Gogol Dead Souls Quotes

However stupid a fool's words may be, they are sometimes enough to confound an intelligent man.

Two turtle doves will show thee Where my cold ashes lie And sadly murmuring tell thee How in tears I did die

...nothing could be more pleasant than to live in solitude, enjoy the spectacle of nature, and occasionally read some book...

There are occasions when a woman, no matter how weak and impotent in character she may be in comparison with a man, will yet suddenly become not only harder than any man, but even harder than anything and everything in the world.

But wise is the man who disdains no character, but with searching glance explores him to the root and cause of all.

A word aptly uttered or written cannot be cut away by an axe.

You can't imagine how stupid the whole world has grown nowadays.

But youth has a future. The closer he came to graduation, the more his heart beat. He said to himself: “This is still not life, this is only the preparation for life.

You can't imagine how stupid the whole world has grown nowadays. The things these scribblers write!

I saw that I’d get nowhere on the straight path, and that to go crookedly was straighter.

in his mind, nothing could be more delightful than to live in solitude, and enjoy the spectacle of nature, and sometimes read some book or other.

Countless as the sands of sea are human passions, and not all of them are alike, and all of them, base and noble alike, are at first obedient to man and only later on become his terrible masters.

Keep not money, but keep good people's company.

The current generation now sees everything clearly, it marvels at the errors, it laughs at the folly of its ancestors, not seeing that this chronicle is all overscored by divine fire, that every letter of it cries out, that from everywhere the piercing finger is pointed at it, at this current generation; but the current generation laughs and presumptuously, proudly begins a series of new errors, at which their descendants will also laugh afterwards.

Everything resembles the truth, everything can happen to a man.

[F]or contemporary judgment does not recognize that much depth of soul is needed to light up the picture drawn from contemptible life and elevate it into a pearl of creation...

...and sank into the profound slumber which comes only to such fortunate folk as are troubled neither with mosquitoes nor fleas nor excessive activity of brain.

...a quiet room with cockroaches peeping out like prunes from every corner...

And so the money which to some extent may have saved the situation is spent on various means for bringing about self oblivion

Love us dirty, for any one will love us clean.

Also, though not over-elderly, he was not over-young.

Even a stone has its uses, and man who is the most intelligent of all creatures must be of some use, hasn't he?

This was not the old Chichikov. This was some wreckage of the old Chichikov. The inner state of his soul might be compared to a demolished building, which has been demolished so that from it a new one could be built; but the new one has not been started yet, because the infinitive plan has not yet come from the architect and the workers are left in perplexity.

A adormit buștean, cum dorm numai acei fericiți care nu suferă nici de hemoroizi, nici de purici și nici de vreo agerime prea mare a minții.

So here we are once more in the wilds, and once more we've come upon some out of the way corner. But what a wilderness, and what an out of the way corner!

For every man there are certain words that are as if closer and more intimate to him than any others. And often, unexpectedly, in some remote, forsaken backwater, some deserted desert, one meets a man whose warming conversation makes you forget the pathlessness of your paths, the homelessness of your nights, and the contemporary world full of people's stupidity, of deceptions for deceiving man. Forever and always an evening spent in this way will vividly remain with you, and all that was and that took place then will be retained by the faithful memory: who was there, and who stood where, and what he was holding--the walls, the corners, and every trifle.

It is well-known that there are many faces in the world over the finishing of which nature did not take much trouble, did not employ any fine tools such as files, gimlets, and so on, but simply hacked them out with round strokes: one chop-a nose appears; another chop-lips appear; eyes are scooped out with a big drill; and she lets it go into the world rough-hewn, saing: "ALIVE!

with a true friend one experiences something in the nature of spiritual enjoyment?

And could a man sink to such triviality, such meanness, such nastiness? Could he change so much? And is it true to life? Yes, it is all true to life. All this can happen to a man. The ardent youth of today would start back in horror if you could show him his portrait in old age. As you pass from the soft years of youth into harsh, hardening manhood, be sure you take with you on the way all the humane emotions, do not leave them on the road: you will not pick them up again afterwards!

Like all of us sinners, General Betrishchev was endowed with many virtues and many defects. Both the one and the other were scattered through him in a sort of picturesque disorder. Self-sacrifice, magnanimity in decisive moments, courage, intelligence--and with all that, a generous mixture of self-love, ambition, vanity, petty personal ticklishness, and a good many of those things which a man simply cannot do without.

