Have you seen a leaf, a leaf from a tree?"
"I have. "
"I saw one recently, a yellow one, with some green,decayed on the edges. Blown about by the wind. When I was 10 years old, I'd close my eyes on purpose, in winter, and imagine a leaf – green, bright, with veins, and the sun shining. I'd open my eyes and not believe it, because it was so good, then I'd close them again. "
"What's that, an allegory?"
"N-no... Why? Not an allegory, simply a leaf, one leaf. A leaf is good. Everything is good."
"Everything? "
"Everything. Man is unhappy because he doesn't know he's happy; only because of that. It's everything, everything! Whoever learns will at once immediately become happy, that same moment. This mother-in-law will die and the girl won't remain – everything is good. I discovered suddenly. "
"And if someone dies of hunger, or someone offends and dishonors the girl – is that good? "
"Good. And if someone's head get smashed in for the child's sake, that's good, too; and if it doesn't get smashed in, that's good, too. Everything is good, everything. For all those who know that everything is good. If they knew it was good with them, it would be good with them, but as long as they don't know it's good with them, it will not be good with them. That's the whole thought, the whole, there isn't any more! "
"And when did you find out that you were so happy? "
"Last week, on Tuesday, no, Wednesday, because it was Wednesday by then, in the night.
Stichwörter: russian-literature happiness-life
Woman is deprived of rights from lack of education, and the lack of education results from the absence of rights. We must not forget that the subjection of women is so complete, and dates from such ages back that we are often unwilling to recognise the gulf that separates them from us.
Leo TolstoyStichwörter: russian-literature women-s-rights
Always wetweating-always wetweating!
Leo TolstoyStichwörter: russian-literature napoleonic-wars
Margarita was never short of money. She could buy whatever she liked. Her husband had plenty of interesting friends. Margarita never had to cook. Margarita knew nothing of the horrors of living in a shared flat. In short... was she happy? Not for a moment.
Mikhail BulgakovStichwörter: life inspirational friends happiness woman wealth marriage cooking misery husband russian-literature the-master-and-margarita mikhail-bulgakov tragedy-of-life
Once [the Senator's] brain has come into play with the mysterious stranger, that stranger exists, really does exist: he will not disappear from the Petersburg prospects while a senator with such thoughts exists, because thought, too, exists.
And so let our stranger be a real live stranger! And let my stranger's two shadows be real live shadows!
Those dark shadows will follow, they will follow on the stranger's heels, in the same way as the stranger himself will directly follow the senator; the aged senator will pursue you, he will pursue you, too, reader, in his black carriage: and from this day forth you will never forget him!
Stichwörter: russian-literature
And it has always been a mystery, and I've marveled a thousand times at this ability of man (and, it seems, of the Russian man above all) to cherish the highest ideal in his soul alongside the greatest baseness, and all that in perfect sincerity. --The Adolescent (or, The Raw Youth)
Fyodor DostoevskyStichwörter: mankind russian-literature dostoevsky
Whether one showed you and execution or a little finger, you would extract an equally edifying thought from both of them, and would still be content. That's the way to get on in life.
Fyodor DostoevskyStichwörter: russian-literature
Friendship is merely a glorified expression. In reality it is nothing but a reciprocal outpouring of slops.
Fyodor DostoevskyStichwörter: russian-literature
both touching and somehow repulsive.
Fyodor DostoevskyStichwörter: russian-literature
The Elm Log
By Alexander Solzhenitsyn
We were sawing firewood when we picked up an elm log and gave a cry of amazement. It was a full year since we had chopped down the trunk, dragged it along behind a tractor and sawn it up into logs, which we had then thrown on to barges and wagons, rolled into stacks and piled up on the ground - and yet this elm log had still not given up! A fresh green shoot had sprouted from it with a promise of a thick, leafy branch, or even a whole new elm tree.
We placed the log on the sawing-horse, as though on an executioner's block, but we could not bring ourselves to bite into it with our saw. How could we? That log cherished life as dearly as we did; indeed, its urge to live was even stronger than ours.
Stichwörter: prose-poetry russian-literature solzhenitsyn
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