Andrei Bely > Quotes

“People as such do not exist: they are all 'things conceived”
― Andrei Bely, Petersburg

“In the lacquered house the storms of life took their course quietly; nevertheless the storms of life here took their course calamitously: they did not thunder with events; they did not shine a cleansing light into the inhabitants’ hearts with arrows of lightning; but from a hoarse throat they wrung the air in a torrent of poisonous fluids; and in the consciousness of the inhabitants cerebral games swirled round, like dense gases in hermetically sealed jars.”
― Andrei Bely, Petersburg

“He tried not to think, not to understand: could there be any understanding of this? This had come, had crushed, and was roaring. If you thought about it--you would throw yourself through a hole in the ice.
In his soul something bellowed piteously like a bullock under the knife in the slaughterhouse.”
― Andrei Bely, Petersburg

“If you fall for a dark-eyed beauty, pretty as a picture, with lips as sweet as a luscious rasberry, and a gentle face, unrumpled by kisses, like an apple-blossom petal in May, and she becomes your love—then do not say that love is yours: even though you cannot tire of her rounded breasts, of her slender frame that melts in your embrace like wax before a flame. . . . The day will come, that cruel hour will come, the fatal moment will come, when he face will fade, rumpled by kisses, her breasts will no longer quiver at your touch: all this will come to pass; and you will be alone with your own shadow amidst the sunscorched deserts and the dried up springs, where flowers do not bloom and the sunlight plays on the dry skin of a lizard; and you might even see the hairy black tarantula’s lair, all enmeshed in the threads of its web . . . And then your thirsting voice will be raised from the sands, calling longingly to your homeland.
---
But if your love is otherwise, if her browless face has once been touched by the black blemish of the pox, if her hair is red, her breasts sagging, her bare feet dirty, and to any extent at all her stomach protrudes, and still she is your love—then that which you have sought and found in her is the sacred homeland of your soul.”
― Andrei Bely, The Silver Dove

“He returned to his seat and sat down; the road is so long, so long; he had to get through these spaces where stations clustered about the track amidst the black night like some black coffin set with candles. He thought that minute was flying after minute, mile after mile, everything was moving — even he was moving — but to where?

("Adam")”
― Andrey Bely, Silver Age of Russian Culture

“Here you will find marvelous moustaches, which neither pen nor brush could depict. To which the best part of a lifetime has been devoted, objects of long vigils by day and midnight; moustaches on which the most ravishing ointments have been poured, which have been anointed with the most precious pomades and which are the envy of passerby..”
― Andrei Biely

“Son: Father, you are my father. You sired me. I have sired no one because I left the primordial. I left you, I studied, I suffered, and my visions were pure. Before me, my father, new horizons were opened.

Father: Yes, I am your father. I sired you and nowhere did I go. Where I was in the beginning, there I remained. I dwell in the old home, my estate is as it was. I spawned, I lived with your mother. Then I lived with peasant women and girls, spawning. I surrounded myself with chickens, roosters, turkeys. My poultry lay dozens of eggs a day. But I studied nothing, never did I suffer. My horizons remain the same, oh just the same. These spaces, ancient, veritably Russian, assembled around us are all — all just the same.

("Adam")”
― Andrey Bely, Silver Age of Russian Culture

“The bast, dispersing in shreds in the sunset whispered "Time has begun." The son, Adam, stripped naked, descended into the Old Testament of his native land and arrayed himself in bast; a wreath of roadside field grass he placed upon his brow, a staff, not a switch, he pulled from the ground, flourishing the birch branch like a sacred palm. On the road he stood like a guard. The dust-gray road ran into the sunset. And a crow perched there, perched and croaked, there where the celestial fire consumed the earth.

There were blind men along the dust-gray road running into the twilight. Antique, crooken, they trailed along, lonely and sinister silhouettes, holding to one another and to their leader's cane. They were raising dust. One was beard-less, he kept squinting. Another, a little old man with a protruding lip, was whispering and praying. A third, covered with red hair, frowned. Their backs were bent, their heads bowed low, their arms extended to the staff. Strange it was to see this mute procession in the terrible twilight. They made their way immutable, primordial, blind. Oh, if only they could open their eyes, oh if only they were not blind! Russian Land, awake!

And Adam, rude image of the returned king, lowered the birch branch to their white pupils. And on them he laid his hands, as, groaning and moaning they seated themselves in the dust and with trembling hands pushed chunks of black bread into their mouths. Their faces were ashen and menacing, lit with the pale light of deadly clouds. Lightning blazed, their blinded faces blazed. Oh, if only they opened their eyes, oh, if only they saw the light!

