Zuluhn Solchen schriwen hat das len erschreket gemachet und haben sich gutwillich mit prowiant und allerley auslagen ins leger begeben, und daraus so blef eine stanthaftig belegerung, und die rebellen, die blewen dardurch bedwungen, und musten sich auch gar zu letz ergeben. Multiethnica Uppsala, No. Dar benewen so ist es auch in meiner suplekation vormeldet, das ich ir. Die Entwicklung des Lautsystems. Moreover, as Slovo appears to be a relatively common title in that field, it seems reasonable to add distinguishing characteristics, including the logo and the subtitle, to clearly separate it from other periodicals. On a separate level, an orthographic convention that is associated with a particular dialect may appear in a manuscript only in the spelling of a particular word, and it may be used for that same word in various manuscripts that otherwise have different orthographic systems.

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Mikhail Lermontov was only 26 years old when he was killed in a duel. At such a young age, he became one of the most important Russian writers of all time. And another favorite of mine. That was a nice surprise, because I honestly did not have high hopes for this book. I am not sure why. I did not expect such a beautiful and evocative writing, powerful enough to fill my heart with delight and break it, at the same time. Little I knew that Lermontov himself was kind of the personification of the Byronic hero, like the main character of this book, Pechorin, a man made of flesh, bones, arrogance, cynicism and melancholy.

A captive of his own pessimism and that familiar feeling of emptiness and perpetual loss. A victim of the world. Yes, such has been my lot from very childhood! All have read upon my countenance the marks of bad qualities, which were not existent; but they were assumed to exist—and they were born. I was modest—I was accused of slyness: I grew secretive. I profoundly felt both good and evil—no one caressed me, all insulted me: I grew vindictive.

I was gloomy—other children merry and talkative; I felt myself higher than they—I was rated lower: I grew envious. I was prepared to love the whole world—no one understood me: I learned to hate. My colourless youth flowed by in conflict with myself and the world; fearing ridicule, I buried my best feelings in the depths of my heart, and there they died.

I spoke the truth—I was not believed: I began to deceive. Pechorin clearly thought that was his case. He was ready to love and the world taught him to hate. This young man had met a beautiful princess named Bela that soon became his next challenge. And Pechorin offered his assistance in exchange for Bela. Yes, a woman for a horse. So the little brat kidnapped his own sister and then he got his beloved horse.

Charming fella. By that time, I was a bit bored. I followed his advice: Though I do not advise you to do the latter, because the crossing of Mount Krestov or, as the erudite Gamba calls it, le mont St. Christophe is worthy of your curiosity. It was not. And it certainly was. He started to feel suffocated and the urge of escaping took over him.

Like a Russian Childe Harold, the only option was to get away, to travel. To experience new things so he can reduce that void, to vanish his ennui. This situation is described with such a beautiful, dazzling writing. So, you have been warned. I only know this, that if I am the cause of unhappiness in others I myself am no less unhappy.

Of course, that is a poor consolation to them—only the fact remains that such is the case. In my early youth, from the moment I ceased to be under the guardianship of my relations, I began madly to enjoy all the pleasures which money could buy—and, of course, such pleasures became irksome to me. Then I launched out into the world of fashion—and that, too, soon palled upon me. I fell in love with fashionable beauties and was loved by them, but my imagination and egoism alone were aroused; my heart remained empty I began to read, to study—but sciences also became utterly wearisome to me.

I saw that neither fame nor happiness depends on them in the least, because the happiest people are the uneducated, and fame is good fortune, to attain which you have only to be smart. Then I grew bored Soon afterwards I was transferred to the Caucasus; and that was the happiest time of my life. I hoped that under the bullets of the Chechenes boredom could not exist—a vain hope! In a month I grew so accustomed to the buzzing of the bullets and to the proximity of death that, to tell the truth, I paid more attention to the gnats—and I became more bored than ever, because I had lost what was almost my last hope.

When I saw Bela in my own house; when, for the first time, I held her on my knee and kissed her black locks, I, fool that I was, thought that she was an angel sent to me by sympathetic fate Again I was mistaken; the love of a savage is little better than that of your lady of quality, the barbaric ignorance and simplicity of the one weary you as much as the coquetry of the other.

I am not saying that I do not love her still; I am grateful to her for a few fairly sweet moments; I would give my life for her—only I am bored with her Whether I am a fool or a villain I know not; but this is certain, I am also most deserving of pity—perhaps more than she.

My soul has been spoiled by the world, my imagination is unquiet, my heart insatiable. To me everything is of little moment. I become as easily accustomed to grief as to joy, and my life grows emptier day by day.

One expedient only is left to me—travel. That was just a sample of the beauty that can be found in here. And that is exactly what happened to me with this novel. Lermontov deals with those universal feelings that defy time and with a masterful prose. No matter how many things we can buy, how many people we meet, occasionally we cannot escape from the inexorable feeling of emptiness. I cannot despise bored, hateful, cynic, manipulative, brutally honest Pechorin.

Sometimes our desires are bigger than our own existence. And that is one of the worst tragedies of all.


Bohater naszych czasów , Lermontow, Michał



Znaczenie nazwy „bohatera naszych czasów”. Podsumowanie i bohaterów mojej powieści Lermontow


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