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In this parable, what saved the younger son is his comprehension that he is his Father's son.

“A true encounter is rarely experienced. People’s paths cross,they come up against one another—how many pass by in the course of a single day without seeing us?And how many are those at whom we look with unseeing eyes,to whom we address, neither a look, nor word,nor smile?We must learn to look and to see—to look attentively, thoughtfully…We must start on a real pilgrimage! How difficult it is to be just!”

Dear reader, friend or foe, at present
I'd like — whoever you might be —
To take my leave on terms most pleasant.
And thus farewell.

Once past the cusp of life's best years,
Love's trace will die, to leave but tears…
Thus chilly fall puts meads in peril.

The snake e'er lures you wanton creatures
God's paradise for you is moot,
Unless it yields forbidden fruit.

How sad it is, to think youth's flower
in vain was given us; that we
Betrayed her with each passing hour
While she deceived us equally;
That all our fondest aspirations
And dreams were but hallucinations
That one by one went down the drain,
Like rotting leaves in autumn rain.

Or that a fiery spirit's rashness
Offends small souls that lack in brashness
Or sours the smug to snort, 'Hi ho'?
Or that a nitwit's mind can't grow?
Or that we take some sweet-talk's contents
On credit, as if words were deeds?
Or that to malice folly leads?
Or that puffed egos love puffed nonsense?
Or that true mediocrity's
Our sugar pill, not our disease?

Much, oh, so much was snatched by Fate!
Blest he who left in its full glory
The feast of life, who could decline
To drain the brimming cup of wine,
Refused to read life's waning story,
And with abrupt resolve withdrew,
As I from my Onegin do.

…And whom you hear throughout his span
Referred to as "an excellent man!"

Blest he who, green in adolescence,
matured at the appointed stage,
Who tasted of life's acrid essence
And learnt to stomach it with age;
Who for strange transports never lusted,
Through worldly slime strode undisgusted,
At twenty was a fop or blade,
At thirty a good marriage made,
At fifty shed by liquidation
All debts, both private and the rest,
And issued painlessly possessed
Of money, rank, and reputation

Once the forbidden fruit is seen, no paradise can stay serene❣️❣️❣️

We all resemble more or less
our mother Eve: we're never falling
for what's been given us to take;
to his mysterious tree the snake
is calling us, for ever calling—
and once forbidden fruit is seen,
no paradise can stay serene.

Whoa! " …but language died. " ❣️❣️❣️

However closely he inspected,
there was no trace to be detected
of the old Tatyana. Eugene tried
to talk to her, but language died.

So beautiful❣️

"Is it that we've become officious
and prone to censure in our thought;
that fiery souls' headstrong enthusing
appears offensive or amusing
to the complacent and the null:
that wit embarrasses the dull;
that we enjoy equating chatter
with deeds; that dunces now and then
take wing on spite; that serious men
find, in the trivial, serious matter;
that mediocre dress alone
fits us as if it were our own."

She hates this grand world's tumult, frankly.
It's stifling here...and, in a dream,
She sails away to field and stream,
Back to the backwoods' humble peasants,
Back to that lonely, tranquil nook
Where, bubbling, flows her lively brook;
Back to her books, her private pleasance…

This world's so vacuous that it's got
no spark of fun in all its rot!

Fare thee well, and if for ever,
Still for ever fare thee well.

— Byron

Muse of the epic, bless my work!
in my long task, be my upholder,
put a strong staff into my hand,
don't let me stray in paths unplanned.

📚♥️📚

Upon those books she turned her mind,
And finding them of curious kind,
She soon was all engrossed in reading,
An eager passage, door on door,
To worlds she never knew before.

The cold irony of this verse, in the contemporary zeitgeist, is not lost, when one reflects on Aleksandr Pushkin himself❗

💔💝👌

…True,
The poet's slain and gone; but who
Here in the world he left still felt it?
…
Like smoke into the sky and melted.
Two hearts, perhaps, for his sad lot
Were grieving still…grieving for what?

…Oblivion lonely
Awaits our shadows down below,
The tones of lover, friend, and foe
Are silenced all at once, and only
The angry heirs to our estate
Intone their scandalous debate.

Shall I confess my petty crime?
I chase the petticoats of rhyme

Oh, dreams, my dreams, where is your sweetness?
Oh, youth's (the rhyme fair beckons) fleetness!
Can it be really true at last,
Its lovely bloom is past, is past,

Thank you for all the gifts I treasure,
thank you for sorrow and for pleasure,
thank you for suffering and its joys,
for tempests and for feasts and noise;
thank you indeed. Alike in sorrow
and in flat calm I've found the stuff
of perfect bliss in you. Enough!

The poignant metaphors! 💓

A moment earlier, inspiration
had filled this heart, and detestation
and hope and passion; life had glowed
and blood had bubbled as it flowed;
but now the mansion is forsaken;
shutters are up, and all is pale
and still within, behind the veil
of chalk the window-panes have taken.
The lady of the house has fled.
Where to, God knows. The trail is dead.

What fate is my tomorrow brewing?
the answer's past all human viewing,
it's hidden deep in gloom and dust,
No matter; fate's decree is just.
Whether the arrow has my number,
whether it goes careering past,
all's well; the destined hour at last
comes for awakening, comes for slumber;
blessed are daytime's care and cark,
blest is the advent of the dark!

"'...True, scorn should punish and should bridle
his wit, according to the rules
but whispers, the guffaw of fools...'
Public opinion--here's our idol,
the spring of honor, and the pin
on which the world is doomed to spin."

“sed alia tempora! The devil …
goes out of us when youth is dead”

"Roué-in-chief and tavern plyer,
But now all kindness and well-bred,
A good papá, although unwed,
A faithful friend, a peaceful squire,
And even, lo, an honest man:
Such progress in a life's brief span!"