Quotes from Alexander Pushkin

XXVIII. Sie liebte es, auf dem Balkone Dem Nahn des Frührots zuzusehn, Wenn in der blaßren Himmelszone Die Sterne nach und nach vergehn Und sacht der Horizont sich lichtet, Ein Wehn vom Morgen schon berichtet, Und dann der Tag allmählich steigt...

O flowers, country, love, inaction, O fields! I am your devotee! I always note with satisfaction Onegin's difference from me, Lest somewhere a sarcastic reader Or publisher or such-like breeder Of complicated calumny Discerns my physiognomy And shamelessly repeats the fable That I have crudely versified Myself like Byron, bard of pride, As if we were no longer able To write a poem and discuss A subject not concerning us.

He who has lived and thought can't help despising people in his soul; him who has felt disturbs the ghost of irrecoverable days; for him there are no more enchantments; him does the snake of memories, him does repentance bite.

Whom then to love? Whom to have faith in? Who can there be who won't betray? Who'll judge a deed or disputation Obligingly by what we say? Who'll not bestrew our path with slander? Who'll cosset us with care and candour? Oh, ineffectual phantom seeker You waste your energy in vain: Love your own self, be your own man, My worthy, venerable reader! A worthwhile object: surely who Could be more lovable than you?

She craves romance. She dreams that she is the heroine of every book she reads.

Eu te-am iubit ÅŸi poate c? iubirea În suflet înc? nu s-a stins de tot; Dar nici neliniÅŸte ÅŸi nici tristeÅ£e Ea nu îÅ£i va mai da, aÅŸa socot. F?r? cuvinte te-am iubit, f?r? n?dejde, De gelozie, de sfial? chinuit. Dea Domnul s? mai fii cîndva iubit? AÅŸa adînc, aÅŸa gingaÅŸ cum te-am iubit.

Always and everywhere one vision, One customary, single mission, One customary, single grief. Not cooling distance's relief...

From an evil dog be glad of a handful of hairs.

A deaf man summoned a deaf man to be judged By a deaf Judge.

To "seek inspiration" has always seemed to me a ridiculous and absurd fancy: inspiration cannot be sought out; it must find the poet. For

I would make my home, with joy and gladness, in a dark forest.

I have become well versed in magic.

Now acting proud and now submissive, By turns attentive and dismissive! How languid, when no word he said, How fiery, when he spoke, instead, In letters of the heart how casual!

Take care of your clothes when they're new, but your honour from a tender age.

How rapid was his look and bashful, Tender and bold, while off and on With an obedient tear it shone.

I loved you; even now I must confess, Some embers of my love their fire retain; But do not let it cause you more distress, I do not want to sadden you again. Hopeless and tongue-tied, yet I loved you dearly With pangs the jealous and the timid know; So tenderly I love you, so sincerely, I pray God grant another love you so.

Sauvage, sad, silent, as timid as the sylvan doe, in her own family she seemed a strangeling.

My goddesses! Where now? Forsaken? Oh hearken to my call, I rue: Are you the same? Have others taken Your place without replacing you?

I'm only writing this to show That I stopped sinning long ago.

es insoportable ver solo ante si la larga hilera de comidas, mirar la vida como una ceremonia y seguir a la solemne multitud, sin compartir con ella las opiniones generales ni las pasiones.

Cantó el amor, y el canto suyo era tan límpido y puro como el pensar de una doncella, como los sueños de un niño, como la luna en los cielos, nocturna diosa indolente de los misterios y suspiros. Cantó el dolor y el olvido, cantó las rosas y las brumas, cantó lejanas tierras donde sus lágrimas se derramaban en la soledad; cantó asimismo marchitas flores de la vida teniendo apenas dieciocho.

Recalling former years' romances, Recalling love that time enhances, With tenderness, with not a care, Alive, at liberty once more, We drank, in mute intoxication, The breath of the indulgent night! Just as a sleepy convict might Be carried from incarceration Into a greenwood, so were we Borne to our youth by reverie.

His principal amusement was shooting with a pistol. The walls of his room were riddled with bullets, and were as full of holes as a honeycomb. A rich collection of pistols was the only luxury in the humble cottage where he lived. The skill which he had acquired with his favorite weapon was simply incredible: and if he had offered to shoot a pear off somebody's forage-cap, not a man in our regiment would have hesitated to place the object upon his head.

Que je voulais, dans quelle fièvre Toucher ses pieds, du bout des lèvres