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QuoteReplyTopic: Russian literature? Posted: 29-Mar-2008 at 20:48
I have as of recently devolped a curiously about Russian literature and I was wondering if anyone could make me any suggestions especially about anything that had to do with politics or war possibly?
Obviously War and Peace, but if you're into more modern history then Solzhenitsyn might interest you. GulagArchipelago is one of the masterpieces of twentieth century literature, I've read it twice myself. Both grim and funny at the same time. Brilliant.
Obviously War and Peace, but if you're into more modern history then Solzhenitsyn might interest you. GulagArchipelago is one of the masterpieces of twentieth century literature, I've read it twice myself. Both grim and funny at the same time. Brilliant.
Turgenev - focusing mainly on family issues and romance, wrote in a very erudite manner yet consisely
Goncharov - only one work to my knowledge "Oblomov", which is a large rambling pseudo-comedy about a lazy russian boregouis with ambitions he never follows
Lermantov - essentially a Romanticist writer and his works tried to create such a figure in Russian literature, and I frankly think they did
Dostoyevsky - A master of Psychology; his works are so cathartic that you actually feel you are there (no really, you do!) which considering the grim subject matter of his works is a bit disturbing...
Tolstoy - one of the kingpins of Russian literature, again some romantic influences but he adresses the great fundamental issues in life and society, and also explores family issues and ethnic issues - it's all there with Tolstoy!
Gogol - similar to Dostoyevsky but I think a little more politically and socially minded and less philosophic
For more modern history, Ilf and Petrov's The Golden Calf and Twelve Chairs provide some light relief as well as insights as to what was really going on in the Soviet Union in the early twenties, and the attitude of the people. Modern poets with some political relevance include Akhmatova and Mayakovski.
And leaving out Pushkin is a bit like leaving out Shakespeare.
A girl sang a song in the temple's chorus, About men, tired in alien lands, About the ships that left native shores, And all who forgot their joy to the end.
Thus sang her clean voice, and flew up to the highness, And sunbeams shined on her shoulder's white -- And everyone saw and heard from the darkness The white and airy gown, singing in the light.
And all of them were sure, that joy would burst out: The ships have arrived at their beach, The people, in the land of the aliens tired, Regaining their bearing, are happy and reach.
And sweet was her voice and the sun's beams around.... And only, by Caesar's Gates -- high on the vault, The baby, versed into mysteries, mourned, Because none of them will be ever returned.
I will start little presentation of Russian poets, posting a very short bio and some poems, one by one, every day or so: Since I posted a poem from Block yesterday, I guess I can continue with him:
"...A.A.Blok
, who lived from 1880-1921, was known for his symbolistic Russian
poetry.In the example above, Blok used the symbol of music to represent
the voice of the Russian Revolution.
His first book of poems called "Verses about the Lady Beautiful" focused on 'platonic idealism'.
Later styles revolved around themes of romantic conflict. Much of his poetry, especially his later poetry, was quite political.
Blok himself supported the Bolshevik cause in the Russian Revolution.
He grew up in a home that encouraged art. He began writing poetry at
the age of 5, and has developed his writing skills since.He was
dedicated to the Eastern Orthodox church. In 1903 he married a woman
named Liubov Mendeleyeva, who he was very much in love with. This love
created an inspiration for many of his poems. Other poem had polticalthemes...."http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/aleksandr_blok/biography
Don't fear death by Aleksandr Blok
Don't fear death in earthly travels. Don't fear enemies or friends. Just listen to the words of prayers, To pass the facets of the dreads.
Your death will come to you, and never You shall be, else, a slave of life, Just waiting for a dawn's favor, From nights of poverty and strife.
She'll build with you a common law, One will of the Eternal Reign. And you are not condemned to slow And everlasting deadly pain.
On waters, spread without end, Dressed with the sunset so purple, It sings and prophesies for land, Unable to lift the smashed wings' couple... The charge of Tartars' hordes it claims, And bloody set of executions, Earthquake, and hunger and the flames, The death of justice, crime’s intrusion... And caught with fear, cold and smooth, The fair face flames as one of lovers’, But sound with prophetic truth The lips that the bloody foam covers!...
Halls grew darker and somehow faded. Grates of windows drowned in black. Every knight, every beautiful lady Knew the tiding: "The Queen's deadly sick."
And the king, very silent and frowned, Passed the doors, lost of pages and slaves ... Every word, that by chance cast around, Proved the truth of the closing grave.
