Серебряный голубь

by Andrei Bely

Роман. Первая публикация в 1909 году, вышел отдельным изданием в 1910 году.

Genres: Russia, Russian Literature, Fiction, Classics, Literature, 20th Century, Novels

364 pages, Kindle Edition

First published January 1, 1909

About the author

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 probability and particularly by entropy, a notion to which he frequently refers in works such as Kotik Letaev.

Bely's creative works notably influenced—and were influenced by—several literary schools, especially symbolism. They feature a striking mysticism and a sort of moody musicality. The far-reaching influence of his literary voice on Russian writers (and even musicians) has frequently been compared to the impact of James Joyce in the English-speaking world. The novelty of his sonic effects has also been compared to the innovative music of Charles Ives.[citation needed]

As a young man, Bely was strongly influenced by his acquaintance with the family of philosopher Vladimir Solovyov, especially Vladimir's younger brother Mikhail, described in his long autobiographical poem The First Encounter (1921); the title is a reflection of Vladimir Solovyov's Three Encounters.

Bely's symbolist novel Petersburg (1916; 1922) is generally considered to be his masterpiece. The book employs a striking prose method in which sounds often evoke colors. The novel is set in the somewhat hysterical atmosphere of turn-of-the-century Petersburg and the Russian Revolution of 1905. To the extent that the book can be said to possess a plot, this can be summarized as the story of the hapless Nikolai Apollonovich, a ne'er-do-well who is caught up in revolutionary politics and assigned the task of assassinating a certain government official—his own father. At one point, Nikolai is pursued through the Petersburg mists by the ringing hooves of the famous bronze statue of Peter the Great.[citation needed]

In his later years Bely was influenced by Rudolf Steiner’s anthroposophy[3][4] and became a personal friend of Steiner's. He died, aged 53, in Moscow.

Bely was one of the major influences on the theater of Vsevolod Meyerhold.[citation needed]

The Andrei Bely Prize (Russian: Премия Андрея Белого), one of the most important prizes in Russian literature, was named after him. His poems were set on music and frequently performed by Russian singer-songwriters.

Reviews

[Vit Babenco · Rating 5 out of 5]

Religion and beliefs are different things. One may believe in God, one may believe in the Devil, and so often faith is blind and fanatical…

…there‘s the priest, Father Vukol Golokrestovsky, and his wife – a fine priest, you won’t find another like him anywhere in the neighbourhood, even if you drive forty versts, a hard-working priest he is, strict, keen on prayers.
But when he‘s had a couple of glasses, then straightaway he makes his wife sit down and strum the guitar (they’ve got a real guitar; the priest’s wife brought the guitar with her when they moved to the village about eight years ago; it does have a broken string, it‘s true, but what’s the point of being a priest’s wife if you can’t pluck away on a three-stringed guitar without being embarrassed; after all, she did have three years at secondary school in Likhov!) – so the priest makes his wire sit down and play the guitar: ‘Masha, play the Persian march!’ His face is all aglow and comes out in yellow freckles, and his eyes keep glinting in the direction of the front garden: ‘Play, Masha, cast aside all worldly care.’ But his wife bursts into tears, ‘You ought to go to bed, Father Vukol.’

This is the Orthodox Church – God is ancient and senile and He doesn’t save anymore… And folks need a real faith, a real divine power…

…and it was needful that Matryona should give birth; he knew well what causes would arise from this and what matters would follow from those causes: the birth of the Spirit would follow, the descent of the Dove to earth and the liberation of the peasant folk…

Reality is never enough… We want mystery… We wish to reach beyond… But the unknown may be dangerous and even pernicious.

