Çağımızın Bir Kahramanı

by Mikhail Lermontov, Nedim Önal (Translator)

In its adventurous happenings, its abductions, duels, and sexual intrigues, A Hero of Our Time looks backward to the tales of Sir Walter Scott and Lord Byron, so beloved by Russian society in the 1820s and '30s. In the character of its protagonist, Pechorin, the archetypal Russian antihero, Lermontov's novel looks forward to the subsequent glories of a Russian literature that it helped, in great measure, to make possible.

Genres: Classics, Fiction, Russia, Russian Literature, Literature, 19th Century, Novels

192 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1840

About the author

Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov (Михаил Юрьевич Лермонтов), a Russian Romantic writer, poet and painter, sometimes called "the poet of the Caucasus", was the most important Russian poet after Alexander Pushkin's death. His influence on later Russian literature is still felt in modern times, not only through his poetry, but also by his prose.

Lermontov died in a duel like his great predecessor poet, Aleksander Pushkin.

Even more so tragically strange (if not to say fatalistic) that both poets described in their major works fatal duel outcomes, in which the main characters (Onegin and Pechorin) were coming out victorious.

Reviews

[Vit Babenco · Rating 5 out of 5]

There is something in A Hero of Our Time that even time is powerless to destroy. The novel is full of everlasting feelings and motives that ruled human beings in ancient times and keep ruling now.

I was so delighted to be so high above the world: it was a childlike feeling, I won’t deny it, but withdrawing from the demands of society, and drawing near to nature, we become children without meaning to, and everything that has been acquired falls away from the soul – and it becomes as it once was, and probably will be once again.

Feeling affinity with nature always makes one purer and nobler but civilization doesn’t let one go and demands to obey its conventions in the end.

Yes, such has been my lot since early childhood. Everyone would read on my face evil signs that weren’t even there. But they were assumed to be there, and so they were born in me. I was modest – and I was accused of craftiness: I started to be secretive. I had deep feelings of good and evil. No one caressed me; everyone insulted me. I became rancorous. I was sullen – other children were merry and chatty. I felt myself to be superior to them – and I was made inferior. I grew envious. I was prepared to love the whole world – and no one understood me – and I learned to hate. My colorless youth elapsed in a struggle with myself and the world.

And anyone who doesn’t want to abide by social restrictions is destined to become an odd man – a man for whom there is no place among the others.

I have already surpassed that period in a soul’s life when it seeks only happiness, when the heart feels a necessity to love someone strongly and ardently. Now I only want to be loved, and at that, only by a very few.

But if one is strange he is bound to remain a stranger…

[Nataliya · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ask a Westerner about great Russian writers, and chances are you will hear the names of Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy or Chekhov. But my mind instead immediately jumps to the earlier, more Romanticist generation of the early 19th century - Pushkin and Lermontov, two young geniuses, neither of whom has lived to see 40.

It’s easy to forget how ridiculously young Lermontov was. Pushkin, Russia’s greatest poet, was killed in a duel at only 37. Lermontov, the second-greatest, died in the same ridiculous way — but at the age of only 26. And by that young age he already reached fame and recognition, having barely spread his literary wings.

(Funnily enough - in the saddest way possible - Lermontov himself wrote a passionate and angry poem Death of the Poet about Pushkin’s death, condemning the societal scorn that pushed Pushkin to such an end - only to repeat the same fate himself. And both Pushkin and Lermontov have written and condemned pointless duel scenes in both of their greatest works - Pushkin in Eugene Onegin, Lermontov in this one, A Hero of Our Time. Writing the scathing Death of the Poet about Pushkin’s death was what earned the young previously little-known writer both skyrocketing fame in the literary circles and displeasure of the Tsar, culminating in basically what amounted to the exile to serve in the army in the Caucasus mountains - the place where his masterpiece A Hero of Our Time is set and where Lermontov himself eventually was killed.)

The Romanticism gave us the much loved and much hated Byronic hero - a noble solitary scoundrel, misunderstood, lonely and suffering, brooding and disillusioned, dark and alluring, haughty and cynical, yet charismatic and irresistible to women, painfully self-aware — and blinding in his superiority to the otherwise banal and mediocre society. Countless characters were inspired by this — just think of Eugene Onegin in Pushkin’s novel, for instance. (The painful echoes of the allure of such heroes still are heard in so much of romance and young adult literature to this day.)

In A Hero of Our Time Lermontov portrays his stark disillusionment with such a Byronic hero, shocking and scandalizing society. You’d expect him to paint Pechorin in a more dramatic or sympathetic light — given the inherent allure in such a character, especially to a very young writer who idolized Byron actually lived a life similar to that of a Byronic hero.

