانه ات را اجاره داده ای! فقط بلدی آن تیغ لعنتی ات را تیز کنی و همه چیز را بفرستی جهنم؛ بگذارم گوشه ی اتاق! جغد! لابد انتظار داری جنایتت را از پلیس مخفی کنم! خوک کثیف! کله پوک! آن دماغ را از اینجا ببر بیرون! هر کار خواستی بکن، اما اجازه نمیدهم حتی یک لحظه ی دیگر هم آن چیز، این طرفها بماند؛
ایوان یاکوولویچ کاملا گیج شده بود؛ فکر میکرد اما هیچ نمیفهمید چکار کند؛ سرانجام در حینی که پشت گوشش را میخاراند، گفت: «خدا لعنتم کند اگر بدانم چه اتفاقی افتاده! نمیتوانم یقینا بگویم دیشب موقعی که به خانه آمدم مست بودم یا نه. فقط میدانم این احمقانه است؛ تازه نان را توی اجاق پخته اند و نانواییها هم که دماغ نمیفروشند؛ هیچ سر در نمیآورم !»؛
ایوان یاکوولویچ خاموش شد؛ فکر اینکه ممکن است پلیس محل را جستجو کند و دماغ را بیابد، و دستگیرش کند، نزدیک بود دیوانهاش کند؛ تنش به لرزه افتاد؛ آخر سر شلوار کهنه ی چروک خورده و کفشهایش را پوشید و در حالی که فحشهای پراسکوویا اوسیپوونا بدرقه اش میکرد، دماغ را لای تکه پارچه ای پیچید و قدم به خیابان گذاشت؛
تنها چیزی که میخواست این بود که آن را جایی بیندازد، حالا میخواهد جوی آب باشد، یا جلوی خانه ای یا همینطور تصادفی جایی پرتش کند و در برود، اما با شانسی که داشت تمام مدت با دوستانش برخورد که با اصرار میپرسیدند: «کجا؟» یا «برای اصلاح مشتریها یک کمی زود نیست؟» و در نتیجه فرصتی برای خلاصی از دماغ پیدا نکرد. یکبار تصمیم گرفت و آن را روی زمین انداخت، اما پلیس با چوبدستی اش اشاره کرد و گفت: «برش دار! نمیبینی چیزی از دستت افتاد!؟» و ایوان یاکوولویچ مجبور شد برش دارد و توی جیبش بچپاند؛ نا امیدی گریبانش را گرفت، علیالخصوص که خیابانها با باز ادارات و مغازهها شدن هر لحظه شلوغتر میشدند؛
تصمیم گرفت راهش را به طرف پل ایساک، کج کند، شاید بتواند دماغ را توی رود نوا پرت کند، بیآنکه کسی ببیند؛ اما من اینجا راه خطایی پیش گرفته ام، اگر قبلا مطالبی درباره ی ایوان یاکوولویچ، که مردی از بسیاری جهات قابل احترام است، نگویم. ایوان یاکوولویچ، نظیر هر پیشه ور شریف روسی، دائم الخمری وحشتناک بود، و هر چند تمام روز را به تراشیدن ریش این و آن میگذراند، هرگز به ریش خودش دست نزده بود؛ چرک و چروک بهترین کلمه ای است که میتوان در وصف پالتویش گفت؛ (ایوان یاکوولویچ هرگز پالتو نمیپوشید)؛ باید گفت که در حقیقت پالتو خودش سیاه بود، اما لکه های قهوه ای و زرد و خاکستری تمامش را پوشانده بود؛ یقه اش سبز بود و سه تا نخ شل که از جلویش آویزان بود، نشان میداد زمانی این لباس دگمه هایی داشته است؛ ایوان یاکوولویچ از آن آدمهای تلخ اندیش بود، و هر گاه که کاوالیوف، افسر ارزیاب میگفت: «دستهایت بوی بد میدهند» در جواب میگفت: «ولی آخر چرا باید دستهای من بدبو باشند؟» و ارزیاب مثل همیشه میگفت: «عزیز جان، از من نپرس چرا، من فقط میدانم که بوی بد میدهند» و یاکوولویچ در جواب فقط یک نوک انگشت انفیه برمیداشت و از سر انتقام، تمام گونه و پشت گوش و زیر چانه و تمام جاهای ممکن صورت کاوالیوف را با کف صابون میپوشاند...؛ پایان نقل
ادامه ی داستان را در نشانی زیر بخوانید
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 17/03/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
It is a truth universally acknowledged that the longer and more carefully we look at a funny story, the sadder it becomes.