It seemed that both had lately had a touch of that pain under the waistband which comes of a sedentary life.

There are passions that it is not for man to choose.

Well, so that's the prosecutor! He lived and lived, and then died! And they will say in the papers that he died to the regret of his staff and all mankind, a respected citizen, a rare father, a model husband, and they will write a lot more stuff and nonsense about him; they will add, maybe, that he was mourned by widows and orphans; but if one were to investigate the matter thoroughly, it will emerge that he had nothing to him except his bushy eyebrows.

Consequently he himself perceived that a knowledge of mankind would have availed him more than all the legal refinements and philosophical maxims in the world could do.

Every one to his taste, one man loves the priest and another the priest’s wife, as the proverb says.

Why, then, make a show of the poverty of our life and our sad imperfection, unearthing people from the backwoods, from remote corners of the state? But what if this is in the writer's nature, and his own imperfection grieves him so, and the makeup of his talent is such, that he can only portray the poverty of our life, unearthing people from the backwoods, from the remote corners of the state! So here we are again in the backwoods, again we have come out in some corner!

Here, precisely here, man imitates God: God granted Himself the work of creation, as the highest delight, and He demands that man, too, be a creator of prosperity and the harmonious course of things. And this they call dull!

And in a very civil fashion did Manilov did so, even going as far as to address the man in the second person plural.

One must keep a store of common sense,” said Tchitchikov, “and consult one’s common sense at every minute, have a friendly conversation with it.

A Russian peasant scratching the back of his head means many different things.

At 10.15 a.m. a woman walked in and roared, ‘I am in my element! Books!’, then continued to shout questions at me for an hour while she waddled about the shop like a ‘stately goose’, as Gogol describes Sobakevich’s wife in Dead Souls. Predictably, she didn’t buy anything.

Even Pushkin, who could understand everything, did not grasp the real significance of Dead Souls. He thought that the author was grieving for Russia, ignorant, savage, and outdistanced by the other nations. But it is not only in Russia that Gogol discovers "dead souls." All men, great and small, seem to him lunatics, lifeless, automata which obediently and mechanically carry out commandments imposed on them from without. They eat, they drink, they sin, they multiply; with stammering tongue they pronounce meaningless words. No trace of free will, no sparkle of understanding, not the slightest wish to awake from their thousand-year sleep.

Happy the writer who, passing by characters that are boring, disgusting, shocking in their mournful reality, approaches characters that manifest the lofty dignity of man, who from the great pool of daily whirling images has chosen only the rare exceptions, who has never once betrayed the exalted turning of his lyre, nor descended from his height to his poor, insignificant brethren, and, without touching the ground, has given the whole of himself to his elevated images so far removed from it. Twice enviable is his beautiful lot: he is among them as in his own family; and meanwhile his fame spreads loud and far. With entrancing smoke he has clouded people's eyes; he has flattered them wondrously, concealing what is mournful in life, showing them a beautiful man. Everything rushes after him, applauding, and flies off following his triumphal chariot. Great world poet they name him, soaring high above all other geniuses in the world, as the eagle soars above the other high fliers. At the mere mention of his name, young ardent hearts are filled with trembling, responsive tears shine in all eyes...No one equals him in power--he is God! But such is not the lot, and other is the destiny of the writer who has dared to call forth all that is before our eyes every moment and which our indifferent eyes do not see--all the stupendous mire of trivia in which our life in entangled, the whole depth of cold, fragmented, everyday characters that swarm over our often bitter and boring earthly path, and with the firm strength of his implacable chisel dares to present them roundly and vividly before the eyes of all people! It is not for him to win people's applause, not for him to behold the grateful tears and unanimous rapture of the souls he has stirred; no sixteen-year-old girl will come flying to meet him with her head in a whirl and heroic enthusiasm; it is not for him to forget himself in the sweet enchantment of sounds he himself has evoked; it is not for him, finally, to escape contemporary judgment, hypocritically callous contemporary judgment, which will call insignificant and mean the creations he has fostered, will allot him a contemptible corner in the ranks of writers who insult mankind, will ascribe to him the quality of the heroes he has portrayed, will deny him heart, and soul, and the divine flame of talent. For contemporary judgment does not recognize that equally wondrous are the glasses that observe the sun and those that look at the movement of inconspicuous insect; for contemporary judgment does not recognize that much depth of soul is needed to light up the picture drawn from contemptible life and elevate it into a pearl of creation; for contemporary judgment does not recognize that lofty ecstatic laughter is worthy to stand beside the lofty lyrical impulse, and that a whole abyss separates it from the antics of the street-fair clown! This contemporary judgment does not recognize; and will turn it all into a reproach and abuse of the unrecognized writer; with no sharing, no response, no sympathy, like a familyless wayfarer, he will be left alone in the middle of the road. Grim is his path, and bitterly he will feel his solitude.

