Опавшие листья

by Василий Розанов, Vasily Rozanov

Книга известного русского философа и литератора Василия Розанова "Опавшие листья" представляет особый интерес для современного читателя. Это, по словам самого автора, собрание афоризмов – "полумыслей и полувздохов" - на самые различные темы; в них он коснулся семьи, собственной судьбы, литературы, религии, вопросов пола, ежедневных мелочей, одиночества, смерти и множества других явлений и предметов.

Genres: Russia, Fiction, Philosophy

315 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1913

About the author

See also Vasilij Rozanov
Васи́лий Васи́льевич Ро́занов (20 апреля (2 мая) 1856, Ветлуга, Костромская губерния, Российская империя — 5 февраля 1919, Сергиев Посад, Советская Россия) русский религиозный философ, литературный критик и публицист.
Творчество и взгляды Розанова вызывают очень противоречивые оценки. Это объясняется его нарочитым тяготением к крайностям, и характерною амбивалентностью его мышления. «На предмет надо иметь именно 1000 точек зрения. Это „координаты действительности“, и действительность только через 1000 и улавливается». Такая «теория познания» действительно демонстрировала необычайные возможности специфически его, розановского, видения мира. Примером данного подхода может служить то, что революционные события 1905—1907 Розанов считал не только возможным, но и необходимым освещать с различных позиций — выступая в «Новом времени» под своей фамилией как монархист и черносотенец, он под псевдонимом В. Варварин выражал в других изданиях леволиберальную, народническую, а порой и социал-демократическую точку зрения.

Reviews

[Christopher Iacovetti · Rating 3 out of 5]

'I have not yet become scoundrel enough to think about morality. A million years have passed since my soul was let out to cavort under the sun. And suddenly I should tell her: "You, my little soul, don't let yourself go. Cavort 'morally'." No. I'll tell her: "Cavort, my little soul, cavort, glorious one, cavort, dear kind one, cavort as you know how. And toward evening you will go to God"' (p. 8).

'It is good to move about with a large reserve of stillness in one's soul. Then all will seem bright and meaningful, and finish well. But to "sit in place" one should have a large reserve of movement in one's soul. Kant sat his whole life. But he had so much movement in his soul that his "sitting" moved worlds" (p. 8).

'God, God, why have you forgotten me? Don't you know that whenever You forget me, I become lost?' (p. 8).

'I started becoming weak at the age of 7-8... It was a strange loss of the power of will over myself, over my acts, over my "choice of activity" [...] I always went through an "open door," and it was all the same to me "which door was open." I never made a choice in my life; I never vacillated in that sense. This was a strange lack of will, a strange uncaringness. And I always had the thought: "God is with me." But I walked through "whatever door was open" not in the hope that "God would not leave me" but because I was only interested in "God who was with me," and because of the consequent lack of interest in "what door it might be"' (p. 9).

'In the next world what shall I tell God about what He sent me to see? Shall I tell him the world He created is beautiful? No. What shall I tell him? God will see that I am crying and keeping silent, that my face is sometimes smiling. But He will not hear a word from me' (p. 14).

'My sin is against man. My anguish is not over "morality." That's all nonsense. I'm not 12 years old. It's that I don't want to cause pain" (p. 25).