As expected, this is a hilarious story. After an intriguing introduction that I shall refrain from explaining, we are told that a man woke up, looked at his mirror but didn't find any labyrinths of time nor tigers that haunt dreams. He only noticed that his nose had disappeared. Was it during the night? Perhaps a second before he opened his eyes. We will never know. But, in an act that can only be described as a heinous betrayal and a challenge to every manifestation of reason, that part of his body escaped from the surface of his respectablelooking face and became a welldressed entity, very pleased with himself and, oddly, with a better social rank than his. Ah, and he was so proud of that rank! You know, he is the kind of person to whom you might ask about the weather and after a minute, you would find yourself listening to a fine gentleman boasting about his important occupations and the comforting feeling that his significant social status gave to him. Nothing profound, certainly. That sort of weakness might be suitable for someone of lesser rank, not him. Following this line of thought, remember, you would have the good fortune of listening to his distinguished conversation only if you belong to a similar status as his, otherwise, I'm afraid he will not be able to answer to you. That would be beneath him. Do not get me wrong, I am not trying to hurt your feelings. I am merely imparting what I regard as relevant information, a dash of knowledge, a gram of wisdom, if you will: the rules of civilization, no less!
You should know by now that the person I am referring to, the one who inspired these ridiculous lines—such drivel that he would unquestionably enjoy nonetheless because, after all, we are all talking about him—is no other than our friend Collegiate Assessor Kovalyov (now, if you would be so kind as to call him 'Major', that would help him make it through the night; to gently caress the ego of these upstanding members of society always ensures them a good night's sleep). Oh, the man sans nose. He could still breathe so that was not an issue, obviously. Notwithstanding, there was a visible absence on his face that surely made him feel selfconscious about his appearance. Who wouldn't understand?
You might think that the source of his distress was also the fact that he could no longer smell the fragrance of freshground coffee (although he would prefer tea, I suppose). Or the perfume of a woman with whom he might have dreamt of the other night but would not speak about, not to one soul, wishing that such memory would return to the bleak corner of his disobedient mind, where it should have stayed; those little nooks under the shadows of the world that hold unavowed dreams and nightmares that ruin normal sleep patterns. Or the aroma that comes from the snuffbox belonging to a thoughtful clerk who might not be aware of our friend's refined taste.
No, the superficial side of human nature would not allow such luxury. Not being able to show his face in public struck fear into his heart. We are in no position to judge here because every individual would feel the same way. Yes, sir. Who wouldn't understand?
Once the glimmer of satire has vanished completely and a state of reflection has emerged from the depths of the unconscious, you will discover that underneath this funny story lies the countenance of misery; timid, distant, determined. The anxiety caused by the look of another person. The condescending sneer from a superior. The mockery directed at an inferior. The need to have a respectable place in society and the urge to cling to it as if your life depended on it. Which, at some degree, unfortunately, it does. A natural consequence of people's priorities. You do understand.
Gogol, whose name is another universe so different from Dostoyevsky's and yet with countless similar facets, mastered the art of blending humor with tragedy, sheer absurdity with varying nuances of misfortune. Like a chameleon and its unusual ability, his language gradually varies from paragraph to paragraph—entertaining lines might take the form of serious statements filled with amusing nonsense that, by the end of the story, might resemble a set of words dripping the sort of lyricism that transports you to another place defying the laws of time, space and apprehensive dispositions.
From that moment on, the thoughts that were impatiently dwelling in some obscure corner that no one would wish to see, manage to free themselves, to leave their selfabsorbed bubble. Engulfed in flames of wintry colors and whispering voices, threatened by their wild nature, what are we supposed to do?