The fair-haired man was one of those people in whose character there is at first sight a certain obstinacy. Before you can open your mouth, they are already prepared to argue and, it seems, will never agree to anything that is clearly contrary to their way of thinking, will never call a stupid thing smart, and in particular will never dance to another man's tune; but it always ends up that there is a certain softness in their character, that they will agree precisely to what they had rejected, will call a stupid thing smart, and will then go off dancing their best to another man's tune - in short, starts out well, ends in hell.

Manilov was pleased by these final words, but he still couldn't make sense of the deal itself, and for want of an answer, he began sucking his clay pipe so hard that it started to wheeze like a bassoon. He seemed to be trying to extract from it an opinion about this unprecedented business; but the clay pipe only wheezed and said nothing.

In this world, people always find a way of doing what they want

Emotion has become a disease with you,” said Platon. “You seek your own troubles, and make your own anxieties.

Seek ye not riches, seek but the society of good men.

Somehow, too, I remembered Chichikov’s round of weird visits in Gogol’s “Dead Souls.

The human feelings, which had never been very deep in him, grew shallower every hour, and every day something more dropped away from the decrepit wreck.

I really don’t know,” the old lady brought out hesitatingly, “you see I’ve never sold the dead before.

Ала мъдър е оня, който не се гнуси от никой характер и като втренчи в него изпитателен поглед, опознае го чак до първичните му причини. Бързо се променя всичко у човека; докато се обърнеш, току видиш, че се появил вътре в него страшен червей, който самовластно обръща към себе си всички жизнени сокове.

Business was successfully concluded. But—strange is man: he was deeply mortified at being in disfavour with the very people whom he did not respect, and whose vanity and love of dress he derided.

The present generation sees everything clearly, marvels at the errors and laughs at the follies of its forefathers, not seeing that there are streaks of heavenly light in that history, that every letter in it cries aloud to them, that on all sides a pointing finger is turned upon it, upon the present generation. But the present generation laughs and proudly, self-confidently, enters upon a series of fresh errors at which their descendants will laugh again in their turn.

And what in earlier years would have brought animation to my face, arousing laughter and incessant chatter, now slips past me and my immobile lips preserve an impassive silence. Oh my youth! Oh my freshness!

Russia! Russia! What is the incomprehensible, mysterious force that draws me to you? Why does your mournful song, carried along your whole length and breadth from sea to sea, each and re-echo incessantly in my ears? What is there in that song? What is it that calls, and sobs, and clutches at my heart? What are those sounds that caress me so poignantly, that go straight to my soul and twine about my heart? Russia! What do you want from me? What is that mysterious, hidden bond between us?

And for long years to come I am destined by some strange fate to walk hand in hand with my odd heroes, to gaze at life in its vast movement, to gaze upon it through laughter seen by the world and tears unseen and unknown by it!

أن هناك أمورا لا تستطيع أن تغتفرها سيدة مهما كان الرجل الذى صدرت عنه هذه الامور. وهناك حالات نجد فيها المراة ، وعلى رغم كل ما فى طبيعتها من ضعف وعجز بالقياس بالرجل، تصير فجاة أشد قسوة ليس من الرجل فقط، بل ومن كل شىء فى الدنيا .

In the corner shop, or, rather, in its window, a purveyor of hot spiced honey drinks had installed himself, with a samovar of red copper and a face just as red as the samovar, so that from a distance you might think that there were two samovars standing in the window, if one samovar hadn’t been wearing a beard black as pitch.

Эх, русский народец! не любит умирать своею смертью!

would he need to consider my feelings if at any point he should feel minded to blame

Despair at not reaching ideal perfection are among the reasons given. Again it is said.

