Ivan Bunin

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Ivan Bunin

Author profile


born
in Voronezh, Russian Federation
October 22, 1870

died
November 08, 1953

gender
male


About this author

Ivan Alekseevich Bunin (Russian: Иван Алексеевич Бунин), born October 22, 1870 in Voronezh, was the first Russian author to be awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature (1933). The award cited "the strict artistry with which he has carried on the classical Russian traditions in prose writing."

Best known for his short novels The Village (1910) and Dry Valley (1912), his autobiographical novel The Life of Arseniev (1933, 1939), the book of short stories Dark Avenues (1946) and his 1917–1918 diary (Cursed Days, 1926), Bunin was a revered figure among White emigres, European critics, and many of his fellow writers, who viewed him as a true heir to the tradition of realism in Russian literature established by Tolstoy and Chekhov.

He died November 8,
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Average rating: 4.09 · 5,178 ratings · 164 reviews · 101 distinct works · Similar authors
Тёмные аллеи
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4.2 of 5 stars 4.20 avg rating — 2,264 ratings — published 1943 — 18 editions
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The Gentleman from San Fran...
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3.98 of 5 stars 3.98 avg rating — 960 ratings — published 1944 — 12 editions
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Collected Stories
4.17 of 5 stars 4.17 avg rating — 328 ratings — published 1978 — 7 editions
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Cursed Days: Diary of a Rev...
4.24 of 5 stars 4.24 avg rating — 288 ratings — published 1988 — 14 editions
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Легкое Дыхание
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3.98 of 5 stars 3.98 avg rating — 210 ratings3 editions
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The Gentleman From San Fran...
3.59 of 5 stars 3.59 avg rating — 129 ratings — published 1934 — 6 editions
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The Life of Arseniev: Youth
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3.96 of 5 stars 3.96 avg rating — 174 ratings — published 1939 — 17 editions
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Sunstroke: Selected Stories
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4.24 of 5 stars 4.24 avg rating — 84 ratings — published 1995
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The Village
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3.41 of 5 stars 3.41 avg rating — 82 ratings — published 1910 — 9 editions
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Grammar Of Love
4.27 of 5 stars 4.27 avg rating — 44 ratings2 editions
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More books by Ivan Bunin…
“Words are one thing, deeds are quite another.”
Ivan Bunin

“The middle of the 'Atlantis' the warm, luxurious cabins,ining-rooms, halls, shed light and joy, buzzed with the chatter of an elegant crowd, was fragrant with fresh flowers, and quivered with the sounds of a string orchestra. And again amidst that crowd, amidst the brilliance of lights, silks, diamonds, and bare feminine shoulders, a slim and supple pair of hired lovers painfully writhed and at moments convulsively clashed. A sinfully discreet, pretty girl with lowered lashes and hair innocently dressed, and a tallish young man with black hair looking as if it were glued on, pale with powder, and wearing the most elegant patent-leather shoes and a narrow, long-tailed dress coat, a beau resembling an enormous leech. And no one knew that this couple had long since grown weary of shamly tormenting themselves with their beatific love-tortures, to the sound of bawdy-sad music ; nor did any one know of that thing which lay deep, deep below at the very bottom of the dark hold, near the gloomy and sultry bowels of the ship that was so gravely overcoming the darkness, the ocean, the blizzard.”
Ivan Bunin, The Gentleman from San Francisco and Other Stories

“Having shaved, washed, and dexterously arranged several artificial teeth, standing in front of the mirror, he moistened his silver-mounted brushes and plastered the remains of his thick pearly hair on his swarthy yellow skull. He drew on to his strong old body, with its abdomen protuberant from excessive good living, his cream-colored silk underwear, put black silk socks and patent-leather slippers on his flat-footed feet. He put sleeve-links in the shining cuffs of his snow-white shirt, and bending forward so that his shirt front bulged out, he arranged his trousers that were pulled up high by his silk braces, and began to torture himself, putting his collar-stud through the stiff collar. The floor was still rocking beneath him, the tips of his fingers hurt, the stud at moments pinched the flabby skin in the recess under his Adam's apple, but he persisted, and at last, with eyes all strained and face dove-blue from the over-tight collar that enclosed his throat, he finished the business and sat down exhausted in front of the pier glass, which reflected the whole of him, and repeated him in all the other mirrors.

" It is awful ! " he muttered, dropping his strong, bald head, but without trying to understand or to know what was awful. Then, with habitual careful attention examining his gouty-jointed short fingers and large, convex, almond-shaped finger-nails, he repeated : " It is awful. . . .”
Ivan Bunin, The Gentleman from San Francisco and Other Stories

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