Aleksandr Pushkin

"The illusion which exalts us is dearer to us than ten thousand truths."

"God save us from seeing a Russian revolt, senseless and merciless. Those who plot impossible upheavals among us, are either young and do not know our people, or are hard-hearted men who do not care a straw either about their own lives or those of others."

"‎На берегу пустынных волн Стоял он, дум великих полн,"

"And thus He mused: "From here, indeed Shall we strike terror in the Swede? And here a city by our labor Founded, shall gall our haughty neighbor; "Here cut" - so Nature gives command - Your window through on Europe; stand Firm-footed by the sea, unchanging!"

"‘Tis time, my friend, ‘tis time! For rest the heart is aching; Days follow days in flight, and every day is taking Fragments of being, while together you and I Make plans to live. Look, all is dust, and we shall die."

"The heavy hanging chains shall fall, The walls shall crumble at the word, And Freedom greet you with the light And brothers give you back the sword."

"When the loud day for men who sow and reap Grows still, and on the silence of the town The insubstantial veils of night and sleep, The meed of the day's labour, settle down, Then for me in the stillness of the night The wasting, watchful hours drag on their course, And in the idle darkness comes the bite Of all the burning serpents of remorse; Dreams seethe; and fretful infelicities Are swarming in my over-burdened soul, And Memory before my wakeful eyes With noiseless hand unwinds her lengthy scroll. Then, as with loathing I peruse the years, I tremble, and I curse my natal day, Wail bitterly, and bitterly shed tears, But cannot wash the woeful script away."

"God grant you, friends, a helping hand— In cares of state and private plights, In rowdy feasts of friendship's band, In passion's sweet and secret rites! God grant you, friends, a helping hand— In daily woes and days of strife, On vacant sa, in distant land, In every black abyss of life!"

"What grace could all your worldly power bring To One whose crown of thorns has made him King, The Christ who gave His body to the flails, Who humbly bore the lance and piercing nails? Or do you fear the rabble might disgrace The One."

"Come purge my soul, Thou Master of my days, Of vain and empty words, of idle ways, Of base ambition and the urge to rule; That hidden serpent that corrupts a fool; and grant me, Lord, to see my sins alone. That I not call my brother to atone; Make chaste my heart and lend me from above Thy fortitude, humility, and love."

"Но так и быть — рукой пристрастной Прими собранье пестрых глав, Полусмешных, полупечальных, Простонародных, идеальных, Небрежный плод моих забав, Бессониц, легких вдохновений, Незрелых и увядших лет, Ума холодных наблюдений И сердца горестных замет."

"There yet remains but one concluding tale, And then this chronicle of mine is ended— Fulfilled, the duty God ordained to me, A sinner. Not without purpose did the Lord Put me to witness much for many years And educate me in the love of books. One day some indefatigable monk Will find my conscientious, unsigned work; Like me, he will light up his ikon-lamp And, shaking from the scroll the age-old dust, He will transcribe these tales in all their truth."

"Unforced, as conversation passed, he had the talent of saluting felicitously every theme, of listening like a judge-supreme while serious topics were disputing, or, with an epigram-surprise, of kindling smiles in ladies' eyes."

"Всегда довольный сам собой, Своим обедом и женой."

"A man who's active and incisive can yet keep nail-care much in mind: why fight what's known to be decisive? custom is despot of mankind."

"Недуг, которого причину Давно бы отыскать пора, Подобный английскому сплину, Короче: русская хандра"

"Прошла любовь, явилась Муза, И прояснился темный ум. Свободен, вновь ищу союза Волшебных звуков, чувств и дум;"

"Привычка свыше нам дана: Замена счастию она."

"Send me, Almighty, I petition, In porticoes or at a ball No bonneted academician, No seminarist in a yellow shawl! No more than in red lips unsmiling Can I find anything beguiling In grammar-perfect Russian speech. What purist magazines beseech, A novel breed of belles may heed it, And bend us (for my life of sin) To strict grammatic discipline, Prescribing meter, too, where needed; But I - what is all this to me? I like things as they used to be"

"The less we show our love to a woman, Or please her less, and neglect our duty, The more we trap and ruin her surely In the flattering toils of philandery."

"The clock of doom had struck as fated; the poet, without a sound, let fall his pistol on the ground."

"Москва… как много в этом звуке Для сердца русского слилось! Как много в нем отозвалось!"

"Что наши лучшие желанья, Что наши свежие мечтанья Истлели быстрой чередой, Как листья осенью гнилой."

"Pimen [writing in front of a sacred lamp]: One more, the final record, and my annals Are ended, and fulfilled the duty laid By God on me a sinner. Not in vain Hath God appointed me for many years A witness, teaching me the art of letters; A day will come when some laborious monk Will bring to light my zealous, nameless toil, Kindle, as I, his lamp, and from the parchment Shaking the dust of ages will transcribe My true narrations."

"Like some magistrate grown gray in office, Calmly he contemplates alike the just And unjust, with indifference he notes Evil and good, and knows not wrath nor pity."

"Ah! heavy art thou, crown of Monomakh!"

"Mosalsky: Good folk! Maria Godunov and her son Feodor have poisoned themselves. We have seen their dead bodies. [The People are silent with horror.] Why are ye silent? Cry, Long live the Tsar Dimitry Ivanovich! [The People are speechless.]"

"Why rave ye, babblers, so -- ye lords of popular wonder?"

