Rozanov Quotes

I have ruined you," Rozanov said when they broke apart. "No one else will do.

I give Hunter shit, but what he did was brave. Kissing his boyfriend on TV like that. And the speech at the awards.” “It was. It really…made me hopeful. That things might be changing.” Ilya shot the puck back to Shane. “It made me jealous,” he admitted. Shane laughed. "You wanna kiss me on television?" "Yes. After I win the Stanley cup." Shane spread his arms out. "Oh, so in this scenario, you've just defeated me?" "Yes. Sorry." “I’m not going to be in the mood to kiss you if I’ve just lost the Stanley Cup, Rozanov.” “But you would be so proud of me!

In the car, Shane told his parents that he had been talking to Ilya Rozanov. “What’s he like?” his mother asked. “Kind of a dick,” Shane said.

Um, and this is….Ilya. Rozanov. You probably know that.” “Hi,” Ilya said. “And he’s been…visiting. He’s…we’re, um…” What were they, exactly? It occurred to Shane that he and Ilya hadn’t even figured out what label they were comfortable with. “Lovers,” Ilya offered. Fuck, way to choose the grossest possible word, Ilya. Well, there was no going back from that word. Shane could only wait for the aftermath. “But…you hate him,” Mom said. “No, I…don’t. I mean. Sometimes I do, kinda. But mostly I..love him. Actually.” “You..what?

You don’t play with your ass? It makes you gay?” “Oh my fucking god...” “You know what makes you gayer?” “Rozanov...shut the fuck—” “Sucking my dick. You were doing that a minute ago.” Hollander sat up. “I’ve played with it

How many minutes would I get if I just killed him?” Scott grumbled as he watched Rozanov skate away. “I’d have to give you at least ten,” Hal said dryly. “Not worth it in the playoffs.

Thank god,” Huff said. “I thought you were gonna say you were secretly dating Rozanov.” “Rozanov wishes,” Scott said.

Shane watched the way Rozanov was slowly rubbing the knuckle of his forefinger with his thumb. He probably didn’t even realize he was doing it. Rozanov had nice hands...

This time it had said Shane Hollander + Ilya Rozanov = and then what had looked like a crude drawing of the Stanley Cup.

You should sign with Ottawa. Your contract is probably cheap, yes?” Hayden shook his head. “You’re a hard guy to like, Rozanov.

Rozanov’s face lit up. “Bisexual! This is great. Did you fuck that blond teenager yet?” “He’s not a—” Eric bit his tongue. “He’s twenty-five.” “Twenty-five was a long time ago for you. Do you remember twenty-five?

Qu’est-ce que le nihilisme ? Rozanov répond parfaitement à la question quand il écrit : “La représentation est terminée. Le public se lève. Il est temps d’enfiler son manteau et de rentrer à la maison. On se retourne : plus de manteau ni de maison.

Carter looked suddenly delighted. “Kip!” he said. “That is the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever heard! Are you kidding me with that shit?” “Thank god,” Huff said. “I thought you were gonna say you were secretly dating Rozanov.” “Rozanov wishes,” Scott said.

To know that the two people he loved the most had touched the skin of Ilya Rozanov

Shut up, Rozanov,” the referee said. “Last warning.” Rozanov stopped talking, but he managed to find an even more effective way of getting under Hollander’s skin: he winked. And then he won the face-off.

Come on, guys. Rozanov, stop being a dick. Hunter, stop listening to Rozanov.” “How many minutes would I get if I just killed him?” Scott grumbled as he watched Rozanov skate away. “I’d have to give you at least ten,” Hal said dryly. “Not worth it in the playoffs.

a hotshot Russian named Ilya Rozanov.

