![]() ![]() And yet, as you can probably tell, my foray into Russian literature has been somewhat limited. I was absorbed – transfixed – by Ivan Turgenev’s First Love and Other Stories, as well as by the short stories of Chekhov and Nabokov (although, admittedly, I’m yet to read Lolita all the way through). I remember the time I spent reading The Brothers Karamazov, Notes from Underground, Crime and Punishment and One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich as immensely rewarding challenges. ![]() I love its darkness, its sweeping grandness, and its oftentimes piercing perusal of humanity. I’ve always had such a soft spot for classic Russian literature. And you and I are the last remembrance of all that immeasurable greatness which has been created in the world in all the thousands of years between their time and ours, and it is in memory of all that vanished splendour that we live and love and weep and cling to one another. ![]() You and I are like the first two people on earth who at the beginning of the world had nothing to cover themselves with – at the end of it, you and I are just as stripped and homeless. ![]()
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