A Nasty Anecdote - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Rating: ★★★★
19/12/15

...nothing ventured, nothing gained. (45)

The deep-felt desire for spontaneity. The plague of inhibition.

Be natural; be reserved. Be demonstrative; be discreet.

An excess of vulnerability could turn you into the protagonist of an unpleasant anecdote. Speak but

not too much. Write but do not expose too much. Be honest but do not reveal too much. Nothing seems already too much.

Be at ease; control yourself. Because,

'What will people say? Where will it end? What will tomorrow bring, tomorrow, tomorrow!...' (35)

Have you ever imagined how a particular situation was exactly going to be? Of course. The ultimate rehearsal. Carefully chosen words begin to form a line in your mind. They have methodically decided the order of appearance, the tone, the rhythm. The dramatic pauses. The silences that allow the other person or group to come up with an answer. You have been imagining that conversation for hours, for days. Like a minor god of time, you feel in control of that little piece of future. You know how the events are going to develop. You want things a certain way, then you picture everything in your head. That should be enough.

And then, that fragment of future arrives.

He knew, he knew very well, that he should have left long ago, and not only so as to leave, but so as to save himself. That all this had suddenly become something else—well, had turned out totally unlike his dream on the planks that evening. (34)

The roles have been changed. Your mind needs a Plan B. Plan B... We do not have a Plan B. As your face begins to feel the warm color of anxiety, you freeze. Your muscles cannot move. Your heart feels the tension and behaves accordingly, with frantic palpitations that no one could ever count. You wish for a benevolent ground to swallow the entire room. Nothing happens and you are trying to think. While your thoughts are irrepressibly flashing through your head, you survey the area. The eyes of the world are all over you. You watch. That is all you can do. Watch as the walls of that piece of future you thought you could control, start to collapse. Silently, in slow motion. Total devastation during the minute that will never end.

Then moral fits began, concerned with his existence manquée. Then shame again flared up in his soul, taking possession of it all at once, burning and exacerbating everything. He shuddered, imagining various pictures to himself. What would they say... (47)

Have you ever felt that? Never, always? Frequently.

That also happens to our friend Ivan Ilyich Pralinsky. After a conversation with other civil servants, he decided to implement a philosophy of his by crashing the wedding celebration of Pseldonymov, one of his subordinates. A susceptible imagination led Pralinsky to believe that every action that he visualized could really happen. He would enlighten those less fortunate than himself; they would become better human beings by learning his philosophy based on kindness—a love of mankind he was willing to teach while pointing out the differences between them and keeping some distance.

This is a satirical short story that brings to mind the fact that there is a bit of comedy in some tragedies.

The plot is simple; what truly makes this story a delightful thing to read are the protagonist's impressions. Dostoyevsky's essential quality. However, in this case, it was a little difficult to follow the narrator as well as Pralinsky's reflections. It confused me at times. I assume it was meant to mystify, having in mind the main character's erratic train of thought. I would hesitate about the translation's fidelity if it wasn't one by Pevear and Volokhonsky.

I must admit, Pralinsky annoyed me at times. To be honest, I wanted to grab him by the arm and just ask him “what the hell are you doing?” But I understand him. And more than once I asked myself the same question. Nothing goes as we plan. Everything he dreamed one evening fell apart in a minute. Every word, every reaction, all the happy endings he envisioned. Reality crushed his thoughts several times, and opened the path for relentless shame and a touch of regret.

As the naive architects that we are, we design in our minds the course of events. What we are going to say. What we are going to write. But in further reflection, how presumptuous of us to think that we can predict what the other person is going to understand. Reactions, interpretations, sentiments.

Another inconceivable translation.

It is known that whole trains of thought sometimes pass instantly through our heads, in the form of certain feelings, without translation into human language, still less literary language... Because many of our feelings, when translated into ordinary language, will seem perfectly implausible. That is why they never come into the world, and yet everybody has them. (22)

Words are kept inside and the story never begins.

The Gambler - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Rating: ★★★★★
13/12/15

Can I possibly not understand myself that I’m a lost man? But—why can’t I resurrect? (188)

It is not just the extraordinary psychological depth of the characters nor the engaging story that masterfully manages the element of surprise. This novella had a great impact on me for the simple reason that whenever I read certain passages, I saw him. His obsessions, his fears, his passion for a distant woman, his despair. Dostoyevsky was there, trying to survive.

Alexei Ivanovich is a 25 year-old tutor that works for a Russian family. The General's family that includes Polina, the woman Alexei loves. They are all living in a suite at some German hotel. Besides them, there is a bunch of other manipulative, self-destructing, unstable characters. Flawed yet colorful, at times. As with life. People that were the inspiration for Dostoyevsky's most amusing remarks, filled with fine irony and a tinge of sarcasm. Just a tad...

Alexei is a complete character; lovable, obnoxious. Everything but indifference. Pride (that vanishes when facing his obsession), overly analytical thinking, madness, cynicism, wit, honesty, frankness.

It’s really nice when people don’t stand on ceremony, but act in an open and unbuttoned way with each other. And why should one deceive oneself? It’s the most futile and ill-calculated occupation! (17)

A frankness that gave me hope. He is not the timid character that keeps everything inside. I mean, I am in love with those characters since they are a mirror to me and let me focus on the many things I need to change. But it is nice to see an energetic, outspoken character developing the quality that one longs for.

