Daughter of Eve by Balzac *

"His clothes were a necessary envelope to which he paid no attention, for his gaze soared too high in the clouds to come in contact with material things. And so this great unrecognized artist belonged to that generous race of the absent-minded, who give their time and their hearts to others, just as they drop their gloves on every table, their umbrellas at every door. Finally, his aged frame, badly set upon tottering, knotty limbs, gave ocular proof how far a man's body can become a mere accessory to his mind."

"The man whose action habitually bears the stamp of his mind is a genius, but the greatest genius is not always equal to himself, or he would cease to be human."

He would be equal to his genius- which is something that is not possible for us humans.

"The perfect happiness of Eve in her terrestrial paradise produces in her the nausea which comes from living too much on sweets...This, it appears, has been the meaning in all ages of that symbolical serpent to whom the first woman made advances, some day no doubt when she was feeling bored...She was conscious of a force within, which found no exercise. She was happy, but her happiness caused her pangs; it was placid and uneventful, she was not haunted by the dread of losing it...Not a zephyr's breath wrinkled this calm expanse; she longed for a ripple on the glassy surface."

How complex the female is, and yet, so much confusion within her. It is as if what she desires will never satisfy because she is so capricious..."When she was feeling bored" basically describes it all...

"Kindness is not without its rocks ahead. People are apt to put it down to an easy temper, and seldom recognize it as the secret striving of a generous nature; whilst, on the other hand, the ill-natured get credit for all the evil they refrain from."

"He was bound to be, and he was, for his Eve, listless in her paradise of the Rue du Rocher, the insidious serpent, bright to the eye and flattering to the ear, with magnetic gaze and graceful motion, who ruined the first woman."

First time I've ever come across this marvelous analogy to the Biblical Eve.
The comparison and metaphor is genius! Oh how many women were ruined by such men! It is the female's weakness, and that is what will "ruin" her forever...century after century. Maybe it is because "she was bored" and just an act out of curiosity?

"A woman's thought has marvelous elasticity; it may sink under a blow, to all appearance crushed, but in a given time it is up again, as thought nothing has happened."


"It seemed as though the art of man would also compete with the animal world."

"To the wonderful observer the scene presented more than this gaily decorated surface. It had a soul; it lived, it thought, it felt, it found expression in the hidden passions which now and again forced their way to the surface."

Beautiful, about the essence of Parisian society.

"Imagination has thrown open her fairy realms, and in these our spirits ranged at will, each in turn serving as magic steed to the other, the more alert quickening the drowsy; the world from which our bodies were shut out became the playground of our fancy, which reveled there in frolicsome adventure."

What worlds, what realms imagination provides. The imagination is the "playground" for our spirits, in which are bodies are but a concept- they are the idea, our spirit being the true "body".

"Love, as we imagined it, a world of wonders, of glorious dreams, of charming realities, of sorrows that waken sympathy, and smiles that make sunshine does not exist. The bewitching words, the constant interchange of happiness, the misery of absence, the flood of joy at the presence of the beloved one- where are they? What soil produces these radiant flowers of the soul? Which is wrong? Who has lied to us? Ourselves or the world?'"

The juxtaposition of this is almost ironic...

"Love, dear, is the product of such rare conditions that it is quite possible to live a lifetime without coming across the being on whom the nature has bestowed the power of making one's happiness. The thought is enough to make one shudder; for if this being is found too late, what then?"

Shows how fragile our lives are, how each little detail can contribute so much to our lives- our experiences. One little thing can twist our whole lives into a completely different direction. How helpless and out of control we are! We pathetic human beings! How the creatures above must be entertained by the irony- we could pass our chosen "being" in the street without even knowing it!

"Rich, young, and beautiful, I have only to love, and love would become my soul occupation, my life;"

Oh the optimism of youth!

"Sometimes, at night, I will linger for an hour by my window, gazing into the garden, summoning the future, with all it brings, out of the mystery which shrouds it. There are days too, when, having started for a drive, I get out and walk in the Champs-Elysees, and picture to myself that the man who is to waken my slumbering soul is at hand, that he will follow and look at me."

Delicate themes that Balzac addresses, which makes him such a marvelous man, a genius!

"...treasures whence should issue a unique satisfaction of passion and desire, hours of poetry to outweigh years, joys to make a man serve a lifetime for one gracious gesture- all this to be buried in the tedium of a tame, commonplace marriage, to vanish in the emptiness of an existence which you will come to loathe!"

And that is the unfortunate reality- this is how the naive hope become crushed by the brutality of reality

"Love, as I conceive it, is a purely personal poem. In all that books tell us about it, there is nothing which is not at once false and true."

"Thus it might happen that he would spend his life in ignorance of true love, while all the time possessing those qualities most fitted to inspire it. But if ever he find the ideal woman who has haunted his waking dreams, if he meet with a nature capable of understanding his own, one who could fill his soul and pour sunshine over his life, could shine as a star through the mists of this chill and gloomy world, lend fresh charm to existence, and draw music from the hitherto silent chords of his being- needless to say, he would recognize and welcome his good fortune."

Good fortune indeed! To have something dormant inside of you, to be capable of cultivating it but not knowing about its very existence...that is incredible. Makes me wonder about people who have talents inside of them of which they do not know about.

"Not a moment passes without thoughts of you, for my whole being is bond up in you, and if you ceased to be its animating principle, every part would ache."

"...whilst great souls know how to clothe the merely natural instinct in all the graces of the spirit. The very strength of his spiritual passion imposes severe self- restraint and inspires them with reverence for women. Clearly, feeling is sensitive in proportion to the caliber of the mental powers generally, and that is why the man of genius alone has something of a woman's delicacy. He understands and divines woman, and the wings of passion on which he raises her are restrained by the timidly of the sensitive spirit.But when the mind, the heart, and the senses all have their share in the rapture which transports us- ah! then there is no falling to earth, rather it is to heaven we sour, alas! for only too brief a visit."

It is something divine..when the intellect and spirit meet.

"Dress, that splendid poem of a woman's life, the significance of which she had either exhausted or ignored, now appeared to her full of a magic hitherto unknown. Suddenly it became to her what it is to all women- a continuous expression of the inner thought, a language, a symbol. What wealth of delight in a costume designed for his pleasure, his honor."

"The humblest, as well as the most distinguished, woman must feel her head turned by the first open declaration of her power in such a transformation. Every change is a confession of servitude."

Interesting. The change is the devotion to the other person by action.

"Amidst this gay assembly, the lovers found their joy in a long draught of the delicious sensations arising from the words, the voice, the gestures, and the bearing of the loved one. The soul clings desperately to such trifles. At times the eyes of both will converge upon the same spot, embedding there, as it were, a thought of which they thus risk the interchange. They talk, and longing looks follow the peeping foot, the quivering hand, the fingers which toy with some ornament, flicking it, twisting it about, then dropping it, in significant fashion. It is no longer words or thoughts which make themselves heard, it is things,; and that in so clear a voice, that often the man who loves will leave to others the task of handing a cup of tea, a sugar-basin, or what not, to his lady-love, ind read lest his agitation should be visible to eyes which, apparently seeing nothing, see all. Thronging desires, mad wishes, passionate thoughts, find their into a glance and die out there. The pressure of a hand, eluding a thousand Avgus eyes, is eloquent as written pages, burning as a kiss. Love grows by all that it denies itself' it treads on obstacles to reach the higher. And barriers, more often crushed than cleared, are hacked and cast into the fire to feed its flames. Here it is that women see the measure of their power, when love, that is boundless, coils up and hides itself within a thirsty glance, a nervous thrill, behind the screen of normal civility. How often has not a single word, on the last step of a staircase paid the price of an evening's silent agony and empty talk!"

Goodness, Balzac so easily pinpointed a concept that I was interested in; the act of hiding such an emotion under the cool pretenses of civility. Amazing, once again.

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My favorite book by Balzac, so far. So many marvelous descriptions of love, of the emotions of youth...such delicate subjects and he tends to them with such tenderness... He is the french Turgenev. The story was extremely interesting; how the woman wanted her "one" to be her salvation...and how unexpected the ending was. Loved it! Of course.

Most of all, I really enjoyed the concept of "the daughters of Eve", and the "apple" being a seducer. The weakest point of woman is to be flattered and tended to, to be "petted" and given attention- this strokes her femininity- therefore making the seducer the perfect "serpent" for woman.