"And shall Slavonic streams meet in a Russian ocean --"

".. you mark the fate"

"What stirs ye? Is it that this nation"

""The bread of the stranger is bitter," says Dante, "and his staircase hard to climb." But who can know what the bitterness of dependence is so well as the poor companion of an old lady of quality?"

"I have come to you against my wish," she said in a firm voice: "but I have been ordered to grant your request. Three, seven, ace, will win for you if played in succession, but only on these conditions: that you do not play more than one card in twenty-four hours, and that you never play again during the rest of your life. I forgive you my death, on condition that you marry my companion, Lizaveta Ivanovna."

"Two fixed ideas can no more exist together in the moral world than two bodies can occupy one and the same place in the physical world."

""Ace has won!" cried Hermann, showing his card. "Your queen has lost," said Chekalinsky, politely. Hermann started; instead of an ace, there lay before him the queen of spades! He could not believe his eyes, nor could he understand how he had made such a mistake. At that moment it seemed to him that the queen of spades smiled ironically and winked her eye at him. He was struck by her remarkable resemblance... "The old Countess!" he exclaimed, seized with terror."

"Hermann went out of his mind, and is now confined in room Number 17 of the Obukhov Hospital. He never answers any questions, but he constantly mutters with unusual rapidity: "Three, seven, ace!" "Three, seven, queen!""

"Tormented by spiritual thirst, I dragged myself through a somber desert. And a six-winged seraph Appeared to meet me at the crossing of the ways. He touched my eyes With fingers as light as a dream: And my prophetic eyes opened Like those of a frightened eagle. He touched my ears And they were filled with noise and ringing: And I heard the shuddering of the heavens, And the flight of the angels in the heights, And the movement of the beasts of the sea under the waters, And the sound of the vine growing in the valley. He bent down to my mouth And tore out my tongue, Sinful, decitful, and given to idle talk; with the right hand steeped in blood He inserted the tongue of a wise serpent, Into my benumbed mouth. He clove my breast with a sword, And plucked out my quivering heart, And thrust a coal of live fire Into my gaping breast. Like a corpse I lay in the desert. And the voice of God called out to me: 'Arise, O prophet, see and hear, Be filled with my will, Go forth over land and sea, And set the hearts of men on fire with your Word.'"

"Homeland, tenderer than first caresses,/you have taught me to protect and guard/golden language in all Pushkin's treasures,/Gogol's magic, captivating word."

"Солнце нашей поэзии закатилось! Пушкин скончался, скончался во цвете лет, в средине своего великого поприща!.. Более говорить о сем не имеем силы, да и не нужно; всякое русское сердце знает всю цену этой невозвратимой потери, и всякое русское сердце будет растерзано."

"А Пушкин — наше всё: Пушкин — представитель всего нашего душевного, особенного, такого, что остается нашим душевным, особенным после всех столкновений с чужим, с другими мирами. Пушкин — пока единственный полный очерк нашей народной личности, самородок, принимавший в себя, при всевозможных столкновениях с другими особенностями и организмами, все то, что принять следует, отбрасывавший все, что отбросить следует ... сочувствия старой русской жизни и стремления новой, — все вошло в его полную натуру в той стройной мере, в какой бытие послепотопное является сравнительно с бытием допотопным, в той мере, которая определяется русскою душою."

"Несмотря на всю свою славу, Пушкин при жизни не был достаточно глубоко оценен даже наиболее проницательными из своих современников. ... В той или иной степени это непонимание продолжалось около полустолетия. ... Лишь после знаменитой речи Достоевского Пушкин открылся не только как «солнце нашей поэзии», но и как пророческое явление. ... Нисколько не удивительно, что, прослушав ее, люди обнимались и плакали: в ту минуту им дано было новое, необычайно возвышенное и гордое понятие не только о Пушкине, но и обо всей России, и о них самих в том числе."

"I brought with me to Siberia books by Pushkin, Lermontov and Nekrasov. Ilyich arranged them near his bed, alongside Hegel, and read them over and over again in the evenings. Pushkin was his favourite."

"One often hears: that is good but it belongs to yesterday. But I say: yesterday has not yet been born. It has not yet really existed. I want Ovid, Pushkin, and Catullus to live once more, and I am not satisfied with the historical Ovid, Pushkin, and Catullus."

"In the tiny gardens-sunflowers, rezedas, poppies,/blonde braids, beribboned cockades, Pushkin and Nadson."

"Pushkin grew with the years. Every other writer claimed descent from him. Inexplicably, the whole of Russian literature proceeded from his genius. Poetry, novels, short stories, history, theater, criticism—he had opened up the whole gamut of literary endeavor to his countrymen. He was first in time, and first in quality. He was the source. Neither Gogol nor Tolstoy could have existed without him, for he made the Russian language; he prepared the ground for the growth of every genre."

"В поэзии Пушкина метонимия и перифраза являются основным элементом стиля... В этом отношении Пушкин продолжает традицию поэтов XVIII в. ... Тема о Пушкине как завершителе русского классицизма давно уже стоит на очереди, но требуются многочисленные предварительные работы по русскому языку XVIII в., которые до сих пор не сделаны. С другой стороны, возникает вопрос о «наследии Пушкина» в XIX в. Поэты XIX в. не были учениками Пушкина; после его смерти возобладала романтическая традиция, восходящая к Жуковскому и воспитанная под немецким влиянием."