...when I talk with you, I want to say everything, everything, everything. I lose all form... Since I have no hope and am a zero in your eyes, I say outright: I see only you everywhere, and the rest makes no difference to me. (34)

A frankness that combined with the particular situation of being madly in love with a woman, inspires one of the most unsettling passages of the novella. One that brought to mind all the disgusting justifications that one encounters in life.

This book screams reality. The description of the casino, the kinds of gamblers, the desire to win, the abstraction from the world, the eyes fixed on a number, an excuse for every act, the brief sense of reason after a lost bet and the subsequent hunch that the next one will be the one that saves the day.

I was as if in a fever and pushed this whole pile of money onto red—and suddenly came to my senses! And for the only time that whole evening, in all that playing, fear sent a chill over me and came back as a trembling in my hands and legs. With terror I sensed and instantly realized what it meant for me now to lose! My whole life was at stake! (111)

No, a day is not saved only by the profits so easily made. It is the impulse, the craving for risks. Despair that drives. Chance that sings. The feeling that one is in control of the roulette, of the next move; the elusive luck. Praises for the fearless gambler.

However, I don’t remember what I thought about on the way; there were no thoughts. My only sensation was of some terrible pleasure—luck, victory, power—I don’t know how to express it. (114)

Every chapter, every paragraph, everything is written with such detail. Vivid descriptions about the parallel universe that inevitably brings disgrace to its inhabitants. Citizens that worship daring ventures.

They can deny it. They can lie to themselves as they embrace victory, but deep down they are aware of their deteriorating state.

Nothing could be more absurd than moral lessons at such a moment! Oh, self-satisfied people: with what proud self-satisfaction such babblers are ready to utter their pronouncements! If they only knew to what degree I myself understand all the loathsomeness of my present condition, they wouldn’t have the heart to teach me. Well, what, what new thing can they say to me that I don’t know myself? And is that the point? ... What am I now? Zéro. What may I be tomorrow? Tomorrow I may rise from the dead and begin to live anew! I may find the man in me before he’s lost! (133)

An ill-fated relationship. Our doomed Russian friend.

By trying to defeat destiny through gambling, he ensured his servitude. A slave of everything he loved too much. Of everything he hated but still needed. The roulette. The urge. The impulse. A woman.

A brief existence perpetually waiting for fate to change. Waiting for another tomorrow.

Wondrous Moment: Selected Poetry - Alexander Pushkin, Andrey Kneller (translator)

Rating: ★★★★★
10/12/15

I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.

JLB, "Two English Poems"

Perhaps, one day, I'll learn to let you go.

Alexander Pushkin (1824)

I left a world of labyrinths, mirrors and spirals of time to visit the lands of the ultimate romantic poet.
Turbulent waves of indomitable emotions reach this shore and leave me immersed in deep thought. A wandering shadow that carries the weight of praise. A benevolent will-o'-the-wisp that leads the reader to the safe path towards his art. Choose any poem and you will find him. Vocalize any verse and you will become a fortunate witness of his mind. The epitome of lyricism.

The essence of Russian poetry.

My days still linger, slow and rough,

Each moment multiplies the sadness

Within the heart of hapless love

And drives my yearning into madness...

(A Wish, 1816)

Love found, love lost. Unknown. A one-sided mourning, naturally. A profound sense of melancholy even in blissful times. So much yearning. So much existence. A fervent desire of holding on to a life that still leaves him submerged in gloom.

But, o my friends, I do not want to leave!

I want to be alive, to think and grieve.

And I predict that I will find some pleasure

Amidst anxiety, amidst the stress and pressure.

(Elegy)

Yet, the question that relentlessly lingers inside his mind when humanity becomes unbearable.

In sadness, lonesome, I await:

How far away is my demise?

(1821)

A most virtuous celebration to the poet's nature. Nostalgia emerges through the mist of lost years with an enchanting, rhythmic cadence that escapes any reasoning.

Time that will never return. Time wasted with unsaid words, hidden smiles, avoided glances; pride. On the contrary, Pushkin speaks. He reveals. There is a sincerity in his writing that leaves him on the verge of vulnerability. Inevitable. Humane. Regretful.

Don't ask me why, alone in dismal thought,

In times of mirth, I'm often filled with strife,

And why my wearied gaze is so distraught,

And why I don't enjoy the dream of life...

(To ***, 1817)

But people are fallible. And there was a time when fear brought silence.

That I am plagued with love:

Without you near – I'm feeling bored;

With you – I feel estranged now;

But I can't speak a single word.

(Confession)

Infinite Pushkin. His poetry. His stories. The works of a gifted mind.

Nothing compares to the wondrous moment when you find yourself in someone else's words.

Like I have said before, there is also an optimistic sunbeam illuminating some of his poems. Frail but present. He embodies a distressing dichotomy inherent to human nature. Existence and weariness. A hunger of living. An impatient wait.

These are not just poems about love (which, by the way, must have a certain language for me to actually be able to enjoy them), but about everything that constitutes a life. A life made of years, epochs, moments. Moments of joy, of grief, of doubt. Moments wanting to be. Those brief moments of ours in a place a little larger than an entire universe.

Note: This book also includes Pushkin's work in his original language. I spent some quality time not just reading, but looking for meanings, translations, comparisons. With such insufficient tools I tried to observe the remaining essence that deeply wants to prevail over the limits of the translating process but usually does not succeed. In this case, the translator gave shape to Pushkin's poetry maintaining rimes and forms but without taking too many liberties that would jeopardize this author's exquisite voice. The meaning was there, the poetic forms were there. A fine translation that flows more gracefully than the previous one I've read.

