Bobok - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Rating: ★★★★

03/05/14
*Una reseña que me olvidé de subir/An old review I forgot to post.

This review may have a little spoiler.

I love short stories and novellas. It's fascinating how a writer can say so much in a few pages. Bobok is another excellent example of this writer's talent to describe people's virtues and miseries. He wrote major works concerning the human condition, and they all seem to be written yesterday.

The wisest of all, in my opinion, is he who can, if only once a month, call himself a fool — a faculty unheard of nowadays. In old days, once a year at any rate a fool would recognize that he was a fool, but nowadays not a bit of it.

Timeless! And kind of funny.

So, this book is about Ivan Ivanovitch, a frustrated writer that went to a funeral of some distant relative. He complained about the cemetery, the smell, green water, the smiles of the dead that haunt his dreams. Well, It's a cemetery... not a place you'd go to have a picnic, I'm guessing.

Then, he sat on a tombstone and started to think about random stuff. Deep reflections about little details, I love that. Suddenly, he began to hear a conversation. He was all alone and he heard a conversation. In the cemetery. ALONE. I'd drop dead and end up under some tombstone in a heartbeat. (The last heartbeat, I guess.)

These dead people were not quite dead. They were aware of everything that surrounded them. They played cards, they discussed among each other, they even shared anecdotes. An active conscience after death is a theme I already saw in The Dream of a Ridiculous Man. It's an interesting yet disturbing theme. However, we can't help to ask ourselves, during several moments of our lives, if death really is the final step or not. Personally, I wish it was. I don't like some people here; I can't imagine what it would be like to be in some cemetery, stuck with annoying people for three or four months and not being able to go away!

Back to the book. Yes, their consciousness was active for about three, even six months until they decomposed. That's why these dead-not-so-dead people decided to spend those months as agreeable as possible. In order to do so, they were determined to cast aside all shame and be brutally honest. Because lying is needed on Earth, but when you're dead, why would you care, right? Anyway, their crazy conversations were a delight to read.

What this short story is trying to tell us—in my humble opinion—is that even dead, human beings are capable of depravity. These guys were willing to waste those months that were given to them, probably to think about their existence on Earth and find some sort of redemption. Instead, they wanted to keep partying. A party of shameless degradation they started while living! The lowness of human condition appears even after death. Or not... I mean, meditation would be the right thing to do. But these people were freaking dead. Actually, they were about to be completely dead. So, it's a tough call.

* Photo credit: Book cover via Goodreads.

Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy

Rating: ★★★★★

01/04/16

[Turn the volume up;

open me in new tab]

There is a well-known belief that, brimming with the romanticism of bygone days to which reason acquiesces in silence, attempts to explain the elusive nature of human relations. According to this myth, the gods get involved in our existence by using a red cord. In Japanese culture, such cord is tied around the little finger; in China, around the ankle. Be it as it may, that string binds one person to the other; people who were always destined to meet, regardless the place, time or circumstances. The character of this connection varies, since it is not restricted to lovers: the two people whose paths are meant to converge at some point, will make history in some way or another, in any given situation. It is said that the red string might get tangled or stretched but it can never break.

Amid all the plausible and unrealistic explanations that might be conceived in order to unravel the true nature of all the encounters we experienced and the ones still awaiting for us, this myth is one of the most poetic ways to try to elucidate their puzzling essence while conveying a lack of randomness in human relations (this certainly goes beyond any rationalization that I could manage to elaborate and that would ultimately be rather pointless). For you could find the person to whom you were always meant to share your life with when you least expect it, no matter your marital status, undoubtedly. And a story that could epitomize this legend took place in 19th-century Russia.

Anna Karenina is not merely a story about an ill-fated relationship that begins with one of the most famous lines in classic literature. Admittedly it was prejudice what prevented me from picking up this book for years. I thought it was going to be another mawkish love story that, alongside its many comings and goings, dealt with—and probably romanticized—the theme of adultery. As much as I spent my entire life questioning the dogmas that my surroundings may have tried to impose upon my own fragile set of principles in youth (that slowly became more grounded through the years), a certain vestige may have survived, but I'm not trying to compete with Tolstoy over who has the most moralizing tone, for I judge no one but myself. To sum up, in literature, the idea of infidelity bores me, so if I have to put up with over nine hundred pages of passion, deception, lustful gazes, thrilling rendezvous and any other similar situation... I'd better stick to short stories.

