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Vassili Grossman’s Followers (13)
Vassili Grossman
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“L'histoire des hommes n'est pas le combat du bien cherchant à vaincre le mal. L'histoire de l'homme c'est le combat du mal cherchant à écraser la minuscule graine d'humanité. Mais si même maintenant l'humain n'a pas été tué en l'homme, alors jamais le mal ne vaincra.”
― Life and Fate
― Life and Fate
“Nunca se apagará de la memoria una nubecita arrebolada por una silenciosa puesta de sol, aunque cientos de ocasos más bellos y suntuosos acaben por olvidarse, extinguidos para siempre; así, nunca olvidaremos una lluvia de verano o quizá una joven luna reflejada en la superficie abigarrada de un arroyo de abril en los bosques”.”
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“He adjusted his knapsack, took his hat, stepped towards the door and glanced quickly back at his wife.
Both looked around the room—but how very differently they each saw it, at this last moment, as they stood together on the threshold . . . She knew that these four walls would witness all her loneliness, and to her they seemed bleak and empty. He, on the other hand, wanted to carry away in his memory what he saw as the kindest home on this earth.
He set off down the road. Standing by the gate, she watched him walk away. She felt that she would survive, that she would be able to endure everything—if only he would come back again and stay for another hour, if only she could look at him one more time.
“Petya, Petya,” she whispered.
But he didn’t look round. He didn’t stop. He just carried on walking towards the dawn. It was reddening over land that he had ploughed himself. A cold wind was blowing straight into his face, blowing the last vestige of warmth, the last breath of hearth and home, out of his clothes.”
― Stalingrad
Both looked around the room—but how very differently they each saw it, at this last moment, as they stood together on the threshold . . . She knew that these four walls would witness all her loneliness, and to her they seemed bleak and empty. He, on the other hand, wanted to carry away in his memory what he saw as the kindest home on this earth.
He set off down the road. Standing by the gate, she watched him walk away. She felt that she would survive, that she would be able to endure everything—if only he would come back again and stay for another hour, if only she could look at him one more time.
“Petya, Petya,” she whispered.
But he didn’t look round. He didn’t stop. He just carried on walking towards the dawn. It was reddening over land that he had ploughed himself. A cold wind was blowing straight into his face, blowing the last vestige of warmth, the last breath of hearth and home, out of his clothes.”
― Stalingrad
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