[Max Nemtsov · Rating 5 out of 5]

В первую очередь, это очень смешной роман — я не знаю, как читателям и критикам удается не обращать на это внимания. В начале написан он эдаким псевдонародным фальшивым говорком, кучерявым и противным, за который мы так «любим» великую русскую литературу, и уже с первых страниц чувствуется, что это как-то не всерьез. Автор сходу начинает ерничать, издеваться на полях — и все дальше и дальше громоздить и плести этот морок «русского духа». Пока от него не начинает ощутимо тошнить. А потом, сочтя свою задачу выполненной, Белый принимается переключать регистры, и вот тут-то начинается весь рок-н-ролл.
Весь юмор и ирония Белого — в языке и стиле, в плетении словес, в этой пресловутой лукавой «орнаменталистике». В романе мало что вообще есть, кроме стиля и насмешки: похождения несчастного «скубента» в народной гуще, посреди всей этой мистической хтони, в дебрях «загадочной русской души» (тм) — дело десятое. Над этой любовью русской разночинной интеллигенции к «народу» (и «Востоку») — и нелюбовью русской аристократической интеллигенции к нему же (и тягой к «Западу») — в их мистическом изводе и потешается автор.
Поэтому в первую очередь, мне кажется, «Серебряный голубь» — роман сатирический, как бы это ни противоречиво мнениям, господствующим в наших рощах Академа. Сатира, понятно, была отчасти экспериментальной — после радикальных общественных потрясений хорошие писатели всегда кидаются экспериментировать: потрясения осмыслить как-то требуется, а прежний инструментарий им этого не дает, он под такое не заточен: во вчерашнюю систему координат новые данные не укладываются. Так и тут — провал русско-японской войны и революция 1905 года вызвал в кругах автора рост мистицизма (я упрощаю), и справиться с измененной реальностью в отдельно взятой голове русского писателя средствами Гоголя и Достоевского, пожалуй, можно только перегоголив и сверхотдостоевив их.
Чем и занялся Белый — создал текст, который был чистым стилем, по сути, прекрасно выполняющим свою манипулятивную функцию: он раздражает читателя до сих пор. По номиналу (как в аннотации: «роман о любви поэта и простой русской женщины») воспринимать его довольно затруднительно.

[Héctor Genta · Rating 5 out of 5]

Era questo per lui il cammino della Russia, dove era iniziata la grande trasfigurazione del mondo o la morte di esso.