So imagine my surprise when I found this substantially complex universe populated by people coming from different backgrounds, following different principles, imbued with many noble qualities and ordinary flaws; all captives of something, be it a required sense of dignity, an observance of decorum, stifling social conventions, the game of honesty and feigned emotions or a religion that ruled over most aspects of their lives. A universe defined by the sacrifice of one's wishes, the rejection of one's true feelings in order to do what is proper. A self-denial attitude to demonstrate compliance with the social rules of the world. Actions intended to safeguard a reputation that might get tarnished by truth or falsehood.

I must confess that my lips sarcastically twitched every time I read Tolstoy's effusive meditations on the magnanimous nature of religion and its elevated consequences upon people's behaviour. Oh, 'I want to turn the other cheek, I want to give my shirt when my caftan is taken, and I only pray to God that He not take from me the happiness of forgiveness!' and excerpts as such. At times, I was unable to shake off the impression of a preachy tone that perhaps it was not so, but that my skeptical disposition perceived it anyway. Thankfully, he didn't gush about that too often.

Thus, I gave in. I surrendered to the magnificence of his words, unconditionally.

Every character has been meticulously developed. They were given strong opinions and even the ones I found slightly weak at first, astonished me later when I read their poignant musings, especially when it came to women and their role in both family and society. The idea of (preferably) attractive women whose main job is to give birth, bear with husbands of libertine inclinations and accept their inability to form any opinion worth hearing because nature (un)fortunately has not endowed them with men's brilliance, has clearly survived the 19th century and still resides in some minds that surely scream progress and common sense.

A third-person omniscient narrator takes the lead and introduces us to the world of Anna Arkadyevna Karenina, Karenin's wife, who falls in love with Count Alexei Vronsky, a single, wealthy man. My feelings toward Vronsky gradually changed; I found him rather obnoxious at first—though not as much as Anna’s brother, Stepan Oblonsky, a charming and utterly selfish womanizer married to Darya (‘Dolly’).

This narrator (who acquires a suitable tone for each character and even gives voice to the thoughts of their pets) also follows the story of Konstantin Levin and Ekaterina “Kitty” Shcherbatskaya. Needless to say, Levin has become a favorite of mine. Through his actions and way of thinking, some fascinating factors came into play. His riveting conversations—that he maintained while trying to overcome a heart-rending awkwardness, especially when he found himself cornered due to his inability to disentangle his innovative thoughts when discussing philosophical and political issues—and internal monologues are for me the most memorable parts of the entire novel.

Anna's story is a faithful account of the pressure caused by social norms and the influence of the Russian Church which combined with other elements eventually brought about a relentless state of blinding jealousy, another theme deeply explored by Tolstoy, along with hypocrisy and the need to resort to appearances to be at least theoretically happy. On the contrary, Levin embodies the simplicity of the countryside life, far away from any display of unnecessary opulence; also the bewilderment regarding bureaucracy and the efforts to grasp the concept behind politics, the difficulties present in his relationship with peasants and, in a global scale, the whole agrarian system in contrast to the perception of progress seen in the city. In addition, we witness his struggles concerning faith, an aspect that immediately drew me in, as I also feel frustrated every time I ponder the essence of our existence, our identity, the acknowledgement of death—mortality salience or a persistent state of fear and anxiety—and how everything is supposed to fit an intricate system based on faith; swinging back and forth between reality and a need to believe in something.

This absolutely compelling book showed me another side of Tolstoy. He opened the doors to a world I may recognize since it is not my first Russian novel but that I have barely seen through his eyes for I stubbornly shunned his look for so long. His gifted mind, the uniqueness of his style, the now unmistakable sound of his words thanks to this wonderful translation, the beauty of his language and the sincere nature of his thoughts that were conveyed so eloquently, left an indelible impression on me. Through the characters he has skillfully brought to life, Tolstoy not only shared his views on society and politics, but also his unswerving commitment to do everything in his power to attain a meaningful life. That strenuous search we are always returning to; one that cannot be limited to any time or place since it is intrinsic to human condition. That purpose to which existence might aspire. Something to stimulate our slow, measured pace, often against the flow.