They had an almost irresistible tendency to degenerate into a kind of lolloping amble.

What a strange creature man is! He does not believe in God, but he does believe that if the bridge of is nose itches he is surely going to die;

Human problems are difficult things to solve. Sometimes a man may be drawn into a vicious circle, so that, having once entered it, he ceases to be himself.

Really it tires one to hear you. How come you always to be so cheerful?” “And how come YOU always to be so gloomy?” retorted the host. “How, you ask? Simply because I am so.

How strangely are things compounded! In a trice may joy turn to sorrow, should one halt long enough over it: in a trice only God can say what ideas may strike one.

The parental eye shed no tears when the time for leave-taking came; a half-rouble in copper coins was given to the boy by way of pocket-money and for sweets, and what is more important, the following admonition: "Mind now, Pavlusha, be diligent, don't fool or gad about, and above all please your teachers and superiors. If you please your superiors, then you will be popular and get ahead of everyone even if you lag behind in knowledge and talent. Don't be too friendly with the other boys, they will teach you no good; but if you do make friends, cultivate those who are better off and might be useful. Don't invite or treat anyone, but conduct yourself in such a way as to be treated yourself, and above all, take care of and save your pennies, that is the most reliable of all things. A comrade or friend will cheat you and be the first to put all the blame on you when in a fix, but the pennies won't betray you in any difficulty. With money you can do anything in the world." Having admonished his son thus, the father took leave of him and trundled off home on his 'magpie'. Though from that day the son never set eyes on him more, his words and admonitions had sunk deep into his soul.

In the old man's face there was nothing very special - save that the chin was so greatly projected that whenever he spoke he was forced to wipe it with a handkerchief to avoid dribbling.

Wherever in life it may be, whether amongst its tough, coarsely poor, and untidily moldering mean ranks, or its monotonously cold and boringly tidy upper classes, a man will at least once meet with a phenomenon which is unlike anything he has happened to see before, which for once at least awakens in him a feeling unlike those he is fated to feel all his life. Wherever, across whatever sorrow sour life is woven of, a resplendent joy will gaily race by, just as a splendid carriage with golden harness, picture-book horses, and a shining brilliance of glass sometimes suddenly and unexpectedly goes speeding by some poor, forsaken hamlet that has never seen anything but a country cart, and for a long time the muzhiks stand gaping open-mouthed, not putting their hats back on, though the wondrous carriage has long since sped away and vanished from sight.

You have no love for the good, then force yourself to do good, without any love for it. That will be counted an even greater merit for you than for one who does good for the love of it. Simply force yourself a few times then the love will come to you as well. Believe me, everything can be done.

How many crooked, out-of-the-way, narrow, impassable, and devious paths has humanity chosen in the attempt to attain eternal truth, while before it the straight road lay open...It is wider and more open and resplendent than all other paths, lying as it does in the full glare of the sun, and lit up by many lights in the night, but men have streamed past it in blind darkness. And how many times...have they still managed to swerve away from it and go astray, have managed in the broad light of day to get into the impassable out-of-the-way places again, have managed again to throw a blinding mist over each other's eyes, and running after will-o'-the-wisps have managed to reach the brink of the precipice only to ask themselves with horror: 'Where is the way out? Where is the road?' The present generation sees everything clearly, it is amazed and laughs at the folly of its ancestors...and self-confidently enters on a fresh set of errors at which their descendants will laugh again later on.

Everywhere, in whatever realm of life, whether among its callous, coarsely impoverished and messily moldering lower ranks, or among its monotonously gelid and tediously tidy upper strata, everywhere, if but once, a person will encounter a phenomenon on his journey that is unlike anything he has chanced to see heretofore and that, at least once will awake in him a feeling unlike any he is fated to feel for the rest of his life.

Gradually, therefore, Tientietnikov grew more at home in the Service. Yet never did it become, for him, the main pursuit, the main object in life, which he had expected. No, it remained but one of a secondary kind. That is to say, it served merely to divide up his time, and enable him the more to value his hours of leisure.

repeat however for the benefit of those who like books to provide them with “real people” and “real crime” and a “message” (that horror of horrors borrowed from the jargon of quack reformers) that Dead Souls will get them nowhere.