Adam, Adam, you stand illumined by lightnings. Now you lay the gentle branch upon their faces. Adam, Adam, say, see, see! And he restores their sight.

But the blind men turning their ashen faces and opening their white eyes did not see. And the wind whispered "Thou art behind the hill." From the clouds a fiery veil began to shimmer and died out. A little birch murmured, beseeching, and fell asleep. The dusk dispersed at the horizon and a bloody stump of the sunset stuck up. And spotted with brilliant coals glowing red, the bast streamed out from the sunset like a striped cloak. On the waxen image of Adam the field grass wreaths sighed fearfully giving a soft whistle and the green dewy clusters sprinkled forth fiery tears on the blind faces of the blind. He knew what he was doing, he was restoring their sight.

("Adam")”
― Andrey Bely, Silver Age of Russian Culture

“Adam Antonovich went out of the annex which as a child he had called the 'world.' Through the glass he shouted jokingly to his servant 'You are still in the "world" but I'm not in the world, I'm in Russia.'

The hunchbacked plains spread out on every side, Russian plains, eaten away by ravines, ancient, native, all — all just the same. 'With the mind, Russia cannot be embraced; she is a special case, one can only believe in Russia,' he thought...

("Adam")”
― Andrey Bely, Silver Age of Russian Culture

“As ruas de Petersburgo possuem uma propriedade indubitável - a de transformar transeuntes em sombras.”
― Andrei Bely, Petersburg

“Adam Antonovich's father was a tubby tyrant with a triple chin and chinks where his eyes should have been. All his life he had amassed money. In old age he had exchanged it for space; his estates grew, grew and swelled.

("Adam")”
― Andrey Bely, Silver Age of Russian Culture

“Tahtahta-ha-ha' clattered the wheels. A lamp outside the window nodded to him. Another. A third. The lamps ceased to wink. Night without winking clung to the windows.

("Adam")”
― Andrey Bely, Silver Age of Russian Culture

“A renda transformou-se em Petersburgo matinal: lá estavam os prédios de cinco andares cor de areia; o palácio ruivo-avermelhado coloriu-se de aurora.”
― Andrei Bely, Petersburg

“Once [the Senator's] brain has come into play with the mysterious stranger, that stranger exists, really does exist: he will not disappear from the Petersburg prospects while a senator with such thoughts exists, because thought, too, exists.

And so let our stranger be a real live stranger! And let my stranger's two shadows be real live shadows!

Those dark shadows will follow, they will follow on the stranger's heels, in the same way as the stranger himself will directly follow the senator; the aged senator will pursue you, he will pursue you, too, reader, in his black carriage: and from this day forth you will never forget him!”
― Andrei Bely

“He shook hands. With greening faces, with eyes full of sparks, his two friends leaned upon their canes. One had on a crushed bowler (why?)... Both were weary. Both knew that what was approaching was the end. Both had spent the day in their offices and when they interrupted their work with an indiscreet nod, when they turned the conversation toward that end, both broke in "Lord, we have strayed from our business." And ever deeper sunk their eyes, a deathly shadow was descending. The words of his friends had been bought with blood, but they were stolen. Someone, listening, recorded them on a phonograph and thousands of cylinders began to twang. A new enterprise opened, on sale a bronze throat, a screaming cavity; an experienced mechanic installed the throat phonograph. The purchased throat squealed day and night and his friends grew exhausted and one day he said to them both "Lord, I am going." He grinned. And they grinned: they understood everything. Now they stood on the platform, stood with him and saw him off. Someone long and dark with the face of an ox, shoulders crooked as a sorrowful cemetery cross and wrapped up in a frock-coat, swept into the coach. And then the bell rang, and then they waved their bowlers; three wooden arms swung in the air.

("Adam")”
― Andrey Bely, Silver Age of Russian Culture

“E Serguei Sergueievitch fez barba e bigode: e tinha agora o aspecto de um perfeito idiota.”
― Andrei Bely, Petersburg

“Изморось поливала прохожих: награждала их гриппами; вместе с тонкою пылью дождя инфлуэнцы и гриппы заползали под приподнятый воротник: гимназиста, студента, чиновника, офицера, субъекта; и субъект (так сказать, обыватель) озирался тоскливо; и глядел на проспект стерто-серым лицом; циркулировал он в бесконечность проспектов, преодолевал бесконечность, без всякого ропота — в бесконечном токе таких же, как он,— среди лёта, грохота, трепетанья, пролеток, слушая издали мелодичный голос автомобильных рулад и нарастающий гул желто-красных трамваев (гул потом убывающий снова), в непрерывном окрике голосистых газетчиков.”
― Andrei Bely, Petersburg