Many things lead to that much desired meaning. Many ways that by themselves are insufficient as life, in constant motion as it is, is a complement of them all. Countless roads branching out while we contemplate, with fearful eyes and wavering avidity for they have ramified in so many directions, the one we should choose.

There is one clear path that this novel illustrates with unflinchingly compassionate brushstrokes of reality. It is understandable that, seeing how love might deteriorate over time, how a kiss becomes an endless reproach and a word, a way to punish and inflict pain on others in the midst of an atmosphere of self-destruction, might make you realize of how that possibility, that unremitting sense of an ending has been injecting fear into your being through the years and all of the efforts you have made to keep a reassuring distance from everything; echoing infantile attempts at self-preservation. A child stepping into society for the first time, again; learning how to speak and behave accordingly, again. Anna, her ghosts, they all demanded, energetically; others, while yearning for different scenarios, return to the shadows, quietly. Giving too much; receiving halves, too late. Doors are always on the verge of closing; serenely becoming accustomed to nothingness.

Even so, amid a myriad of red threads that belong to the vastness of a timeless tapestry, love still constitutes one of the paths that may render a fulfilling life possible.

A bedroom adorned with poppy tears is now shrouded in silence. A red string dwelt there once. It connected two people destined to meet; people who lived a thousand lives in the eternity of a second. According to the myth, such string stretched, tangled and stretched again.

Until she seized hold of it, hoping for a season of forgiveness.

The Captain's Daughter - Alexander Pushkin

Rating: ★★★★

21/03/16

I am familiar with Pushkin's writing. And whereas I prefer Pushkin the Poet, I can say with absolute certainty that, in fact, I enjoyed this novella but for other somewhat unexpected reasons. I found the plot so enthralling that I could not put this book down. Historical facts and pure fiction are interwoven as a single reality which eventually prompted me to read more about Russian history in order to comprehend the political and social background and Pushkin's points of view on them.

The context of this story revolves around the rebellion led by Yemelyan Ivanovich Pugachev, a man that claimed to be Tsar Peter III and consequently established an alternative government during 1773 and 1775 (actually, until late 1774, Pugachev was executed in January 1775; well, if you come up with the smart idea of impersonating an emperor, sparking off one of the largest peasant revolts in the history of your country, expect no colorful parade in your honor).

I will abstain from revealing much details (my Anna Karenina review is reaching astronomical proportions and I think that's going to be painful enough; I wouldn't want to put the entire world to sleep; that would be awkward, and terribly exhausting, but it may happen), so in the spirit of a quick review I must say that the characters have been decently developed. I felt some sort of ambivalence towards them; and some are, to put it mildly, despicable and exemplify the recurrent thought that almost nothing is done altruistically. The writing seems to be more focused on the description of events rather than the characters' psyche, something that gave me Iceberg City flashbacks. But the lyrical tone that defines Pushkin's style was still present.

The main character is Pyotr Andreyich Grinyov, a young man whose father sends into military service with his old servant because, according to him, it is time he starts acting like a man and hard work is the way to accomplish that.

A blizzard, a chance meeting, a woman, obviously; a duel, naturally, and a great opportunity to dive into Pushkin's writing and Russian history.

Diary of a Madman - Nikolai Gogol

Rating: ★★★★

15/03/16

A deluge of thoughts came down on him. Thoughts without sense of purpose or direction that caused

a little stir and numerous inquisitive looks.

Conversations with a dog. Delusions of grandeur; persecutions that might have never existed. Envy that mumbles incoherent things, day in day out: silence is a privilege reserved for others, an idyllic state he has been forbidden from finding again; illegible theory in a dusty old notebook. Words accumulate in the corners of a dim lighted room where guilty smiles are born and left behind, hastily.

His deepest desire was to have more – royalty calls. A rift between worlds leaves him on Spanish shores. One can hear the screams from here.

The sound of a steady drip silences all laughter. Drops of cold water floating in the air that turn into sleet upon touching the skin. Attempts to wrap them up in a deathly hush for it seems impossible to bring back an already elusive sanity.

