Валерий Яковлевич Брюсов цитаты

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Валерий Яковлевич Брюсов

Дата рождения: 13. Декабрь 1873
Дата смерти: 9. Октябрь 1924

Вале́рий Я́ковлевич Брю́сов — русский поэт, прозаик, драматург, переводчик, литературовед, литературный критик и историк. Один из основоположников русского символизма.

„«Мы славим Прах, Твоё Величество“

„«Быть может, всё в жизни лишь средство“

„Быть может, эти электроны“

„― Но Брюсов, помилуйте! ― Цевницы, гробницы, наложницы, наяды и сирены, козлоногие фавны, кентавры, отравительницы колодцев, суккубы, в каждой строке грехопадение, в каждом четверостишии свальный грех, ― и всё пифии, пифии, пифии...“

„Литература ему представлялась безжалостным божеством, вечно требующим крови. Она для него олицетворялась в учебнике истории литературы. Такому научному кирпичу он способен был поклоняться, как священному камню, олицетворению Митры. В декабре 1903 года, в тот самый день, когда ему исполнилось тридцать лет, он сказал мне буквально так:“

„Жизнь в богатстве кончилась для Эдгара, когда ему не было и полных 17 лет. В университете он пробыл всего год. Осенью 1826 г. произошёл разрыв между Дж. Аллэном, 1924“

„Как у старого дивана“

„Осенью 1904 г. я однажды случайно сказал Брюсову, что нахожу в Нине много хорошего.“

„На нас ордой опьянелой“

„Я начал писать стихи в 1909 году, а Надя год спустя. Не знаю, при каких обстоятельствах она познакомилась с В.Я. Брюсовым. В 1911 году Валерий Яковлевич посвятил стихотворение Н. Львовой; он писал:“

„Юность моя — юность гения. Я жил и поступал так, что оправдать моё поведение могут только великие деяния.“

„День, из душных дней, что клеймены“

„All my life I have preserved in the depths of my heart a live faith in my Creator, the Defender of the World, in His Sanctifying Grace and in the expiatory sacrifice of Christ our Saviour, but never have I agreed that true religion demands outward manifestations.“ The Fiery Angel

„If there exist fortunate people, if from time to time the wild sun of joy soars towards foreign lands in a sweet whirling of ecstasy — then where are the words which might tell of this? And if in the world there exists a beauty for enchantment, then how might one describe it?

("The Poison Garden")“
The Silver Age of Russian Culture: An Anthology

„Her face appeared to have grown paler, and it seemed as if there were a mocking insanity flaring up almost imperceptibly on her lips and in the azure of her eyes there lurked the insanity of grief. She was silent, and she waited for what her father would say.

And he spoke slowly, finding words almost with difficulty, 'Dearest, what did I hear? I did not expect this of you. Why did you do it?'

The Beauty bowed her head and said softly and sadly, 'Father, sooner or later all this will come to pass anyway.'

'Sooner or later?' asked the father as if in surprise. And he continued, 'Better late than sooner.'

'I am all aflame,' said the Beauty softly.

And the smile on her lips was like the reflection of some searing flame, and in her eyes there gleamed blue lightning, and her naked arms and shoulders were like some delicate vessel of alabaster, filled to the brim with a molten metal. Her firm breasts rose and fell impetuously, and two white waves strained forth from the tight confines of her dress, the delicate color of which was reminiscent of the yellowish rosiness of a peach. From beneath the folds of her short dress were visible against the dark green velvet of the rug and entwined by the pink ribbons of her gilded sandals her white and trembling legs.

("The Poison Garden")“
The Silver Age of Russian Culture: An Anthology

„Thus spoke the Beauty and her voice had a cheerful ring, and her face was aflame with a great rejoicing. She finished her story and began to laugh quietly, but not cheerfully. The Youth bowed down before her and silently kissed her hands, inhaling the languid fragrance of myrrh, aloe and musk which wafted from her body and her fine robes. The Beauty began to speak again.

'There came to me streams of oppressors, because my evil, poisonous beauty bewitches them. I smile at them, they who are doomed to death, and I feel pity for each of them, and some I almost loved, but I gave myself to no one. Each one I gave but one single kiss — and my kisses were innocent as the kisses of a tender sister. And whomsoever I kissed, died.'

The soul of the troubled Youth was caught in agony, between two quite irresolvable passions, the terror of death and an inexpressible ecstasy. But love, conquering all, overcoming even the anguish of death's grief, was triumphant once again today. Solemnly stretching out his trembling hands to the tender and terrifying Beauty, the Youth exclaimed, 'If death is in your kiss, o beloved, let me revel in the infinity of death. Cling to me, kiss me, love me, envelop me with the sweet fragrance of your poisonous breath, death after death pour into my body and into my soul before you destroy everything that once was me!'

'You want to! You are not afraid!' exclaimed the Beauty.

The face of the Beauty was pale in the rays of the lifeless moon, like a guttering candle, and the lightning in her sad and joyful eyes was trembling and blue. With a trusting movement, tender and passionate, she clung to the Youth and her naked, slender arms were entwined about his neck.

'We shall die together!' she whispered. 'We shall die together. All the poison of my heart is afire and flaming streams are rushing through my veins, and I am all enveloped in some great holocaust.'

'I am aflame!' whispered the Youth, 'I am being consumed in your embraces and you and I are two flaming fires, burning with the immense ecstasy of a poisonous love.'

The sad and lifeless moon grew dim and fell in the sky — and the black night came and stood watch. It concealed the secret of love and kisses, fragrant and poisonous, with gloom and solitude. And it listened to the harmonious beating of two hearts growing quieter, and in the frail silence it watched over the final delicate sighs.

And so, in the poisonous Garden, having breathed the fragrances which the Beauty breathed, and having drunk the sweetness of her love so tenderly and fatally compassionate, the beautiful Youth died. And on his breast the Beauty died, having delivered her poisonous but fragrant soul up to sweet ecstasies.

("The Poison Garden")“
The Silver Age of Russian Culture: An Anthology

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