Certain persons in the world exist, not as personalities in themselves, but as spots or specks on the personalities of others. Always they are to be seen sitting in the same place, and holding their heads at exactly the same angle, so that one comes within an ace of mistaking them for furniture, and thinks to oneself that never since the day of their birth can they have spoken a single word.

You are on the proper road for Manilovka, but ZAmanilovka - well, there is no such place. The house you mean is called Manilovka because Manilovka is its name; but no house at all is called ZAmanilovka. The house you mean stands there, on that hill, and is a stone house in which a gentleman lives, and its name is Manilovka; but ZAmanilovka does not stand herabouts, nor ever has stood." hahahaha

For every man there are certain words that are as if closer and more intimate to him that any others. And often, unexpectedly, in some remote, forsaken backwater, some deserted desert, one meets a man whose warming conversation makes you forget the pathlessness of your paths, the homelessness of your nights, and the contemporary world full of people's stupidity, of deceptions for deceiving man.

Well, in this case,' said Chichikov, 'I haven't lied by even this much,' and with his thumb he marked off the very tip of his little finger. 'You Jesuit, you Jesuit! I'll bet you anything you're talking rot!' 'Listen, this is insulting! What's going on, anyway? Why do you think I have to be lying?

On first speaking to the man, his ingratiating smile, his flaxen hair, and his blue eyes would lead one to say, “What a pleasant, good-tempered fellow he seems!” yet during the next moment or two one would feel inclined to say nothing at all, and, during the third moment, only to say, “The devil alone knows what he is!

Everywhere, despite all the sorrows from which our lives are woven, there will flash a glittering dream of joy, just like a brilliant carriage with gold trappings, fairytale steeds, sparkling windows which suddenly appears from nowhere and flashes past some wretched backwater village, which has never seen anything other than farm carts, and for a long time after the peasants remain standing, mouths agape and caps still doffed, although the wondrous carriage has long since passed from view

In a word, it was wild, and somehow beautiful and desolate at the same time, a work which could not have been contrived by Nature or by Art alone, but by their combined efforts only, with Nature's chisel going over the often senselessly elaborate work of man, relieving the heaviness, obliterating the vulgar symmetry and the crude lapses which reveal the laboriousness of the planner's efforts, and thus communicating a miraculous warmth to something created in cold, measured neatness and precision.

The ardent youth of to-day would start back in horror if you could show him his portrait in old age. As you pass from the soft years of youth into harsh, hardening manhood, be sure you take with you on the way all the humane emotions, do not leave them on the road: you will not pick them up again afterwards! Old age is before you, threatening and terrible, and it will give you nothing back again! The grave is more merciful; on the tomb is written: “Here lies a man,” but you can read nothing on the frigid, callous features of old age.

In conclusion, the visitor took out a cambric pocket-handkerchief, and sneezed into it with a vehemence wholly new to Tientietnikov’s experience. In fact, the sneeze rather resembled the note which, at times, the trombone of an orchestra appears to utter not so much from its proper place on the platform as from the immediate neighbourhood of the listener’s ear.

Because I cannot sleep. A pain has taken me in my middle, and my legs, from the ankles upwards, are aching as though they were broken.” “That will pass, that will pass, good mother. You must pay no attention to it.” “God grant that it MAY pass. However, I have been rubbing myself with lard and turpentine. What sort of tea will you take? In this jar I have some of the scented kind.

What crooked, blind, narrow, impassable, far-straying paths mankind has chosen, striving to attain eternal truth, while a whole straight road lay open before it, like the road leading to a magnificent dwelling meant for a king's mansion! Broader and more splendid than all other roads it is, lit by the sun and illumined all night by lamps, yet people have flowed past it in the blind darkness. So many times already, though guided by a sense come down from heaven, they have managed to waver and go astray, have managed in broad daylight to get again into an impassable wilderness, have managed again to blow a blinding fog into each other's eyes, and, dragging themselves after marsh-lights, have managed finally to reach the abyss, only to ask one another in horror: where is the way out, where is the path?

