"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...
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