Quotes from Alexander Pushkin

He's happy now, he's almost sane.

Habit to us is given from above: it is a substitute for happiness.

Enough! Clear-souled and far from wasted, I start upon an untrod way To take my rest from yesterday.

Days when I came to flower serenely in Lycée gardens long ago, and read my Apuleius keenly, but spared no glance for Cicero.

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

Imagination seethes, excited, Once more its contact has ignited The blood within my withered heart, Once more I love, once more I smart!...

Light-minded society mercilessly persecutes in reality what it allows in theory

Such a beginning presaged nothing good. However, I lost neither courage nor hope. I turned to the consolation of all those in distress, and for the first time tasted the sweetness of prayer, poured forth from a pure but riven heart. I fell asleep serenely, unworried as to what was to become of me.

Whom, then, to love? Whom to believe? Who is the only one that won't betray us? Who measures all deeds, all speeches obligingly by our own foot rule? Who does not sow slander about us? Who coddles us with care? To whom our vice is not so bad? Who never bores us? Unlike a futile phantom-seeker who wastes effort in vain- love your own self, my honorworthy reader. A worthy object! Nothing more amiable surely exists.

Whoever you be, O my reader- friend, foe- I wish with you to part at present as a pal. Farewell. Whatever you in my wake sought in these careless strophes- tumultuous recollections, relief from labors, live pictures or bons mots, or faults of grammar- God grant that you, in this book, for recreation, for the daydream, for the heart, for jousts in journals, may find at least a crumb. Upon which, let us part, farewell!

He who has lived and thought can never Help in his soul despising men, He who has felt will be forever Haunted by days he can't regain. For him there are no more enchantments, Him does the serpent of remembrance, Him does repentance always gnaw. All this will frequently afford A great delight to conversations.

Habit is heaven's gift to us: a substitute for happiness.

55 But I was born for peaceful roaming, For country calm and lack of strife; My lyre sings! And in the gloaming My fertile fancies spring to life. I give myself to harmless pleasures And far niente rules my leisures: Each morning early I'm awake To wander by the lonely lake Or seek some other sweet employment: I read a little, often sleep, For fleeting fame I do not weep. And was it not in past enjoyment Of shaded, idle times like this, I spent my days of deepest bliss?

Better the illusions that exalt us than ten thousands truths

Sometimes, all company forsaking, They settle to a game of chess And, leaning on a table, guess What move the other may be making, And Lensky with a dreamy look, Allows his pawn to take his rook.

When I want somebody to read to, To match a dream with tuneful phrase, It is my nurse that I pay heed to, Companion of my youthful days, Or, following a boring dinner, A neihbour comes in, who I corner, Catch at his coat tails suddenly And choke him with a tragedy, Or, (here I am no longer jesting), Haunted by rhymes and yearning's ache, I roam beside my country lake And scare a flock of wild ducks resting: Hearing my strophes' sweet-toned chants, They fly off from the banks at once.

And thus they aged, as do all mortals. Until at last the husband found That death had opened wide its portals, Through which he entered, newly crowned.

oamenii, nefiind niciodat? mulÈ›umiÈ›i de prezent, È™i înv??ând s? aib? puÈ›ine speranÈ›e în viitor, înfrumuseÈ›eaz? cu toate florile închipuirii tot ce a trecut È™i nu se mai întoarce.

Whoever the priest is, he is called Father.

We live without power of law, like flocks of ravens they come and sweep over the land.

It's now the British Muse's fables That lie on maidens' bedside tables And haunt their dreams. They worship now The Vampire with his pensive brow

This, then, is the fate of your sons, Oh Rome, oh celebrated power! Singer of love, singer of the gods, Tell me, what is glory? A hollow rumbling from the grave, a praising voice, A sound speeding from generation to generation? Or under the shade of a smoky shelter The tale of a wild gypsy?

Rousseau (I'll note with your permission) Could not conceive how solemn Grimm Dared clean his nails in front of him, The madcap sage and rhetorician. Champion of rights and liberty, In this case judged wrong-headedly. One still can be a man of action And mind the beauty of one's nails: Why fight the age's predilection? Custom's a despot and prevails.

Perhaps you'd like, you gentle fellow, To hear what I'm prepared to say On kinfolk and their implications? Well, here's my view of close relations: They're people whom we're bound to prize, To honor, love, and idolize, And following the old tradition, To visit come the Christmas feast, Or send a wish by mail at least; All other days they've our permission, To quite forget us if they please- So grant them, God, long life and ease!