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

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!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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...

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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...

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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