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Pub by Gebbie Publishing Company

The Lilly of the Valley by Balzac

"A new soul, a soul with iridescent wings, had burst its chrysalis within me. My favorite star, dropping from the blue waste where I had admired it, and became a woman, while presenting its light, its sparkle, and its brilliancy."

Beautifully describing the embodiment of an idea, a common motif in the classics. The fact that the "woman" comes from the stars, the sky, "where I had admired it", gives the "woman" a sort of divinity- something beyond this world.

"Past sorrows, broodings, despair, and melancholy- past, but not forgotten- are so many bonds by which the soul clings to its sister soul."

It's interesting how the negative parts of life bond human beings together... ironic.

"How enchanting for a young man to see the woman he loves the most beautiful person present and the object of passionate admiration, while he knows the light of those chastely modest eyes is for him alone, and is familiar enough with every tone of her voice to find in her speech, superficially trivial or ironical, proofs of an ever-present thought of him"

"A true passion is like a beautiful flower, which it is all the more delightful to find when the soil that produces it is barren and wild."

A sort of virginity

"When words failed us, silence served us faithfully our souls entered into each other...each enjoying the charm of pensive torpor, they floated together in the river, and came forth like two nymphs as closely one as even jealousy could wish, but free from every earthy tie."

The description is fantastical... i love the way it gives the impression of flowing into each other...

"(...)it struck that there was a harmony in their hues and foliage, a poetry that found its way to the understanding by fascinating the eye, just as musical phrase arouse a thousand associations in loved and loving hearts. If color is anymore light, must it not have its meaning, as vibrations of their air have?"

Color is poetry to the eye!

"Nature has certain effects of boundless meaning, rising to the level of the greatest intellectual ideas...a long forest avenue, like the nave of a cathedral where the pillars are trees, their branches meeting like the groins of a vault, and at the end a distant glade seen through the foliage, dappled with light and shade, or glowing in the ruddy beams of sunset like the painted glass window of a chancel, filled with birds of choristers."

This analogy I've only come across a non-classic incidentally- Freckles by Gene-Stratton Porter... it refers to nature as being the ultimate "church", which is a very interesting concept concerning spirituality in general. Because agreeing to this would affect much of one's outlook on the spiritual...

It is as if nature worships God in its own way, creating cathedrals in the dark, deep forests, honoring its Creator...

"And still, in harmony with my thoughts, the valley under the dying yellow rays of the warm sun presented to me a responsive and living image of my soul."

How well nature knows us... Because the beauty of nature and its mysteries is all perceived through the effect it has upon us, upon our souls.

"The swirl of passion, with its suppressed longings, harmonizes with that of the river; the flowers, unforced by the hand of man, express his most secret dreams; the delicious see-saw of a boat vaguely repeats the thoughts that float in the brain."
Our words, strung to the diapason of nature, were full of mysteries grace, and our eyes shone with brighter beams, as they caught the light so lavishly shed by the sun on the scorching shore."

"I may say that we loved each other in every creature, in every object that we saw about us; we felt outside us the happiness each longed for;"

"(...)the source of the beams that shone from our eyes lay in our souls, for which they were as a pathway, leading from one to the other, so that they might visit, become one, separate, and play:"

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I think Balzac is the best from the french. Such beautiful poetry! And he uses it so artfully, mixing it with society and nature... marvelous. Of course, genius.

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Pub by Gebbie Publishing Co

A Sportman's Notebook by Turgenev

"...night reigned in all the majesty of its empire; the moist freshness of late evening has given place to the dry warmth of midnight, which would lie for some while yet, in a soft veil, over the sleeping fields."

I love how he refers to the "warmth of midnight"- gives this feeling of tranquility and piece.

"It is a strangely enjoyable occupation to lie on one's back in the forest and look upwards. You seem to be looking onto a bottomless sea, extending far and wide beneath you; the trees seem not to rise from the ground, but, like the roots of huge plants, to drop perpendicularly down into those glass-clear waves, and the leaves on the trees are now translucent as emeralds, now opaque with a goldfish, almost blackish, green. Somewhere far, far away, at the end of its slender twig, a single leaf stands motionless against a blue path of pellucid sky, and beside it another one sways with a movement like the play of a fish on a line, a movement that seems spontaneous and not produced by the wind."

Most beautiful description he has ever written. I have never before come upon this concept- that the sky is the ocean, as if everything is backwards...and the trees are in the waters... The leaf has a mind of its own, as if it really was "a fish on a line". That is why I like the Russians the best. Marvelous

"...it was as if some immense forces were lying, sullenly inactive, within him, as if they knew that, once aroused, once let loose, they must destroy themselves and everything they touched."

Such extreme violence can be hidden in the dormant...Makes us wonder how truly "peaceful" we really are...

"The leaves were whispering faintly over my head: you could have told the time of the year from their whisper alone."

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In this book, Turgenev was closest to nature, his talent is most evident. He had beautiful descriptions in this book- about nature and Russian classic characters- like the peasant and the landlord. Seems very real. I can't believe he wrote this in Paris.

A Month in the Country by Turgenev

"What's the point of writing if you weren't born with the talent for it? -people will only laugh at you. And apart from that- it's very strange, perhaps you can explain it to me- even an otherwise clever man seems to become completely stupid when he takes a pen in his hand. No, it's no use writing- let's be thankful we can understand what's being written."

This talent cannot be "developed" like so many workshops try to make one do. One is born with it.

"...all love- whether it be happy or unhappy- it's sheer misery if you surrender completely to it... Just wait a little, and perhaps you will learn how these tender little hands can torture you, and with what loving care they tear your heart to pieces...wait a little, and you will find out what pangs of hatred lurk beneath the most passionate love!...Wait a bit, and you will learn what it is to belong to a woman, what it means to be enslaved and infected- and how degrading, how wearying that slavery is! And in the end you will learn what trivialities are brought for so dear a price..."

This side of "love" is rarely talked about. How so much evil can be found in it.
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Again, reminds me of Anna Karenina. But not just adultery...anything, even human love, can be too much if one delves too deep into it. As an obsession. It can become "sheer misery." I wonder if man these days are still enslaved as in the older times, when men thirsted fpr women- but were forbidden (or maybe an obstacle) by society. maybe it provided more of a challenge....one had to go around the system. Are women so controlling nowadays? I don't see many cases....since everything is so liberal...

And about the main woman, Natalya Petrovna. Even though she has a girlish and immature air, she is extremely selfish. All for her own gain, even if she is sincere. This selfishness is dangerous, especially when she doesn't realize it in herself; because she doesn't know what she wants, and may even feel guilty about it.

After reading the analysis, it turns out that Natalya was dominating because her father had scared her in childhood. What was more interesting though, is that Rakitin (her lover) has ceased to be a man. When a woman dominates a man, he ceases to be one, because the main function of a man is to be dominant at least in some way- if he loses that, he loses his function...and becomes a mere body walking about. So those traditional roles are somewhat true, to a certain extent. If roles switch, nature itself is thrown off balance- which ends up being "sheer misery" and chaos.
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Pub by Chandler Co

Fruitfulness by Emile Zola

"To love! to love! to be able to love! Therein lies all health, all will, and all power."

"And the divine dream, the generous utopian thought soars into the heavens; families blended into nations, nations blended into mankind, one sole brotherly people making of the world one soul city of peace and justice! Ah! may eternal fruitfulness ever expand, may the seed of humanity be carried over the frontiers, peopling the untilled deserts of afar, and increasing mankind through the coming centuries until dawns the reign of sovereign life, mistress at last both of time and space!"

Oh my! What faith in humanity! This is a utopian dream. Even if we all become one family, the strifes will not end. In the book, there was a quarrel, but stopped when the mother was suffering, and that is also not realistic. Humanity is united because we are humans, but that does not mean that we will get along. This is too optimistic. And since his time, we have populated the earth, and yet, population cause more problems. Life in honest sense; going back to the soil, is aslo not very raelistic, because man is attracted by materials, because he is vain. This only a small exception that wil be less likely to happen as technology develops. But it's a nice concept, of course. We must humble ourselves.

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I think one of his serious books...not so scandalous.