He is talking again. His subjects will not be pleased. His face, ashen with fear.

So much rain under this blood red sky.

The Nose - Nikolai Gogol

Rating: ★★★★★

06/03/16

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the longer and more carefully we look at a funny story, the sadder it becomes.

As expected, this is a hilarious story. After an intriguing introduction that I shall refrain myself from explaining, we are told that a man woke up, looked at his mirror but didn't find any labyrinths of time nor tigers that haunt dreams. He only noticed that his nose had disappeared. Was it during the night? Perhaps a second before he opened his eyes. We will never know. But, in an act that can only be described as a heinous betrayal and a challenge to every manifestation of reason, that part of his body escaped from the surface of his respectable-looking face and became a well-dressed entity, very pleased with himself and, oddly, with a better social rank than his. Ah, and he was so proud of that rank! You know, he is the kind of person to whom you might ask about the weather and after a minute, you would find yourself listening to a fine gentleman boasting about his important occupations and the comforting feeling that his significant social status gave to him. Nothing profound, certainly. That sort of weakness might be suitable for someone of lesser rank, not him. Following this line of thought, remember, you would have the good fortune of listening to his distinguished conversation only if you belong to a similar status as his, otherwise, I'm afraid he will not be able to answer to you. That would be beneath him. Do not get me wrong, I am not trying to hurt your feelings. I am merely imparting what I regard as relevant information, a dash of knowledge, a gram of wisdom, if you will: the rules of civilization, no less!

You should know by now that the person I am referring to, the one who inspired these ridiculous lines—such drivel that he would unquestionably enjoy nonetheless because, after all, we are all talking about him—is no other than our friend Collegiate Assessor Kovalyov (now, if you would be so kind as to call him 'Major', that would help him make it through the night; to gently caress the ego of these upstanding members of society always ensures them a good night's sleep). Oh, the man sans nose. He could still breathe so that was not an issue, obviously. Notwithstanding, there was a visible absence on his face that surely made him feel self-conscious about his appearance. Who wouldn't understand?

You might think that the source of his distress was also the fact that he could no longer smell the fragrance of fresh-ground coffee (although he would prefer tea, I suppose). Or the perfume of a woman with whom he might have dreamt of the other night but would not speak about, not to one soul, wishing that such memory would return to the bleak corner of his disobedient mind, where it should have stayed; those little nooks under the shadows of the world that hold unavowed dreams and nightmares that ruin normal sleep patterns. Or the aroma that comes from the snuff-box belonging to a thoughtful clerk who might not be aware of our friend's refined taste.

No, the superficial side of human nature would not allow such luxury. Not being able to show his face in public struck fear into his heart. We are in no position to judge here because every individual would feel the same way. Yes, sir. Who wouldn't understand?

Once the glimmer of satire has vanished completely and a state of reflection has emerged from the depths of the unconscious, you will discover that underneath this funny story lies the countenance of misery; timid, distant, determined. The anxiety caused by the look of another person. The condescending sneer from a superior. The mockery directed at an inferior. The need to have a respectable place in society and the urge to cling to it as if your life depended on it. Which, at some degree, unfortunately, it does. A natural consequence of people's priorities. You do understand.

Gogol, whose name is another universe so different from Dostoyevsky's and yet with countless similar facets, mastered the art of blending humor with tragedy, sheer absurdity with varying nuances of misfortune. Like a chameleon and its unusual ability, his language gradually varies from paragraph to paragraph—entertaining lines might take the form of serious statements filled with amusing nonsense that, by the end of the story, might resemble a set of words dripping the sort of lyricism that transports you to another place defying the laws of time, space and apprehensive dispositions.

From that moment on, the thoughts that were impatiently dwelling in some obscure corner that no one would wish to see, manage to free themselves, to leave their self-absorbed bubble. Engulfed in flames of wintry colors and whispering voices, threatened by their wild nature, what are we supposed to do?

Look at the windows as you walk by. Better yet, do not go outside. Go to the bathroom where that wide mirror awaits for you every morning when you are most vulnerable, after walking aimlessly through the bedroom because of three or four hours of lousy sleep. Or reach into your handbag and pull out the small mirror you carefully hide from the world—a futile attempt to deny the existence of some vestige of vanity that might still reside in you.