Look at the windows as you walk by. Better yet, do not go outside. Go to the bathroom where that wide mirror awaits for you every morning when you are most vulnerable, after walking aimlessly through the bedroom because of three or four hours of lousy sleep. Or reach into your handbag and pull out the small mirror you carefully hide from the world—a futile attempt to deny the existence of some vestige of vanity that might still reside in you.
In an act of moral courage, we could take a look at what that spotless piece of glass may reflect. We could stand in front of it, hold it before our eyes, struck by fear or overcome with joy, in deep, almost mystical contemplation, just to see ourselves through the perception of others, as we try to grab the nearest lifesaver for we might be sinking in a sea of inhibition; rough waters that may reveal a possible craving for social validation with fluctuating degrees of intensity, knowing all the time that any degree could dissolve all trace of reassurance, at the same speed an ice cube melts in hot water. To touch and recognize everything that visually defines us and emotionally affects us. More importantly, to find out, to bring to light. To actually discern what we might have lost yesterday, a while ago; during the minutes that have died and now belong to an uncertain space composed of unreliable memories and remnants of immortality. The things we are about to lose today. Things I would not want to lose tomorrow but that, as with anything in life, in fact, I may have never even had.
Mar 06, 16
* Also on my blog.
** Austen and Gogol have partaken in the creation of the first sentence. I share with you this classified piece of information before
Indeed, like losing your nose.
And for the man who has lost his nose, his life is literally now over. How could he possibly be seen in public again? How could anyone ever take him seriously? How could he ever get that all too important promotion or ever please his wife? So ridiculously funny this reaction becomes, the nose is everything to him and losing it means he can no longer function. And so Gogle wields the absurd to demonstrate the absurd.
The man thinks he has a different character now; he is someone else, something else. And here is the rub. What has actually changed? Nothing. His nose has gone. That’s it. In this Gogle shows how much importance is placed upon appearance in this vain, vain, world. It is so strange that a man should think himself so altered because of the loss of such a thing.
And this is where the comic elements come in. The story is rather inexplicable, but so is human nature. The events don’t make a great deal of sense or follow any logic, but, again, neither does human nature. This is a hilarious story; it’s so weird and wonderful.
Penguin Little Black Classic 44
The Little Black Classic Collection by penguin looks like it contains lots of hidden gems. I couldn’t help it; they looked so good that I went and bought them all. I shall post a short review after reading each one. No doubt it will take me several months to get through all of them! Hopefully I will find some classic authors, from across the ages, that I may not have come across had I not bought this collection.
One day a nose suddenly goes
To whither, nobody knows
Thus leaving a smooth vacancy
On gentle face an averse fancy
Then it was found in the street
Panting owner, rushing feet
His nose was now higher in rank
Nose thus rose and owner sank
How the deuce had that happened?
Let us read it till the end
A beautiful satire by Gogol.
I really enjoyed it.
This story is a nicely written symbolic story, which is depicting snobbery in social order of his time.
Though story is absurd, yet is a powerful social commentary, plotted in a very funny, readable and enjoyable manner.
“Perfect nonsense goes on in the world. Sometimes there is no plausibility at all”
― Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol, The Nose
Vol N° 46 of my Penguin Little Black Classics Box Set. This volume contains Gogol's short story/novella "The Nose" published in 1836, and written while Gogol was living in St. Petersburg.
Gogol was Kafka before Kafka. He is King Missle's "Detachable Penis" before King Missle was a Missle or a King. He is Dali before Dali. His writing is surreal, funny, cheeky, and amazing. It was modern in the 1836 and feels contemporary 180 years after originally written. Gogol was doing stuff that would take the rest of the world 100 years to catch up to (perhaps not Swift or Sterne). He was surreal in 1836.
From Vaught's Practical Character Reader, p 86.
My nose is somewhere between "Good and Bad" and "Selfish and Hopeful." I'd like to keep it that way, so I don't end up with a replacement nose that is "mental."
