And yet can it be that I was fit for nothing, that for me there was, as it were, no work on earth to do?
For nature had denied him a gift for music as it had denied him a gift for everything else.
For a man may understand the precipitation of ether, and be au fait with what is taking place in the sun, yet, confront him with the fact that another man blows his nose differently from the manner in which he blows his own, and at once that man will become lost in perplexity.
Oh, Arkady, do me a favour, do let us for once have a really good quarrel – no holds barred, to the death.” “But if we do, it’ll end in... ” “Blows?” Bazarov continued. “What if it does? Here, in the hay, in these idyllic surroundings, far from the world and the eyes of men – it doesn’t matter. But you won’t beat me. I’m going to take you now by the throat...
All smoke and steam... all seems for ever changing, on all sides new forms, phantoms flying after phantoms, while in reality it is all the same and the same again; everything hurrying, flying towards something, and everything vanishing without a trace, attaining to nothing.
Yes” Bazarov began, “man’s a strange being. When you look at a quiet, dull life, like my good parents’ life here, cursorily or from a distance, you think – what could be better? Eat, drink and know you’re acting in the most correct, sensible way. But that’s not how it is. Boredom descends. You want to engage with people, even if just to shout at them, but still engage with them.
He has no faith in principles, only in frogs.
It’s not for man nor beast to get the better of death. Death doesn’t come running, but you can’t run away from it, neither; nor must you be helping it along.
Why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for example, or a fine evening or conversation with people we like, why does it all seem to be a hint of some limitless happiness existing somewhere else rather than a real happiness, the kind, that is, we possess ourselves?
However, I know myself as a very unhappy person.
What’s the point of talking and thinking about the future which for the most part doesn’t depend on us? If the opportunity arises to do something-great, and if it doesn’t at least you’ll be glad you didn’t chatter about it beforehand.
A son should never be a judge of his father, especially I of such a father as you, who’ve never in any way put any constraints on my freedom.
While she was exchanging the simplest sentences with him, even while she was jesting with him, she was conscious of a faint spasm of dread. So people on a steamer at sea talk and laugh carelessly, for all the world as though they were on dry land; but let only the slightest hitch occur, let the least sign be seen of anything out of the common, and at once on every face there comes out an expression of peculiar alarm, betraying the constant consciousness of constant danger.
You see what a hideous spectacle; the worm half-crushed but writhing still. And, you see, I thought too: I’d break down so many things, I wouldn’t die, why should I! There were problems to be solved, and I was a giant! And now all the problem for the giant is how to die decently.
By the way, since I mentioned the word happiness... Tell me, why is it that when we are enjoying something, music for instance, a fine evening, conversation with people who are sympathetic to us; why is it that all this seems to be a foretaste of some joy without measure which exists somewhere apart and beyond, rather than real happiness, that is a happiness which is actually within our grasp? Why should this be? Or are you, perhaps, not visited by such feelings?
What can we do, Vasya! Our son’s his own master now. He’s like a free bird of the skies: he wanted to come – came flying down to us; wanted to go – and flew away. And you and I, the mushrooms in a hollow, sit here side by side and can’t fly after him. Only I’ll stay by you and be the same for ever, as you will do for me.
Maybe you’re right; maybe it’s true that every person is a puzzle.
There were Hegelians, now there are only nihilists.
What was she? A dream? A fairy-tale?
My first love, certainly, was not quite an ordinary one.