The Last Leaf - O. Henry

Rating: ★★★
10/12/15

"It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fall during the night...

"Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?"

But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed.

A good story. Even though I prefer language with a little less sugar when dealing with certain matters. (Good grief, Hemingway, is that you?)

Two Friends - Guy de Maupassant

Rating: ★★★★★
04/12/15

Some days they did not speak; at other times they chatted; but they understood each other perfectly without the aid of words, having similar tastes and feelings.

That must be a good memory.

Good times. The river was tinted with the delicate color of a soothing setting sun. Until a blood-red glow took over the whole land. For war had begun.

And the two began placidly discussing political problems with the sound common sense of peaceful, matter-of-fact citizens--agreeing on one point: that they would never be free.

An imminent ending. A brief moment to decide. Your country. Your life.
And during the brevity of that moment, the natural reaction of holding on to nice memories, I believe. Blissful minutes that make up a life. The sun. The river. The silence. Or maybe just the sound of the cannons.
And heroes cry.
The desperate sense of resignation while saying goodbye.

Useless Beauty - Guy de Maupassant

Rating: ★★★★
02/12/15

A claim. A refusal. A defiance. A woman facing her suffocating husband.

A repudiation to the idea of being a machine. A possession.

Her desires. His jealousy.

Her resistance.

Guy de Maupassant mastered the art of writing short stories; he did it with simple plots, evocative descriptions mixed with elaborated philosophical reflections about the world and unexpected twists that leave you thinking about this author's creativity and ability to retain anyone's interest.

...for God never foresaw gentleness and peaceable manners; He only foresaw the death of creatures which were bent on destroying and devouring each other...

As to ourselves, the more civilized, intellectual and refined we are, the more we ought to conquer and subdue that animal instinct, which represents the will of God in us. And so, in order to mitigate our lot as brutes, we have discovered and made everything, beginning with houses, then exquisite food, sauces, sweetmeats, pastry, drink, stuffs, clothes, ornaments, beds, mattresses, carriages, railways and innumerable machines, besides arts and sciences, writing and poetry. Every ideal comes from us as do all the amenities of life, in order to make our existence as simple reproducers, for which divine Providence solely intended us, less monotonous and less hard.

From the strained atmosphere of an unwanted marriage to a couple of friends and their general meditations about human beings and their place in a world. A world created by a god whose real intentions are the main topic of their enthralling conversations.

GdM and I had a rough start—I'm sensing an icy pattern here. But the stories I have recently found are echoing in my guilty conscious now. Such a talented writer to whom I haven't paid proper attention. My apologies.

Two short stories by Guy de Maupassant

Rating: ★★★★
23/11/15

Then I turned the conversation on hunting, and he gave me the most curious details on hunting the hippopotamus, the tiger, the elephant and even the gorilla. 
I said: 'Are all these animals dangerous?' 
He smiled: 'Oh, no! Man is the worst.'



Rating: ★★★★
25/11/15

25th June. To think that a being is there who lives, who walks, who runs. A being? What is a being? That animated thing, that bears in it the principle of motion and a will ruling that motion. It is attached to nothing, this thing. Its feet do not belong to the ground. It is a grain of life that moves on the earth, and this grain of life, coming I know not whence, one can destroy at one's will. Then nothing—nothing more. It perishes, it is finished.

 ... 

10th August. Who would ever know? Who would ever suspect me, me, me, especially if I should choose a being I had no interest in doing away with?

A dangerous story for a troubled mind.

Kubla Khan - Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Rating: ★★★★
20/11/15

Words evoking vivid, faithful images. The perfection of metres, rhymes and the intellectual effort it all represents. A person in a verse. A life in a haiku. A world in a stanza. I love poetry as much as I love prose. And this poem by Coleridge, this fragment portrays the essence of Romanticism. I have already read The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and found it awe-inspiring. So I had a vague idea of the artistic force I was going to encounter with.

The Preface of this poem explains the background of the creative process and publication, including a famous anecdote that would later become a concept by itself, a fair allusion to certain aspects of life that inevitably interrupts the writer's creativity. It all started with a dream. By 1797 the poem was “completed” and published in 1816. Coleridge states that, one night, after reading about Xanadu (the palace of Kublai Khan, a Mongol ruler and Emperor of China) and giving himself over to the influence of opium, he had a dream. A wild, vivid dream. When he woke up, he started to write a poem until he was apparently interrupted by a person on business from Porlock. And then, he couldn't remember much of the dream and therefore couldn't finish what he has planned. There is no concluding evidence but it does teach us a remarkable lesson. If you feel inspired and begin to write in a frenzy, and all of the sudden someone knocks on your door, don't open it. Unless it is the fire department. Otherwise, do not open the door. Lock it. Close your window. And keep writing.

"Kubla Khan" starts with a depiction of Xanadu. An idea of perfection conveyed through the circular shapes that Coleridge describes. He does so using different tones relating to the idea of opposites. Light and darkness. Nature and human creativity. A lifeless ocean, a mighty fountain. Visions of contradictory images, mythological references, exquisite symbolism; the symphony of a woman. The taste of her song, a song with the power of building domes in the air.

Below, you will find a passage (in Spanish and English) of an essay by the erudite pen of Jorge Luis Borges, concerning Coleridge and his poem.

There was no other way. I had to end these rambling thoughts on Coleridge with Borges in my mind.

