Lermontov Quotes

Love, like fire, goes out without fuel.

In the first place, [his eyes] never laughed when he laughed. Have you ever noticed this peculiarity some people have? It is either the sign of an evil nature or of a profound and lasting sorrow.

I was ready to love the whole world, but no one understood me, and I learned to hate.

An unusual beginning must have an unusual end.

We practically always excuse things when we understand them

Afraid of decision, I buried my finer feelings in the depths of my heart and they died there.

Out of life's storm I carried only a few ideas - and not one feeling.

Lermontov: Why do you want to dance? Vicky: Why do you want to live? Lermontov: Well, I don't know exactly why, but... I must. Vicky: That's my answer too.

What of it? If I die, I die. It will be no great loss to the world, and I am thoroughly bored with life. I am like a man yawning at a ball; the only reason he does not go home to bed is that his carriage has not arrived yet.

my love had grown one with my soul; it became darker, but did not go out

I am not capable of true friendship. One of the two friends is always the slave of the other, although, often, neither of the two admits this to himself.

Women only love those that they don’t know.

Tell me,” she finally whispered, “is it fun for you to torture me? . . . I should really hate you. Ever since we have known each other, you have given me nothing but suffering . . .” Her voice trembled, she leaned toward me, and lowered her head onto my breast. “Perhaps,” I thought, “this is exactly why you loved me: joys are forgotten, but sadness, never . . .

يمكن أن أموت غدًا، وأن لا يبقى أحد على وجه الأرض قد فهمني تماما. سيعتبرني بعضهم أسوأ مما أنا، وسيعتبرني البعض الآخر أفضل. سيقول بعضهم إنني كنت شخصًا طيبًا، وسيقول آخرون أنني كنت وغدًا، ولكن كلا الرأيين سيكونان خاطئين.

A strange thing, the human heart in general, and woman's heart in particular.

We survive on novelty, so much less demanding than commitment.

I was modest--they accused me of being crafty: I became secretive. I felt deeply good and evil--nobody caressed me, everybody offended me: I became rancorous. I was gloomy--other children were merry and talkative. I felt myself superior to them--but was considered inferior: I became envious. I was ready to love the whole world--none understood me: and I learned to hate.

Oh vanity! You are the lever with which Archimedes wanted to raise the earthly globe!

There are two men in me--one lives in the full sense of the word, the other reasons and passes judgment on the first. The first will perhaps take leave of you and the world forever in an hour now; and the second . . . the second?

حين أفكر فى احتمال موت قريب , لا أفكر الا فى نفسى وحدها .. مالى والأصدقاء الذين سرعان ما ينسوننى , و مالى و النساء اللواتى حين سيقبلن رجلا اّخر , سيسخرن منى حتى لا يغار صاحبهن من ميت .. و من عواصف الحياة رجعت ببعض الأفكار فقط , و لم أرجع بعاطفة واحدة .. ان فى نفسى رجلين : واحدا يعيش بأوسع معانى هذةالكلمة , و اّخر يفكر ويحكم على الأول..بعد ساعة قد يقول لك أحدهما وداعاّ ... و الثـانى ... الثانى ؟

If only people thought a little more about it, they would see that life is not worrying about so much.

I was lying, but I wanted to rouse him. I have an inborn urge to contradict; my whole life has been a mere chain of sad and futile opposition to the dictates of either heart or reason. The presence of an enthusiast makes me as cold as a midwinter's day, and, I believe, frequent association with a listless phlegmatic would make me an impassioned dreamer.

I love enemies, though not in the Christian way. They amuse me, excite my blood. Being always on one’s guard, catching every glance, the significance of every word, guessing at intentions, frustrating their plots, pretending to be tricked, and suddenly, with a shove, upturning the whole enormous and arduously built edifice of their cunning and schemes—that’s what I call life.

I prefer to doubt everything. Such a disposition does not preclude a resolute character. On the contrary, as far as I am concerned, I always advance more boldly when I don't know what is waiting me for me. After all, nothing worse than death can happen-and death you can't escape!

I have observed that there always exists some strange relationship between the appearance of a man and his soul, as if with the loss of a limb, the soul lost one of its senses.

Many a calm river begins as a turbulent waterfall, yet none hurtles and foams all the way to the sea.