"In essence, I have not changed since Kostroma (when I was 13 years old). The same indifference to 'good' and 'bad.' The same behavior motivated by 'I am curious' and 'I want.' Perhaps the same coldness or rather indifference to what surrounds me. The same almost constant sadness, a sorrow flowing from somewhere, which needs only some 'hook' or 'pretext' to become a horrible inner pain, unto tears... The same tenderness, seeking a hook. Perhaps my basic attitude toward the world is tenderness and sadness. Where does this sadness come from and what is it made up of? I am sad that all things are imperfect; but by no means in the sense that things are not fulfilling some commandment, some expectation we have of them (that does not even come to mind), but in the sense that things themselves are somehow poorly off, that they are not satisfied, that they are in pain. That things are 'in pain' is my constant suffering for all of life. Tenderness passes through this 'in pain.' Things seem injured to me in some sense; they seem orphans; someone does not love them; someone does not value them. All things deserve 'tender care' to the highest degree, and absolutely not a single thing in the world seems bad to me [...] I can fall in love with the ugliest and most repulsive things as long as they appear to me from a 'sympathetic angle.' It sometimes seems to me that with people I would eternally 'steal from God' - golden apples, or happiness, this lessening of sadness, this lessening of pain, this terrible mortality of people, where everything 'ends' and all things are not 'eternal.' This my 'stealing from God' of some other truth of things than what is revealed to the eye is not, however, (not at all!) a rebellion against God... Here, the mists (of the soul and the world) are trembling and all this 'stealing with people' seemed to me something that was under God's secret protection, as if God Himself wanted 'the world to be robbed,' but it's just that the law (Fate, anagke) is strict. This struggle with Fate was a permanent element in my soul; and Fate, anagke, was what I cried about and anguished over" (p. 32).

'The extraordinary power of the Church depends (among other things) on the fact that people seek shelter in it at the *best moments* of their soul and life: at moments of suffering, affliction, terror, pathos. "Someone has died." "I myself am dying." At these times a person is *wholly different* than during the rest of his life. And this "wholly different" and "best" person brings into the Church his cries, moans, tears and prayers. How can this place, to which all this is "brought," not become the best and most powerful place? The Church has captured the "peaks of all the hearts," and there is no other place that is so powerful. (at morning tea, 23 July)' (p. 34).

'For Christ to pierce our souls today, He must overcome not the experience of "fishermen" and their impressions of the sea [...] Instead, He must pierce the whole thick layer of impressions of "contemporary man," all this rubbish [...] Is that possible? How can a "rubbish man" be transformed into a "natural phenomenon"? Christ dealt with "natural phenomena" but Christianity (the Church) must deal with rubbish phenomena, with broken phenomena, with perverted phenomena. It must deal with products of decomposition, dislocation, mutilation. That is why the Church succeeds so little, while Christ succeeded so much. Things are much more difficult for Christianity than for Christ' (p. 42).

'I'm a true friend to those who "don't have time to read"' (p. 49).

'Why have I lived? I don't know. I wrote all the time. My entire life. Thoughts. Eddies of feelings... To hell with them. When I die? "Lord, I will be with Thee." Lord, I never (for 20 years) stepped away from Thee... From Jesus I stepped away, doubted Him. But since He did not condemn "Doubting Thomas," who saw and touched Him, He will not condemn me either. Thus, I did not step away from God, did not doubt Him for a single minute, and He will not step away from me. I believe that. What else... [...] From Kostya Kudryavstev's [a childhood friend's] letters I see to what extent I was worse than my comrades, to what extent I was "insufferable." Yes, "insufferable is the precise word. I was always fighting, scratching, quarreling. That's repulsive and my only (secret) justification is that my love for all of them was great and I have carried my memory of them into old age. That is what is clearly good in me. Was I a good person? "So-so." With caprices. Well, God be with them. [...] Lord - I lived. That's good. Thanks to Thee' (p. 49).

'Great men arrive and things become sweaty, tedious, noisy, confined, intolerable in all respects. God made white mushrooms grow in the woods. A 'great man' arrives, kicks over the bushels we have gathered, and yells: "Everyone prepare himself for a campaign. I'm thinking of conquering Asia. [...] We don't want them! We don't want them! We don't want them! [...] Why did you knock over the bushels? The gathering of mushrooms is loftier, better, and cleaner than Napoleon' (pp. 51-2).

'why do I love and respect the penis so much? My own and the world's? I feel with an *irresistible inner self-awareness* that all my kindness, tenderness, and (remarkable) purity of soul come from it. [...] I therefore think that the penis purifies. Is that strange? Yes. That is, "yes" - I think that it purifies. I never thought this was sin. And I coddled it, and it coddled me. I never refused it. "As it wishes." And I always went where it led me. *My entire life it never led me to anything bad*. It always forced me to speak only the truth. It always forced me to be gentle to all people. [...] (tired; very late) How can I accuse it? Should I say there's "sin" in it? By no means. And in a strange mysterious whisper it always told me about God and about "the mysteries of Eternity and the Grave" (Pushkin). It really has something "otherworldly." And, truth be told, our whole sense of the "other world" comes from the penis. "It knows"... That's strange. But it's so" (pp. 53-4).