Un emperador mogol, en el siglo XIII, sueña un palacio y lo edifica conforme a la visión; en el siglo XVIII, un poeta inglés que no pudo saber que esa fábrica se derivó de un sueño, sueña un poema sobre el palacio.  (…)

En 1961, el P. Gerbillon, de la Compañía de Jesús, comprobó que del palacio de Kublai Khan sólo quedaban ruinas; del poema nos consta que apenas se rescataron cincuenta versos. Tales hechos permiten conjeturar que la serie de sueños y de trabajos no ha tocado a su fin. Al primer soñador fue deparada en la noche la visíon del palacio y lo construyó; al segundo, que no supo del sueño del anterior, el poema sobre el palacio. Si no marra el esquema, algún lector de Kubla Khan soñará, en una noche de la que nos separan los siglos, una mármol o una música. Ese hombre no sabrá que otro dos soñaron, quizá la serie de los sueños no tenga fin, quizá la clave esté en el último.

A thirteenth-century Mongolian emperor dreams a palace and then builds it according to his dream; an eighteenth-century English poet (who could not have known that the structure was derived from a dream) dreams a poem about the palace...

In 1691 Father Gerbillon of the Society of Jesus confirmed that ruins were all that was left of the palace of Kubla Khan; we know that scarcely fifty lines of the poem were salvaged. Those facts give rise to the conjecture that the series of dreams and labors has not yet ended. The first dreamer was given the vision of the palace and he built it; the second, who did not know of the other’s dream, was given the poem about the palace. If the plan does not fail, some reader of “Kubla Khan” will dream, on s night centuries removed from us, of marble or of music. This man will not know that two others also dreamed. Perhaps the series of dreams has no end, or perhaps the last one who dreams will have the key.

(JLB, Otras Inquisiciones/Other Inquisitions)

The Double - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Rating: ★★★★★
30/09/15

Through the bureaucratic ocean of papers, there lies Joseph K., bored with unanswered arguments.

Behind an unapologetic desk, Bartleby sits in silence, preferring nothing.

As a timid door opens, Bashmachkin leaves the smothering atmosphere of the office, ready to meet with the others. All set to forget the tasteless morning coffee and the men trying to make their way through scheme and flattery, and recover the humanity once lost. The sun is setting. A gentle breeze with a scent of independence caresses their faces.

Golyadkin, our protagonist, is waiting for them.

The world of the oppressed rests in Dostoyevsky's prose. The essential analyst of the human nature.

Briefly, The Double is about Mr. Golyadkin and his doppelgänger, Mr. Golyadkin Jr., someone who has been born under a stressful snowstorm.

This novella has many elements that can be found in Gogol's work. His influence on Dostoyevsky is well-known. However, this writer dealt with those same themes with an innovative style that traces clear limits. He even did that with his own work. For me, this was nothing like the novels I have read before. Universal themes like oppression, sorrow, alienation, work and loneliness are always treated from different angles and original ways of execution. Originality perceived by the mind of Sábato: we all are the sum of what we have read. Topics do not change; the way we express ourselves on them, might.

When I read The Brothers Karamazov, my eyes contemplated Dostoyevsky's genius, word by word. My copy is all written. I underlined hundreds of sentences that tried to enlighten the intricate path toward the mind. A humble attempt of understanding. However, the times I underlined something on The Double was for the main purpose of keeping up with the story. Actions. Names. I did not find many memorable reflections that left me at awe. The ones I found were at the beginning, mostly. So, what then? It was all contained in the interpretation. The development of facts, the story itself was what left me staring at an invisible point, drawing in the air, pondering about my own existence and the futility of things.

The fragility of one of the most precious things we own. Our mind. A set of cognitive faculties. A place. A process. Sanity.

His position at that moment was like the position of a man standing over a frightful precipice, when the earth breaks away under him, is rocking, shifting, sways for a last time, and falls, drawing him into the abyss, and meanwhile the unfortunate man has neither the strength nor the firmness of spirit to jump back, to take his eyes from the yawning chasm; the abyss draws him, and he finally leaps into it himself, himself hastening the moment of his own perdition. (39)

We cannot own our mind. Under certain circumstances—sad, nerve wracking, shameful circumstances—, it reacts as it pleases. Or the best way it can. It is the main source of who we are and yet, a trivial fact has the power to break it. A single act. An accumulation of traumatic acts. A life of unfortunate events. A pile of obedient frustrations. The meek silence of unwanted, inevitable solitude. The desire of success in a suffocating environment with people that have already been chosen over you. The search of identity in an alienated world.

Do not be alone too much.

These are just some of the observations that emerge from The Double, a true work of art that portrays a man's psychological struggle, with a brushstroke of unforgiving reality. We are placed inside Golyadkin's head. We are privileged spectators of his mind. We see it work. We see it weep. We see it shocked, unable to move. We shout, because we know what to do (even though we might react the same way if we were in his shoes, you never know).

A privilege that thrills and frightens.

There is much emotion in Dostoyevsky's descriptive and cautious writing. So much, I cannot bear it.

* Note: Months ago, I watched a 2013 film starring Jesse Eisenberg, based on this novella. Artistically exquisite. Keep it in mind!

Conversations of Lord Byron: Noted During a Residence with His Lordship at Pisa in the Years 1821 and 1822 - Thomas Medwin

Rating: ★★★
21/09/15

The days belong to Byron.

I had written a review and, later, decided to delete it. Okay, I did not delete it, I just put it in the folder where legends die. Anyway, that review had quotes and facts and some nonsensical analysis of the conversations that Thomas Medwin transcribed, after a logical warning: he could deliver the substance but not the form, that being Byron's wit and eloquence.

