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304 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1927
I went back, frequently pausing and turning round. The wind seemed to blow still stronger and colder, but the sun was rising, shining, the day bgrew gayer, claimed for life, for joy, and over everything -- over the town, over the deserted Woodenware Place, over the sacred, silent domain of the monastery with its high wall, churchyard grove, and golden cathedral cupolas, and over that boundless steppe across which, away, towards the pellucid green northern horizon, the road ran -- there sailed, in the pale-blue, watery, bright autumnal sky, large and purplish clouds, and everything was bright and motley, and over everything, light and picturesque, now and again alternating with the sun, ran airy opaque shadows. I would stand still, gaze, and go further ... Where had I not been on that day!I could read that stuff forever. It's a pity that Bunin is not much read any more: This novel and the various short stories I have read are quite beautiful. It is not for nothing that he was the first Russian recipient of the Nobel Prize in Literature.