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Pub by Doubleday Page Co

Virgin Soil by Turgenev

"He thought of nothing; he gave himself wholly up to the peculiar feeling which Spring-time brings, and which in the heart of youth or age is mingled with a sort of melancholy- the agitated melancholy of longing expectancy in the youth; the quiet melancholy of regret in the aged."

Another beautiful description of the melancholy found in nature.
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This story shows how people live up to their destinies in the end. how some, like the main character, was stuck between two extremes- and he couldn't get out- he doubted everything. The couple belonged together because of a cause in the end...those were the heroes, the people who know for sure what they need to do to serve, and have no doubts whatsoever. Yet, I sympathize with the main character, because I feel more like him. I see the do-gooders (not in a catholic/religious sense) and I see that I will never be like them. I doubt and look at life suspiciously. I do not have the desire to do good. He turned out to be a romantic idealist- he wanted to live with a concept- and that was enough. Yes, I do sympathize. Turgenev too quotes some poetry, "Love the idea, and not me." as something of the sort. Which I partly believe in, the embodiment of that idea. The story was mainly about making a connection with the peasants- bridging the gap.

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Pub by Henry Hold & Company Publishers

Mauprat by Sand

"We cannot change the essence of our being, but we can direct our various facilities to a good end, and almost succeed in making our very faults useful: to do this, moreover, is the great secret and the great problem of education."

I think education only helps the mind, our nature and our essence is deeper than the mind- it runs into the soul. The mind will only help for so long, when nature takes over, logic is thrown out, and our basic impulses take over. With or without education. Even with this new "direction" of our faults, in a second everything could be lost- there is not telling what our nature will do.

"Learn to distinguish between love and desire; desire seeks to destroy the obstacles which it encounters, and perishes on the ruins of a vanquished virtue; love wishes to live, and, that it may do so, it wishes to see the object of its worship defended for a long tie by that diamond wall whose strength and splendor constitute its value and beauty."


"There are beings who pass away, after reflecting all that is beautiful and grand in the moral universe, without finding the means, and without even feeling the need of manifesting themselves to others."

"...so naturally does the past clothe itself in beautiful or softened forms in the brain of the young- presumptuous masters of the future."

The young will not escape, the past will follow them into the future.

"We all need to be loved in order that the good in us may be developed, but we need to be loved each differently, one with unwearying indulgence, another with steady severity."

Love is so complex and so sophisticated. It is as unique as each grain of sand, as each person that ever lived...

"Man is born with more or less of passions, with more or less ability for turning them to a good or a bad account in society."

I do not agree. So man is a bundle of passions that can only divert them in a direction for it to have a good or bad impact on society. As if it is up to our will! Nature cannot be overcome by the will, much less by education. It reminds me of the theory- that the environment is responsible of directing our passions... No, the moral is that on one hand Bernard was an animal and could not control his passions because he was not educated, while Edmee had equally the same passions but could control them because she was educated. And as he advanced in his education- he controlled his passions better. i firmly believe education doesn't help much with the essence of our being. Also, Sand emphasizes love- which can be true. In some cases I think Edmee was a little too noble for my taste- she didn't give in once. This is too much credit to the woman.

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Pub by Da Capo Press

Old Goriot by Balzac

"And who shall say which is more awful, the sight of the bleached skulls or of withered human hearts?"

Oh and how withered some hearts are! It is a wonder that their bodies have not slowly decayed...

"Stately Paris ignores the existence of these faces bleached by moral or physical suffering. But Paris is in truth an ocean that no line can plumb. You may survey its surface and describe it, but no matter what pains you take with your investigations and exploration, no matter how numerous and painstaking the toilers in this sea, there will always be lonely and unsuspected regions in its depths, caverns unknown, where flowers and pearls and monsters of the deep still lie safe, overlooked by literary divers."

Beautiful imagery! Oh how beautiful, to imagine a city as an ocean, its depths never to be penetrated. No matter how one looks, in the deep deep corners, there is something to be hidden. I think this is one of Balzac's best metaphors, I was very much struck by this amazing metaphor. An ocean is so dark and deep...so many mysteries...and so is humanity...Especially in a city where everyone is fake and eroded by debauchery.

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Pub by Classics Club

The Fatal Skin by Balzac

"He had escaped from the realities of life, rising gradually toward an ideal world, finally attaining the enchanted palace of Rapture, where the universe appeared to him in shapes and forms of fire..."

I like how the "ideal world" is on the way up... and how it is a soft "gradual" rising.

"Where can you find, floating in all the ocean of literature, any book capable of matching the artistry this news item" 'Yesterday, at four o'clock, a woman there herself into the sea from the top of the Pont des Arts?'"

Marvelous. This hints to the psychological process of that woman to get to the point of throwing herself. What turmoil there must have been in her soul, in her being. Nothing like that can be written down..

"Between the rich promise that beckons a young man to Paris and his decision to kill himself, only God knows what a turmoil, there must have been of ideas, of poems left unfinished, of moments of despair, of stifled sobs, of futile endeavors, of abortive masterpieces. Every act of suicide is an epic of melancholy."

Such youth to be so horribly destroyed...the life killed inside him.

"The peace and silence that a scholar needs has a special sweetness that is as intoxicating as love. Exercising the mind, pursuing ideas, quietly contemplating the wisdom of science, rewards us with ineffable delights, as indefinable as everything else about the intellect, which functions in mysterious ways invisible to our outer senses. Furthermore, we are always forced to explore physical mysteries by physical parallels. For instance, the pleasure of swimming alone in a lake of crystal-clear water, surrounded by rocky crags, woodland, and flowering meadows and caressed by a soft breeze, may gibe the ignorant a very fervent suggestion of the happiness I felt when my spirit was warmed by the first gleams of some strange new illumination, when I hearkened to the frightening confusion of inspiration, when from some unknown source concepts came flooding through my throbbing brain. To feel that an idea, some generalization of human affairs, is beginning to take shape like the sun rising at dawn, or better yet, growing like a child, reaching puberty, and slowly becoming mature; that is a joy far above other earthly pleasure, or rather, it is a divine delight."

Divine delight is so beautifully said. Nothing can be compared to the beautiful process of the "birth" of an idea, a concept. It involves all part of ourselves in it- the mind, the soul, the heart. Our entire being is constantly striving for an idea that can transport us from one realm to the other. And magical is it when we have found it, the key that unlocks the realms of our imagination. It goes beyond our pathetic existence into things that can only be "invisible to our outer senses". Yes, mysterious is the mind!

"Love stars as a spring of limpid purity from a bed of gravel, water cress, and flowers; it grows into a stream and then a river, changing its nature and its appearance as it flows along; and finally it merges itself into that measureless ocean which to limited minds seems more dull monetary, but in which great souls plunge themselves in inexhaustible contemplation. How can we try to describe all the evanescent nuances of feeling, all those things that mean so much, things said in a tone more expressive than all the words in the language, glances more compelling than the most thrilling of odes? In any one of the magical sequences through which we fall in love with a woman there are profundities deeper than all the poetry ever written. How could we ever reconstruct in commentaries the mysterious stirrings of the heart to passion, since we lack adequate words to depict the visible mysteries of beauty?"

And just the visible mysteries we cannot describe- but what about the ones unseen? The ones that go beyond the physical and reach the soul? Those, we cannot even fathom, let alone describe. I love the way he says "reconstruct in commentaries" as if we sat around discussing "the mysterious stirrings of the heart to passion"- the idea itself is even ridiculous. But that is just it- this certain attempt in itself is ridiculous...

And what love can do to the "great souls"- can exhaust them in contemplation- because one cannot fully understand it, yet it is so beautiful to bask in its mystery.

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Pub by Signet Classics

The North Sea by Heinrich Heine

"For you, your charming image,
Haunting me everywhere,
Everywhere calling me,
Everywhere, everywhere
In the dirge of the wind, in the surge of the sea,
And in the sigh of my own breast!

"My scarcely healed heart;-
To me it seems its wounds were being
kissed open by dear lips
And started again to bleed-
Hot, red drops,
That long and slowly fall
On and old house, down there
In the deep-sunk sea-town,
On an old high-gabled house
That is drearily empty of people,
Only that there at the lower window
A girl sits
With her head at rest on her arm,
Like a poor, forgotten child-
And I know you poor, forgotten child!