I wrote that review and then realized how useless that was. I could say everything I wanted to say in one single quote. A quote by an extraordinary writer. The true enchanter of all words; familiar and unknown.

If, after I die, someone wants to write my biography,

There's nothing simpler.

It has just two dates—the day I was born and the day I died.

Between the two, all the days are mine.

- Fernando Pessoa, A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe: Selected Poems (61)

Between the two, all the days are mine.

Besides its unquestionable beauty, there is a particular sound that cuts the air like the sharpest of knives.

Between the two, all the days are mine.

A sound you can almost feel. There. Practically piercing your body, finding its way to your mind in the most incredible display of self-preservation.

All the days are mine.

All the days are ours.

The Snows of Kilimanjaro - Ernest Hemingway

Rating: ★★★★★

31/03/15

It was never what he had done, but always what he could do. (6)

Air. Fresh air. Clarity for the mind. A pause. Another view. Many things. Many things can be found in a white landscape. The snow hides many secrets. The beginning and the end of everything, there, on the top of Kilimanjaro. Harry knows it now. A little too late.

Wait, it is never too late, you say? Nonsense. Sometimes it is

too

damn

late.

A couple, Harry and Helen. They are in Africa. He is dying of gangrene; she is by his side, taking care of him. This is my first Hemingway and I really enjoyed it. His writing—at least in this short story—has the ability of conveying the inner process of one conflicted soul. He described feelings and memories with such beauty and acuity that I felt completely captivated. I do not care so much about the plot if you let me see what is inside somebody's mind by following the inextricably fascinating rhythm of your prose. Hemingway wrote. I followed. I got hurt, then healed while staring at the ceiling with that dreadful book next to me.

I did not know what to expect, to be honest. I do not know if this was the best short story to start my journey with this writer (whose work has also been described as... “painful”; I am officially afraid of his novels now). But I saw it. I felt it. During the whole time I was reading this story, I felt the air getting heavier. It was filled with nostalgia and regret: powerful things that can choke you to death. Death. It does not sound so scary when you start thinking about regret. The story you could have written. The call you should have made. The kiss you should have given. The confession you could have shared. The vulnerability you should not have hidden. The words you could have said; the words you should have swallowed. The life you should have lived. To the fullest. Whatever that is.

Death cannot be avoided. But regret... that unbearable weight upon your chest. That stubborn attitude of waiting for tomorrow knowing there are limits. Unforgivable. I have no excuse to justify mine. No good excuse, at least.

“Never look back.” “I don't regret anything”. Is that possible? Is that even human? We are swinging between the avoidable and our humanity.

Some riddles cannot be answered.

You kept from thinking and it was all marvellous. You were equipped with good insides so that you did not go to pieces that way, the way most of them had, and you made an attitude that you cared nothing for the work you used to do, now that you could no longer do it. But, in yourself, you said that you would write about these people... But he would never do it, because each day of not writing, of comfort, of being that which he despised, dulled his ability and softened his will to work so that, finally, he did no work at all. (5)

You cannot stop death. He kindly stops for you, a poet once wrote. He awaits by your side, resting his head on the foot of your bed while contemplating the setting sun. A bicycle policeman. A bird. A hyena.

But regret chokes. Slowly. Inexorably. Taking away all trace of existence while you are still breathing. The hunger for living. The desire of doing. Stillness.

A bundle of miserable contradictions. There are few things so human as regret.

A Little Hero - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Rating: ★★★★
13/03/15

When I found myself in the fortress I thought that this would be the end of me, I thought that I wouldn't hold out for three days. And then I suddenly found calm. And what was I doing? I was writing “A Little Hero”. Read it; can you see any bitterness in it, any torment? I had peaceful, lovely, good dreams.

- Dostoyevsky to Vladimir Soloviev.

The world through the eyes of a child. This short story immediately reminded me of Songs of Innocence and of Experience. The same situation with two different versions, according to the age of the viewer. It seems so obvious. And yet...

The story begins with an 11 year-old at a party in a relative's house. Something that made quite an impression on him. The city, the people, the bustle, the music. Everything new and exciting. And many other things the innocent eye of a child cannot see, until he is taught how to do it himself.

Of course backbiting and slander ran their course, as without them the world could not get on, and millions of persons would perish of boredom, like flies. But as I was at that time eleven I was absorbed by very different interests, and either failed to observe these people, or if I noticed anything, did not see it all. It was only afterwards that some things came back to my mind. My childish eyes could only see the brilliant side of the picture... (4)

Being a kid is hard. I know, I remember. But being an adult is ten times more difficult. We see plenty. We know a lot and yet, we repeat mistakes. We tend to fight over petty things, we cannot forgive as easy as a child. We cannot always see just the brilliant side of the picture, otherwise, the picture would eat us alive. People often confuse love with obsession and power with a goal in life. Sure, there is always something new to see, we did not lose that. The most fortunate people can even contemplate the rain as it falls, just like they did when they first saw it. However, if there is a person that has seen it all, that did not see anything new in years... well, I would feel quite sad, for no one deserves such tragedy.

All in all, who does not miss seeing the world through childish eyes? If we could turn those eyes on and off when we please, would you?