Do you feel pressure to outperform Shane Hollander this first season?” the interviewer asked. “Who?” Fuck. You. Rozanov. Rozanov looked directly at the camera

I have ruined you,” Rozanov said when they broke apart. “No one else will do.” “Fuck off.” “Such a mouth on you.” “Don’t say it.” “I preferred it when it was on me.” “Dammit

Screw Ilya Rozanov

No one, not even a ‘friend,’ can make us better. But it is a great happiness in life to meet a person of quite different construction, different bent, completely dissimilar views who, while always remaining himself and in no wise echoing us nor currying favor with us (as sometimes happens) and not trying to insinuate his soul (and an insincere soul at that!) into our psyche, into our muddle, into our tangle, would stand as a firm wall, as a check to our follies and our irrationalities, which every human being has. Friendship lies in contradiction and not in agreement! Verily, God granted me Strakhov as a teacher and my friendship with him, my feelings for him were ever a kind of firm wall on which I felt I could always lean, or rather rest. And it won’t let you fall, and it gives warmth

Yes. It is good to have reliable person.” Shane offered him a small smile. “It is.” Rozanov nodded and got up to go to the kitchen. “Stay,” he said. “I bring it here.” Shane focused on the television and not on what they had just been talking about. Rozanov returned with two plates that he seemed to put some care into arranging tuna melts, potato chips, and dill pickles on. “Another drink?” he asked.

We observe in this torrent of incoherence a lack of regularity in the subject himself; the "I" has fallen to pieces after struggling for three centuries against the great objective institutions and dissolving them with its subjectivism and rejecting in them any law that was sacred and binding on itself. There is no reason to think that Decadence - obviously an historical phenomenon of great inevitability and significance — has confined itself to poetry; we should expect in the more or less distant future the Decadence of philosophy and finally the Decadence of morality, politics, and forms of communal life. To a certain extent Nietzsche can already be considered the Decadent of human thought — at least to the extent that Maupassant, in certain "final touches" of his art, can be considered the Decadent of human emotion. Like Maupassant, Nietzsche ended in madness; and in Nietzsche, just as in Maupassant, the cult of the "I" loses all restraining limits: the world, history, and the human being with his toils and legitimate demands have disappeared equally from the works of both; both were "mystic males" to a considerable degree, only one of them preferred to "flutter " above "quivering orchids," whereas the other liked to sit inside a cave or upon a mountaintop and proclaim a new religion to mankind in his capacity as the reborn "Zarathustra." The religion of the "superman," he explained. But all of them, including Maupassant, were already "supermen" in that they had absolutely no need of mankind and mankind had absolutely no need of them. On this new type of nisus formativus of human culture, so to speak, we should expect to see great oddities, great hideousness, and perhaps great calamities and dangers. ("On Symbolists And Decadents")

Tu volesti il libero amore dell’uomo, perché Ti seguisse liberamente, attratto e conquistato da Te. In luogo di seguire la salda legge antica, l’uomo doveva per l’avvenire decidere da sé liberamente, che cosa fosse bene che cosa fosse male, avendo dinanzi come guida la sola Tua immagine; ma non avevi Tu pensato che, se lo si fosse oppresso con un cosí terribile fardello come la libertà di scelta, egli avrebbe finito per respingere e contestare perfino la Tua immagine e la Tua verità? Essi esclameranno, alla fine, che la verità non è in Te, perché era impossibile abbandonarli fra ansie ed angosce maggiori di come Tu facesti, lasciando loro tante inquietudini e tanti insolubili problemi. In tal modo preparasti Tu stesso la rovina del Tuo regno, e non darne piú la colpa a nessuno. Ma è questo intanto che Ti offriva? Ci sono sulla terra tre forze, tre sole forze capaci di vincere e conquistare per sempre la coscienza di questi deboli ribelli, per la felicità loro; queste forze sono: il miracolo, il mistero e l’autorità.