No good ever becomes of a man who forgets an old friend

The story of a man's soul, however trivial, can be more interesting and instructive than the story of a whole nation

Happiness comes the way the wind blows.

Anyone who has chanced like me to roam through desolate mountains and studied at length their fantastic shapes and drunk the invigorating air of their valleys can understand why I wish to describe and depict these magic scenes for others.

It was clear that he was in love, because he became even more gullible than before. 

كذلك هم البشر! إنهم جميعا من طينة واحدة: يعرفون مقدما كل الجوانب السيئة في عمل من الأعمال. يساعدونك،وينصحونك،وقد يشجعونك،إذا رأوا أنه يستحيل أن يفعلوا غير ذلك. ولكنهم بعدئذ يغسلون أيديهم من الأمر، وينصرفون،مستائين، عن الشخص الذي تجرأ أن يتحمل كل تبعته.نعم إنهم جميعا من طينة واحدة،لا يشذ عن ذلك حتى أحسنهم، أو أذكاهم.

...منذ نظم الشعراء شعراً..ومنذ أن قرأت النساء هذا الشعر ( ويجب أن نشكر لهن ذلك أعمق الشكر) سُميت النساء ملائكة، وبلغت هذه التسمية من التكرار أنهن من بساطة قلوبهن صدقنها، ناسيات أن هؤلاء الشعراء أنفسهم يمكن أن يضعوا نيرون (الإمبراطور المجنون الذي أحرق روما) في مصاف أنصاف الآلهة، في سبيل مال يحصلون عليه.

It is sad to see a young man's fondest hopes and dreams shattered when the rose-colured veil is plucked away and he sees the actions and feelings of men for what they are. But he still has the hope of replacing his old illusions with others, just as fleeting, but also just as sweet.

Disenchantment, like any other fashion, having started off among the elite had now been passed down to finish its days among the lower orders.

إننا نغفر ما نفهمه....نغفره دائما تقريبا.

Note, my good doctor,” said I, “that without fools, society would be a very tiresome place!

Yes, such has been my lot since childhood. Everyone read signs of non-existent evil traits in my features. But since they were expected to be there, they did make their appearance. Because I was reserved, they said I was sly, so I grew reticent. I was keenly aware of good and evil, but instead of being indulged I was insulted and so I became spiteful. I was sulky while other children were merry and talkative, but though I felt superior to them I was considered inferior. So I grew envious. I was ready to love the whole world, but no one understood me, and I learned to hate. My cheerless youth passed in conflict with myself and society, and fearing ridicule I buried my finest feelings deep in my heart, and there they died. I spoke the truth, but nobody believed me, so I began to practice duplicity. Having come to know society and its mainsprings, I became versed in the art of living and saw how others were happy without that proficiency, enjoying for free the favors I had so painfully striven for. It was then that despair was born in my heart--not the despair that is cured with a pistol, but a cold, impotent desperation, concealed under a polite exterior and a good-natured smile. I became a moral cripple; I had lost one half of my soul, for it had shriveled, dried up and died, and I had cut it off and cast it away, while the other half stirred and lived, adapted to serve every comer. No one noticed this, because no one suspected there had been another half. Now, however, you have awakened memories of it in me, and what I have just done is to read its epitaph to you. Many regard all epitaphs as ridiculous, but I do not, particularly when I remember what rests beneath them.

The history of a man's soul, even the pettiest soul, is hardly less interesting and useful than the history of a whole people; especially when the former is the result of the observations of a mature mind upon itself, and has been written without any egotistical desire of arousing sympathy or astonishment. Rousseau's Confessions has precisely this defect – he read it to his friends.

Moja je pusta mladost protekla u borbi sa samim sobom i sa svijetom; bojeći se poruge, pokopao sam svoje najbolje osjećaje na dnu srca; ondje su izumrli.

He has studied all the live strings of the human heart in the same way as one studies the veins of a dead body.

Whether I am a fool or a villain I know not; but this is certain, I am also most deserving of pity—perhaps more than she. My soul has been spoiled by the world, my imagination is unquiet, my heart insatiate. To me everything is of little moment. I become as easily accustomed to grief as to joy, and my life grows emptier day by day.

فماذا ننتظر من أولئك الذين ينسون أصدقائهم؟

Happy people are ignoramuses and glory is nothing else but success, and to achieve it one only has to be cunning.