So deep, ocean-deep, then,
You hid yourself from me
Out of childish fancy,
And could not come up anymore,
And sat staring among strange people
Centuries long,
While I, my soul full of sorrow,
Over the whole Earth sought you,
And constantly sought you,
You constantly loved one,
You long, long-lost one,
You finally-found one-
I, I have found you and see again,
Your dear, sweet face
The wise, faithful eyes,
The tender smile-
And never, never again will I leave you,
And I come down to you,
And with my arms stretched out wide
I dive, down, down to your heart-"

My first German classic/poet.He clearly justifies the idea of German Romanticism... beautiful example. I love the way he transitioned from blood drops to a house. Shows the vagueness and softness of his soul... And beautiful ending.

Time is not an object here "centuries long" as if their love is immortal...as if he looked for her through time. How he dives into her heart...how she is trapped in the ocean. To me, this symbolizes society "among strange people"- how it is an obstacle to their love, and yet he overcomes it and "dives" down to her. To reach not only through the water, but through the heart. He wants to reach the source.

Marvelous! Such softness of the soul!

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Pub by New Directions, 1951

Madame Bovary by Flaubert

"Deep down, all the while, she was waiting for something to happen. Like a savior in distress, she kept casting desperate glances over the solitary waste of her Life, seeking some white sail in the distant mists of the horizon. She had no idea by what wind it would reach her, toward what shore it would bear her, or what kind of craft it would be- tiny boat or towering vessel, laden with heartbreaks or filled to the gunwales with rapture. But every morning when she awoke she hoped that today would be the day;"

And as day after day passes, what makes us still have hope for the unseen, the distant? What drives us? All our lives we await for something even ourselves do not know...and yet we know we must wait for it... we must.

"Future joys are like tropic showers: out into the immensity that lies before them they waft their native softness, a fragrant breeze that drugs the traveler into drowsiness and makes him careless of what awaits home on the horizon beyond his view."

"Whereas the truth is that fullness of soul can sometimes overflow in utter rapidity of language, for none of us can ever express the exact measure of his needs or his sorrows; and human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars."

Language is vulgarity in the matters of the soul. It becomes realistic and defined, which destroys the sweet vagueness that makes it so special and divine. My goodness how beautifully he described our incapability of defining things; it is absolutely ridiculous!

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Very similar to Anna Karenina. The book shows that if one is greedy after what one needs but doesn't have- it can lead to utter despair. If one indulges in the things that are immoral, only bad can come out of it. Evil breeds evil. She was loved by her husband, but yet she wanted a specific type of love, like those in novels. These ideas made her blind to what she really had. That is why they are called fantasies- because they lack realism. For good reason, they belong to the mind... Of course the concept of fantasizing and creating our own world is delicious, but in reality, when one cannot deal with reality at all- then something has to give- either the world or the mind.

Beatrix by Balzac

"He wanted to gaze into her eyes, plunge into their depths, study the smallest detail of her clothing, inhale its fragrance, listen to the music of her voice, follow the graceful flow of her movements...He had become prey to a desire that deafened his hearing, obscured his intelligence, weakened him to the point where he no longer recognized obstacles or distances and was no longer even aware of his own body."

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This book greatly made me perceptive to the complexity of the woman. They can suffer so much and yet still do the impossible. The intelligent and wise ones notice everything, take it all in, and can determine the soul of a person. Such an insight is astounding. The woman can use her virtues or body to the extreme, the one to sacrifice herself, the other to make use of her advantages for her own gains. Such opposites, yet in the same sex! and reach can understand the other, and what the other is capable of. They live in another world altogether, while the man tries to reach for it, but can't ever get there...

--

Pub by Prentice-Hall

Cousin Bette by Honore de Balzac

"-for their [artists] idleness is an occupation. It is like the pleasure of a pasha in his harem; they fondle ideas, they become drunk at the springs of intellect. Great artists, totally absorbed in reverie, have rightly been called dreamers. These opium-eaters all sink into poverty, whereas, if they had been sustained by harsh circumstances, they would have been great men."

But it is what makes them artists. If they would have been "great men" then they would not have been dreamers- they would have been doers. The unreal and real cannot coincide, cannot live peacefully in one combined world. One or the other. But maybe it is what makes them so amazing- that they have this "greatness" in them, but choose not to act on it- and devote their entire lives to intellect. As if they forsake greatness for "ideas" and the "springs of intellect." Personally, it is a lot more satisfying. They do not want to give back to humanity, but want to receive the divine mysteries that can only be shown to some.

"He who can describe his plan in words is already deemed to be an extraordinary man. All writers and artists have this ability. But to produce! To bring to birth! To work hard at rearing the child, to put it to bed every night well fed with milk, to kiss it every morning with the inexhaustible love of a mother, to lick it clean, to dress it a hundred times in the prettiest of jackets with tears again and again; but not to be discouraged by the convulsions of this mad life and to turn it into the living masterpiece which speaks to all eyes in sculpture, to all minds in literature, to all memories in painting, to all hearts in music, that is the task of execution! The hand must be ready at every moment to work in obedience to the mind. And the mind is not creative to order, any more than love flows uninterruptedly."

Many have the impression that artists are just dreamers, and don't do much in their life- as real work. But challenging yourself constantly, living with a talent that cannot be accurately described or understood- only that it comes from outside oneself, and not being discouraged when it disappoints. This is the hardest labor of the mind- that tests the strength of character... These artists, they truly love their labor, as Balzac says, as if it were their own child. Reminds me of writers, that live with their characters for years and years until they write it all down. These are the true masters, the true men of humanity. They bring part of the universe into humanity...Now, I cannot think of anything that benefits humanity more...

Marianne by George Sand

"Love is a madness, a wild dream that carries one into impossible realms."

Beautiful- the very word; realms. Something beyond us, beyond our human life.

"Generally speaking, those [women] who fascinate us and resist us remain mysterious to us. Those who give themselves to us lose all prestige and after our senses have drunk to the full of them, we cease to follow the movements of their souls."

I haven't come across the concept of the motion of the soul...What does she mean by that? That our souls move within ourselves, a sort of person inside ourselves- yet it is the real us? Maybe it is the real us, and the physical, the flesh is just an accessory...
I am not talking about the actual "seeing" of the soul. Maybe each soul can see (feel) each other with their own eyes...

"No words can describe some things. The more one says, the less one sees. You see, Pierre, nature is like love, it's in the heart and you musn't talk about it too much. You diminish what you try to describe...I only what there is between the sky and myself. I have no part in it at all. If I think of you, in my odd way I am you and I cease to exist. That, to me, is real happiness, real poetry, real understanding."

Words ruin it. They really do. There is no possible way to describe accurately the purity, the perfection of nature. The human mind is too inferior to even begin to conceive of the beauty and majesty- let alone describe it with our language... Ceasing to exist is real understanding... that is an interesting idea.

"When I see the deeply thoughtful look on some peasant's face, when I see the exuberant joy in some children, when I see the apparently rapturous happiness of small birds and blissful peace of flowers in the moonlight, I often ask myself if having a sacrifice explanation of the world is an advantage. Does the effort of reflection remove from unconscious mental activity its greatest charm? And does it remove from sensation its greatest power?"

Very interesting idea. And throughout the book, the answer is yes it does remove the charm and power,one needs to admire nature for the sake of admiration, and not to try to analyze it. I myself tried so many times to pinpoint the sensation that nature had effected upon me- but it is impossible. One has to realize, the things themselves are poetry. They just exist to be poetry not to inspire it.

Of course men have come close to accurately describe it- as close as humans can get. It is the search for man, as they get closer and closer to the real thing, the real poetry. And yet, they shall never touch it- our humanity prevents it, we are bound to earth- not to roam the skies, the heavens... even if our imaginations want to...
But that is why I do like the classics- and goodness me, there are darn good descriptions! :)


"Our love of the countryside and of nature will no longer be tinged with melancholy as before."

This was the first time I came across the idea- which I elaborated on one of Turgenev's books. Very fascinating concept.
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I am not much of a fan of women authors. They have disappointed me many a time...But Sand is not like many women- throughout the centuries. She was beyond her times. I mean, she was so good, that the great masters of the time (Dostoevsky, Pushkin, Turgenev) idolized her. And that alone demands respect.

She is really pretty good. I can tell she was a remarkable woman, beautiful ideas, beautiful mind.