The great self-limitation practiced by man for ten centuries yielded, between the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries, the whole flower of the so-called "Renaissance." The root, usually, does not resemble the fruit in appearance, but there is an undeniable connection between the root's strength and juiciness and the beauty and taste of the fruit. The Middle Ages, it seems, have nothing in common with the Renaissance and are opposite to it in every way; nonetheless, all the abundance and ebullience of human energies during the Renaissance were based not at all on the supposedly "renascent" classical world, nor on the imitated Plato and Virgil, nor on manuscripts torn from the basements of old monasteries, but precisely on those monasteries, on those stern Franciscians and cruel Dominicans, on Saints Bonaventure, Anselm of Canterbury, and Bernard of Clairvaux. The Middle Ages were a great repository of human energies: in the medieval man's asceticism, self-abnegation, and contempt for his own beauty, his own energies, and his own mind, these energies, this heart, and this mind were stored up until the right time. The Renaissance was the epoch of the discovery of this trove: the thin layer of soil covering it was suddenly thrown aside, and to the amazement of following centuries dazzling, incalculable treasures glittered there; yesterday's pauper and wretched beggar, who only knew how to stand on crossroads and bellow psalms in an inharmonious voice, suddenly started to bloom with poetry, strength, beauty, and intelligence. Whence came all this? From the ancient world, which had exhausted its vital powers? From moldy parchments? But did Plato really write his dialogues with the same keen enjoyment with which Marsilio Ficino annotated them? And did the Romans, when reading the Greeks, really experience the same emotions as Petrarch, when, for ignorance of Greek, he could only move his precious manuscripts from place to place, kiss them now and then, and gaze sadly at their incomprehensible text? All these manuscripts, in convenient and accurate editions, lie before us too: why don't they lead us to a "renascence" among us? Why didn't the Greeks bring about a "renascence" in Rome? And why didn't Greco-Roman literature produce anything similar to the Italian Renaissance in Gaul and Africa from the second to the fourth century? The secret of the Renaissance of the fourteenth-fifteenth centuries does not lie in ancient literature: this literature was only the spade that threw the soil off the treasures buried underneath; the secret lies in the treasures themselves; in the fact that between the fourth and fourteenth centuries, under the influence of the strict ascetic ideal of mortifying the flesh and restraining the impulses of his spirit, man only stored up his energies and expended nothing. During this great thousand-year silence his soul matured for The Divine Comedy; during this forced closing of eyes to the world - an interesting, albeit sinful world-Galileo was maturing, Copernicus, and the school of careful experimentation founded by Bacon; during the struggle with the Moors the talents of Velasquez and Murillo were forged; and in the prayers of the thousand years leading up to the sixteenth century the Madonna images of that century were drawn, images to which we are able to pray but which no one is able to imitate. ("On Symbolists And Decadents")

From the fourteenth to the nineteenth century we have merely been expending the incalculable treasures discovered then and using up the great supply of energies gathered up to that time. Hence, modern history is the antithesis of the Middle Ages; man no longer wants to keep silent about himself: he hastens to express to others every slightest feeling and every new thought he may have through the medium of colors or sounds and, without fail, by means of the printing press. One might say that just as man studiously effaced himself up to the fourteenth century, so he becomes garrulous once he crosses into that century and all the succeeding ones. Not only what is wise, not only what is noble, but also what is ridiculous, stupid, and hideous in himself he couches in poetry and prose, sets to music, and would very much like, but he is unable, to express in marble and to fix within architectural lines. It is remarkable that architecture - that kind of impersonal art, that form of creation in which the creator is merged with his epoch and people, in which he does not rise above them, nor set apart his own I on their background - declines, as soon as we enter modern history, and not once during this period does it rise to the sublime or the beautiful. ("On Symbolists And Decadents")

Obviously, for these artists history has died; and even in their favorite "subjects" the face, name, past, and future of man have died; and out of this dead silence, out of this dark non-existence protruded - just as for the Decadents of our own day - nothing but "pale legs," the fixed idea of their morbidly disposed imagination. ("On Symbolists And Decadents")

