257 Quotes About Russian

How I love, how I loved to stareAt the ironclad shores,On the balcony, where foreverNo foot stepped, not mine, not yours.And in truth you are -- a capitalFor the mad and luminous us;But when over Nieva sailThose special, pure hoursAnd the winds of May fly overYou past the iron beamsYou are like a dying sinnerSeeing heavenly dreams...

Lying in me, as though it were a white Stone in the depths of a well, is one Memory that I cannot, will not, fight: It is happiness, and it is pain. Anyone looking straight into my eyes Could not help seeing it, and could not fail To become thoughtful, more sad and quiet Than if he were listening to some tragic tale. I know the gods changed people into things, Leaving their consciousness alive and free.To keep alive the wonder of suffering, You have been metamorphosed into me.

Live in the needs of the day.

Although we had had no precise exponents of realism, yet after Pushkin it was impossible for a Russian writer to depart too far from actuality. Even those who did not know what to do with "real life" had to cope with it as best they could. Hence, in order that the picture of life should not prove too depressing, the writer must provide himself in due season with a philosophy.

Oh, there are unrepeated words,Who ever said wasted more than he should.Inexhaustible only is the blueOf sky and generosity of God.

It was hard to decide on a literature course. Everything the professors said seemed to be somehow beside the point. You wanted to know why Anna had to die, and instead they told you that 19th century Russian landowners felt conflicted about whether they were really a part of Europe. The implication was that it was somehow naive to want to talk about anything interesting, or to think that you would ever know anything important.

амедлил бледный луч закатаВ высоком, невзначай, окне.Ты мог бы в том окне приметитьЗа рамой - бледные черты,Ты мог бы некий знак заметить,Которого не знаешь ты,Но ты проходишь - и не взглянешь,Встречаешь - и не узнаешь,Ты за другими в сумрак канешь,Ты за толпой вослед пройдешь.Ступай, прохожий, без вниманья,Свой ус лениво теребя,Пусть встречный человек и зданье -Как все другие - для тебя.Ты занят всякими делами,Тебе, конечно, невдомек,Что вот за этими стенамиИ твой скрываться может рок...

Except for two or three older writers, all modern literature seems to me not literature but some sort of handicraft, which exists only so as to be encouraged, though one is reluctant to use its products.

I was born not late and not early,This time is blessed and meet,Only God did not allow a heartTo live long without deceit.And from this it is dark in the light room,And from this do the friends I've sought,Like the sorrowful birds of evening,Sing of love that was not.