In an act of moral courage, we could take a look at what that spotless piece of glass may reflect. We could stand in front of it, hold it before our eyes, struck by fear or overcome with joy, in deep, almost mystical contemplation, just to see ourselves through the perception of others, as we try to grab the nearest lifesaver for we might be sinking in a sea of inhibition; rough waters that may reveal a possible craving for social validation with fluctuating degrees of intensity, knowing all the time that any degree could dissolve all trace of reassurance, at the same speed an ice cube melts in hot water. To touch and recognize everything that visually defines us and emotionally affects us. More importantly, to find out, to bring to light. To actually discern what we might have lost yesterday, a while ago; during the minutes that have died and now belong to an uncertain space composed of unreliable memories and remnants of immortality. The things we are about to lose today. Things I would not want to lose tomorrow but that, as with anything in life, in fact, I may have never even had.

* Austen and Gogol have partaken in the creation of the first sentence. I share with you this classified piece of information before Collegiate Assessor Major Kovalyov takes the credit for it.

The Duel - Anton Chekhov, Constance Garnett (Translator)

Rating: ★★★★
23/02/16

“It flings the boat back,” he thought; “she makes two steps forward and one step back; but the boatmen are stubborn, they work the oars unceasingly, and are not afraid of the high waves. The boat goes on and on. Now she is out of sight, but in half an hour the boatmen will see the steamer lights distinctly, and within an hour they will be by the steamer ladder. So it is in life. . . . In the search for truth man makes two steps forward and one step back. Suffering, mistakes, and weariness of life thrust them back, but the thirst for truth and stubborn will drive them on and on. And who knows? Perhaps they will reach the real truth at last.”

The Stranger: Selected Poetry - Alexander Blok, Andrey Kneller (Translator)

Rating: ★★★★
18/02/16

A moon is shining somewhere? Somewhere there's a sun?

(July 1898)

My third Russian lyrical poet of the year. His poetry—an ode to symbolism—includes a wide and varied range of themes and bold experimentations concerning rhymes and structures; a fascinating

display of emotions, wit and creativity.

It was a pleasure to contemplate some particular verses which ooze otherworldly beauty and strongly familiar impressions. His language oscillates between an exceptional lyricism and a harsher tone used to depict evocative images of a more violent nature, often when portraying the political scenario of his time.

Nothing here could be labeled as conventional, something that any reader would find refreshing, to say the least.

This collection offers many sides of Blok.

A poet engaging in an impossible quest. Stubbornly, inevitably.

I yearn to live a life of meaning:

Make every thing – immortalized,

Make all the formal – humanized,

Bring non-existent – into being!

(February 5, 1914)

A poet singing to harmony, to differences; to the pleasant resemblances and irreconcilable ideas, the intimacy and a necessary distance; everything that entails a conversation, a relationship, a marriage, a life. There are a couple of verses that I still hear from some obscure corner of my mind. A long poem and one of my favorites of this collection.

Because you have seen all the secrets I hide.

Because we are bound by secrets and night.

(Guardian Angel)

A poet... getting drunk? A couple of poems were dedicated to an apparently fresh and vivacious beverage that might be the cause of outward reveling or undying mortification: wine. Its incomparable taste, appealing color and the sensations that followed the empty bottle. I don't drink, so there I was, like the eternal designated driver that I am, with some coffee first, some water later, reading about this remarkable poet nailed to the tavern counter... drunk already, but not through, composing a melody to the night and to his soul, his hopeless soul... drunk and dazed.

A poet, no longer a stranger, that left many of us overawed by the unparalleled magnificence of his writing, something that Andrey Kneller was able to convey, once more, with admirable accuracy and elegance.

It’s dark, despite the moon above.

For many, life may turn out better, -

Inside my soul, the spring of love

Will not replace the stormy weather.

The night’s spread out in the street,

And to my spirit’s muted stare,

That’s soaked in poison, hot and sweet,

It answers with a deathly glare.

I try to keep my passions down,

Out in the cold and dawning mist,

I wander, lost among the crowd,

Engrossed, with thoughts of only this:

It’s dark, despite the moon above.