I sing whatever comes into my head. It'll be heard by who it's meant for, and who isn't meant to hear won't understand.

وكثيراً ما يصمت ساعات طويلة لا تستطيع خلالها أن تنتزع منه كلمة واحدة.

يجب أن نعترف للنساء بهذه الميزة، وهي أنهن يدركن جمال النفس بالغريزة.

هل بقي في أيامنا هذه أصدقاء؟!

О! верь мне: я один поныне Тебя постиг и оценил: Избрав тебя моей святыней, Я власть у ног твоих сложил.

Man's life, and all the troubles in it Are but brief sorrow, transient care. Some end that life and some begin it.

إنني لا أعلم حقاً لماذا تُحبني كل هذا الحب، لا سيما أنها الوحيدة التي فهمتني فهماً عميقاً، وعرفت ما بنفسي من ضروب الضعف الحقير والهوى الفاسد .. هل يمكن أن يكون الشر جاذباً إلى هذا الحد؟!

Do you know, Princess," said I with a shade of annoyance, "that one should never spurn a repentant sinner, for out of sheer desperation he may become twice as sinful . . .

حياتي كلها لم تكن إلا نسيجاً من المتناقضات الشقية والحزينة بين عقلي وقلبي.

ورب قصة نفس من النفوس مهما تكن صغيرة، تكون أشيق وأنفع من قصة شعبٍ بأسره.

قد لا نلتقي قط، وعلام نلتقي؟!

I have an unfortunate character; whether it is my upbringing that made me like that or God who created me so, I do not know. I know only that if I cause unhappiness to others, I myself am no less happy. I realize this is poor consolation for them - but the fact remains that it is so. In my early youth, after leaving the guardianship of my parents, I plunged into all the pleasures money could buy, and naturally these pleasures grew distasteful to me. Then I went into high society, but soon enough grew tired of it; I fell in love with beautiful society women and was loved by them, but their love only aggravated my imagination and vanity while my heart remained desolate... I began to read and to study, but wearied of learning, too; I saw that neither fame nor happiness depended on it in the slightest, for the happiest people were the ignorant, and fame was a matter of luck, to achieve which you only had to be shrewd...

A childish feeling, I admit, but, when we retire from the conventions of society and draw close to nature, we involuntarily become children: each attribute acquired by experience falls away from the soul, which becomes anew such as it was once and will surely be again.

You too are an exile, I thought. You morn for the broad open steppes where you have room to spread your icy wings. Here you feel stifled and constricted, like an eagle that cries and beats against the bars of its iron cage.

I felt somehow happy to be so high above the world - a childish feeling, I grant, but we can't help becoming children as we leave social conventions behind and come nearer to nature. All life's experience is shed from us and the soul becomes anew what it once was and will surely be again

ولكن الإنسان حين يبتعد عن المواضعات الاجتماعية ويقترب من الطبيعة ، يغدو طفلاً رغم أنفه.

I realized that there was no point or sense in chasing after happiness that had perished.

Хоть будешь ты еще любить, Но прежним чувствам нет возврату, Ты вечно первую утрату Не будешь в силах заменить.

On the bottom shelf M. kept the books from his childhood days: Pushkin, Lermontov, Gogol, the Iliad - they are described in The Noise of Time and happened to have been saved by M.'s father. Most of them later perished in Kalinin when I was fleeing from the Germans. The way we have scurried to and fro in the twentieth century, trapped between Hitler and Stalin!

The Byronic hero, incapable of love, or capable only of an impossible love, suffers endlessly. He is solitary, languid, his condition exhausts him. If he wants to feel alive, it must be in the terrible exaltation of a brief and destructive action. To love someone whom one will never see again is to give a cry of exultation as one perishes in the flames of passion. One lives only in and for the moment, in order to achieve "the brief and vivid union of a tempestuous heart united to the tempest" (lermontov). The threat of mortality which hangs over us makes everything abortive. Only the cry of anguish can bring us to life; exaltation takes the place of truth. To this extent the apocalypse becomes an absolute value in which everything is confounded—love and death, conscience and culpability. In a chaotic universe no other life exists but that of the abyss where, according to Alfred Le Poittevin, human beings come "trembling with rage and exulting in their crimes" to curse the Creator.