--
Pub by Carroll and Graf

Stories by Turgenev

A Quiet Spot

"Like a dream- no, it was not a dream; at least, not for me. It was the time of youth, of gaiety and happiness, the time of infinite hopes and invincible powers; and if it was a dream, it was a beautiful dream. But now you and I have grown older; have grown more stupid, and we dye our mustaches, and we wander along Nevsky, and we have become good for nothing, like broken down nags; we're played out; we've been buffeted about, but we try to look important and put on airs, and we idle about and, I'm afraid, drink rivers of wine- now, that is more like a dream, and a most hideous dream. Life is spent, and spent in vain, stupidly, trivially- that's the bitterness of it! Now, if we could shake that off like a dream, if we could only wake up from that!...And then, everywhere, always, one horrible memory, one specter-"

What a comparison to youth! My goodness, life seems dreadful after the energy of youth has passed through it...but everything has to take its course. It cannot go on forever...

The Diary of a Superfluous Man

"What stupid fifth wheel to a cart!"

I thought this exclamation was rather amusing...

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This story was very to Dostoevsky and even Gogol's characters...I love the insanity of it all. How insecure and unsure of themselves they are. This is Turgenev's only story that is so similar to the others. It makes the reader feel human, and even flatters him...for one always thinks the character is more insane than him- hopefully he is right!

--
The Vintage Turgenev Vol 2. Pub. Vintage Russian Library 1950

On the Eve by Turgenev *

"He held her in a powerful embrace and was silent. He did not need to tell her that he loved her. By his very exclamation, by that immediate transformation of the entire man, by the rise and fall of his chest, on which she was so trustfully nestling, by the way the ends of his fingers played with her hair. Yelena could tell that she was loved. "he is here, he loves...and what is more?" The stillness of bliss, heavenly stillness which confess sense, and beauty even on depth, filled her with all its beatific wane. She did not wish for anything because she possessed everything. "Oh, my brother, my friend, my dear..." her lips whispered, and she herself did not know whose heart it was, whether his or hers, that beat so delightfully and melted in her breast."

A first for any author I've ever read. Love completes us human beings. It raises us to the "peak" of our development. It is when we become actual men and women. Our instincts take over, and our physical and spiritual combine, to be transformed into what we were meant to be.

"I only wanted to explain why nature, as you call it, has that effect on us. It is because it arouses a necessity for love in us and is not able to satisfy it. It quickly dries into other, living embraces, but we don't understand and expect something from nature itself. Ah, Anrei, Andrei, how splendid is this sun, the sky! Everything, everything, all around us, is splendid; and yet you are sad. But if at this moment you were holding a beloved woman's hand in your hand, if that hand and all that woman were yours, if you looked with her eyes, felt not with your own solidary feelings but with hers, nature would not arouse sorrow in you, Andrei,and not anxiety, nor would you stop to observe its beauty. Nature itself would rejoice and sing, nature would echo your hymn, because then you would give it, would give that dumb thing, a tongue!"

I came across this concept only in a book by George Sand called Marianne. But this is the only quote that explains it all. How interesting, that deep in our being, nature affects us...it affects us to the core. How love and nature have a connection. What we perceive, the beauty of nature, can be seen in two ways. We can either feel sadness, or we would be indifferent to it (because as Turgenev says, we would be too happy to notice it). Therefore,the actual beauty of nature, all of its immense majesty and glory, would be embodied in the person we love- and that is what we would notice. Those who lack this "love", notice nature and its beauty, but yearn for the love itself that can be seen in the grass, the sky, the clouds. But it is too far away, it is all scattered in pieces here and there...and that is what the lonely realize and mourn over...

"...and drew her with him into those forbidden lands. Unknown, beautiful, they opened before her attentive gaze; from the pages of the book Rudin held in his hand amazing picture, new, luminous thoughts, poured in a ringing stream into her soul, and in her heart, shaken by the noble joy of great sensations, the sacred spark of nature, quietly shone out and burst into flame..."

This is so delicious for the soul, the mind! And here, Turgenev shows us that nature does play a part in these "great sensations". It is already in us, this instinct is dormant, and when we experience the sensations, it blooms- as if on cue. This liquid metaphor is so beautiful- as if the two worlds, reality and the unreal, melt into another realm altogether...that lead to their souls...

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This story is the most beautiful thing I've ever read. He combines the folk and the romantic in such a magnificent way. Truly, Turgenev is a genius of the human soul.


And- rereading it a second time- I was struck by the role change in the story. Dmitry was all powerful and in control at all times, but turned into a complete mess when he couldn't control his emotions. She, on the other hand, became such a strong woman- and even ordered him around. What an incredible change! And what made her become dominant all of a sudden? Why had love changed her so drastically- so far as to be the opposite of who she was? Or was she always like this- the pent up energy inside of her?
--
The Vintage Turgenev Vol 2. Pub. Vintage Russian Library 1950

Clarissa by Samuel Richardson

"To give her a lowering sensibility; to bring her down from among the stars which her beamy head was surrounded by, that my wife so greatly above me, might not despise me, this was one of my reptile motives, owing to my more reptile enemy, and to my consciousness of inferiority to her! Yet she, from step to step, from distress to distress, to maintain her superiority; and, like the sun, to break out upon me with the greater refulgence for the clouds that I had continued to cast about her! And now to escape me thus! No power left me to repair the wrongs! No alleviation to my self-reproach! No dividing of blame with her!"

He felt his inferiority in his consciousness. One knows a noble person by the reaction we feel to them, they make us see what we lack.

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British classic. I decided to read what Dostoevsky read...200 hundred years ago. My goodness, such a long time. It is written all in letters-which leaves little room for imagery. The character Clarissa represents a very noble ideal, something that is so morally above everyone else. Yet, she was attracted, and even fell in love, with a "villain". She was attracted to the "forbidden". I still think she loved him when she died. Lovelace is very interesting. One can't help but pity him, and yet I admire his determination and passion- his sincere passion. It's really beautiful. And up until the end, he had thought he would marry her- always trying to make plans. He had such a selfish love- and yet, at the same time- a sincere one. But is such a sincere love, with all bad actions, real? A madman can be sincere in his love for blood, but that does not make it real...

I think I stumbled upon Lovelace in one of Dostoevsky's books- portraying him as a bad character. I actually admire him more than I admire Clarissa. She was too perfect...too noble, something that is not real. One has to be a little tainted, because it provides contrast in life. Noble people are so by nature, and therefore win over all just by existing. They personally do not have to do anything. As if a sort of divinity settled on their characters... Lovelace on the other hand, struggles like a real human being with passions that could not be quelled. He knew, consciously knew that he was a "bad" person, and so much more "inferior" than Clarissa. This knowledge drove him to do those things. Throughout life, there is less development in the noble person, than in the "bad", because they do not have to work to get to a certain point- they are already there. While, the already tainted people have to deal with the shame and guilt, and have to survive through it. This adds to a person much more; suffering. It is essential for the journey of man. Clarissa was tested and tested, and never failed. But maybe, her love for Lovelace could have been considered a sort of "failure", something she could not control. The only thing her noble spirit could not rein in. This makes the heroine a lot more interesting- why she fell in love with such a person.


Overall, amazing story. My first British classic, I believe.


--
Pub by Modern Library 1950

Home of the Gentry by Ivan Turgenev

"...as though a stranger had entered her pure, virginal world."

"...yet meanwhile their hearts were expanding, nothing was lost on them: for them the nightingale sang, the stares burned and the trees whispered softly, cradled in sleep by summer softness and summer warmth."

For them everything took place, as if the world was there for their own entertainment, their existence...

"...but no words can express what was happening in the pure soul of the girl; it was a secret for her; let it remain a secret for all and everyone. No one can know, no one has seen or will ever see how the seed summoned to life and fruition swells and ripens in the bosom of the earth."

"But what can one say about people who may still be living but have passed from walks of life, why return to them?...What did the two of them think, what did they feel? Who can know? Who can say? There are such moments in life, such feelings...one can best point to them- and pass by."

And they are meant to be passed by, admired from afar. Such is the nature of these "such feelings". They are not meant to be publicly unveiled and pinpointed, named and categorized. They are meant to be let free and remain a mystery.It makes me think about the mysteries of the human feelings, how complex they can possibly get. How sophisticated and yet so befuddling.

The people are just momentary ideas, and how then pass on to be something else. He says it so beautifully, we should let them be, let them live their lives in their sorrow as they fade off into time, where they'd rather be... along with their former emotions and feelings...