Il colombo d'argento è un libro profetico che si pone perfettamente a metà tra lo spirito del secolo d'oro e quello d'argento della letteratura russa riflettendo le tensioni tra l'anima ottocentesca da un lato, ancorata alla campagna, alle izbe, ai muzik ed ai riti immutabili di una religione antica e lo spirito dei tempi nuovi dall'altro, caratterizzato dallo scoppio deflagrante dei contrasti sociali e dal fiorire di eresie che intrecciano aspetti filosofici a forme di culto diverse dalle precedenti. Semplificando, si potrebbe dire che procedendo lungo un ipotetico percorso cronologico questo libro segue i Demoni di Dostoevskij, è vicino al Sanin di Arcybašev e precede l'Anno nudo di Pil'njak, raccontando di un mondo nel quale le vecchie certezze stanno crollando e le nuove sono ancora avvolte nel dubbio.
Lo stile dell'opera può apparire un po' datato, appesantito da descrizioni fin troppo minuziose e ricche di aggettivi, con metafore e simboli che ricorrono sovente e uno sperimentalismo che può sembrare un po' di maniera, troppo visibile, a scapito della scorrevolezza di una trama che però si sviluppa in maniera superba, rappresentando alla perfezione il caos delle forze centrifughe che spingono l'animo umano verso direzioni nuove e contrastanti alla disperata ricerca di qualcosa a cui attaccarsi, di qualcosa in cui credere. In questo senso la Russia, con le sue vicende travagliate e dolorose, ha rappresentato una specie di laboratorio per studiare l'uomo ed i suoi grandi scrittori non si sono lasciati scappare l'occasione per esercitarsi in questa ricerca.
Tensioni e spinte centrifughe, si diceva. Bene, tutto questo lo ritroviamo alla massima potenza nella figura di con Dar'jal'skji, il protagonista del romanzo, un personaggio nel quale le contraddizioni la fanno da padrone: ateo dichiarato, con i piedi ben piantati sulla terra, eppure "alla ricerca dell'enigma della propria alba", sinceramente innamorato della bella e giovane Katja eppure inspiegabilmente affascinato da Matrëna, una contadina dal viso sfregiato dalle pustole del vaiolo che lo attira all'interno della setta del Colombo, "la cui dottrina era tanto nebulosa e astrusa che era impossibile coglierla nel suo insieme, e quel poco che si poteva comprendere sembrava irrazionale e spaventoso".
La confusione che regna nell'animo di Dar'jal'skji non è un unicum, ma semplicemente lo specchio fdele delle contraddizioni che regnavano all'epoca nella società, al punto che anche la libertà alla quale anela la gente diventa "libretà", come a dire che anche gli stessi ideali erano tutt'altro che chiari (per non dire poi di come venissero perseguiti attraverso percorsi tutt'altro che univoci).
Si viaggia su un sentiero stretto e su un terreno che rischia di franare ad ogni passo. Tutto è incerto, discutibile, la stessa Katja, una ragazzina o poco più, ha una personalità difficile da decifrare: "era dotata di un intuito sottile per tutto quello che riguardava la natura e che amava e comprendeva l'arte; ma se aveste cercato di articolare un vostro pensiero, o fare sfoggio di cultura o d'intelligenza, tutto sarebbe scivolato oltre senza sfiorarla, avrebbe fatto spallucce e avrebbe riso di voi. Era intelligente Katja? – si chiede l'autore – Davvero, non saprei…"
Quella del primo decennio del Novecento è una Russia che oscilla pericolosamente sull'orlo dell'abisso, con il presente che è un filo sottile sospeso tra passato e futuro, tra ortodossia ed eresia, tra cautela e slancio eroico, tra Occidente ed Oriente… troppe tensioni, troppe spinte in direzioni opposte per pensare di poter evitare un conflitto sanguinoso tra le diverse anime.
"La Russia cela un mistero inespresso – dice ad un certo punto lo zia di Katja a Dar'jal'skji, fotografando alla perfezione la situazione del momento – La Russia è un paese infelice, voi parlate di cose inespresse; dunque nel vostro animo c'è qualcosa he non potete esprimere: voi, giovanotto, non siete solo strambo e anche balbuziente, voi siete un infelice, giovanotto, incapace di parlare, come sono tutti i giovani di oggi; si esprimono in una lingua gravida di silenzi perché non riescono a spiegarsi in modo articolato. Parlare di cose inespresse è un sintomo pericoloso; questo dimostra che l'umanità è regredita a una condizione bestiale; purtroppo oggi tutti sono simili alle bestie, non solo i russi!".

[Olivia · Rating 3 out of 5]

There is something at the horizon, closing in on the vast Russian fields. Russia is changing. Revolution is around the corner, whispers are heard of class, socialists, riots. Bely drops the reader into the slowly intensifying turmoil that in many ways defined Russia in the early 1900s. Here, people are offering resistance any way they can; demanding a fair wage or joining the flagellation cults are both ways of defying the old and safe structures. Everything in The Silver Dove is happening at the edge of an abyss, one that lies in the near future of both our main character Daryalsky and of Russia herself.

Daryalsky is an educated Muscovite, a poet, who like many others at this time leaves the metropolis for the rural parts of the country. Here, he has a fiancée, a girl from a noble family that could easily pass in any romantic literature from the century before: young, kind and innocent to a fault, blue-eyed and rosy-cheeked. And yet, there is something about this time, about this point of history, that makes her and her family and their manors and gardens impossible. Instead, Daryalsky becomes entranced by a simple, pockmarked peasant woman, as well as the secretive cult she belongs to, the one that has named her as their own Virgin Mary.