ففهمت أن من العبث والطيش ورقة العقل أن أركض وراء سعادة ذاهبة.. ما عساي أشتهي أيضاً؟ أن أراها مرة ثانية؟ ما جدوى ذلك؟ ألم ينته بيننا كل شيء؟ إن قُبلة صغيرة في الوداع لن تغني ذكرياتي، ولن تجعل فراقنا أقل مرارة.

She respects him as a father! And she will cheat on him like a husband!

لم يكن شبابي الخالي من الفرح إلا صراعاً مع الناس ومع نفسي.

ما أكثر أولئك الذين يحسبون، حين يبدأون حياتهم، أنهم سيختمونها كالإسكندر الكبير أو كاللورد بايرون.

إن القلوب البسيطة تحس بعظمة الطبيعة إحساساً أقوى وأعنف مائة مرة من إحساسنا بها نحن الذين نتحمس كثيراً في الكلام وعلى الورق.

وإني قادر على أن أضحي بحياتي من أجلها ، ولكن البقاء إلى جانبها يُضجرني!

Do what you will, the heart hardens and the soul shrinks in upon itself.

I become as easily accustomed to grief as to joy, and my life grows emptier day by day.

If people would only reason a little more they would be convinced that life is not worth taking such a deal of trouble about.

إنه ليحزن المرء أن يرى شابا في ريعان صباه يفقد أجمل آماله وأحلامه حين ترفع عن بصره الغشاوة الوردية التي كان ينظر من خلالها إلى أفعال الناس وعواطفهم.

أنا لا أُكن له ذلك الكره الذي لا يُفسر، ذلك الكره الذي يتقنع بقناع الصداقة، ولا ينتظر إلا أن يموت الشخص المحبوب أو أن يُفجع حتى يصب على رأسه ألوان التقريع والنصح والسخر والأسف.

Mon cher je meprise les femmes pur ne pas les aimer, car autrement la vie serait un melodrame trop ridicule.

если б все люди побольше рассуждали, то убедились бы, что жизнь не стоит того, чтоб о ней так много заботиться…

- هل هيئتي هيئة قاتل؟ - بل أنت شر من ذلك. ففكرت لحظة ثم قلت لها وقد بدا على وجهي تأثر عميق: - نعم، ذلك كان حظي منذ نعومة أظفاري! كان جميع الناس يقرأون في وجهي علامات غرائز شريرة أنا منها برئ، وما زالوا يفترضونها فيّ، حتى نبتت وتأصلت. كنت خجولًا، فاتهموني بالمكر، فأصبحت كتومًا. وكنت أحس بالخير والشر إحساسًا عميقًا، ولكن أحدًا لم يعطف عليّ، بل كانوا جميعًا يؤذونني، فأصبحت حقودًا أحب الانتقام. وكنت حزين النفس، وكان الأطفال الآخرين هدّارين، وكنت أشعر أنني فوقهم، فقيل لي أنني دونهم، فأصبحت حسودًا؛ وكنت مهيأ لأن أحب جميع الناس، فلم يفهمني أحد، فتعلمت الكره. لم يكن شبابي الخالي من الفرح إلا صراعًا مع الناس ومع نفسي. خوفًا من الهزء، دفنت أنبل عواطفي في قلبي، فماتت هنالك. وكنت أحب أن أقول الحقيقة، فلم يصدقني أحد، فأخذت أكذب. وقد تعلمت أن أسبر أغوار الناس، وأن أدرك الدوافع التي تحركهم، فأصبحت بارعًا في فن الحياة، ولاحظت أن غيري ممن لا يملكون هذا الفن كانوا سعداء، ينعمون، من غير جهد، بهذه الخيرات التي كنت أجهد للحصول عليها بلا كلال؛ فولد اليأس في قلبي، لا ذلك اليأس الذي تذهب به رصاصة من مسدس، بل هذا اليأس البارد، العاجز، الذي يختفي وراء سلوك لطيف، وابتسامة طيبة. أصبحت روحي مشلولة. ذهب نصف نفسي: جفّ، تبخّر، مات. قطعته ورميته بعيدًا عني. بينما كان النصف الآخر يتحرك ويتمنى أن يخدم جميع الناس.

And then we had one of those conversations which make no sense on paper, which you can't repeat and can't even remember. The sounds mean more than the words, like in an Italian opera.