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Some people are not meant to share their happiness together, even though it would be justified, while others stay together and don't deserve it. Yet, they can live in those fleeting moments, and forever be united. The moments are immortal. Reminds me of White Nights by Dostoevsky; a sort of feeling- of blissful moments, and denouncing reality.

Chekhov Stories 2

My Life

Portrays how people are not sincere sometimes...and just do things for "kicks". Even if they are momentarily convinced that a certain thing is what they want, they'll soon change their minds. That is because of the way they've been brought up. Like the character Masha, she had had everything from the beginning. Anything she wanted, she instantly got. Chekhov stresses this. So then, she could afford to play with life, be rich, or play the part of the peasant.

"Our meeting, this marriage of ours, was only an episode of which this alive, richly endowed woman would have many in her life. All that was best in the world, as I've already said, was at her disposal and came to her perfectly gratis, and even ideas and fashionable intellectual trends served her her pleasure, diversifying her life, and I was merely a coachman who drove her from one enthusiasm to another. Now she no longer needed me, she would flutter off, and I would be left alone."

And yet, she did this without guilt, fully convinced she had done right, and that that life was what she really wanted. Superficial people. These people take everything lightly, as if life was sort of a game...now peasants, cannot afford to be superficial. Some they may very well be scoundrels, but not insecure people, at the core. Chekhov also emphasized this, that what the peasants most believed in was truth.

"However much the muzhik looks like a clumsy beast as he follows his plow, and however much he befuddles himself with vodka, still, on looking closer, you feel that there is in him something necessary and very important that is lacking, for instance, in Masha and the doctor- namely, he believes that the chief thing on earth is truth, and that his salvation and that of all people lies in truth alone, and therefore he loves justice more than anything else in the world."

It is also beautiful how he sees all this, sees the errors of his wife's judgment, her superficiality, and accepts it. He not only does that, but he still loves her, even though he knows that it doesn't make much of a difference. Truthful people do not think life is a game, but it's about survival. And through survival comes suffering, which is the only way to live life rightly. The only way to know God. For how does one know whether God exists, if they have no need for Him? That man, the main character, was closer to God than Masha, with all her religion...

Ariadne

"Of course, a woman's a woman and a man's a man, but can all that be as simple in our day as it was before the Flood, and can it be that I, a cultivated man endowed with a complex spiritual organisation, ought to explain the intense attraction I feel towards a woman simply by the fact that her bodily function is different from mine? Oh, how awful that would be! I want to believe that in his struggle with nature the genius of man has struggled with physical love too, as with an enemy, and that, if he has not conquered it, he has at least succeeded in tangling it in a net- work of illusions of brotherhood and love; and for me, at any rate, it is no longer a simple instinct of my animal nature as with a dog or a toad, but is real love, and every embrace is spiritualised by a pure impulse of the heart and respect for the woman. In reality, a disgust for the animal instinct has been trained for ages in hundreds of generations; it is inherited by me in my blood and forms part of my nature, and if I poetize love, is not that as natural in our day as my ear's not being able to move and my not being covered in fur? I fancy that's how the majority of civilised people look at it, so that the absence of the moral, poetic element in love is treated in these as a phenomenon, as a sign of atavism; they say it is a symptom of degeneracy, of many forms of insanity. It is true that, in poetizing love, love assumed in those qualities that are lacking in them, and that is a source of continual mistakes and continual miseries for us. But to my thinking it is better, even so; that is, it is better to suffer than to find complacency on the basis of woman being woman and man being man."

Marvelous! Poetical love is necessary, love cannot truly exist without it. It is as if love goes off into the spiritual realms by the help of this "poetizing". As if it develops and transforms into something that is beyond us, beyond our feelings and emotions, and penetrates into our souls.

"The pure, gracious images which my imagination, warmed by love, had cherished for so long, my plans, my hopes, my memories, my ideas of love and of woman- all now were jeering an putting out their tongues at me."

An example of a man's illusion of woman, and how he worshiped the concept of woman. These ideas seem positively absurd in reality. Reality easily proves us disillusioned people wrong. And how hard it is to get to the point of complete disillusionment! How hard our imaginations have to work to lie to our so-rational mind!

It was interesting though, how he was willing to suffer and make mistakes, (which is ultimately what he did) and yet, he couldn't wait to be free of her. Is that perhaps because he didn't lover
anymore?

The Seagull

"One must depict life not as it is, and not as it ought to be, but as we see it in our dreams."
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1. My Life- Pub. Everyman's Library
2. Ariadne- Pub. The Macmillan Co. 1916

The Diary of Writer by Dosteovsky

"It is curious how the most complete conceptions are being quite imperceptibly inoculated into the child who, being still incapable of connecting two thoughts, sometimes grasp the deepest phenomena of life. A learned German once stated that any child, upon completing the first three years of his life, has acquired a full third of ideas and knowledge with which, as an elder, he will be laid in his grave."

That is very interesting. It means that childhood is as important as any important period of discoveries in our lives. How much a child perceives and understands! It is something to be pure...they are closest to perfection... closest to nature. As if childhood is the transition between the realms we came from to this earthly life...

"More gifted and segregated children are always more reserved, and if they are joyous, it is invariably with a knack at leadership and bossing."

Those type of people seem very aggressive when they get older...Sometimes, a good chunk of the population seems that way.

"...since what is hypocrisy? - It is a ransom which vice is compelled to pay to virtue- which is an extremely comforting thought to him who wishes to remain vicious in practice but at the same time not to sever, in his soul, at least, with virtue. Oh, vice is very fond of paying ransom to virtue, and this is good; temporarily he should be satisfied with even that much- isn't this so?"

It is a line in between virtue and vice... Vice knows it is doing something wrong, but yet wants to live in the comfort of its continuation. It is good to have this "prick of the conscience" even up to this point. When one knows he is a hypocrite, there is still hope! But once the vice stops "paying ransom to virtue" and goes loose, the conscience will be buried underground.

"Indeed, we are all good fellows- except the bad ones of course."

:)

"Look attentively, and you will see that, in our case, first comes faith in an idea, in an ideal, while earthly goods come after."

Yes, first is the spiritual, the earthly goods are only a mere extra.

"The lad of our days, about whom so many controversial things are said, often adores a most naive paradox, sacrificing for it everything- the world, his fate, his very life; but his is due to only the fact that he regards his paradox as the truth. Here we are confronted with the lack of enlightenment. When light appears, different viewpoints will arise of their own accord; paradoxes will vanish, but the purity of heart, the thirst for sacrifice and exploit, which gleam in him so brightly, will not fade. And this is what really counts."

And it really is naive, to give up everything for faith. But is that not what humanity is made for? To believe in the unseen? In an ideal? Whether God or a philosophy...man is capable of an astounding determination when it comes to faith. And in the end, when all is said and done, this faith is what continues to glow.

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It is so good to know Dostoevsky's thoughts! And I still haven't finished it, the library will only let me borrow it for so long...
There are such interesting stories in there though, such a treat!

Winter Notes on Summer Impressions by Dostoevsky

"It is a kind of biblical scene, something about Babylon, a kind of prophecy from the Apocalypse fulfilled before your very eyes. You feel that it would require a great deal of eternal spiritual resistance and denial not to succumb, not to surrender to the impression, not to bow down to to fact, and not to idolize Baal, that is, not to accept what is your ideal..."

I love the way he connect biblical scenes to society. A kind of god is the society for many people- and has been for so many centuries. Everyone bows down to mainstream society, and who does not is an "outcast". And yet, "Babylon" is very attractive, eye-catching... it is a sort of magnet to the needy and empty. Wonderful connection, such a treat! Just like the Great Inquisition.

"Fact weights heavily; the masses grow numb and wonder about like zombies of if skepticism arises, dismally and with a curse they seek salvation in something like Mormonism."

I thought that was rather funny, especially coming from Dostoevsky.

"And they themselves know this and meanwhile avenge themselves against society as some kind of underground Mormons, Shakers, wanderers... We are surprised at the stupidity of going over the Shakers and becoming wanderers; we do not even suspect there is a secession from our social formulas; a stubborn, unconscious secession; an instinctive secession, no matter what the cost, for the sake of salvation; a secession from us made with disgust and horror. These millions of people, abandoned and driven away from the human feast, shoving and crushing each other in the underground darkness into which they have been thrown by their older brothers, gropingly knock at any gate whatsoever and seek entrance so they won't suffocate in the dark cellar. It is a final, desperate attempt to form their own group, their own crowd, and to separate themselves from everything, even from the human image, if only to be something of their own, if only to avoid being with us..."