For many, life may turn out better, -

Inside my soul, the spring of love

Will not replace the stormy weather.

(January 1898)

There is a song on every page that speaks of the ancient night. Of unfading passion and forgettable actions. Of ephemeral infatuation and haunting decisions. Of forgiveness and hopeless evenings. The pale glow of a search for meaning. The opportunities we might have lost. A fear that lingers. The people on the streets we ignored today. The inspiration to which we have relinquished. The memories we cherish, that overwhelm us; the ones we wish we had. Words that soothe and harm. Silence that warms and forgets. Strangers waiting at restaurants while the setting sun burns the sky. The thoughts we choose not to share as time, devoid of any emotion, denies a second chance. The things that were never meant to be owned but we are reluctant to let go. The loss of the nonexistent. The indifference toward existence. The people we see. The people we miss.

The ones we'll never be.

My Poems...: Selected Poetry - Marina Tsvetaeva, Andrey Kneller (Translator)

Rating: ★★★★★
02/02/16

Marina's my name, caprice is my way...
No matter what heart, no matter what net,
My will – will break through them all.
See the curls that are dangling loose on my head? -
I will never be turned into salt.
(1920)

Marina Tsvetaeva, the one born amid colors and flowers; the one that decided, immersed in despair, as usual, the last of her moments. She was gifted with a profoundly lyrical voice. She crafted that kind of poetry that mirrors every raw, unrestrained emotion. Poetry that makes the body tingle with sensations, as the mind starts to connect the dots, to think of what has been lost, of what might never come but become memories all the same, gently haunting the depths of the subconscious, giving to its uncanny nooks a heavy brushstroke of disquiet tinged with regret.

Tsvetaeva's poetry reflects an intense and rather unique lyricism, artful rhymes and keen observations on the world and its complexity just like on herself – a vulnerable position she did not even try to conceal. She was praised for the quality of her rhymes and word play. It is an enjoyable activity to analyze structures, to minutely count syllable after syllable to see how close to perfection poets may get. Whereas some people merely want to feel poetry, as they try to solve the riddles found within every verse guarded by an aura of mystique. And the only analysis they might perform relates to how to stop from feeling, once they have had enough.

I - am. You - will be. An abyss between us.

I drink. You thirst. In vain we try to agree...

(June 6, 1918)

This poet found inspiration in love; its evasive maneuvers, its complete absence. A stifling thought that would linger for a day, for decades.

Love, mutually felt, unaware of any boundary, oblivious of any gender.

Love, politely declined. Unkindly ignored.

Love, wandering around in silence, waiting for an answer that will never come for it is impossible to ask for it.

Time, wasted.

Rethinking everything once more,

I'm tortured and the pain persists.

In this, for which I know no word,

Did love exist?

(October 23, 1924)

She found inspiration in loss. In boredom, in jealousy. In a state of perpetual longing.

In resignation.

I never think or argue or whine to any one.

I do not sleep.

I strive for neither sea nor moon nor sun

Nor for the ship.

I don't perceive the warmth indoors or

The greenery of grass.

I don't await the gift I wished for

To come at last.

…

(July 13, 1924)

She found her muse even in cats.

It's funny, poet, wouldn't you say,

How hard we try to make them tame.

They will not play the roles of slaves:

The hearts of cats will not obey!

...

(Cats)

In Moscow. In several other poets she admired, whose enchanting voices also sang to the Muscovite life in general. The walls, the roads. Its magic, its doomed blood. Its idiosyncrasies, its revolutions. Everything and everyone that made her breathe so much death.

Here in my Moscow, - cupolas shine.

Here in my Moscow, - church bells chime.

...

And you stroll along your Neva River slow,

While I stand alone where my Moskva flows...

With my whole insomnia, I'm in love with you,

With my whole insomnia, I am harking you,

While the sextons awake in the Kremlin to

Carry out their morning tasks...