I have carried only a few ideas out of life's storm - and not one feeling. I have long lived according to the head, not the heart. I consider and analyze my personal passions and actions with a strict curiosity, but without sympathy. There are two people within me: one who lives in the full sense of the word, and the other who reasons and judges him.

ثمة شيء أدهشني دائماً، وهو أنني لم أكن يوم من الأيام عبداً للنساء اللواتي أحببتهن، بالعكس، كنت أسيطر على إرادتهن وعلى قلوبهن سيطرة لا سبيل لهن إلى دفعها، دون أن أفعل من أجل ذلك شيئاً .. أيرجع هذا إلى أني لا أحرص على أي شيء حرصاً عميقاً ؟!

No, I'm not Byron, it's my role To be an undiscovered wonder, Like him, a persecuted wand'rer, But furnished with a Russian soul. I started sooner, sooner ending, My mind will never reach so high; Within my soul, beyond the mending, My shattered aspirations lie: Dark ocean answer me, can any Plumb all your depth with skillful trawl? Who will explain me to the many? I... perhaps God? No one at all?

The story of a man's soul, however trivial, can be more interesting and instructive than the story of a whole nation, especially if it is based on the self-analysis of a mature mind and is written with no vain desire to rouse our sympathy and curiosity. The problem with Rousseau's Confessions is that he read them to his friends.

Can it be that my single purpose on this earth is to destroy the hopes of others? Since I have been living and breathing, fate has somehow always led me into the dramatic climaxes of others’ lives, as if without me no one would be able to die, or to come to despair! I have been the necessary character of the fifth act; I have played the sorry role of executioner or traitor involuntarily. 

ما رأيت في حياتي امرأة مثلها، أبدا.. لم تكن جميلة، ولكن لي في الجمال آرائي، إنها أصيلة العرق.. وأصالة العرق هذه هي الشيء الهام في النساء كما في الخيول جميعا.. تلك حقيقة يرجع الفضل في اكتشافها إلى فرنسا الفتية، وهي تتجلى - أعني أصالة العرق لا فرنسا الفتية - في المشية واليدين والساقين، وفي الأنف على وجه الخصوص. إن الأنف المستقيم أندر في روسيا من قدم صغيرة.

Ever since poets have written and women have read them (for which the poets should be most deeply grateful) women have been called angels so many times that, in very truth, in their simplicity of soul, they have believed the compliment, forgetting that, for money, the same poets have glorified Nero as a demigod . . .

Can it be, thought I, that my sole mission on earth is to destroy the hopes of others? Ever since I began to live and act, fate has somehow associated me with the last act of other people's tragedies, as if without me no one could either die or give way to despair! I have been the inevitable character who comes in at the final act, involuntarily playing the detestable role of the hangman or the traitor. What has been fate's object in all this? Has it destined me to be the author of middle-class tragedies and family romances--or a purveyor of tales for, say, the Reader's Library? Who knows? Are there not many who begin life by aspiring to end it like Alexander the Great, or Lord Byron, and yet remain petty civil servants all their lives?

I've an insatiable craving inside me that consumes everything and makes me regard the sufferings and joys of others only in their relationship to me, as food to sustain my spiritual powers. I am no longer capable of loosing my head in love, Ambition has been crushed in me by circumstances, but it has come out in another way, for ambition is nothing but a lust for power and my chief delight is to dominate those around me. To inspire in others love, devotion, fear - isn't that the first symptom and the supreme triumph of power? To cause another person suffering or joy, having no right to do so - isn't that the sweetest food of pride?

إنني لا أحب أن أثقل على نفسي بفكرة مجردة؛ وما عسى أن ينتج هذا كله؟ كنت في حداثتي فتى حالما، أحب أن أداعب الصور الجهمة أو الضاحكة التي يرسمها خيالي القلق الشره، كنت أداعب هذه الصور واحدة بعد أخرى، ولكن ماذا بقي لي من هذا كله؟ لا شيء إلا تعب يشبه التعب الذي يعقب معركة مع شبح وإلا ذكرى مشوشة تفيض بالحسرات. لقد أفنيت في ذلك الصراع العقيم، حرارة الروح وثبات الإرادة، وكلاهما ضروري جدا لحياة الفعل والنشاط. وحين دخلت هذه الحياة التي سبق أن عشتها بالفكر، شعرت بالضجر، وشعرت بما يشعر به من اشمئزاز شخص يقرأ تقليدا سيئا لكتاب يعرفه منذ مدة طويلة.