'To write letters is harmful. Letters transport our soul someplace *remote*, to *another* person, to *another person's house*. And although a letter establishes a certain kinship between us and this *other* person, so little kinship is established that one is not recompensed for what one has lost in and around oneself' (p. 56).

'Ah, Bible, don't be so serious. Mischief, smiles, and "behind the curtain" exist in the world. Imagine: God has created a game of "hide and seek." That's Rozanov's discovery. And never before has this entered anyone's head' (p. 61).

'One can "center" oneself. One can "scatter" oneself. But is it good to "scatter" oneself in the springtime when there are many forces around, when the cows are frolicking everywhere. But is that appropriate at the present time? When there are no fruits. The wind is rushing past. And it is so cold everywhere. And now when it is "cold," I tell you, man: "Gather yourself." And this means: "Be chaste." O, not with the aim of castrating yourself. But to be strong, whole, to be "ardent" over the space of those more than five feet that constitute "you." Poor little place. What is to be done? It must be warmed. And so, love your wife. HER ALONE. Love your children. THEM ALONE. Forget the world. O, how frightening that is. But forget it. Without that nothing will be accomplished. And warm, warm that flimsy raft on which you are floating in the middle of the cold ocean and which is called "MY FAMILY"' (p. 65).

'It is an enigma that the Gospel does not mention a single fragrance, anything aromatic, as if it underscores its divergence with the flower of the Bible, the "Song of songs," this song about which one elder of the East said that "the whole creation of the world is not worth the day on which the 'Song of songs' was created." But the Gospel represents "this life" and the "future life" in a totally opposite manner' (p. 76).

'For some mysterious, unfathomable reason, people have never realized that the Gospel is a religiously *cold* (if not a religiously *indifferent*) book. In the Gospel, people do not sing, do not rejoice, are not ecstatic, do not look at the Sky, and, in general, "it is somehow too unlike the paradise of original man." Nobody has realized that the most astonishing and striking thing about the Gospel is its religious sobriety, close to rationalism. [...] But where is the religion? Where is the psalm, the essence of everything here? Where is the King *irrepressibly singing to God*? "As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God"' (p. 78).

'It was already from the first year of university that I stopped being an atheist and, without exaggerating, I will say: God began to dwell in me. Since then [...] whatever may have been my relations with the Church [...], whatever I may have been doing, writing, or saying - directly and especially indirectly I have been speaking and thinking only about God: so that He has come to inhabit all of me, without any remainder, while leaving my thought free and full of energy with respect to other themes. God did not confine or constrain me; I felt shame when I thought of him (because I was behaving or thinking badly), but I was never afraid of Him (I was never afraid of hell). With the greatest love I brought everything to Him, every thought (and in fact I thought only of Him): just as when a child goes into a garden he brings out of it flowers or fruits or firewood "into his house," for his father, mother, wife, children; so God was my "house" (exclusively mine, although at the same time he was "God" for others too, but this did not interest me, and I did not think about this), my "all," that which was "native" to me. Since I never wavered in this sense that "He was mine" (however sinful my life may have been), so conversely the faith became firm in me that "God would never abandon me." Apparently, this was facilitated by a certain sense, or peculiarity, of mine, whose equal I never have met in anyone else: a modesty that in some way resulted from the total loss of my personality [...] This profound diminution of my personality flowed from the nearness of my relation to God. There was no (deliberate) "annihilation" of myself; it is merely that I do not think about myself at all; "myself" (just like the whole world) is something that does not interest me compared with "God who is my home, my little corner." It is as if I have "fallen asleep with my God" and sleep so soundly that I cannot be awakened' (p. 80).