The prose is difficult to pin down. At first it’s heavy, gaudy almost. Distinctly purple with odd repetitions, it made me worry that The Silver Dove would be a chore to get through. But what at first seemed amateurish and outdated soon gained some sort of rhythm, and for some chapters, the text seemed to be living and moving. I say for some, because being Bely’s first novel, this book can be pretty uneven at times. There are chapters that seem more like awkward attempts at a more traditionally romantic style, and the results are plodding and dull. But, overall, The Silver Dove is intriguing rather than heavy thanks to a playfulness and willingness to experiment that shines through, and I’m happy it does, because the better parts of the book are extremely intriguing, and a testament to Bely’s skill at building an atmosphere. The heat is suffocating, flies are abundant, and nature here is very much alive, almost to the point of consciousness. This is where the ornateness of his prose and all of that curious repetition falls into place, and something remarkable happens: all senses leave their assigned places and are taken in as if at once, everything becomes saturated with perception, the text turns as heavy as water, pooling into a complete cacophony of impressions. There is something surrealist about Bely’s use of nature; it is a constant witness and spectator, the Russian forests and plains are ever present in the world of The Silver Dove. Everything whimpers and snakes and whispers.

This way of putting feelings and senses over realism earned Bely a ban on his books in Soviet Russia, even though he himself was sympathetic to the communist cause. Maybe some of the authorities’ discomfort also stemmed from the fact that The Silver Dove isn’t a glorifying manifesto. Sure, the struggles of its time are all here; the struggle between city and countryside, intellect and hard work, civilization and the plains; the tug of war between East and West causes the entire weave of the book to shiver and quake - but there seemingly are no clear winners. A dangerous concept to a power who preferred literature to be useful and serve their purpose. They might’ve also disagreed with the book’s heavy dose of occultism (the parts featuring it might be its best - Bely is remarkably good at depicting the intense feel of ongoing, ecstatic rapture).

If not for several uneven and pretty bland chapters, I would’ve given The Silver Dove a much higher score. As it is unfortunately, Bely often disappears into side tracks long enough to interrupt the almost trance-like atmosphere that he’s built. But the amazing, breathless stretches that we do get are enough to make this a good book, and one worth reading.

[Atreju · Rating 4 out of 5]

Il colombo d'argento, insieme a "L'angelo di fuoco" di Brjusov e a "Cristo e Anticristo" di Merežkovskij, fa parte della triade di opere più note dei simbolisti russi dedicate al tema del misticismo.
Ovviamente, ogni autore lo declina a modo proprio. Nel caso di Belyj non è la passione per l'occultismo a muovere il protagonista Darialskij. Qui si tratta di un letterato in crisi di identità e - soprattutto - di valori. Ha letteralmente perso la bussola e viene attratto magneticamente dall'anima rurale della Russia, dai suoi "campi". Anzi no, non direi tanto rurale, quanto proprio primordiale, boschiva, selvatica. In queste selve sconfinate, le foreste russe, trovano rifugio non solo gli animali, ma anche gli uomini in fuga. E Darialskij è in fuga da se stesso, dal mondo razionale. Sette misteriose si aggirano tra le selve, fanatici che, nell'esporsi a fango, insetti e silenzio, mirano a una specie di catarsi. Il tutto è molto equivoco e - a tratti - psichedelico, quasi un mix di culti pagani e orgiastici, con ottenebramento della mente e strane polverine psicotrope.
E una volta che si è ceduto a questo mondo, a questa primordiale concezione dell'essere umano, non si può fare ritorno. Tutto è ormai perduto. L'occidente soccombe all'oriente.
Il testo è ricco, poetico ai massimi livelli, onirico, surreale. Estremamente simbolico. Ad esempio, ogni termine, ogni nome cela un profondo significato. A partire da Darialskij (evoca la Gola di Darial, il passo che collega le steppe russe alla patria del bengodi, la Georgia) fino alla tappa finale, Lichov (licho in russo significa disgrazia).