By the doors of the silent abode I was crying, while pressing the brace ... At the end of the passage remote Someone echoed me, hiding his face.
By the doors of the Beautiful Lady I was sobbing, attired in blue ... And the stranger of ashen face sadly Echoed me all my sufferings through.
I prefer the gorgeous freedom, And I fly to lands of grace, Where in wide and clear meadows All is good, as dreams, and blest. Here they rice: the clover clear, And corn-flower's gentle lace, And the rustle is always here: "Ears are leaning... Take your ways!" In this immense sea of fair, Only one of blades reclines. You don't see in misty air, I'd seen it!It will be mine!
We waited commonly for sleep or even death. The instances were wearisome as ages. But suddenly the wind's refreshing breath Touched through the window the Holy Bible's pages:
An old man goes there - who's now all white-haired - With rapid steps and merry eyes, alone, He smiles to us, and often calls with hand, And leaves us with a gait, that is well-known.
And suddenly we all, who watched the old man's track, Well recognized just him who now lay before us, And turning in a sudden rapture back, Beheld a corpse with eyes forever closed ...
And it was good for us the soul's way to trace, And, in the leaving one, to find the glee it's forming. The time had come. Recall and love in grace, And celebrate another house-warming!
The faithless shadows of day are running And high and clear is the call of bells, Steps of the church are blazed as with the lightning, Their stones are alive and wait for your light steps.
You'll here pass and touch the chilly stone, That's dressed in awful sanity of span, And let the flower of spring be thrown Here, in this dark, before the eyes of saint.
The rose shadows in misty darkness grow, And high and clear is the call of bells, The darkness lays on steps, such old and low -- I'm set in light -- I wait for dear steps.
The restaurants on hot spring evenings Lie under a dense and savage air. Foul drafts and hoots from dunken revelers Contaminate the thoroughfare. Above the dusty lanes of suburbia Above the tedium of bungalows A pretzel sign begilds a bakery And children screech fortissimo.
And every evening beyond the barriers Gentlemen of practiced wit and charm Go strolling beside the drainage ditches -- A tilted derby and a lady at the arm.
The squeak of oarlocks comes over the lake water A woman's shriek assaults the ear While above, in the sky, inured to everything, The moon looks on with a mindless leer.
And every evening my one companion Sits here, reflected in my glass. Like me, he has drunk of bitter mysteries. Like me, he is broken, dulled, downcast.
The sleepy lackeys stand beside tables Waiting for the night to pass And tipplers with the eyes of rabbits Cry out: "In vino veritas!"
And every evening (or am I imagining?) Exactly at the appointed time A girl's slim figure, silk raimented, Glides past the window's mist and grime.
And slowly passing throught the revelers, Unaccompanied, always alone, Exuding mists and secret fragrances, She sits at the table that is her own.
Something ancient, something legendary Surrounds her presence in the room, Her narrow hand, her silk, her bracelets, Her hat, the rings, the ostrich plume.
Entranced by her presence, near and enigmatic, I gaze through the dark of her lowered veil And I behold an enchanted shoreline And enchanted distances, far and pale.
I am made a guardian of the higher mysteries, Someone's sun is entrusted to my control. Tart wine has pierced the last convolution of my labyrinthine soul.
And now the drooping plumes of ostriches Asway in my brain droop slowly lower And two eyes, limpid, blue, and fathomless Are blooming on a distant shore.
Inside my soul a treasure is buried. The key is mine and only mine. How right you are, you drunken monster! I know: the truth is in the wine.
In your hidden memories There are fatal tidings of doom... A curse on sacred traditions, A desecration of happiness;
And a power so alluring That I am ready to repeat the rumour That you have brought angels down from heaven, Enticing them with your beauty...
And when you mock at faith, That pale, greyish-purple halo Which I once saw before Suddenly begins to shine above you.
Are you evil or good? You are altogether from another world They say strange things about you For some you are the Muse and a miracle. For me you are torment and hell.
I do not know why in the hour of dawn, When no strength was left to me, I did not perish, but caught sight of your face And begged you to comfort me.
I wanted us to be enemies; Why then did you make me a present Of a flowery meadow and of the starry firmament -- The whole curse of your beauty?
Your fearful caresses were more treacherous Than the northern night, More intoxicating than the golden champagne of Aï, Briefer than a gypsy woman's love...
And there was a fatal pleasure In trampling on cherished and holy things; And this passion, bitter as wormwood, Was a frenzied delight for the heart!
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