[Helen Allien Poe · Rating 5 out of 5]

Фиксация зыбкости, вечность мгновения.

[Kseniya Buraya · Rating 2 out of 5]

Слишком грустно, слишком про одно и то же.

[Saylexs · Rating 2 out of 5]

скорее опавшие куски кожи самого Василия -- гниение органов России красной ниткой Розанов скрещивает со своей юродивой, половой, и очень ветхо-заветной философией, где апокалиптичность и острая меланхолия соседствуют с вечерним потягиванием чая и закрутыванием папиросок, а может -- это всё друг друга дополняет, и так тому и быть.

[Abelarda · Rating 3 out of 5]

Il libro è lo zibaldone di Rozanov, una raccolta di pensieri più o meno fugaci appuntati più o meno di fretta sul rovescio d’un articolo sugli incendi, mentre classifica le sue monete antiche (“dietro alle mie monete antiche”), rammentandosene all’ora del tè, andando in un negozio, sgominando le zanzare, in treno, etc etc.
La scelta del titolo non è casuale:
<< A mezzanotte il vento gemendo trascina le foglie... Così, nella sua rapida corsa, la vita strappa alla nostra anima esclamazioni, sospiri, mezzi pensieri, mezzi sentimenti... Non sono che frammenti sonori, ma hanno un significato, perché “affiorano” direttamente dal nostro intimo, senz’arte, senza finalità alcuna, senza premeditazione - senza nulla di estraneo... Semplicità dell’anima che “vive”... Anzi, che “ha vissuto”, che “ha respirato”... Da tempo immemorabile, non so perché, io amo queste “esclamazioni fortuite”. In fondo, esse non cessano di prorompere in noi, ma non si ha il tempo di fissarle (non si ha carta sottomano), e muoiono. Poi, è impossibile ricordarle. Senonché, qualche volta, sono riuscito a trascriverle, e le mie note si sono accumulate. Alla fine mi sono deciso a raccoglierle, ed ecco queste foglie cadute. >>

La sua scrittura poi ha un carattere frammentario di per sé, che è sempre sparpagliamento di idee, dispersiva accozzaglia nemica di ogni sistema, farragine priva di un filo logico. Lui stesso ne fu consapevole: <>.
Egli stesso afferma: "Sono l’uomo meno realizzabile che esista" e più volte ricorre accosta a sé l'immagine del fango, dello strofinaccio frusto.

È utile e ben redatto l'indice dei nomi, piccole biografie di letterati e politici contemporanei di Rozanov a cui si fa accenno o diretto riferimento tra le pagine dei suoi diari. Nell’elenco compaiono molte donne: scrittrici, rivoluzionarie, personaggi letterari... C’è un bell'approfondimento sulla vita di Rozanov e sullo scenario letterario e politico dell'epoca, inclusa una parentesi sulla sua prima moglie (amante di Dostoevskij e ispiratrice de Il giocatore) ed una sul caso Beilis, in occasione della quale Rozanov si spende tuonando contro gli ebrei dai trafiletti dei giornali.

Il linguaggio del commentatore è... particolare (esempio: "Stucca e ristucca ormai del marito ne adescava gli amici", "ma poi si rifiuta, lasciandolo in succhio", "Sebbene egli tornasse a bomba più volte nei suoi tentativi").
Il disegno in copertina è una replica presente sull’esemplare originale di ”Una cosa mortale”.

[Graziano · Rating 3 out of 5]

Conoscendo Nietzsche: non ho trovato in Ròzanov quelle 'scintille' lette e rilette negli aforismi nietzschiani.

Conoscendo Dostoevskij: non concordo con Ripellino per il suo confronto o somiglianza tra Ròzanov e l'uomo del sottosuolo dostoevskijano; nelle 'foglie' c'è sempre un barlume, una luce, decisamente incogniti all'ambiente sotterraneo.

Come idea nuova, e qui apprezzo Ripellino nel sottolinearlo, è l'opinione di Rozanov nei confronti di Gutenberg: 'feticcio malefico' che, con l'invenzione della stampa, ha privato gli scrittori della loro anima e libertà di scrivere.

