aseaofquotes:

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Gambler

15 hours ago ( 777) / via / source
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"It drags you down, this life. You’re surrounded by crackpots, nothing but crackpots; you live with them for two, three years and, little by little, without noticing it, you turn into a crackpot yourself."

Uncle Vanya, Anton Chekhov
3 days ago ( 80)
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"But this dark is deep:
now I warm you with my blood, listen
to this flesh.
It is far truer than poems."


— Marina Tsvetaeva, from “Poem of the End” (translated by Elaine Feinstein)
3 days ago ( 654) / via / source
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"I am aware of myself. And, of course, the only things that are aware of themselves and conscious of their individuality are irritated eyes, cut fingers, sore teeth. A healthy eye, finger, tooth might as well not even be there. Isn’t it clear that individual consciousness is just sickness?"

— Yevgeny Zamyatin, We
4 days ago ( 89) / via
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"His situation at that moment was like that of a man standing above a terrible chasm when the ground has begun to break away, is already rocking and sliding, sways for the last time and falls, carrying him into the abyss, while the poor wretch has neither the strength nor the willpower to spring backwards or to turn his eyes away from the yawning gulf; the abyss draws him and at last he leaps into it of his own accord, hastening his own doom."

— Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Double
1 week ago ( 88) / via
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mayakovsky:

from Vladimir Mayakovsky: A Tragedy (1913), Vladimir Mayakovsky

1 week ago ( 58) / via
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russian-style:

Pyotr Sokolov was a distinguished aquarelle portraitist who painted well-known figures of the middle of the XIX century. Among his sitters were noblemen, Decembrists, Pushkin and friends etc.

1 week ago ( 1075) / via / source
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history-of-fashion:

1831 Alexander Brullov - Natalia Nikolaevna Pushkina-Lanskaya (née Goncharova), wife of the Russian poet Alexander Pushkin

1 week ago ( 126) / via / source
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"How am I to recapture the numbed feeling that came over me after that horrible event? I lay motionless, my eyes half-shut. The wind kept changing, sometimes blowing pure, fresh air my way, sometimes enveloping me in the stench. That day my neighbor became so hideous as to beggar description. Once when I opened my eyes to look at him, I was appalled. His face was gone. It had slid off the bones. His frightful bony smile, his eternal smile, struck me as more revolting, more awful than ever, though I’ve often held skulls in my hands and even prepared whole heads in anatomy class. This skeleton in uniform with its shiny buttons made me shudder. ‘This is war,’ I thought, ‘this is how it looks.’"

— Vsevolod Garshin (via lies-and-slander)
2 weeks ago ( 30) / via / source
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strandbooks:

Marked passage from Despair by Vladimir Nabokov, page 117.

2 weeks ago ( 318) / via / source
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HW