I don't usually like russian poetry in english translation.

but i like this. just read.


February. Get ink, shed tears.
Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,
While torrential slush that roars
Burns in the blackness of the spring.

Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas,
Race through the noice of bells and wheels
To where the ink and all you grieving
Are muffled when the rainshower falls.
 
To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal,
A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees,
Fall down into the puddles, hurl
Dry sadness deep into the eyes.
 
Below, the wet black earth shows through,
With sudden cries the wind is pitted,
The more haphazard, the more true
The poetry that sobs its heart out.
 
(c) Boris Pasternak

Dandelione wine.

“I want to feel all there is to feel, he thought. Let me feel tired, now, let me feel tired. I mustn't forget, I'm alive, I know I'm alive, I mustn't forget it tonight or tomorrow or the day after that.”
― Ray Bradbury

“There isn’t a person in the world over whom the past gains such power as it does over me. Every memory of a past sorrow or joy hits my soul painfully and elicits from it the same sounds it once did … I am a foolish creature: I dont forget anything–ever!”

 A Hero of Our Time by Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov

I have always admired Lermontov and this novel is one of my favourite things in Russian classical literature. Mostly because of Pechorin, he is such an interesting figure. What fascinates me the most is the fact that the novel was written so long time ago but it’s still surprisingly plausible