Everywhere in life, no matter where it may run its course, whether amid its harsh, raspingly poor, and squalidly mildewing lowly ranks, or amid its monotonously frigid and depressingly tidy upper classes— everywhere, if it be but once, man is fated to meet a phenomenon that is unlike all that which he may have chanced to meet hitherto; which, if but once, will awaken within him an emotion that is unlike all those which he is fated to experience all life long. Everywhere, running counter to all the sorrows of which our life is woven, a glittering joy will gaily flash by, as, at times, a glittering equipage with gold on its gear, with its picturesque horses, and sparkling because of its gleaming plate glass will suddenly, unexpectedly, speed by some backwoods poverty-stricken hamlet that had never beheld anything but a country cart.

Adesso da noi tutti i gradi e i ceti sociali sono così suscettibili che tutto quello che appare in un libro stampato sembra cosa che li riguardi personalmente; è questa, ormai, evidentemente, l’aria che tira. È sufficiente dire che in una città c’è un uomo stupido, che è già un’allusione personale; d’un tratto salta fuori un signore d’aspetto rispettabile e si mette a gridare: “Sono poi un uomo anch’io, di conseguenza sarei anch’io stupido!”.

Yes, readers of this book, none of you really care to see humanity revealed in its nakedness. “Why should we do so?” you say. “What would be the use of it? Do we not know for ourselves that human life contains much that is gross and contemptible? Do we not with our own eyes have to look upon much that is anything but comforting? Far better would it be if you would put before us what is comely and attractive, so that we might forget ourselves a little.

The now ardent youth would jump back in horror if he were shown his own portrait in old age. So take with you on your way, as you pass from youth's tender years into stern, hardening manhood, take with you every humane impulse, do not leave them by the wayside, you will not pick them up later! Terrible, dreadful old age looms ahead, and nothing does it give back again! The grave is more merciful, on the grave it will be written: "Here lies a man!"—but nothing can be read in the cold, unfeeling features of inhuman old age.

But mortal man— truly, it is hard to understand how your mortal man is made: however banal the news may be, as long as it is news, he will not fail to pass it on to some other mortal, even if it is precisely with the purpose of saying: “See what a lie they’re spreading!” and the other mortal will gladly incline his ear, though afterwards he himself will say: “Yes, that is a a perfectly banal lie, not worthy of any attention!” and thereupon he will set out at once to look for a third mortal, so that, having told him, they can both exclaim with noble indignation: “What a banal lie!” And it will not fail to make the rounds of the whole town, and all mortals, however many there are, will have their fill of talking and will then admit that it is unworthy of attention and not worth talking about.

El que hoy es un impetuoso joven se quedaría horrorizado si contemplara el retrato de lo que será en su vejez. Llevaos con vosotros todos los impulsos humanos cuando salgáis de los fáciles años de la juventud para entrar en la severa virilidad que todo lo endurece, lleváoslo, no los abandonéis en el camino. ¡Después no os será posible recuperarlos! ¡La vejez que os aguarda, horrible y temible, jamás devuelve nada! Más compasiva que la vejez es la sepultura, en ella se escribirá: «Aquí han enterrado a un hombre», pero nada se puede leer en los insensibles y fríos rasgos de la inhumana vejez.

Perché è ora di dargli un po’ di riposo, al povero uomo virtuoso, perché gira senza costrutto su tutte le labbra, l’espressione “uomo virtuoso”; perché dell’uomo virtuoso ne hanno fatto un cavallo, e non c’è scrittore che non lo cavalchi, sollecitandolo con la frusta e con tutto quel che gli capita; perché hanno ridotto l’uomo virtuoso in un modo che adesso non ha nemmeno più l’ombra della virtù, ma gli sono rimaste solo le ossa e la pelle, invece del corpo; perché ipocritamente ricorrono all’uomo virtuoso, perché non hanno rispetto per l’uomo virtuoso. No, è tempo, infine, di attaccare alle stanghe un mascalzone. E allora, attacchiamo il mascalzone!