(May 7, 1916)

Among so many other things she portrayed with exceptional art and that represent particles of human condition in its entirety, she found inspiration in insomnia. Something this reader knows well and that made her think about many nights from the past,

many nights to come,

as a name turned into a whisper sung by chance:

* Note
As with every collection that Kneller translated, this book includes every poem in its original language. This was another fine work that seemed to have captured the complex essence of Tsvetaeva's poetry, so I am more than grateful. I should buy this man a box of chocolates as soon as possible.
** Photo credit: Book cover via Goodreads.
Marina Tsvetaeva in her youth via webblack.net

The Devil - Leo Tolstoy

Rating: ★★
23/01/16

An affair began; it was simply necessary for his health. As with every obsession, he thought he could break it off when needed.

After some time, he found reassurance in what seemed to be a good marriage.

By an act of mischievous gods or the mere absurdity of the world that usually goes against our wishes, he found his former lover again. Time involves, if not oblivion, an illusion of it that gives humans a chance of survival. But one glance and the past becomes real again. *'Too Much Love Will Kill You' plays in the background*

That distressing time of looking for opportunities to meet her again had begun. A restless mind that could no longer decide the nature of his thoughts, for they were all about her. He was waiting. Always waiting, expecting that by some miracle she would be aware that he was expecting her, and would come here at once...

Too much passion might tempt the fates and tragedy would be right there, waiting for its opportunity.

Well. My little tragedy was reading this novella. I reached a level of boredom I did not think it was possible while reading Tolstoy. The writing, the overly sentimental way of portraying the story, the characters, the endings (yes, it has two endings and found them both equally irritating).

Since I am reading Anna Karenina at this moment, this novella seems to have been written by Tolstoy's drunk shadow. It has some good ratings here so maybe you will enjoy it. It just wasn't my thing. I was going to give it three stars only because of the author. But that's not how things should work around here. (Yes, if it were a book by Dostoyevsky, I would have given it three stars...)

I chose one line.

Nothing does harm if one's mind is at peace.

Whatever that is.

The Grand Inquisitor - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Rating: ★★★★★
22/01/16

Know, then, that now, precisely now, these people are more certain than ever before that they are completely free, and at the same time they themselves have brought us their freedom and obediently laid it at our feet. It is our doing, but is it what you wanted? This sort of freedom?

This is a chapter from one of my favorite novels, The Brothers Karamazov. Some friends already know about my unconditional love for Dostoyevsky's work. Anything I say is extremely subjective and ultimately forgettable. Anyway, it is preferable to read the entire novel so as to not only enjoy that gem, but to basically understand the characters' particular views.

Ah. The Lord and the inquisitor.

‘Everything,’ they say, ‘has been handed over by you to the pope, therefore everything now belongs to the pope, and you may as well not come at all now, or at least don’t interfere with us for the time being.’

Even when read separately, this section stands out for its lyrical force and, essentially, for the depth and intensity of its philosophical meditations concerning religion and human nature. Themes that—as someone who is always struggling in this small fragment of the world filled with fragile, ambivalent impressions—have been haunting one reader for many years now.

We corrected your deed and based it on miracle, mystery, and authority. And mankind rejoiced that they were once more led like sheep, and that at last such a terrible gift, which had brought them so much suffering, had been taken from their hearts.

Assumptions, everywhere. Confusion. Always the doubts. Always the fear. Ivan speaks. Alyosha, stunned.

He comes for the chosen ones. The ones that will inherit the kingdom of God. The ones that amidst all the possible and impossible notions and mysteries that humanity cannot unveil, were chosen before they were even born. He was always aware of their identities. Their acts, their benevolence, their purity of heart. He always knew. They were created to be saved. As for the rest of us, we are left wondering if fate can take a turn. If simple mortals can bend the rules of eternity and challenge the decisions of an omniscient being by behaving like devoted Christians—that would be one case, since the concept of paradise and its constant truth is deeply connected to geography. Illusions of a mind that wonders if the unchosen ones can still create a path towards salvation.

Many efforts have been made to reconcile the arguments of such delicate nature. And yet...

We have a game. A war. The last battle between predestination and freedom, before the hunting begins.

You want to go into the world, and you are going empty-handed, with some promise of freedom, which they in their simplicity and innate lawlessness cannot even comprehend, which they dread and fear—for nothing has ever been more insufferable for man and for human society than freedom!

