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Andrei Bely

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Andrei Bely


Born
in Moscow, Russian Federation
October 26, 1880

Died
January 07, 1934

Genre

Influences


Boris Bugaev was born in Moscow, into a prominent intellectual family. His father, Nikolai Bugaev, was a leading mathematician who is regarded as a founder of the Moscow school of mathematics. His mother was not only highly intelligent but a famous society beauty, and the focus of considerable gossip. Young Boris was a polymath whose interests included mathematics, music, philosophy, and literature. He would go on to take part in both the Symbolist movement and the Russian school of neo-Kantianism.

Nikolai Bugaev was well known for his influential philosophical essays, in which he decried geometry and probability and trumpeted the virtues of hard analysis. Despite—or because of—his father's mathematical tastes, Boris Bugaev was fascinated by
...more

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Kotik Letaev

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Glossolalia

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The Symphonies

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The Moscow Eccentric

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Петербург (Русская классиче...

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Стихотворения

3.71 avg rating — 17 ratings — published 1988 — 2 editions
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More books by Andrei Bely…
Собрание сочинений. Стихотв... Собрание сочинений. Петербург Собрание сочинений. Серебря... Собрание сочинений. Воспоми... Собрание сочинений. Символи... Собрание сочинений. Котик Л... Собрание сочинений. «Рудоль...
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Quotes by Andrei Bely  (?)
Quotes are added by the Goodreads community and are not verified by Goodreads. (Learn more)

“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

“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.
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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

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