Maybe this is an allusion to the biblical story of Joseph. That society, the "older brothers" throw out the ones who are different. But the ones thrown out, do the exact opposite of Joseph, they are scared and desperate to get out. So they seek something that looks like salvation, even though it may not be. They do not seek God, but just a way out of their "dark cellar"- anything that separates them from "us". It also reminds me of the "gnashing of teeth" prediction of the Judgment Day. How the ones thrown out of the wedding feast (human feast)bang on the entrance to be let in. I wonder, if they had not been rejected in the first place, would they still be so desperate to "separate...from us"? Would their conviction still be the same, or would they go on and drink the wine, enjoy the feast? Is it just an act of desperation, this seeking of salvation?

"Convinced to the point of stupefaction, these professors of religion have their own form of amusement missionary work. They go all over the earth, penetrate into the depths of Africa, to convert a single savage and forget about the millions of savages in London who have nothing to pay them."

Oh, the irony! Goodness. And even today, the same thing is happening. Take care of the "log in your own eye" first.

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This was a very entertaining book. Except his diary, this is the closest book that I would think his feelings are clearly to be seen. Very interesting man! I would love to travel to the exact places he went to, just for the sake of possibly seeing the same things he had seen. I wonder if my "impressions" would resemble his. Of course, that is a little obsessive...

Humiliated and Insulted by Dostoevsky

I must admit that the translation wasn't the best, it took me about a hundred pages to get used to the book; too modern. And the translator even said, that his translation could be compared to today's best sellers! What a shame, and even an insult. As if it could even compare to today's best sellers!

About the story: Very beautiful, although not quite as complex as his other works. I actually predicted the "riddle" so to speak, before the ending. Overall though, very beautiful. I could see where Dostoevsky's ideas came from, for his later books. Like the Adolescent, for isntance. It was about people who bury their real wishes, and react quite the opposite from what they really want; "out of spite". Which is also an idea from Notes form Underground. How they would suffer, just to "rub salt on the wounds" to make it worse. so that their suffering would increase. Like the father, Nelly, and sometimes Natasha. And even though Vanya was the one who was insulted themost, he still loved no matter what, even though it mean to be indifferent to his happiness. Beautiful message, although not so easily achieved in real life.

Dead Souls by Gogol

"Now it is with indifference that I approach any unknown estate, and with indifference that I gaze at its trite appearance; my chilled glance finds no refuge, I do not laugh, and that in which earlier days would have awakened a lively movement in my face, laughter and unceasing talk, now flits by, and my motionless lips preserve an impassive silence. Oh, my youth! Oh, my freshness!"



"But all the while he was sitting in his hard armchair, troubled by thoughts and sleeplessness, zealously giving what for to Nozdryov and all his kin, and the tallow candle glimmered before him, its wick long covered by a black cap of snuff, threatening to go out at any moment,and blind, dark night looked in his window, ready to turn blue with approaching dawn, and somewhere far away far-off roosters whistled to each other, and in a completely sleeping town, perhaps, a frieze gray coat plodded along somewhere, a wretch of unknown class and rank, who knows (alas!) one path only, all too well beaten by the devil-rag-care Russian people."


For some reason, I love the idea of describing an unknown man walking somewhere along an unknown path in the darkness. And making it so that he is not alone, but trods on the same path the "Russian people" all once traveled.


"It is easy for the reader to judge, looking down from his comfortable corner at the top, from which the whole horizon opens out, upon all that is going on below, where man can see only the nearest object. And in the world chronicle of mankind there are many whole centuries, which it would seem, even a child would not make now. What crooked, blind, narrow, impassable, far-straying paths mankind has chosen, striving to attain eternal truth, while a whole straight road lay open before it, like the road leading to a magnificent dwelling meant for a kind's mansion! Broader and more splendid than all other roads it is, lit by the sun and illuminated all nights by lamps, yet people have flowed past it in the blind darkness. So many times already though guided by a sense come down from heaven, they have managed to waver and go astray, have managed in broad daylight to get again into an impassable wilderness, have managed again to blow a blinding fog into each other's eyes, and, dragging themselves after marsh-lights, then managed finally to reach the abyss, only to ask one another in horror; where is the way out, where is the path? The current generation now sees everything clearly, it marvels at the errors, it laughs at the folly of its ancestors, not seeing that this chronicle is all overscored by divine fire, that every letter of it cries out, that from everywhere the piercing finger is pointing at it, at this current generation; but the current generation laughs and presumptuously,, proudly begins a series of new errors, at which their descendants will also laugh afterwards."

And yet maybe the men are destined to completely miss the obvious path. Why is that? Why is it that man has to deliberately go out of his way to err in such a tremendous way? This reminds me of the Tree of Life. Due to an apple, mankind fell. Well, the concept of the apple. We seem to be attracted to the forbidden, to the "darkness", and yet, we almost do it subconsciously. Why is humanity so weak? And why does it simply crave destruction? This cycle, over the centuries, with every fresh batch of humans, it continues on and on, until one century, nothing will be left. We will eat ourselves out, out of this environment, and most importantly, out of ourselves. Dostoevsky references this point a lot; that we are our own destruction, as if we are destined to cause our own death, purposefully yet subconsciously.

"Because it is time finally to give the poor virtuous man a rest, because the phrase "virtuous man" idly circulates on all lips; because the virtuous man has been turned into a horse, and there is no writer who has not driven him, urging him on with a whip and whatever else is handy; because the virtuous man has been so worn out that there is not even a ghost of any virtue left in him, but only skin and ribs instead of a body; because the virtuous man is not respected! No, it is time to hitch up a scoundrel. And so, let us hitch up a scoundrel!"

Again, I do enjoy how the concept of the "virtuous man" is alive, and living in our writing, in our minds.

"Everything transforms quickly in man; before you can turn around, a horrible worm has grown inside him, despotically drawing all life's juices to itself. And it happened more than once that some passion, not a broad but a paltry little passion for some petty thing, has spread through one born for better deeds, making him forsake great and sacred in paltry baubles. Numberless as the sands of the seas are the human passions, and no one resembles another, and all of them, base or beautiful, are at first obedient to man and only later become his dreaded rulers. Blessed is he who has chosen the most beautiful passion his boundless bliss grows tenfold with every hour and minute, and he goes deeper and deeper into infinite paradise of his soul. But there are passions that it is not for man to choose. They are born with him at the moment of his birth into this world., and he is not granted the power to refuse them. They are guided by a higher destiny, and they have in them something eternally calling, never ceasing throughout one's life. They are ordained to accomplish a great earthly pursuit: as a dark image, or as a bright apparition sweeping by, gladdening the world[ it makes no difference, both are equally forth for the good unknown to man."

It is interesting to see how a passion can change "what we were born to do", our destiny. And that we can even choose our passion, that it does not choose us. A passion that one is born with, could be even considered a sort of burden; "a dark image" that follows the begetter on and on throughout their life. It is as if one knows how they are going to die, but is unable to stop the inevitable. This "higher destiny" makes the ones chosen closer to the heavenlies that the rest; for it is divine. The forces of the universe, all move towards this one goal, and these chosen ones along with the tick-tock of time, move and breathe to bring it about, to complete a certain step for mankind. Through these chosen ones, mankind is able to glimpse the majesty of mystery, and how much there is to learn.

"But we have begun talking rather loudly, forgetting that our hero, asleep all the while his story was being told, is now awake and can easily hear his last name being repeated as of ten. He is a touchy man and does not like it when he is spoken of disrespectfully. The reader can hardly care whether Chichikov gets angry with him or not, but as fore the author, he mus tin no case quarrel with his hero: they still have many a road to travel together hand in hand; to big parts lie ahead- no trifling matter."

This quote is my favorite quote from all the Russian authors, that refer to the character in such a direct (and charming) manner. I have never this technique, if one can call it that, before I read this book. To have such an intimate relationship with the character that one has created, is to make the fictional world so much more real. It proves that these characters are but concepts that live and breathe throughout centuries, through humanity, from century to century. Chichikov can be your next door neighbor, or even you yourself. They are immortal, because by humanities existence, we make them so.