(How funny that I encountered "The Nose" and the Practical Character Reader in the same week!)
The NoseNikolai Gogol's beloved tale of civil servant Major Kovalyov waking up one morning to discover his nose has left his face and is living a life of its own. Much of the story's humor focuses on the prevailing preoccupation with social rank within the Russia of the time. Still, a nose is a nose. Thus, by my eye, three issues surrounding the old schnozzle pop into view:
NOSE ASSIGNED HIGH IMPORTANCE
Nose surgery or rhinoplasty is a surgical procedure to correct a prominent, unusual, asymmetric or irregular nose. Rhinoplasty is the most common procedure performed among facial plastic surgeons. No doubt about it, people want a nose that doesn't stick out for any reason whatsoever. The last thing a person wants when meeting others for the first time is for those others to come away thinking: "What a nose!"
NOSE ASSIGNED LOW IMPORTANCE
When it comes to the field of aesthetics and the philosophy of art, philosopher AnnSophie Barwich acknowledges the low status customarily assigned the sense of smell. However, she is undaunted and suggests: "What we must recognize here is that any expression of odor assessment and preference is not inevitably given or fixed but leaves room for contextual evaluations and the individual acquisition of expertise and taste." In other words, we would be well to recognize some individuals may take steps to cultivate their sense of smell and become connoisseurs of the nose.
Still, I have my doubts about raising the status of the nose. One develops an eye for painting, an ear for music, a taste for fine food, a feel for movement (one's kinesthetic sense) but how many people will admit publicly they are cultivating their nose?
NOSE AND MARXISM
I was completely unsuccessful in locating a Marxist interpretation of Gogol's The Nose. It appears staunch Marxists grudgingly admit the story is simply meant to be funny, a story that's entirely ridiculous and absurd, an instance of complete nonsense or, at best, a satire of Russian society since Kovalev's rank accords him high social status. However, the Marxists acknowledge any man or woman of any class, high or low, would be gravely upset at losing their nose. The fact that Gogol picked a pompous, conceited major to mock simply makes the story funnier.
So much for philosophy. Here are a batch of my modest comments linked with direct quotes from the tale itself:
“You beast, whose nose is that you’ve cut off?’ she cried furiously. ‘You scoundrel! You drunkard! I’ll report it to the police myself, I will.”When at breakfast Ivan Yakovlevitch, the barber, discovers there's a nose in his bread, a nose her recognizes as belonging to one of his customers by the name of Major Kovalev, his wife’s immediate reaction is to accuse him of committing a violent crime and then heap on the abuse. Nicolai Gogol's astute observation on a typical happy, harmonious Russian household. Although an absurdist tale, The Nose contains many elements of the harshest realism.
“Once, true, he did succeed in dropping the thing, but no sooner had he done so than a constable pointed at him with his truncheon, and shouted: “Pick it up again! You’ve lost something.” And then when Ivan Yakovlevich drops the nose in the water from up on Isaakievsky Bridge, another police office says: “Come and tell me what you have been doing on the bridge.””Nicolai Gogol’s penetrating insight into the future of constant surveillance under the omnipresent eye of a totalitarian state.
“Ivan Yakovlevich, like any honest Russian working man, was a terrible drunkard.”Gogol satire on display here. It is perfectly acceptable to be an alcoholic as long as you continue to perform your designated function within society. At one point Major Kavalyov tells the barber that his hands always stink and the narrator makes reference to the brown splotches all over Ivan Yakovlevich's jacket, leaving no doubt our honest, hardworking Russian, the salt of the earth and heartbeat of the nation, is also a filthy, stinking slob.
“Kovalyov stretched himself and asked for the small mirror that stood on the table to be brought over to him. He wanted to have a look at a pimple that had made its appearance on his nose the previous evening.”Our first telling acquaintance with the good Major in Part 2, the bulk of Nikolai Gogol’s story – Kovalyov’s constant preoccupation with his own appearance. And, you may ask, what are the Major’s deeper reflections throughout the tale on a person’s inner character independent of appearances? Perhaps predictably, such reflections are nonexistent.