[Bee · Rating 4 out of 5]

I think about the fact CONSTANTLY that this was written in part after Blok said Andrei couldn't romance Blok's wife any more. Imagine writing a whole book about an extramarital affair that ends in the christ/antichrist and also murder of the protagonist and then going "yeah best bud of mine, here, have this book about the fact I did want to seduce your wife".
Anyways, it's largely a prequel to Petersburg in name only, the two exist generally in separate orbits. I don't like this one as much as I did Petersburg, but it's much deeper a dive into Bely's spiritual influences, in my opinion, which is a fascinating aspect. I like a lot of the imagery, despite finding the characters less compelling than those in Petersburg.

[Alessandro · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Quanti, quanti uomini sono in segreto arsi dalla nostalgia dei campi; o campi russi, campi russi! Spirate resina e messi e aurore, c'è da soffocare e morire tra le vostre distese, campi russi.
Quanti figli avete nutrito, campi russi; siete vissuti nei loro pensieri, stentatamente come fiori, nelle menti dei vostri figli irrequieti; fuggono i tuoi figli, Russia, a dimenticare la tua vastità in luoghi stranieri; quando ritornano più tardi, chi li riconosce?
Sono straniere le loro parole, straniero lo sguardo, si arricciano il baffo in modo diverso, all'occidentale; lo scintillio dei loro occhi è diverso da quello degli altri russi, ma nell'anima sono ancora vostri, o campi; voi incenerite i loro sogni, fiorite nei loro pensieri con stenti fiori paradisiaci, o nativi verdi cammini. Non passerà un anno che essi andranno errabondi nei prati, nei boschi, sui sentieri delle bestie selvatiche, per poi morire in un fosso cresciuto d'erba."

[Elena · Rating 3 out of 5]

Jesus f*cking Christ, have I never read anything weirder
I think this book single-handedly gave me forehead wrinkles from making weird faces at it

[Leeeo- · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ecco, io qua dovrei solamente inginocchiarmi e mettermi a piangere, o qualche cosa di altrettanto patetico.
Meraviglioso e sconvolgente, un romanzo di una bellezza veramente devastante, una narrazione intrisa di una poesia, di un suono, di una ricercatezza, di un'espressione da lasciare allibiti. Stupende descrizioni fanno da contorno alla storia di Darjalskij, poeta con un qualcosa di inesprimibile dentro, che lascia incomprensibilmente la propria ricca fidanzata e la prospettiva di un futuro quieto e tranquillo per immergersi totalmente nel fango e nella carnalità animalesca della terra russa. Introdotto in una setta pseudocristiana, i cosiddetti colombi, che predicano l'avvento di un secondo Cristo, il protagonista si lascia avviluppare totalmente dall'ebrezza della natura, dalla malia dei campi fioriti, dall'estasi dell'orgasmo al chiaro di luna, dai suoni e dagli odori dei prati, delle piante, dalla voce delle rondini e dal riverbero del sole sull'acqua del torrente. La parola che abdica alla pulsione del corpo, le sabbie mobili della carne che asfissiano lentamente la ragione ipertrofica, la vita animalesca che sommerge lentamente e affoga il pensiero razionale: una droga che obnubila il cervello, ma della quale non possiamo fare a meno, nonostante la consapevolezza dell'inevitabile annichilimento dell'ego che scorgiamo in fondo a quest'incubo meraviglioso, intriso di luce, di suoni, di colori, di profumi, di sensazioni. Wow.

[Hamish · Rating 2 out of 5]

I crawled through this book. Bely crawls through it too. He spends so much time doing so little, to the point where I had trouble even paying attention to what was going on. And while his prose is quite beautiful in places, it's also kind of soulless and empty and doesn't justify the time it spends just calling attention to its prettiness and doing nothing else. Bear in mind I LOVE Petersburg, and compared to that, the Silver Dove is a huge disappointment. It's clearly the work of a genius, but the work of one who hasn't totally got his shit together yet.