"And what Russian does not love fast driving? How can his soul, which yearns to get into a whirl, to carouse; to say sometimes:"Devil take it all!"- how can his soul not love it? Not love it when something ecstatically wondrous is felt in it? It seems an unknown force has taken you on its wing, and you are flying, and everything is flying: milestones go flying by, merchants come flying at you on the boxes of their kibitkes, the forest on both sides is flying by with its dark ranks of firs and pines, with axes chopping and crows cawing, the whole road is flying off no one knows where into the vanishing distance, and then is something terrible in this quick flashing, in which the vanishing object has no time to fix itself-only the sky overhead, and the light clouds, and the moon trying to break through, they alone seem motionless. Ah, troika! bird troika, who invented you? Surely you could only have been born among a brisk people, in a land that cares not for jokes, but sweeps smoothly and evenly over half of the world, and you can go on counting the miles until it all dances before your eyes."

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Dead Souls was really a masterpiece. Of course, as expected. Although...some parts were missing, poor Gogol just ended in mid sentence... It has taught me a lot. How to view the character as an idea, and the author is the creator. How to be frank about what we are doing, and saying this outright, referring to the reader directly, the character, even ourselves. Excuse me, but I do think Gogol is the most adorable out of all the Russian authors- if that is appropriate... I wish I could travel back in time and shee how funny he really was, such an "eccentric" was he! Hm, it must b ehighly offending to refer to full grown men (although dead) as cute...

Anyways- Chichikov was indeed a scoundrel! ... But aren't we all? Something to think about...

Marriage by Nikolai Gogol

"

Zhevakin: sir. Retired naval lieutenant. And allow me to ask,
With whom do I have the pleasure of conversing?

Omelet: Omelet, managing clerk.

Zhevakin: Not catching the last words. Yes, I also had a bite. Knew I had a good trip ahead of me, and it's a bit cool out. Ate a harring and a slice of bread.

Omelet: No, it seems you didn't understand me correctly. That's my name- Omelet.


Zhevakin; bowing: I beg your pardon. I'm a bit hard of hearing. I thought you said you'd eaten an omelet.

Omelet: What can i do? I considered asking teh general to let me change my name to Omeletson, but my relatives talked me out of it. Names that end in son make them think of son-of-a-bitch.


Zhevakin: Yes, it's like that sometimes. Our entire third squadron, all the officers and men- they all had peculiar names- Slopsov, Tipsykov, Lieutenant Spoilov. One midshipman, and a very good midshipman too, his name was simply Hole. "Hey you, Hole" The Captain would shout, "Come on over here!" And we always be kidding him- "Hey, you, you're such a little hole!" "
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I think this is Gogol's funniest piece. I was reading this in a quiet class, and had to keep myself from laughing... it's the funniest piece I've ever read in my life!

The Lady with the Little Dog by Anton Chekhov

"In Oreanda they sat on a bench not far from church, looked down o the sea, and were silent. Yalta was barely visible through the morning mist, white clouds stood motionless on the mountaintops. The leaves of the trees did not stir, cicadas called, and the monotonous, dull noise of the sea, coming from below, spoke of the peace, of the eternal sleep that awaits us. So it had sounded below when neither Yalta nor Oreanda were there, so it sounded now and would go on sounding with the same dull indifference when we are no longer there. And in this constancy, in this utter indifference to the life and death of each of us there perhaps lies hidden the pledge of our eternal salvation, the unceasing perfection. Sitting beside the young woman, who looked so beautiful in the dawn, appeased and enchanted by the view of this magical decor- sea, mountains, clouds, the open sky- Gurov reflected that, essentially, if you thought of it, everything was beautiful in this world, everything except for what we ourselves think and do when we forget the higher goals of being and our human dignity."

This description here is incredible, how Chekhov portrays the "utter indifference" of the sea... how it has lived before, and will live after us. This utter indifference is such an important concept when it comes to nature, and nature's view towards humanity. They are indifferent to humans...and will easily live without us. This indifference makes nature the more mystifying, not having to depend on any living thing but their instinct. This utter indifference shall lead to perfection as Chekhov says, that if we become like nature, then we shall indeed be complete, for nature itself is complete, and therefore perfect.

Now, becoming like nature- not indifferent to our humanity, and become animals, but embracing the "higher goals and our human dignity". The height of humanity is to be the height of our nature, and therefore perfect. Our "salvation". Everything else is rotten humanity, that is not any good but to destroy the beautiful, and distort our purpose of achieving this goal.

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This is one of the best, if not the best of Chekhov's works.

The Torrents of Spring by Turgenev

"He felt that he could have stayed beyond the counter for an eternity, selling syrup and sweets, as long as that charming creature was peeping through the open door with eyes of friendly mockery, and the summer sunshine, penetrating the massed foliage of the chestnut tree in front of the window, was filling the whole room with the greenish gold of midday rays, midday shadows, and his heart was bathing in a delicious laziness, in carefree joy, in the sensation of youth, the first flush of youth."

Goodness once again! "Delicious laziness" is such a beautiful description of the summer days- the silent sun peeping through the trees, scattering light into the room...

"His soul was on fire."

"Everything within him burned, like a live coal from within a layer of ashes is suddenly brown."

"...and the trepidation of love, the first for love, cursed through his veins."

It is as if this love, this first loves, becomes part of the organism, flowing through the blood- the only thing that keeps us alive. This comparison stresses the effects of this first love.

"Now he no longer reasoned, no longer thought, calculated, or looked into the future. He had separated himself from his entire past, had bounded forward. He had broken the moorings attaching him to the dreary bank of his lonely, bachelor existence and plurged into the gay, seething, powerful torrent, caring little, not even asking where it was bearing him, or whether his frail bark would be dashed against a rock. There were no longer the gentle streams of the Uhland ballad that had so soothed him lately...these were powerful, irresistible waves. They sped on, and he with them."

I love the wonderful description here, of the drowning sensations, of something that cannot be helped. It is as if one is losing control- and caring not where the "torrent" leads, or whether one even stays alive. This irrationality cannot be explained by the rational mind, a mystery that will be forever hidden, except to the ones who take part of this torrent.

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The ending was extremely shocking...but yet it is very understandable, and makes it even more real. It reminds me of the story by Tolstoy- Walk in the Light...where something so virtuous can be so stained with the immoral, in such a crude matter... This new woman mocked the very essence of his previous infatuation, the pure love he had for the young girl. To me, it shows that this sort of "sin" towards this pure love, knows no bounds, has no rules, but to destroy what is good. A crude realization, that the good can be easily tainted- which makes it even more vile, only because of the fact that it used to be pure but is no more.

Netochka Nezvanova by Dostoevsky

"My soul failed to recognize yours although it found a new light beside its beautiful sister soul."

"My whole soul is full of you."

"Teach me how to wrench my life in two, how to tear my heart out of my breast, how to live without it."

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I cannot believe this was Dostoevsky's first attempt at writing a novel. Such complexity! My goodness, and how many topics it covers! This concept, how the little girl idolized her father- even began believing his ridiculous dreams- living in a fantasy. This touches the importance of the relationship between a father and daughter- and what a tremendous effect it can have on a young girl's thought process.

And again,as in the future novels as well, Dostoevsky's "specialty", in my opinion, is seen in this novel; the delusion of man. How Netochka's (the little girl) father disillusioned himself so efficiently, that at one point in the story, he actually made himself believe that when the mother died, he would have the chance to success. And he made the little girl believe it also. This sort of fantasy is beautifully described by this Genius, who sympathizes with the insanity in man and even tries to justify them through their own justification...it's incredible. And one of the main points of this story, is that this sort of fantasy can easily affect the innocent in heart, for in reality, they were both very naive and innocent in essence, to push out reality and create their own chaste world...

And also, how interestingly he added another problem- Alexandra, such a great example of a lot of women of that time, and throughout history in general, who forsake their own happiness that bloomed out of love,to duty. It is as if their soul is ripped away with them, for it is an unjust and almost inhuman expectation. And yet, it was very much expected. Of course, the level of love we are talking about here is very dependent on pleasure- in most cases. Sometimes, it can be the mere friendship that brings much happiness to the young maiden who is condemned to a despicable marriage.