حسناً، إنني أحب أعدائي، لا حباً مسيحياً طبعاً ... إنهم يسلونني وينشطون دمي .. أن أظل دائماً على يقظة، أن أفاجئ كل نظرة من نظراتهم، أن أحزر كل كلمة من كلماتهم ،أن أنفذ إلى صميم نواياهم ، أن أحبط مشاريعهم، أن أتظاهر بأني غر مخدوع، ثم أهدم بضربة واحدة كل ما بنوا بالجهد الطويل الشاق والمكر والحيلة،، تلكم هي الحياة عندي!

So? If I die, then I die! The loss to the world won’t be great. Yes, and I’m fairly bored with myself already. I am like a man who is yawning at a ball, whose reason for not going home to bed is only that his carriage hasn’t arrived yet. But the carriage is ready . . . farewell! I run through the memory of my past in its entirety and can’t help asking myself: Why have I lived? For what purpose was I born? . . . There probably was one once, and I probably did have a lofty calling, because I feel a boundless strength in my soul . . . But I didn’t divine this calling. I was carried away with the baits of passion, empty and unrewarding. I came out of their crucible as hard and cold as iron, but I had lost forever the ardor for noble aspirations, the best flower of life. Since then, how many times have I played the role of the ax in the hands of fate! Like an instrument of execution, I fell on the head of doomed martyrs, often without malice, always without regret . . . My love never brought anyone happiness, because I never sacrificed anything for those I loved: I loved for myself, for my personal pleasure. I was simply satisfying a strange need of the heart, with greediness, swallowing their feelings, their joys, their suffering—and was never sated. Just as a man, tormented by hunger, goes to sleep in exhaustion and dreams of sumptuous dishes and sparkling wine before him. He devours the airy gifts of his imagination with rapture, and he feels easier. But as soon as he wakes: the dream disappears . . . and all that remains is hunger and despair redoubled! And, maybe, I will die tomorrow! . . . And not one being on this earth will have ever understood me totally. Some thought of me as worse, some as better, than I actually am . . . Some will say “he was a good fellow,” others will say I was a swine. Both one and the other would be wrong. Given this, does it seem worth the effort to live? And yet, you live, out of curiosity, always wanting something new . . . Amusing and vexing!

And, maybe, I will die tomorrow! . . . And not one being on this earth will have ever understood me totally. Some thought of me as worse, some as better, than I actually am . . . Some will say “he was a good fellow,” others will say I was a swine. Both one and the other would be wrong. Given this, does it seem worth the effort to live? And yet, you live, out of curiosity, always wanting something new . . . Amusing and vexing!

I must have had some high object in life, for I feel unbounded strength within me. But I never discovered it and was carried away by the allurements of empty, un-rewarding passions. I was tempered in their flames and came out cold and hard as steel, but I'd lost forever that fire of noble endeavour, that finest flower of life. How many time since then have I been an axe in the hands of fate? Like an engine of execution, I've descended on the heads of the condemned, often without malice, but always without pity. My love has brought no one happiness, for I've never sacrificed a thing for those I've loved. I've loved for myself, for my own pleasure, I've only tried to satisfy a strange inner need. I've fed on their feelings, love, joys and sufferings, and always wanted more. I'm like a starving man who falls asleep exhausted and sees rich food and sparkling wines before him. He rapturously falls on these phantom gifts of the imagination and feels better, but the moment he wakes up his dream disappears and he's left more hungry and desperate than before.

الحب الأفلاطوني أشد أنواع الحب قلقاً، ويلوح لي أنها تلك النساء اللواتي يردن أن يتسلين، فإذا ضجرت منك دقيقتين متعاقبتين ، ضعت إلى الأبد ...صمتك يجب أن يثير استطلاعها، وحديثك يجب ألا يرويها تماماً، يجب أن تجعلها دائماً في حالة تعلق ...ثم إذا بها، في ذات صباح، تقول لك أنها أصبحت لا تطيقك! ...وبعد عامين تتزوج قرداً أشوه إطاعة لأمها، ثم تروح تندب حظها الشقي ، وتقول أنها ما أحب في حياتها إلا رجلاً واحداً هو أنت!!

