5 notes "Once more an idler, now he smothers
The emptiness that plagues his soul
By making his the thoughts of others—
A laudable and worth goal.
He crammed his bookshelf overflowing,
Then read and read—frustration growing:
Some raved or lied, and some were dense;
Some lack all conscience; some, all sense;
Each with a different dogma girded;
The old was dated through and through,
While nothing new was in the new;
So books, like women, he deserted,
And over all that dusty crowd
He draped a linen mourning shroud."
Alexander Puskin, from Eugene Onegin tr. James E. Falen
February 21st
Tags: Puskin, надо найти перевод Набокова,
  1. in-memories reblogged this from hypocrite-lecteur
  2. lonepilgrim reblogged this from hypocrite-lecteur
  3. hypocrite-lecteur posted this