“But, to his unbounded astonishment, there was only a flat patch on his face where the nose should have been!”Among the funniest parts of the story – Kovalyov’s dealing with having no nose. Forever the realist tied to outward appearances, he mostly hides the middle of his face with a handkerchief as if he was dealing with a nosebleed. Why not display to everyone in your city that we are living in a fabulist’s universe and all our assumptions about the laws of nature are false? No, no, no . . . not even close for such realists as Kovalyov.
“The feeling of horror and amazement that gripped Kovalyov when he recognized his own nose defies description! After this extraordinary sight everything went topsyturvy.”Ha! One instance of absurdism is all it takes! Kovalyov's neat and tidy world of rank and status is shattered.
“It was wearing a goldbraided uniform with a high standup collar and chamois trousers, and had a sword at its side. From the plumes on its hat one could tell that it held the exalted rank of state councilor. And it was abundantly clear that the nose was going to visit someone. It looked right, then left, shouted to the coachman ‘Let’s go!’ climbed in and drove off.”You have to love a nose with class! Nicolai Gogol’s connecting the world of fantasy and reality is both charming and comical. No wonder a number of children’s picture books have been created based on the author’s story. Gogol’s satire and social commentary leaven the storytelling but on another, more fundamental level, The Nose tickles the funny bone and is sheer, simple fun.
“It was praying with an expression of profound piety. ‘What’s the best way of approaching it?’ thought Kovalyov. ‘Judging by its uniform, its hat, and its whole appearance, it must be a state councilor. But I’m damned if I know!’ And then when Kavalyov engages his nose in conversations: ‘My dear fellow, you are mistaken. I am a person in my own right.”Rebuffed by his very own nose. The ultimate insult!
Kavalyov decides to take yet another approach: “I’ll go to the City Security Office, not because it was directly connected with the police, but because things got done there much quicker than in any other government department.”Nicolai Gogol’s subtle dig at a society placing highest priority on its own security, anticipating the Soviet KGB.
"For surely you perceive me no longer to be in possession of a means of sniffing? Oh, you and your snuff can go to hell!"Insulted yet again, this time by a lowly clerk offering him a pinch of snuff when the clerk can plainly see he hasn't got a nose with which to sniff the stuff.
Fortunately, Nicolai Gogol doesn't leave poor Kovalyov in his tragic state. I encourage you to read this short classic and watch Kovalyov's hilarious honker in action.
La bonne aventure , 1937, René Magritte
Nikolai Gogol, 18091852 So...I sort of removed my nose. (ok don't laugh pls, I know I look mad. I did it for er, literature)
[Voldanya] (A portmanteau of Voldemort and Ananya, geddit geddit? :D :D :D)
Notice how the patch is as uniform as a newly fried pancake.
Gogol's short story Nose (Нос) is about a Collegiate Assessor Kovalyov who one day wakes up with his nose missing (I was reminded a little of Kafka's sad novella Metamorphosis). The novelette is bizarrely humorous and follows the noseless adventures of Kovalyov running after his nose trying to catch it redhanded(?) and making it sit on his face (heh heh).
Poor Kovalyov nearly went out of his mind. He did not know what to make of it. How, in fact, could a nose, which only yesterday was in the middle of his face, and which could not possibly walk around or drive in a carriage, suddenly turn up in a uniform!
The Nose in my culture is an allegory for a person's (or their family's) status/honour. So the Hindi phrase 'Naak kaat lena' (to cut one's own nose; and hence, bring shame upon themselves) can be considered this story's phoren dark skinned little cousin.
I won't go much into thematic/symbolic analysis. In case you're looking for a serious study, Florencia's review will slay you; unlike yours truly's (the Assclown's).
There's some variety of castration complex going on in the story with a dollop of class obsession (that started in Russia during the reign of Peter the Great), a generous sprinkling of neurotic fixation with physical appearance (I am waggling my eyebrows at you, Kardashian Klan), blah blah fish paste.
Oh, look! There goes My Nose wearing a pink tutu, a kokoshnik and a cape galloping on a horse. *runs after it with a bazooka*