I don’t see why it’s impossible to express everything that’s on one’s mind.
IVAN TURGENEVI walked in the meadows of green grieving for my life.
More Ivan Turgenev Quotes
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Behind me there are already so many memories Lots of memories, but no point in remembering them, and ahead of me a long, long road with nothing to aim for I just don’t want to go along it.
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I was as happy as a fish in water, and I could have stayed in that room for ever, have never left that place.
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Death’s an old joke, but each individual encounters it anew.
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Nature creates while destroying, and doesn’t care whether it creates or destroys as long as life isn’t extinguished, as long as death doesn’t lose its rights.
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That is what poetry can do. It speaks to us of what does not exist, which is not only better than what exists, but even more like the truth.
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It was only the vulgarly mediocre that repelled her.
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It’s all romanticism, nonsense, rottenness, art.
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Great God, grant that twice two be not four.
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A poet must be a psychologist, but a secret one: he should know and feel the roots of phenomena but present only the phenomena themselves in full bloom or as they fade away.
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Everyone needs help from everyone else.
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Even nightingales can’t be fed on fairy tales.
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Circumstances define us; they force us onto one road or another, and then they punish us for it.
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Youth eats all the sugared fancy cakes and regards them as its daily bread. But there’ll come a time when you’ll start asking just for a crust.
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I walked in the meadows of green grieving for my life.
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What’s terrible is that there’s nothing terrible, that the very essence of life is petty, uninteresting, and degradingly trite.
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A son is like a lopped off branch. As a falcon he comes when he wills and goes where he lists.
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He was the soul of politeness to everyone — to some with a hint of aversion, to others with a hint of respect.
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That’s what children are for—that their parents may not be bored.
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So many memories and so little worth remembering, and in front of me – a long, long road without a goal.
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Sternly, remorselessly, fate guides each of us; only at the beginning, when we’re absorbed in details, in all sorts of nonsense, in ourselves, are we unaware of its harsh hand.
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Death is like a fisherman, who, having caught a fish in his net, leaves it in the water for a time; the fish continues to swim about, but all the while the net is round it, and the fisherman will snatch it out in his own good time.
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If we wait for the moment when everything, absolutely everything is ready, we shall never begin.
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I was afraid of looking into my heart…afraid of thinking seriously about anything…I did not want to know whether I was loved, and I did not want to admit to myself that I was not loved.
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I share no man’s opinions; I have my own.
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I look up to heaven only when I want to sneeze.
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Each individual is more or less dimly aware of his significance, is aware that he’s something innately superior, something eternal–and lives, is obligated to live, in the moment and for the moment.
IVAN TURGENEV