Ivan Turgenev Quotes
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Nature is not a temple, but a workshop, and man's the workman in it.
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People without firmness of character love to make up a fate for themselves; that relieves them of the necessity of having their own will and of taking responsibility for themselves.
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I only know that I feel tired, antiquated; I feel as though I had been living a long, long time.
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It's all romanticism, nonsense, rottenness, art.
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I do not know what the heart of a bad man is like. But i do know what the heart of a good man is like. And it is terrible.
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Behind me there are already so many memories (...) Lots of memories, but no point in remembering them, and ahead of me a long, long road with nothing to aim for ... I just don't want to go along it.
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What's important is that twice two is four and all the rest's nonsense.
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Nothing is worse and more hurtful than a happiness that comes too late. It can give no pleasure, yet it deprives you of that most precious of rights - the right to swear and curse at your fate!
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So many memories and so little worth remembering, and in front of me - a long, long road without a goal.
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Nature creates while destroying, and doesn't care whether it creates or destroys as long as life isn't extinguished, as long as death doesn't lose its rights.
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Illness isn't the only thing that spoils the appetite.
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However passionate, sinning, and rebellious the heart hidden in the tomb, the flowers growing over it peep serenely at us with their innocent eyes; they tell us not of eternal peace alone, of that great peace of "indifferent" nature: they tell us, too, of eternal reconciliation and of life without end.
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Each individual is more or less dimly aware of his significance, is aware that he's something innately superior, something eternal--and lives, is obligated to live, in the moment and for the moment.
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Bazarov drew himself up haughtily. "I don't adopt any one's ideas; I have my own.
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Who among us has the strength to oppose petty egoism, those petty good feelings, pity and remorse?
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Sternly, remorselessly, fate guides each of us; only at the beginning, when we're absorbed in details, in all sorts of nonsense, in ourselves, are we unaware of its harsh hand.
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Even nightingales can’t be fed on fairy tales.
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I was as happy as a fish in water, and I could have stayed in that room for ever, have never left that place.
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Great God, grant that twice two be not four.
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I walked in the meadows of green grieving for my life.
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No matter how often you knock at nature's door, she won't answer in words you can understand--for Nature is dumb. She'll vibrate and moan like a violin, but you mustn't expect a song.
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What did I hope for, what did I expect, what rich future did I foresee, when the phantom of my first love, rising up for an instant, barely called forth one sigh, one mournful sentiment?
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So long as one's just dreaming about what to do, one can soar like an eagle and move mountains, it seems, but as soon as one starts doing it one gets worn out and tired.
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Art, if one employs this term in the broad sense that includes poetry within its realm, is an art of creation laden with ideals, located at the very core of the life of a people, defining the spiritual and moral shape of that life.