It's easy for the reader from his quiet vantage point high above the melee whence his eye sweeps over the whole horizon and he can see everything that is happening below--but a man down there can only see the subject nearest him. In the same way, in the world chronicle of mankind, there seem to be many centuries that could be crossed out and expunged as useless. There have been many errors committed in the world which we would not expect a child to commit today. What tortuous, blind, impassable, devious paths has mankind trodden in its search for eternal truth, while all the time, right before it, lay the straight road leading to the glittering edifice destined to be the palace of the ruler. This road is the clearest and the most beautiful of all, flooded by sunlight during the day and brightly illuminated at night, but the human throng flows past it in darkness. And how many times, even when inspired by God-given good sense, have men still managed to step back and turn away from it; succeeded again and again in losing themselves in back alleys in broad daylight; succeeded again and again in filling each others eyes with blinding smoke and trudging wearily after a mirage; again and again succeeded in coming to the very brink of the precipice, then asking each other, horrified, in which direction the road can be found. The present generation see all this clearly and is surprised at the erring and blundering of its ancestors, laughs at their folly. So it's not for nothing that mankind's chronicle is scarred out by heavenly flames, that each letter in it cries out, and that from every page a piercing finger is pointed at the present generation. But today's generation just laughs, sure of its strength and full of pride, and it starts off along a path of new errors over which its decedents in turn will pour their scorn.

Nozdriov era, en cierto aspecto, un hombre histórico. Ninguna reunión en la que él tomaba parte concluía sin su historia. Por fuerza tenía que suceder alguna: o lo sacaban los guardias, o sus propios amigos se encontraban en la obligación de echarlo. Si no sucedía así, invariablemente pasaba algo que a los otros no les podía pasar en modo alguno: comenzaba a beber con tanta desconsideración que una de dos, o no paraba de reír, o mentía con tal descaro que al final a él mismo le producía vergüenza. Mentía sin más ni más, sin ninguna necesidad de ello. De buenas a primeras salía diciendo que poseía un caballo de pelo azul o rosa, o bien otras necedades por el estilo, hasta el extremo de que los oyentes acababan por alejarse de él exclamando: «Por lo que veo, hermano, has comenzado ya con tus embustes.»

To what nadir of paltriness , pettiness, and squalor a man can sink! How could he change so! But is this really true to life? ---It is, it's all true to life, for anything can happen to a man. Your ardent youth of today would recoil in horror if you were to show him his own portrait as an old man. Once you set off on life's journey, once you take your leave of those gentle years of youth and enter the harsh, embittering years of manhood, remember to keep with you all your human emotions, do not leave them by the wayside, for you will not pick them up again! Grim and terrible is the old age which awaits us, and nothing does it give in return! The grave itself is more merciful than old age, for at least on the gravestone you will find written the words: 'Here a man lies buried!' but in the cold, unfeeling features of inhuman old age you can read nothing.

One afternoon while crossing the street I noticed I was crying. But I could not identify the source of my tears. I felt a heat containing the colors of autumn. The dark stone in my heart pulsed quietly, igniting like a coal in a hearth. Who is in my heart? I wondered. I soon recognized Todd’s humorous spirit, and as I continued my walk I slowly reclaimed an aspect of him that was also myself—a natural optimism. And slowly the leaves of my life turned, and I saw myself pointing out simple things to Fred, skies of blue, clouds of white, hoping to penetrate the veil of a congenital sorrow. I saw his pale eyes looking intently into mine, trying to trap my walleye in his unfaltering gaze. That alone took up several pages that filled me with such painful longing that I fed them into the fire in my heart, like Gogol burning page by page the manuscript of Dead Souls Two. I burned them all, one by one; they did not form ash, did not go cold, but radiated the warmth of human compassion.

What's nice is that she's obviously just graduated from some boarding school or institute, that as yet there's nothing femalish, as they say, about her, nothing, that is, of what's most unpleasant about these creatures. Now she's like a child, everything about her is simple: she'll say whatever comes into her head, she'll laugh whenever she feels like laughing. Anything can be made of her, she can be a wonder, yet she can turn out to be worthless too, and worthless is what she will turn out to be! Just let the doting mothers and aunts get their hands on her. In one year they'll fill her with such female stuff of every sort that her own father won't recognize her. From that will come haughtiness and primness. She'll start acting according to the precepts that have been drilled into her, she'll begin racking her brains and trying to figure out with whom, and in what way, and for how long she sould talk, and how she should look at this person or that; and she'll live in constant fear of saying more than she should.

