Unlimited Quote Collections
Organize your favorite quotes without limits. Create themed collections for every occasion with Premium.
[P]eople think that the human brain is in the head. Nothing of the sort; it is carried by the wind from the Caspian Sea. - Nikolai Gogol
" "[P]eople think that the human brain is in the head. Nothing of the sort; it is carried by the wind from the Caspian Sea.
English
Collect this quote
About Nikolai Gogol
Nikolai Vasilevich Gogol (Russian: Никола́й Васи́льевич Го́голь) (1 April 1809 – 4 March 1852) was a Ukrainian-born Russian writer, whose best known work is perhaps Dead Souls, seen by many as the first "modern" Russian novel.
Also Known As
Pen Names:
В. Алов
•
П. Глечик
•
Н. Г.
•
ОООО
•
Г. Янов
•
N. N.
•
***
Native Name:
Микола Васильович Гоголь-Яновський гербу Яструбець
Alternative Names:
Nikolay Vasil'yevich Gogol'
•
Nikolaĭ Vasilʹevich Gogolʹ
•
N. V. Hohalʹ
•
Mykola Vasylʹovych Hoholʹ
•
Gogolʹ
•
N. V. Gogolʹ
•
Nicholai V. Gogol
•
Nikolay Vasil'yevich Gogol
•
Nicolai Gogol
•
Nikolay Vasilyevich Gogol
•
Nikolaus Gogol
•
Nikolay Gogol'
•
N. Gogolis
•
Nicolaus Gogol
•
Nikolay Gogol
•
Nikolaj Gogolj
•
Nikolaj Gogolʹ
•
Mikołaj Gogol
•
En Gogolli
•
Ko-kuo-li
•
Nicolas Gogol
•
Nikolai Vasil´evich Gogol´
•
N. V. Gogolj
•
Guogeli
•
Geguoli
•
Kuo-ko-li
•
Nikolai Vasil'evich Gogol
•
Nicolai Vasilievitch Gogol
•
Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol
Related quotes. More quotes will automatically load as you scroll down, or you can use the load more buttons.
Additional quotes by Nikolai Gogol
And ruined is the Cossack! He is lost for all the chivalry of the Cossacks! He will see Zaporozhye no more; nor his father's farms, nor the church of God. Ukraine will see no more the bravest of the sons who undertook to defend her. Old Taras will tear the gray hair from his head and curse the day and hour when he begot such a son to shame him.
PREMIUM FEATURE
Advanced Search Filters
Filter search results by source, date, and more with our premium search tools.
Oh troika, winged troika, tell me who invented you? Surely, nowhere but among a nimble nation could you have been born in a country which has taken itself in earnest and has evenly spread far and wide over half of the globe, so that once you start counting the milestones you may count on till a speckled haze dances before your eyes... Rus, are you not similar in your headlong motion to one of those nimble troikas that none can overtake? The flying road turns into smoke under you, bridges thunder and pass, all fall back and is left behind!... And what does this awesome motion mean? What is the passing strange steeds! Has the whirlwind a home in your manes?... Rus, whither are you speeding to? Answer me. No answer. The middle bell trills out in a dream its liquid soliloquy; the roaring air is torn to pieces and becomes wind; all things on earth fly by and other nations and states gaze askance as they step aside and give her the right of way.
Loading...