[Miri · Rating 4 out of 5]

A very interesting bit of surrealist symbolism. Biely's writing style is mesmerising and very gripping, even if his characters are more often agents of the plot than stand-out individuals. The influence of Gogol, and of Dostoevsky's The Demons, on this novel is clear, and its uncanny ability in having predicted some of the events of 1917 is also still interesting.

[Raúl · Rating 5 out of 5]

La paloma de plata es la primera novela de Biéli, pero no su primer libro, considerando poesías previas y textos de prosa poética. Por ello, es de considerar que no nos encontraremos con un narrador que quiere servir de forma directa el objeto de la narración. En Biéli este objeto se escapa siempre debido a su forma de escribir, que lleva siempre hasta sus límites. Siendo evidentemente un seguidor muy aventajado de Gógol, a la escritura de lo grotesco y lo caprichoso, en la que el orden de la realidad se está escabullendo continuamente debido a la deformación a la que le somete su escritura y su visión del mundo, se le suman sus características estilísticas. Por una parte, el secuencializar la narración no por la división de la acción, sino por una serie de estampas superpuestas, algunas de las cuales son variaciones unas de otras; a su evidente impresionismo al que se le suma un simbolismo que sin embargo está burlando siempre una visión uniformadora de lo que trata. Y a esto, claro, se le suma un brillante cromatismo, una acumulación de colores y luz en el que además hay muchas veces personificaciones de lo inánime, así como, muy en línea con lo grotesco, la consideración de las personas como objetos y de sus reacciones como automatismos. Faltaría, debido al abismo de los idiomas y los problemas de la traducción, aunque sea buena, la maestría rítmica que tanto se comenta del lenguaje de Biéli.

En conclusión, un libro denso, no es fácil de leer, pero sí que es atrayente, irresistible y ciertamente magnífico. Y no deja de recordarnos, está claro por todo lo dicho antes, a nuestro Valle Inclán.

Está dividido en 7 partes, y cada parte dividida en pequeños apartados, cada uno de ellos encabezados por un titular.

Un libro cuya influencia es determinante en la literatura rusa y en otras literaturas centroeuropeas. Un libro que es perfecto para descubrir a uno de los grandes autores del siglo XX, muy poco conocido en España.

[Walker White · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is a richly poetic symbolist novel about the dangers of sectarianism and Russia's age old dilemma of the estrangement between the intelligentsia and the people, between the Slavophiles and the Westernizers, between East and West, between art and life... all vexed questions of national identity that though nothing new were particularly prescient to artists of Bely's generation, looking for new ways to depict realities both material and spiritual (as the ways of their great nineteenth century realist forefathers were no longer tenable; I am speaking of course of Tolstoy, Gogol, Dostoyevsky, et. all) in a time of political turmoil, with the potential for a popular uprising never that far around the corner. In this light, the messianic and apocalyptic undertones of the novel become clear, and the whole work takes on a chilling significance when one thinks of the Bolshevik (for one could consider them a sect in their own right) coup that lay just a few years on the horizon. The final image of a sunrise (it is no coincidence that the sun rises in the east) likened to bright streaks of crimson blood, is now overburdened with the history which followed the completion of the novel, and seems a portent of the terribly bloody century which Russia and her people would have to endure.

[Eric Phetteplace · Rating 4 out of 5]

Elegant writing, rich descriptions. Very different from the disjointed chaos of Bely's Petersberg, the bucolic focus here is more on the countryside and religion. A religious cult is at the center of the story. Making the leader a carpenter was a bit on the nose. At times the writing grows fantastical to describe a character's feelings, gossamer threads and luminescence indicating connections. I felt more sympathy for the cult, and less for the protagonist, than I think was intended. In particular, the characters sometimes felt flat, playing their symbolic roles, often with little interior life. But for the painting (literal painting, Bely loves invoking colors) of scenery and the broad coverage of Russian life (both peasants and aristocrats) it was excellent.