Thus, Symbolism and Decadence are not a separate new school which arose in France and spread throughout all of Europe: they represent the end and culmination of a certain other school whose links were very extensive and whose roots go back to the beginning of the modern age. Symbolism, easily deduced from Maupassant, can also be deduced from Zola, Flaubert, and Balzac, from Ultra-realism as the antithesis of the previous Ultra-idealism Romanticism and "renascent" Classicism. It is precisely this element of ultra - the result of ultra manifested in life itself, in its mores, ideas, proclivities, and aspirations - that has wormed into literature and remained there ever since, expressing itself, finally, in such a hideous phenomenon as Decadence and Symbolism. The ultra without its referent, exaggeration without the exaggerated object, preciosity of form conjoined with total disappearance of content, and "poetry" devoid of rhyme, meter, and sense - that is what constitutes Decadence.

Европейская цивилизация погибнет от сострадательности. Как Греция от софистов и Рим – от «паразитов» (прихлебатели за столом оптиматов). Механизм гибели европейской цивилизации будет заключаться в параличе против всякого зла, всякого негодяйства, всякого злодеяния и в конце времен злодеи разорвут мир. Заметьте, что уже теперь теснится, осмеивается, пренебрежительно оскорбляется все доброе, простое, спокойное, попросту добродетельное. Он зарезал 80-летнюю бабку и ее 8-летнюю внучку. Все молчат. «Не интересно». Вдруг резчика «мещанин в чуйке» («Преступление и наказание») полоснул по морде. Все вскакивают: «он оскорбил лицо человеческое», он «совершил некультурный акт». Так что собственно (погибнет) не от сострадательности, а от лжесострадательности… В каком-то изломе этого… Цивилизации гибнут от извращения основных добродетелей, стержневых, «на роду написанных», из которых «все тесто взошло»… В Греции это был ум, σωφια в Риме – volo, «господствую», и у христиан – любовь. «Гуманность» (общества и литературы) и есть ледяная любовь… Смотрите: ледяная сосулька играет на зимнем солнце и кажется алмазом. Вот от этих «алмазов» и погибнет все…

best evoked in The Apocalypse of Our Time by the philosopher Vasili Rozanov in 1919, who had died that same year of emaciation in the Troitse-Sergeev monastery: La divina Commedia With clanking screeching an iron curtain is lowered over Russian History.

We mean to say that Symbolism and Decadence — the negative attitude to which is indisputable to everyone except the "participants" — are genetically connected with everything brilliant and sublime created by the "unbound personality" during this period of time, from the Renaissance up to the development of electrical engineering; contrariwise, the border which they cannot cross is laid down where man understood that he was always "bound." The great continent of history, the continent of real deeds, practical needs, and more than all that, of received religion and the established Church - that is whose shore this stinking monster can never crawl into, that is where we are fleeing to from it, that is where man can always save himself. Where the monastery wall rises this surge of the faithless waves of history — no matter how strong it may become and how far it may spread around — will stop and fall back. ("On Symbolists & Decadence")

The religion of this 'I', the poetry of this 'I', and the philosophy of the same 'I' that from Poggio and Felelfo to Byron and Goethe produced a number of works astonishing for their profundity and brilliance have finally exhausted its content; and in the poetry of Decadence we see the rapid falling away of the empty shell of this 'I'. We remarked previously about the exaggeration without the exaggerated object, and about the precious style without the subject of this preciosity, which characterize this poetry — this is so in regard to its form; in regard to its content Decadence is above all hopeless egoism. The world, as an object of love, of interest, even as the object of indignation or contempt, has disappeared from this "poetry”; the world has disappeared, not only as an object exciting some reaction in this vapid 'I', but also as a spectator and possible judge of this 'I'; it is not even present. ("On Symbolists And Decadence")

Ева была последней новизной в мире, последней и окончательной новизной.