Evening - Anna Akhmatova, Andrey Kneller (Translator)

Rating: ★★★★
17/01/16

Neither one of us understood
How small the earth was for two

Evening is Akhmatova's first book, published in 1912. This collection includes some beautifully

crafted poems that brought her critical acclaim. Through the art of simplicity, she managed to convey many aspects of our complex behavior.

A decision, a depart, different stages of a relationship, a failed marriage, a brief existence, the desire of returning to what is essential. An eerie atmosphere covers the entire book, unveiling the intrinsic bond between opposite elements that necessarily complement each other. There is simply too much love and too much loss on every page Akhmatova wrote.

And your sorrow, hidden from others,

Drew me close and opened forthright

And you say just how much I was smothered

By the poisonous yearning inside.

Her verses portray fragments of emotions that can be seen in the beginning of a relationship. Emotions that either evolve or degenerate, until there is nothing but distance and pride.

Everything seems to have been written by someone that was able to feel everything. Until there was nothing left.

The ice has covered up the garden,

It sparkles and it cracks.

The one who left me is disheartened

But there's no coming back.

There are few poems filled with effusive impressions that made me feel a bit uncomfortable, since I honestly cannot connect with that kind of strong sentiment. So the lines that describe someone's lament as a response to the aching absence of love usually leave me confused, when such lament involves an absurd desire of wanting to merge with the earth because someone does not share the same feelings. But I did enjoy the poems written with a much balanced tone, and the ones that illustrate other sides that together constitute what we know as human nature. Luckily, those were the majority.

In the heart, the memory of the sun fades,

Yellower turns the grass.

The wind disperses the early flakes

Barely, with each pass.

In narrow channels, water won't flow -

Cooling, stands still.

Here nothing will ever happen, I know, -

It never will!

...

I will keep exploring Akhmatova's poetry so as to witness what I believe must be a fascinating journey through the years, as she reached a more mature style. Even though this first collection of hers was an impressive start. Her writing is deeply lyrical and, fortunately, lacks of all superfluous attempt of embellishment. Her poetry echoes every raw emotion that many are unwilling to acknowledge. Or worse, unable to explain.

Here years can pass without a word.

* A nice translation by Andrey Kneller. This is the second time I read his work and I'm very much pleased with what I found.

The Demon - Mikhail Lermontov

Rating: ★★★★★
10/01/16


Where the land knows no time
where bonfires have no end,
and doomed shadows often tend
to mutter songs that poorly rhyme,

there lies the Demon, another prey of his kingdom.

and one by one the ages passed,
as minute follows after minute,
each one monotonously dull.

Tired of his empire, he soon claimed
a small thrill,
a world of chance,
an emerald hill,
somebody's glance.
“I shall live now!”, he naively exclaimed.

And long he gazed, with fascination,
at the sweet view; as if in a dream

The wide earth he started to wander;
on the Caucasian mountains he stopped,
a desperate sigh of hope there he dropped,
as he saw the bride that made him ponder

and filled his soul with chords and joy.

words came no more . . . had he forgot?

Princess Tamara was her divine name;
but heavens didn't forgive
his eyes made of fire,
no one could outlive
the nature of his desire,
as the weeping chants of fate abruptly came;

such solitude on the sunless face of pride.

The crafty Demon with infernal
reveries had tempted him; in thoughts
beneath the gloom, the shades nocturnal,
it was his sweetheart's lips he sought.

There is no redemption for those who can't speak
nor freely touch; in this land or far above
where everything's whiter than a pale dove,
amidst the bluest ocean or a Caucasian peak;
an eternal misfortune, silent and bleak,
the suffering of being unable to love—

another Russian friend thus wrote.

A cry resounded, tortured, fierce,
troubling the stillnesses nocturnal.
In it were love, and pain's hard kernel,
reproaches, a last desperate prayer,
and then a hopeless, an eternal
farewell to life—all these were there.

We hurt the things we love most,
things so distant and of silence full;
fair signs which existence was null,
people never found yet always lost.

As the sound of the piano reaches the end,
Lermontov's poetry invades this mind,
a torrent of thoughts, loud and blind;
no hope of ever being able to find
meaning in these lines vainly penned.

Words that rest on nobody's palm,
destined to hide from the world's sight;
words without any music, beat or calm.

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.