Alexander Pushkin Quotes

Москва… как много в этом звуке
Для сердца русского слилось!
Как много в нем отозвалось!

Upon the brink of the wild stream He stood, and dreamt a mighty dream.

В тот год осенняя погода
Стояла долго на дворе,
Зимы ждала, ждала природа.
Снег выпал только в январе

Всегда довольный сам собой,
Своим обедом и женой.

I was born for the peaceful life,
for rural quiet:
the lyre's voice in the wild is more resounding,
creative dreams are more alive.
To harmless leisures consecrated,
I wander by a wasteful lake
and far niente is my rule.
By every morn I am awakened
unto sweet mollitude and freedom;
little I read, a lot I sleep,
fugitive fame do not pursue.
Was it not thus in former years,
that I spent in inaction, in the shade,
my happiest days?

Tormented by spiritual thirst,
I dragged myself through a somber desert.
And a six-winged seraph
Appeared to meet me at the crossing of the ways.
He touched my eyes
With fingers as light as a dream:
And my prophetic eyes opened
Like those of a frightened eagle.
He touched my ears
And they were filled with noise and ringing:
And I heard the shuddering of the heavens,
And the flight of the angels in the heights,
And the movement of the beasts of the sea under the waters,
And the sound of the vine growing in the valley.
He bent down to my mouth
And tore out my tongue,
Sinful, decitful, and given to idle talk; with the right hand steeped in blood
He inserted the tongue of a wise serpent,
Into my benumbed mouth.
He clove my breast with a sword,
And plucked out my quivering heart,
And thrust a coal of live fire
Into my gaping breast.
Like a corpse I lay in the desert.
And the voice of God called out to me:
'Arise, O prophet, see and hear,
Be filled with my will,
Go forth over land and sea,
And set the hearts of men on fire with your Word.'

Văzând în fapta lui jignire, Boierii şi-au ieşit din fire: „Vecinu-i fire prost crescută, Un farmazon, un om năuc: Bea roşul vin ca un haiduc, La doamne mâna nu sărută, Doar da şi nu, nicicând poftim” - îl osândiră unanim.
În satul său, pe-aceeaşi vreme Un alt boier sosi-n vecini, Stârnind aidoma dileme La moşierii cei meschini. Vladimir Lenski se numeşte, Direct din Gottirsgen soseşte: Frumos şi tânăr şi poet, Lui Kant discipol, interpret, El din Germania ceţoasă Aduse roadele ştiinţei — S-aline greul suferinţei; Fiinţă-aprinsă, curioasă, Cu negrul păr adus pe spate Vorbea cu foc de libertate. Adică francmason, aici în sens de liber-cugetător. Ferit de tina infamiei, Cu sufletul cuprins de-ardoare, Credea-n căldura prieteniei Şi-n duioşie de fecioare. În inima-i ce ignoranţă! — Nutrea statornic o speranţă. Şi-a lumii larmă, strălucire îi răscoleau tânăra-i fire, împodobind ideea-n haină De reverii şi dulce vis; Scruta cu sufletul deschis în viaţă-un scop, în lume-o taină Ce-i frământa adânca minte, …Visând minuni, ţintind nainte! Credea el că un suflet mare Se va uni cu el, odată, Că chipul gingaşei fecioare L-aşteaptă undeva curată; Sau că amicii-s plini de zel Să poarte lanţuri pentru el, Să sfarme-n ţăndări braţul lor Ulciorul clevetirilor; Că-n viaţă sunt aleşi ai sorţii, Prieteni sfinţi ai omenirii, Ce hărăziţi sunt nemuririi, Cu veşnica văpaie-a torţii Şi cu raza ei de înnoire S-aducă-n lume fericire. Revolta şi compătimirea, iubirea binelui avea Şi-a slavei dulce pătimire De june-n sânge-i clocotea. El lira şi-o plimba cu sete Sub cerul lui Schiller şi Goethe Şi sufletu-i vibra patetic, Aprins de jarul lor poetic. Şi-a muzelor înaltă artă N-a ruşinat-o el nicicând. Şi nimeni de semeţu-i gând N-a fost în stare să-l despartă, De dorul sfânt al tinereţii Şi gingăşia simplităţii.

I gaze forward without fear.

Простите, милые долины,
И вы, знакомых гор вершины,
И вы, знакомые леса;
Прости, небесная краса,
Прости, веселая природа;
Меняю милый, тихий свет
На шум блистательных сует…
Прости ж и ты, моя свобода!
Куда, зачем стремлюся я?
Что мне сулит судьба моя?

Habit is Heaven's own redress:
it takes the place of happiness.

For whom are you preserving your secret? For your grandsons? They are rich enough without it; they do not know the worth of money. Your cards would be of no use to a spendthrift. He who cannot preserve his paternal inheritance, will die in want, even though he had a demon at his service. I am not a man of that sort; I know the value of money. Your three cards will not be thrown away upon me. Come!” ... He paused and tremblingly awaited her reply. The Countess remained silent; Hermann fell upon his knees. “If your heart has ever known the feeling of love,” said he, “if you remember its rapture, if you have ever smiled at the cry of your newborn child, if any human feeling has ever entered into your breast, I entreat you by the feelings of a wife, a lover, a mother, by all that is most sacred in life, not to reject my prayer. Reveal to me your secret. Of what use is it to you? . . . May be it is connected with some terrible sin, with the loss of eternal salvation, with some bargain with the devil.... Reflect, — you are old; you have not long to live — I am ready to take your sins upon my soul. Only reveal to me your secret. Remember that the happiness of a man is in your hands, that not only I, but my children, and grandchildren will bless your memory and reverence you as a saint. . . .” The old Countess answered not a word. Hermann rose to his feet. “You old hag!” he exclaimed, grinding his teeth, “then I will make you answer!” With these words he drew a pistol from his pocket.

Pimen [writing in front of a sacred lamp]:
One more, the final record, and my annals
Are ended, and fulfilled the duty laid
By God on me a sinner. Not in vain
Hath God appointed me for many years
A witness, teaching me the art of letters;
A day will come when some laborious monk
Will bring to light my zealous, nameless toil,
Kindle, as I, his lamp, and from the parchment
Shaking the dust of ages will transcribe
My true narrations.

I have outlasted all desire,
My dreams and I have grown apart;
My grief alone is left entire,
The gleamings of an empty heart.

The storms of ruthless dispensation
Have struck my flowery garland numb,
I live in lonely desolation
And wonder when my end will come.

Thus on a naked tree-limb, blasted
By tardy winter's whistling chill,
A single leaf which has outlasted
Its season will be trembling still.

Мой дядя самых честных правил,
Когда не в шутку занемог,
Он уважать себя заставил
И лучше выдумать не мог.

God save us from seeing a Russian revolt, senseless and merciless. Those who plot impossible upheavals among us, are either young and do not know our people, or are hard-hearted men who do not care a straw either about their own lives or those of others.