Clarence Brown's significant assortment introduces readers to the main resonant voices of twentieth-century Russia. It comprises tales via Chekhov, Gorky, Bunin, Zamyatin, Babel, Nabokov, Solzhenitsyn, and Voinovich; excerpts from Andrei Bely's Petersburg, Mikhail Bulgakov's The grasp and Margarita, Boris Pasternak's Dr. Zhivago, and Sasha Solokov's a college for Fools; the entire textual content of Yuri Olesha's 1927 masterpiece Envy; and poetry by way of Alexander Blok, Anna Akhmatova, and Osip Mandelstam.
Edited by way of Clarence Brown.
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Xl Speaking yesterday evening about the poems of Balmont, he said, "Romanticism is nothing but the fear of looking ... Sections VlIl and XVII have been omitted. " Suler didn't agree with him and, lisping with agitation, read some more of the poems in a very emotional way. "Lyovushka, that isn't poetry-it's chicanery, nonsense, it's pointless 'word-weaving,' as they called it in the Dark Ages. Poetry is not artificial. When Fet wrote I know not yet what I shall sing; I only know the song is there.
He thinks it is best, but who knows? " said Katya, spilling some water into her lap. " her grandmother said, quietly taking the glass out of her hands. " exclaimed His Reverence, tenderly stroking his mother's shoulder and hand. " "I used to sit by my window in the evening listening to the band playing, and feeling lonely and forlorn. " The bishop's mood changed. He looked at his mother, and could not understand where she had acquired that deferential, humble expression of face and voice, and what the meaning of it might be.
His legs were growing numb; in a little while he ceased to have any sensation in them at all, and could not imagine what he was standing on, and why he did not fall down. It was quarter to twelve when the service ended. The bishop went to bed as soon as he reached home, without even saying his prayers. As he pulled his blanket up over him, he suddenly wished that he were abroad; he passionately wished it. He would give his life, he thought, to cease from seeing these cheap, wooden walls and that low ceiling, to cease from smelling the stale scent of the monastery.
The Portable Twentieth-Century Russian Reader