Passions are merely ideas in their initial stage. They are the property of youth, and anyone who expects to feel their thrill throughout his life is a fool. Tranquil rivers often begin as roaring waterfalls, but no river leaps and foams all the way to the sea. Tranquility, however, is often a sign of great, if hidden, power. Intensity and depth of feeling and thought preclude wild outbursts of passion; in sorrow and joy the soul takes careful stock of every situation, and sees that so it must be.

I know a rock in a highland's ravine, On which only eagles might ever be seen, But a black wooden cross o'er a precipice reigns, It rots and it ages from tempests and rains. And many years have gone without any hints, From times when it was seen from faraway hills. And its every arm is raised up to the sky, As if catching clouds or going to fly. Oh, if I were able to rise there and stay, Then how I'd cry there and how I'd pray; And then I would throw off real life's chains And live as a brother of tempests and rains!

He turned away and offered his hand in parting. She didn't take it or say anything. But from where I was behind the door I could see her face through the crack. I pitied her to see how deathly pale that sweet little face had gone. Hearing no answer, Pechorin took a few steps towards the door. He was trembling, and I might say I think he was fit to do what he'd threatened as a joke. That's the sort of man he was, there was no knowing him.

Loneliness It's Hell for us to draw the fetters Of life in alienation, stiff. All people prefer to share gladness, And nobody - to share grief. As a king of air, I'm lone here, The pain lives in my heart, so grim, And I can see that, to the fear Of fate, years pass me by like dreams; And comes again with, touched by gold, The same dream, gloomy one and old. I see a coffin, black and sole, It waits: why to detain the world? There will be not a sad reflection, There will be (I am betting on) Much more gaily celebration When I am dead, than - born.

But there is an unbounded pleasure to be had in the possession of a young, newly blossoming soul! It is like a flower, from which the best aroma evaporates when meeting the first ray of the sun; you must pluck it at that minute, breathing it in until you’re satisfied, and then throw it onto the road: perhaps someone will pick it up! I feel this insatiable greed, which swallows everything it meets on its way. I look at the suffering and joy of others only in their relation to me, as though it is food that supports the strength of my soul. I myself am not capable of going mad under the influence of passion. My ambition is stifled by circumstances, but it has manifested itself in another way, for ambition is nothing other than a thirst for power, and my best pleasure is to subject everyone around me to my will, to arouse feelings of love, devotion and fear of me—is this not the first sign and the greatest triumph of power? Being someone’s reason for suffering while not being in any position to claim the right—isn’t this the sweetest nourishment for our pride? And what is happiness? Sated pride. If I considered myself to be better, more powerful than everyone in the world, I would be happy. If everyone loved me, I would find endless sources of love within myself. Evil spawns evil. The first experience of torture gives an understanding of the pleasure in tormenting others. An evil idea cannot enter a person’s head without his wanting to bring it into reality: ideas are organic creations, someone once said. Their birth gives them form immediately, and this form is an action. The person in whom most ideas are born is the person who acts most. Hence a genius, riveted to his office desk, must die or lose his mind, just as a man with a powerful build who has a sedentary life and modest behavior will die from an apoplectic fit. Passions are nothing other than the first developments of an idea: they are a characteristic of the heart’s youth, and whoever thinks to worry about them his whole life long is a fool: many calm rivers begin with a noisy waterfall, but not one of them jumps and froths until the very sea. And this calm is often the sign of great, though hidden, strength. The fullness and depth of both feeling and thought will not tolerate violent upsurges. The soul, suffering and taking pleasure, takes strict account of everything and is always convinced that this is how things should be. It knows that without storms, the constant sultriness of the sun would wither it. It is infused with its own life—it fosters and punishes itself, like a child. And it is only in this higher state of self-knowledge that a person can estimate the value of divine justice.

We are parting for ever; yet you may be sure that I shall never love another. Upon you my soul has exhausted all its treasures, its tears, its hopes. She who has once loved you cannot look without a certain disdain upon other men, not because you have been better than they, oh, no! but in your nature there is something peculiar -- belonging to you alone, something proud and mysterious; in your voice, whatever the words spoken, there is an invincible power. No one can so constantly wish to be loved, in no one is wickedness ever so attractive, no one's glance promises so much bliss, no one can better make use of his advantages, and no one can be so truly unhappy as you, because no one endeavours so earnestly to convince himself of the contrary.