Sunday, 15 October 2017

It’s Lermontov’s 203rd birthday


I've meant to read him since my mid-teens, bought 'Another Hero of Our Times' after I returned from my visit to wonderful Georgia and still havn't. Unlike me he was productive. He had achieved undying fame before he died at the age of twenty-six, three years younger than Marlowe, ten years younger than Byron, eleven years younger than Pushkin.

No, I'm not Byron, it's my role
To be an undiscovered wonder,
Like him, a persecuted wand'rer,
But furnished with a Russian soul.
I started sooner, sooner ending,
My mind will never reach so high;
Within my soul, beyond the mending,
My shattered aspirations lie:
Dark ocean answer me, can any
Plumb all your depth with skillful trawl?
Who will explain me to the many?
I... perhaps God? No one at all?

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