“Из неоформленной глины общества хорошо лепить в вечность замечательный бюст.”
― Andrei Bely, Petersburg

“Oh, to live in the fields, to die in the fields, repeating to yourself the one spirit-strewing word, which no one knows but he who receives that word; and it is received in silence. Here amongst themselves they all drink the wine of life, the wine of new joy — thought Piotr; the sunset here cannot be compressed into a book, and here the sunset is a mystery; in the West there are many books; in Russia there are many unspoken words. Russia is that on which the book is smashed, knowledge dissipated, and life itself burns up; on the day when the West is grafted onto Russia, a world-wide conflagration will engulf it: everything will burn that can burn, for only from the ashes of death will rise the soul of paradise, the Fire-bird.”
― Andrei Bely, The Silver Dove

“Tu, Rússia, és como o cavalo! Dois cascos dianteiros projetados para a escuridão, pasa o zazio; e os dois cascos traseiros cravados firmemente no solo de granito.
Queres tu também te separar da pedra que te segura, da mesma maneira que alguns dos teus filhos loucos que se apartaram do torrão pátrio - queres tu também te separar da pedra que te sustenta e ficar suspensa no ar, sem rédeas, para precipitar-te depois no caos das águas? Ou talvez queira lançar-te, rompendo as neblinas, através do espaço, para desaparecer, juntamente com os teus filhos, nas nuvens? Ou, empinada, puseste-te a meditar por muitos anos, oh, Rússia, diante do terrível destino que aqui te lançou - no meio deste norte soturno, onde até o ocaso leva muitas horas, onde o próprio tempo se lança, ora na noite gelada, ora - no resplendor do dia? Ou, temerosa do salto, baixarás novamente os cascos para levar, bufando, o enorme Cavaleiro das terras ilusórias para o fundo dos espaços planos?
Que assim não seja!...
Tendo uma vez se empinado e medido o espaço com o olhar, não baixará mais os cascos: o salto sobre a história: haverá; haverá uma grande agitação, rachar-se-á a terra; abalados pelo grande temor, irão ruir os próprios montes e as planícies queridas virarão um mar de corcovas. Nijni Nóvgorod, Vladímir e Uglitch ficarão sobre as corcovas.
Mas Petersburgo afundará.
Nesses dias todos os povos da terra irão arremeter-se de seus lugares; haverá uma grande batalha, - uma batalha inédita no mundo: hostes amarelas de asiáticos deixarão os locais tradicionais de sua habitação para manchar os campos da Europa com oceanos de sangue; haverá, haverá - Sushima! Haverá - uma nova Kalka!...
Campo de Kulikovo, à tua espera estou!
E neste dia o último sol resplandecerá sobre a minha terra pátria. Se, oh, Sol, se tu não nasceres, então, oh, Sol, as costas européias irão afundar sob o pesado calcanhar mongólico, e sobre essas costas irá encrespar-se a espuma; criaturas nascidas na Terra descerão novamente para o fundo dos oceanos - para o caos, progênito a muito tempo esquecido...
Nasce, oh, Sol!”
― Andrei Bely, Petersburg

“To the degree in which he became persuaded of Ableukhov’s involvement in the matter concerning the exposure of T.T., so did the terror-laden, oppressive feeling that had gripped him during his conversation with the person die away; something light, almost carefree entered his soul. Aleksandr Ivanovich had for some reason long had an especial hatred of the senator: Apollon Apollonovich inspired him with an especial revulsion, similar to the revulsion inspired in us by a phalanx, or even a tarantula; on the other hand, at times he liked Nikolai Apollonovich; but now the senator’s son had united for him with the senator in a single spasm of revulsion and in a desire to root out, exterminate this tarantula-like breed.”
― Andrei Bely, Petersburg

“A Petersburg street in autumn permeates the whole organism: chills the marrow and tickles the shuddering backbone; but as soon as you come from it into some warm premises, the Petersburg street runs in your veins like a fever. The”
― Andrei Bely, Petersburg

“The rain had stopped: again the sun gleamed for a moment; Gugolevo appeared before him, opened itself out, enclosed him in its blossoming embrace—and now it was looking at him, Gugolevo; looking at him with the lucent waters of its lake, Gugolevo; and the lake was rocking him with its dove-blue waters which sang with silver, and all the while the rippling lake was reaching out to the bank with its waters—but it could not reach: and whispered with the reeds—and there, in the lake, was Gugolevo: it rose behind the trees in its entirety, then gazed with a smile of longing at the water—and escaped into the water: there it was now, in the water—over there, over there.”
― Andrei Bely, The Silver Dove

“It is good to model from the unformed clay of society a bust that will be memorable for eternity”
― Andrei Bely, Petersburg