[Kobe Bryant · Rating 3 out of 5]

Way too hard to follow. Cool setting though

[Irja Planck Henning · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is a vibrant story, that I find very impressive for being published in 1909. Set in a rural Russia, during one summer in this tumultuous first decade, when both christian sects and ”sotsialism” promise impending change for the village people, it follows the young and newly engaged Darjalskij.

He feels that life has more to offer than the comfy bourgeois life he’s setting up for, and so becomes tangled up with one sect, the Silver Doves. A mysterious double-faced woodworker and his wife, who Darjkalskij instantly feels a special connection to, become increasingly important to him. On the country road a dark figure is approaching, or waiting.

The language is fun and excentric, with lots of wordplay and accent work. Phrases often repeat withing and across paragraphs. I was impressed with the swedish translation by Kjell Johansson, which I got the sense preserved it all well (and kept the rhymes in the various songs and poems which is a treat. especially the elephant one made me laugh: ”ack du ele-, ele- elefant / är en riktig snabelist / alla betars Betovitj / trombonernas Trombonovitj / tuut i-luur-skij”). The landscape and the weather is animated with a life and spirit that feels in line with the russian spirit of the ”East” which the novel often contrasts to the russian spirit of the ”West”. There’s something mysteriously beautiful and often fun to the book, and I recommend it. However the 3rd and 4th chapters dragged on a bit in my opinion

”Words in the West are like when you from a chalice splash golden wine, and the drops glisten in the sun, to then fall down before your feet in the soil without having satisfied your thirst, even if you for one moment have drawn unknown people to you to let them admire the rain of the splashing gold — such are the words that the West teach us, these words that splash on the surface in books and in all kinds of wisdom and science; therefore the words there are action words and give expression to a life of action: such it is in the West. But the word is not soul: the soul mourns over that which can not be pronounced, yearns for the unsaid. And in Russia it is also different: the people on the fields and in the woods do not dress in words and do not please the eye through their way of life; their words are mostly curses; the lifestyle: drunkenness, squabbling, carelessness, hunger, mutism, darkness. May you realize this: on the table before each one of them stands the wine of the spirit, and with this wine they drink the unsaid words and the emotions of the unexpressable. When they then speak, it is — even if stuttering — of simple things; but when they hold their mouths — what a miraculous silence!”

[Seyfettin · Rating 2 out of 5]

En iyi çeviriler listesinde görmüştüm çeviri iyi gerçekten ama kitaba dahil olamadım bir türlü. Anlatım kopuk kopuk ilerledi. Belki ilerleyen bölümler iyidir bilemiyorum, yarım bıraktım. Tekrar dönersem ilerleyen zamanlarda ( pek sanmıyorum ama ) burayı güncellerim. Belki devamı iyidir diye 2 yıldız verdim yoksa 1 verirdim.

[Petra · Rating 3 out of 5]

It was a most peculiar but compelling book. I must add that I read the most unusual translation by George Reavey, comical and hard to understand. It looked to be translated word for word rather than in a readable language. If only I could attach a photo of one of the pages....

[LL · Rating 4 out of 5]

?
Это было так мистически, что я даже не могу сказать, понравилось ли мне или нет. Поняла ли я замысел? Но происходящее в книге меня напугало

[Oscar Bermúdez · Rating 4 out of 5]

Narrativa impecable. Construcción de historia compleja. No es un libro para cualquiera. Excelente.

[Anton Kolesnikov · Rating 4 out of 5]

not as good as Petersburg, but still
need to do perechitat and do pereosmislit

[Kay · Rating 3 out of 5]

Not as memorable, in retrospect, as Biely's St. Petersburg. A Russian intellectual falls under the spell of what you might call a peasant savant. (There seemed to be a lot of them about in prerevolutionary Russia, the most famous, of course, being Rasputin.) Unfortunately, I haven't a great deal of patience with this sort of mysticism -- even when someone is poking holes in it. I just find it vaguely distasteful.

[Javier de la Peña Ontanaya]

Un libro muy complejo, simbolista, sobre una sociedad secreta conocida como "Palomas" en la Rusia rural anterior a la revolución soviética.