To the door of an inn in the provincial town of N. there drew up a smart britchka—a light spring-carriage of the sort affected by bachelors, retired lieutenant-colonels, staff-captains, land-owners possessed of about a hundred souls, and, in short, all persons who rank as gentlemen of the intermediate category. In the britchka was seated such a gentleman—a man who, though not handsome, was not ill-favoured, not over-fat, and not over-thin. Also, though not over-elderly, he was not over-young. His arrival produced no stir in the town, and was accompanied by no particular incident, beyond that a couple of peasants who happened to be standing at the door of a dramshop exchanged a few comments with reference to the equipage rather than to the individual who was seated in it. "Look at that carriage," one of them said to the other. "Think you it will be going as far as Moscow?" "I think it will," replied his companion. "But not as far as Kazan, eh?" "No, not as far as Kazan." With that the conversation ended. Presently, as the britchka was approaching the inn, it was met by a young man in a pair of very short, very tight breeches of white dimity, a quasi-fashionable frockcoat, and a dickey fastened with a pistol-shaped bronze tie-pin. The young man turned his head as he passed the britchka and eyed it attentively; after which he clapped his hand to his cap (which was in danger of being removed by the wind) and resumed his way. On the vehicle reaching the inn door, its occupant found standing there to welcome him the polevoi, or waiter, of the establishment—an individual of such nimble and brisk movement that even to distinguish the character of his face was impossible. Running out with a napkin in one hand and his lanky form clad in a tailcoat, reaching almost to the nape of his neck, he tossed back his locks, and escorted the gentleman upstairs, along a wooden gallery, and so to the bedchamber which God had prepared for the gentleman's reception. The said bedchamber was of quite ordinary appearance, since the inn belonged to the species to be found in all provincial towns—the species wherein, for two roubles a day, travellers may obtain a room swarming with black-beetles, and communicating by a doorway with the apartment adjoining. True, the doorway may be blocked up with a wardrobe; yet behind it, in all probability, there will be standing a silent, motionless neighbour whose ears are burning to learn every possible detail concerning the latest arrival. The inn's exterior corresponded with its interior. Long, and consisting only of two storeys, the building had its lower half destitute of stucco; with the result that the dark-red bricks, originally more or less dingy, had grown yet dingier under the influence of atmospheric changes. As for the upper half of the building, it was, of course, painted the usual tint of unfading yellow. Within, on the ground floor, there stood a number of benches heaped with horse-collars, rope, and sheepskins; while the window-seat accommodated a sbitentshik[1], cheek by jowl with a samovar[2]—the latter so closely resembling the former in appearance that, but for the fact of the samovar possessing a pitch-black lip, the samovar and the sbitentshik might have been two of a pair.

La signora piacevole da tutti i punti di vista rispose chiaro e tondo che non lo sapeva. Non era capace di mentire: supporre qualcosa è un altro paio di maniche, e anche questo lo faceva soltanto se la supposizione era fondata su una convinzione interiore; se sentiva questa convinzione interiore, allora era capace di difendere il proprio punto di vista, e se un avvocato-testa d’uovo, rinomato per la capacità di confutare le opinioni altrui, avesse provato a rivaleggiare con lei, avrebbe visto cosa significa una convinzione interiore. E nel fatto che le due signore si convinsero definitivamente di ciò che prima supponevano fosse solo una supposizione, in questo non c’è niente di straordinario. Noialtri, fratelli, gente intelligente, come ci chiamiamo, ci comportiamo press’a poco nello stesso modo, e prova ne siano le convinzioni scientifiche. All’inizio lo scienziato vi si avvicina con una straordinaria vigliaccheria, comincia timidamente, con modestia, comincia con le questioni più umili: Forse l’origine è quella? Forse è da questo angolo che ha preso il nome il tal paese? O: Il tale documento non dipende forse da quell’altro, successivo nel tempo? O: Non bisogna, per il tale popolo, supporre il tale popolo? Cita senza indugio il tale e il talaltro scrittori antichi, e non appena trova qualche allusione, o quel che a lui semplicemente è sembrata un’allusione, ecco che accelera e si fa coraggio, dialoga confidenzialmente con gli scrittori antichi, fa loro delle domande e risponde lui stesso, dimenticando del tutto il fatto che aveva cominciato da una timida supposizione; già gli sembra che il fatto si veda, che sia un fatto chiaro, e il ragionamento si conclude con le parole: “Ecco allora quel che è successo, ecco il popolo che bisogna supporre, ecco il punto dal quale bisogna guardare la questione”. E poi a squarciagola, dalla cattedra, e la verità appena scoperta si mette a andare per il mondo, raccogliendo seguaci e ammiratori.