Dostoyevsky's prose is as fascinating as ever. His vivid and exquisite descriptions of people and places are simply impressive. The protagonist went through various situations and I felt his sorrow, I heard his noisy environment, I saw his bewilderment while his beautiful admirer tortured him, I saw little, daily heroes with those kind of hearts that grieve as much as they love. Dostoyevsky's words were created with such sweetness that conveys the spirit of the child with perfection. And that is something you should pay attention to. This short story was written while the author was in confinement in the Peter and Paul Fortress, as the “most dangerous convict” he apparently was. From the darkest place can emerge the most luminous story. What a remarkable spirit.

A Little Hero was the last story Dostoyevsky wrote before the Siberian exile.

Mumu - Ivan Turgenev

Rating: ★★★★
26/02/14

What trifles, if you think of it, will sometimes disturb any one! (16)

Dogs are our link to paradise. They don't know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring―it was peace.

― Milan Kundera

Turgenev, another master of the unpredictable. He started this short story with the description of an old lady; a widow with joyless and gloomy days, and now with evenings blacker than night. The air was made of sadness and uncertainty. I always feel bad when old people are left alone in the world. Although she was surrounded by many servants, they were not their family, their blood. Even when the lady had the most remarkable servant, Gerasim, deaf and dumb from birth but extremely strong and with great sense of responsibility. He was used to hard work, to the village life, but, all of a sudden, he found himself in Moscow, in the old lady's house, working as a porter. And since “man gets used to anything”, Gerasim got used to living in town as well. And yet, that would be the first wound of his life.

The story goes on and Turgenev presents us a shoemaker that also worked at the widow's house. Kapiton Klimov, a sad drunkard led to the bottle by his own sorrow (sorrow has many ways to make a human being explode; you could prefer depressing music and a pint of ice cream, but to each his own) made the old lady a bit uneasy. She took pity on him and decided he should marry Tatiana, a laundress with a tragic past. That decision—that apparently came from a kind-hearted old lady that wanted to regenerate a lost man—had repercussions on several aspects. One of those consequences was the second wound of Gerasim. The third wound concerns a dog, Mumu, the inspiration for this short story's title. One of the few things you will regard as pure and honest and that, eventually, will break your literary heart.

I can't mention all the particulars because this is a very short story and I don't want to spoil everything, even if you can find the details in a million websites. They will not come from a review of mine!

So, let's just say that even though Turgenev amuses us with some fine irony while describing these Russian fellas...

‘Here you’ve been drunk again,’ Gavrila began, ‘drunk again, haven’t you? Eh? Come,answer me!’

‘Owing to the weakness of my health, I have exposed myself to spirituous beverages, certainly,’ replied Kapiton. (8)

...there is an oppressive atmosphere you cannot escape from.

...she watched him confidingly and without any fear, faintly wagging her tail. He turned away, frowned, and wrung his hands... (23)

An intense sorrow that I am sure will not lead you to a bottle (well, I hope), but will make you contemplate your own surroundings, your own actions and attitudes towards other people.

Nothing is what it seems. Not even an old lady.

Russian authors seemed to have found the exact amount of humor and tragedy that life can bear. They put everything on paper and created the most magnificent pieces of literature that make everything else so unnecessary. When I think about it, when I take time for myself and ponder about my own existence, happiness doesn't seem so far away. A book, coffee, light, a rainy day.

And loneliness, for a while, is nothing but a word.

- Note: I read this story last year, from Aug, 2 to 9 but I'm reviewing the last couple of books I couldn't review before, so yes, I had to re-read it. My memory is not that good. And this was not a good time to re-read it, let me assure you. For numerous reasons that are not relevant to you, person that's reading this, I'm not living with my beloved cat anymore. A relative is taking care of him and I visit him every week. There are not many words to describe what the separation meant to me. You also can't imagine the impact that reading this short story had on me, now. There is a time for everything, I always say. Last year, this story was a somewhat funny and moving read. Today... today is a story that left my soul grieving.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner - Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Rating: ★★★★
17/08/14

Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns;
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns. (75)

Today, if a stranger would stop me at some party to talk to me about some story, I'd probably walk away with a nervous smile, holding my pepper spray with dissimulation. I admit it, I do not easily trust people. That is one of my many flaws fed by one complicated present. And, yes, not all people are bad but I am not willing to take any chances.

However, many years ago, a young man that was going to a wedding, had no other choice but to listen to a strange man's story. He resisted but the old man, a bright-eyed Mariner, had already decided that the young guest was going to be the next listener. And so the story begins.

This is my first Coleridge and I was delightfully surprised. This poem was published in 1798 and it is divided into seven parts. It is written in old English, of course, and that always means that I have to read it very carefully to avoid confusion. At some point, I felt like a four year-old finding help in the beautiful illustrations that this book contains. I probably should not admit that, but there it is. It is written. I cannot take it back. I could, though, but I do not want to erase that and think of something else to write. Like a lie. Because that would be too weird. And the babbling
ends

now.

Coleridge's poetry is a true gem waiting to be discovered. Its vividness is something I have seen before but with a different style. A very unique melody. It is exceptionally evocative. The images it describes are too powerful, they manage to leave the paper to become something you can see and touch. The roar of the sea becomes too intense to bear. The sky transforms into a dark vapor viciously moving from one side to another. I could hardly see who was next to me, I only hear their yelling. And the loudest one came from the sea.

And now there came both mist and snow,

And it grew wondrous cold:

And ice, mast-high, came floating by,

As green as emerald. (12)

And yet, the frightening images described by this poem do not sound that bad after listening to the music dwelling in every verse. This beautiful melody took me by surprise and became a serene partner throughout this entire adventure. Suddenly, the sky did not look so threatening; the icy water became bearable, and the solitary immensity of the sea was welcome.

