"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
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Friday, December 25, 2009
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
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
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
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
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
Friday, December 18, 2009
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
"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
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
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
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
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
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
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.
--
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.
--
Pub by Classics Club
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.
--
Pub by Classics Club
Friday, December 11, 2009
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.
--
Pub by Signet Classics
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.
--
Pub by Signet Classics
Thursday, December 10, 2009
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!
---
Pub by New Directions, 1951
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!
---
Pub by New Directions, 1951
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
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
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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
Sunday, December 6, 2009
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...
Friday, December 4, 2009
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
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
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
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
"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
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...
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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
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