La letteratura spazia nei cieli come un'aquila. Dopodiché ricade morta sulla terra. Ormai è ben chiaro che essa non è "il miraggio che abbiamo sognato".
(38)

Una sigaretta dopo il bagno, lamponi al latte, alla fine di giugno un cocomero condito con un pizzico di sale per legarci una fetta sottile di finocchio (non vanno mai disgiunti), ecco il mio "17 ottobre", il mio credo politico.
(253)

Scordare la terra con un magnifico senso di dimenticanza, questo sì è un bene.
(325)

[Artur · Rating 4 out of 5]

Такого как Розанов не было и не будет. Амбивалентный и противоречивый, но какой же талантливый. Он резонировал со своей страной и горько ощущал грядущую катастрофу социализма и кровопролитие Гражданской войны. Глубоко религиозный, яркий поклонник царя и самодержавия, он писал о своем представлении о Боге, судьбе, мире, государстве и его устройстве. Не все его мысли мне близки к сердцу, однако все они интересны и необычны. Опавшие Листья это практически Живой Журнал или блог своего времени, собрание мыслей и ощущений столетней давности, что чудом перекликается с современным миром и его тяжбами. Он усыпан личными переживаниями от смертей знакомых, от тяжелой болезни жены, от взросления детей и изменений в государстве. Целый мир, описанный им незадолго до своего крушения, интересен и ярок на этих страницах. Как бы противоречив не был Розанов в своих воззрениях относительно демократии, Бога, еврейства и модерна, он преломлял то что видел под особенным, уникальным углом. Эту книгу стоит прочитать тем, кто хотел бы ощутить воздух уже крущащейся поздней Российской Империи и посмотреть на нее глазами последнего философа той страны.

[Ffiamma · Rating 4 out of 5]

"a mezzanotte, il vento gemendo trascina le foglie... così, nella sua rapida corsa, la vita strappa alla nostra anima esclamazioni, sospiri, mezzi pensieri, mezzi sentimenti... non sono che frammenti sonori, ma hanno un significato, perché "affiorano" direttamente dal nostro intimo, senz'arte, senza finalità alcuna, senza premeditazione- senza nulla di estraneo... semplicità dell'anima che "vive"... anzi, che "ha vissuto", che "ha respirato".... da tempo immemore, non so perché, io amo queste "esclamazioni fortuite". in fondo, esse non cessano di prorompere in noi, ma non si ha il tempo di fissarle (non si ha carta sottomano), e muoiono. poi, è impossibile ricordarle. senonché, qualche volta, sono riuscito a trascriverle, e le mie note si sono accumulate. alla fine mi sono deciso a raccoglierle, ed ecco queste foglie cadute"

[Algirdas · Rating 4 out of 5]

Vasilijų Rozanovą (1856-1919)pavadinčiau sielos filosofu. "Nukritę lapai" - knyga, sudaryta užrašant tai, ką kuždėjo siela. Mintys labai atviros, nuogos, dažnai prieštaringos, užrašytos ant po ranka pasitaikančių popieriaus skiaučių: sąskaitų, vizitinių kortelių, vokų, afišų. Užrašytos įvairiose vietose, užsiimant įvairia veikla. Dėtos į dėžutes, o po to nugulusios šioje knygoje. Knyga taip ir suskirstyta dėžutėmis. Rozanovas - nuogos sielos pavyzdys. Temos - nuo buitinių smulkmenų, valstybės ir religijos reikalų iki žmonos ligos beviltiškumo. Lapkričio mėnesio atradimas.

[Maurizio Manco · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Due angeli siedono sulle mie spalle: l’angelo del riso e l’angelo del pianto. E il loro perpetuo dibattito è la mia vita." (p. 37)

"Il corpo è l’origine dello spirito. La sua radice. E lo spirito, aroma del corpo." (p. 277)

[Giordana · Rating 3 out of 5]

Solo per studiosi della letteratura russa. Per questi, amabile o detestabile tanto quanto.