And again, contradictions. That feeling described above changed from time to time. The desperation of being trapped in such a surreal landscape was so great sometimes that I could feel it in my bones.

Day after day, day after day,

We stuck, nor breath nor motion;

As idle as a painted ship

Upon a painted ocean. (21)

Gustave Doré

About, about, in reel and rout

The death-fires danced at night;

The water, like a witch’s oils,

Burnt green, and blue and white. (25)

The story continues with the Mariner killing an albatross. That sad decision brought disgrace to all the crew, and especially, to the bright-eyed Mariner.

Sometimes death embodies blessing, when living becomes a curse.

Alone, alone, all, all alone,

Alone on a wide wide sea!

And never a saint took pity on

My soul in agony. (35)

This poem is a perfect reminder of everything we need, no matter the place nor time: respect for one another. For all living things. Not only for the sake of others, but for yours. Every action has its consequence. It would be a dreadful thing to have killed the bird that made the breeze to blow.

* Photo credit: Book cover via Goodreads.

Paris Spleen and La Fanfarlo - Charles Baudelaire

Rating: ★★★★★
22/05/14

For a man to become a poet... he must be in love, or miserable.

- Lord Byron, Journal of the Conversations of Lord Byron

...the seconds are now strongly, solemnly accentuated, and each one, springing forth out of the clock, says: “I am Life, intolerable, implacable Life!” (45)

This book includes two different works by Baudelaire: Paris Spleen and La Fanfarlo. The latter is the only novella he ever wrote, published before his celebrated Les Fleurs du Mal and it is, in fact, a good work. It tells the story of Simon Cramer and Fanfarlo, a dancer as beautiful as she was stupid (155). The plot is simple but Baudelaire's prose is engaging and amusing. He managed irony with such a style. All in all, I liked it.

However, in my opinion, Paris Spleen is the real gem of this book. It is a remarkable work conformed by prose poems that deal with a wide range of themes. They are like little, printed thoughts created by one restless mind. For me, the stream of consciousness style is the most sublime form of writing. It takes a lot of work and you might end up with either a beautiful piece of literature or something too stupid to even take a look at. I used to use that technique when I was younger and I thought I could write, without even knowing what I was doing. It wasn't until I read Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway or Faulkner's The Sound and The Fury (something I should reread because I never wrote a review for it and now I wouldn't be able to do so), that I knew what this narrative mode could generate: the intriguing yet fearful feeling of being inside someone's head.

This is Baudelaire, a defiant fallen angel with a unique lyrical voice, willing to let it all out, to show humanity the darkest depths of everyone's soul. And for that, he became Sacrilege. Vice. Decadence. And Truth.

There are many memorable themes in these prose poems.

The fear of Time.

“Ah, for us miserable old females, the era of pleasing even the innocent ones is over; and we arouse only horror in the little children we want to love!” (41)

The unbearable beauty of Nature.

And now the depth of the sky troubles me; its limpidity exasperates me. The indifference of the sea, the immutability of the scene repulses me . . . Oh, must one either suffer eternally, or eternally flee the beautiful? Nature, you pitiless enchantress, you always victorious rival, leave me alone! Stop arousing my desires and my pride! The study of the beautiful is a duel, one that ends with the artist crying out in terror before being vanquished. (42)

Boredom.

Another one would light up a cigar next to a cask of gunpowder, just to see, to know, to tempt fate, to force himself to prove he has the energy to play the gambler, to feel the pleasures of anxiety, or for no reason, for a whim, for lack of anything better to do.

This is the kind of energy that springs out of boredom and daydreaming; and those in whom it manifests itself so unexpectedly are in general, as I've said, the most indolent and dreamiest of beings. (50)

Solitude.

Finally! I am now allowed to relax in a bath of shadows! But first, a double turn of the lock: I feel as if this extra turn of the key will strengthen my solitude and fortify the barricades that now separate me from the world. (53)

Life.

You should always be drunk... In order not to feel the horrible burden of Time that breaks your shoulders and bends you down toward the ground, you must get yourself relentlessly drunk. But drunk on what? On wine, on poetry, or on virtue, whatever you like. But get yourself drunk. (108)

And many others.

When the act of contemplating beauty starts consuming our being, when we think our body can't bear it anymore, poetry emerges personifying a merciful savior to us all. If we are in luck, we will be able to write or purge ourselves through other forms of art. If not... well. I wouldn't want to know.

A person who stands outside gazing through an open window never sees as many things as the one who gazes at a closed one. There is no object more profound, more mysterious, more fecund, more shadowy, more dazzling than a window lit by a candle. What can be seen in broad daylight is always less interesting than what happens behind a window. Within that black or illuminated hole, life lives, life dreams, life suffers. (111)

I am refraining with stoic strength from quoting the whole book (I don't think I am doing a great job, though). It is that beautiful. Baudelaire's awe-inspiring sensitivity creates the most vivid images that will surely take you to his most relaxing dreams. Or his darkest nightmares.

If—for some strange reason—you dislike poetry, I suggest you these prose poems. You will find yourself immersed in dark waters, quietly taking you to nowhere and everywhere, while beholding all sides of Beauty.

Troubled human beings have the ability to see what is not there. To feel what to others is imperceptible. To convert beauty into words. Words that soothe the pain of others. Everyone seems safe. Everyone but the poet, who still sees himself surrounded by his lonely art. His blessing and his curse. His bliss and his sorrow.

