Andrei Bely Quotes

He returned to his seat and sat down; the road is so long, so long; he had to get through these spaces where stations clustered about the track amidst the black night like some black coffin set with candles. He thought that minute was flying after minute, mile after mile, everything was moving - even he was moving - but to where?

("Adam")

He tried not to think, not to understand: could there be any understanding of this? This had come, had crushed, and was roaring. If you thought about it--you would throw yourself through a hole in the ice.
In his soul something bellowed piteously like a bullock under the knife in the slaughterhouse.

Adam Antonovich went out of the annex which as a child he had called the 'world.' Through the glass he shouted jokingly to his servant 'You are still in the "world" but I'm not in the world, I'm in Russia.'

The hunchbacked plains spread out on every side, Russian plains, eaten away by ravines, ancient, native, all - all just the same. 'With the mind, Russia cannot be embraced; she is a special case, one can only believe in Russia,' he thought...

("Adam")

Tahtahta-ha-ha' clattered the wheels. A lamp outside the window nodded to him. Another. A third. The lamps ceased to wink. Night without winking clung to the windows.

("Adam")

Here you will find marvelous moustaches, which neither pen nor brush could depict. To which the best part of a lifetime has been devoted, objects of long vigils by day and midnight; moustaches on which the most ravishing ointments have been poured, which have been anointed with the most precious pomades and which are the envy of passerby..

If you fall for a dark-eyed beauty, pretty as a picture, with lips as sweet as a luscious rasberry, and a gentle face, unrumpled by kisses, like an apple-blossom petal in May, and she becomes your love - then do not say that love is yours: even though you cannot tire of her rounded breasts, of her slender frame that melts in your embrace like wax before a flame. . . . The day will come, that cruel hour will come, the fatal moment will come, when he face will fade, rumpled by kisses, her breasts will no longer quiver at your touch: all this will come to pass; and you will be alone with your own shadow amidst the sunscorched deserts and the dried up springs, where flowers do not bloom and the sunlight plays on the dry skin of a lizard; and you might even see the hairy black tarantula's lair, all enmeshed in the threads of its web . . . And then your thirsting voice will be raised from the sands, calling longingly to your homeland.
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But if your love is otherwise, if her browless face has once been touched by the black blemish of the pox, if her hair is red, her breasts sagging, her bare feet dirty, and to any extent at all her stomach protrudes, and still she is your love - then that which you have sought and found in her is the sacred homeland of your soul.

Once [the Senator's] brain has come into play with the mysterious stranger, that stranger exists, really does exist: he will not disappear from the Petersburg prospects while a senator with such thoughts exists, because thought, too, exists.

And so let our stranger be a real live stranger! And let my stranger's two shadows be real live shadows!

Those dark shadows will follow, they will follow on the stranger's heels, in the same way as the stranger himself will directly follow the senator; the aged senator will pursue you, he will pursue you, too, reader, in his black carriage: and from this day forth you will never forget him!