Я сказал «и Евангелие в этом ряду». И в самом деле, это — его откровенный глагол. «Бессеменное зачатие» — вот с чего оно начинается, с Требованием признать его — оно выступило. Это есть то чудо, то «неизреченное», «невмещающееся в разум», не бывающее и невероятное, о чем услышав, все засмеются, так как это есть «дважды-два — пять» пола, и между тем без согласия на это «чудо» и «бессмыслицу» — вы не христианин, «не крещеный». А как только это приняли и этому покорились, как только уверовали в это половое «дважды-два — пять», так вы «христианин», «крещены», «в сынах спасения» и «Царствия Божия».

Ilya fucking Rozanov.” J.J. shook his head. “Jesus

Rozanov glanced down at Shane’s crotch and raised an eyebrow. “Fuck off,” Shane grumbled. “It’s nothing.” “Like what you see

What were you thinking about?” Rozanov asked

Rozanov leaned in and pressed kisses to Shane’s hair and face and down to his throat. The kisses weren’t seductive or heated. They were light and sort of...adoring. Shane’s eyes fluttered closed

Come here,” Rozanov said. “No. You come here.

Could fuck you just like this,” Rozanov growled. “Against the fucking wall. You would like that

Well?” Rozanov said. “Well what?” He gestured to the floor. “Are you not going to suck my dick?” Shane’s eyes narrowed. “Fuck you! Why don’t you suck mine?” “Hmm.

Here to congratulate me?” Rozanov said. “I guess.” Rozanov spread his arms out

I have ruined you,” Rozanov said when they broke apart. “No one else will do.” “Fuck off.” “Such a mouth on you.” “Don’t say it.” “I preferred it when it was on me.

Rozanov,” an exhausted-sounding ref said

Is Kip happy you are retiring this year?” “Fuck off. I’m not retiring this year.” Ilya widened his eyes in mock surprise. “No? But your body is so old!” “Okay,” Scott said, and began to stand. “Good night, Rozanov.” “Do you remember where your room is?” “Shut up.” “Do you need help?

He sighed around Rozanov’s cock and bobbed his head slightly

And that was the last word Shane got out before Rozanov’s mouth crashed into his.

Boston had their own star center, a hotshot Russian named Ilya Rozanov. He was cocky, brash, flashy…everything Scott wasn’t. And the fans loved him.

Rozanov turned and beamed at Ryan like he was delighted to see him. 'Price! Thank god you are here. This goblin is bothering me.

Do you like them?” Rozanov asked after a minute of silent eating. “What? The tuna melts?” “No. Girls.

while Ilya Rozanov calmly sipped his vodka and watched everything like he was going to be tested on it later.

Ilya Rozanov wanted to fuck him.

Rozanov stopped talking, but he managed to find an even more effective way of getting under Hollander’s skin: he winked.

Rozanov was setting canned tuna

The most hated man in Montreal: Ilya Rozanov. The near century-old rivalry between the Montreal and Boston NHL teams had

Rozanov stopped talking

And Rozanov covers his whole fucking face with that visor anyway.

Nice save,” Rozanov said calmly as he skated by. “Plenty more where that came from.” Rozanov turned back and grinned. “I doubt it. You are a hundred years old. I could hear your bones creak.

For the rest of his life, Shane Hollander would have to live with the fact that he had ended his NHL draft day by getting himself off to thoughts of Ilya Rozanov.

Both Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov had scored over fifty goals. In fact

Grigori Rozanov,

Rozanov leaned down. His breath ghosted over Shane’s ear when he said

He wanted to come right away or not for hours. He wanted to kiss Rozanov and maybe also punch him for being such an arrogant fucking prick. And he hated himself for wanting any of this. But not enough to stop. Never enough to stop.

Ilya Rozanov.

How’s Toronto?” Rozanov asked him during a break in the second period. “Not bad.” “Sucks that you have to play with Kent

If Ilya Rozanov didn’t get his ass out of Eric’s face right fucking now

Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are hosting a press conference. They just announced this new charity thing they are starting.