...what does an eternity of damnation matter to someone who has discovered an infinity of joy within a single second? (52)

Creating beauty has a price.

The soul should be enough.

* Photo credit: Book cover via Goodreads.
Charles Baudelaire / CC

Poems & Political Letters of F. I. Tyutchev - Fyodor Tyutchev

Rating: ★★★★
13/04/14

Monotonous dying of the hours:
midnight is telling a tedious tale
in a foreign language we can't fail
to recognize as ours.
— Fyodor Tyutchev, "Insomnia"

The Russian soul is the soul of the world. We all have it. We all have experienced it. There are no geographical boundaries. It is not only Russian. That restless soul belongs to all human beings. I've been treating my own quite badly because the poor thing has been through a lot. It has been torn asunder by many books and then returned to its original form by virtue of admirable writing. The thing is too tiny to deal with such complex situations. Too small, too light: 21 grams. The weight of a hummingbird.

Reading can be a beautiful experience and simultaneously, a charming malady I wouldn't like to abandon. Do you think I enjoy being on the verge of vulnerability because of a bunch of words? Why can't I be content with coloring books even if I'm not a 5-year-old anymore? I don't like difficult, heart-rending books. And then I love them. And need them. These ambivalent feelings are going to be the end of me.

Now that my rant is over, I should clarify that it is all Tyutchev's fault. Sure, he died in 1873 but he should have seen it coming. He is proof of what a human being is able to do with some paper, heart and talent. His poetry was a breath of fresh air during this bleak, rainy day. I was lucky enough to enjoy some beautiful and evocative poems written with the most exquisite language (if the translator, Frank Jude, took too many liberties, it's fine, I still liked it; besides, I wouldn't know since I don't speak in Russian, so... it's fine). There are countless images so vividly portrayed, so many different emotions reveling in honesty, dwelling in those memorable verses—I had to read and reread every line.

Pushkin's spirit is also present in this brilliant poet.

On Pushkin's Ode to Freedom

Alight with the fire of freedom

and drowning out the noise of chains,

the spirit of Alcaeus has awoken in the lyre

and slavery's dust has fled it.

Sparks have scattered from the lyre

and in a stream,

like a divine flame, they have fallen

onto the pale brows of tsars.

Happy is he who with a firm, bold voice,

forgetting their rank, forgetting their thrones,

is born to speak sacred truths

to inveterate tyrants!

And you, fostered by the muses,

have been rewarded by this great lot!

Sing and with the power of euphony

soften, touch, transform

autocracy's sold friends

into friends of goodness and beauty!

Singer, trouble not our civic calm,

darken not the royal glitter!

Beneath the kingly velvet,

let your magic strumming

soften hearts, without alarming!

Tyutchev excelled at describing the beauty that nature has to offer. He wrote about the simplest natural scenes with remarkable vividness. The sound of a peaceful river, the darkness of a valley, a sunset that announces the day is concluding, like a man's quiet existence after wandering aimlessly through the world. Every image blends in perfectly with each side of human nature. And with wine. Yes, Tyutchev wrote the poem "To Wine's Detractors".

We're far too quick to criticise.

What's wrong with liking drink?

Drinking wine's a healthy joy

no man of sense denies...

Great poem. Even though I'm not criticizing that healthy joy, I'm still not going to drink that. I'll stick to grapes, thank you very much.

Tyutchev's lyricism seems unquenchable. At one point, I imagined this man saying: "Oh, beautiful Eleonore, I shall drink that black, hot substance with fine aroma that makes the world go round and probably find delight in the sacred savor of some golden circumferences made in a farm due to the existence of those divine creatures with feathers of vibrant tones." Just to convey he wanted coffee and eggs for breakfast (that doesn't sound too Russian, though).

Tyutchev had a poetic soul. One that allowed him to write something like this:

Stay silent!

Stay silent, out of sight and hide

your feelings and your dreams inside.

Within your soul's deep centre let

them silently rise, let them set

like stars in the night. Don't be heard.

Admire them, don't say a word.

How can your heart itself express?

Can others understand or guess

exactly what life means to you?

A thought you've spoken is untrue.

You only cloud the streams you've stirred.

Be fed by them. Don't say a word.

Making living in yourself your goal.

There is a world within your soul

where mystery-magic thoughts abound.

By outer noise they will be drowned.

They'll scatter as day is bestirred.

Just heed their song. Don't say a word!

His poetry brims with symbolism and images we are fairly acquainted with. "Solitude" is a long poem that made me walk through a dimly lit path towards a lonely, fascinating mind able to describe isolation with a gorgeous prose.

Glancing from a craggy height, how often

I sit pensive in the shade of dense thickets,

evening's varied pictures unfolding before me.

Here a river foams, the beauty of the valley,

leaving me, fading in the dark distance;

there the slumbering ripples of an azure pond

are bright in deep silence.

Through the dark foliage of trees

I see dusk's last ray still wandering.

The moon slowly rises from the north

on a chariot of clouds and from a lone belfry

drawn-out, indistinct peals are heard all around.

The passer-by listens, and the distant bell

fuses its voice with the day's final sounds.

The world is beautiful! Yet rapture

has no place in my withered heart! ...

Stay silent! If you can. Don't say a word. Read them all—his, mine. All. And try to keep distance. Try to remain stoic. Detached. Unaffected. I dare you.

* Note: I didn't find the F. Jude translation here so I picked this book because it was the only one with a title I could understand; no political letters, unfortunately.
** Update (which means I revisited the book and changed everything); Jan 09, 17