(Supposedly, Lermontov himself was not the nicest person. A very wealthy and spoiled young man, he was famous for seducing women and breaking their hearts, writing rambunctious and lurid poetry after joining a cadet school, a sharp and caustic wit that could border on casual cruelty, impressive intelligence bordering on cynical arrogance, and boundless bravery in war battles leaning towards careless recklessness. But again, the man was only 26 when he died, with no chance to ever reach maturity and wisdom of age, to outgrow the swagger stage of a young rich guy with all the life ahead of him.)

But there is no alluring glow to Pechorin’s character. Pechorin is an appalling egotistical arrogant cynical fellow, an antihero surely, who still embodies the Byronic ideal perfectly, but in this case so appalling to the society still full of admiration for Byronic tragic antiheroes, that Lermontov in the foreword to the novel had to point out (translation is mine):

“[…] This is a portrait, indeed, but not of one man: it is a portrait comprised of the vices of our entire generation, in all of their form. You will tell me again that a man cannot be this bad, and I will tell you that if you could believe in the possibility of the existence of all the tragic and romantic scoundrels, why wouldn’t you believe in the reality of Pechorin? If you enjoyed creations much more terrible and uglier, why would this character, even as an invention, not find mercy with you? Is it because that he carries more truth than you would have wished for?”

Pechorin certainly has a remarkable insight into his appalling character, and is quite contradictory in his complexity. He tends to be spot-on in astute recognition of human fallacies, which fuels his cynicism. He is very well-aware (and almost alarmed by) his purposelessness and a tendency towards self-destruction. His pride in his detachment and cynicism even briefly falters when his genuine feelings for Vera lead him on a mad gallop to reach her — but that flame is extinguished quickly, and we know that from here on he goes on to carelessly destroy young Bela and her family.

It’s interesting how the best-regarded work of the man usually thought of as a poet is a slim novel written in prose. But really, the prose is ridiculously unbelievably poetic, so perhaps it’s not strange at all.

“The dancing choirs of the stars were interwoven in wondrous patterns on the distant horizon, and, one after another, they flickered out as the wan resplendence of the east suffused the dark, lilac vault of heaven, gradually illuminating the steep mountain slopes, covered with the virgin snows. To right and left loomed grim and mysterious chasms, and masses of mist, eddying and coiling like snakes, were creeping thither along the furrows of the neighbouring cliffs, as though sentient and fearful of the approach of day.”

This book is told in five parts, told out of chronologic order:

- It opens with “Bela”, where our narrator, while traveling through the Caucasus in the middle of the Russian multi-decade expansion to that territory, known collectively as the Caucasian Wars, meets an old army man Maxim Maximych, who tells him a story of his younger officer friend Grigory Pechorin, a world-weary rich man of twenty-five or so, and his kidnapping and seduction of a young local girl Bela five years prior, followed by the tragic end of this romance shortly before Pechorin would have been tired of this conquest.

- Then we move on to “Maxim Maximych”, a short piece where the narrator meets Pechorin himself (and what an unpleasant figure Pechorin turns out to be!) and comes into possession of Pechorin’s travel journals.

Three excerpts from these journals conclude the novel, after a brief interlude informing the reader that by now Pechorin is dead:
- “Taman”, where pre-Caucasus Pechorin poetically runs afoul of a small band of smugglers;
- “Princess Mary”, a long section chronologically preceding the events of “Bela”, where Pechorin tells us of his cruel courtship of a young noble woman done at the request of a married woman whom he actually loves, ending tragically for a former friend, the girl and Pechorin himself, who may or may not have actually fallen in some sort of love;
- and finally, “The Fatalist”, a short piece on the inevitability and predetermination of destiny and death.

“On reading over these notes, I have become convinced of the sincerity of the man who has so unsparingly exposed to view his own weaknesses and vices. The history of a man’s soul, even the pettiest soul, is hardly less interesting and useful than the history of a whole people; especially when the former is the result of the observations of a mature mind upon itself, and has been written without any egoistical desire of arousing sympathy or astonishment. Rousseau’s Confessions has precisely this defect—he read it to his friends.”

Putting Pechorin aside (which would undoubtedly injure his vanity and pride), another protagonist of the novel is the setting - the majestic Caucasus Mountains, where he spent a large part of his life, a lot of it in military service punctuated by leisurely pursuits, the place where he ultimately lost his own life in ridiculous unnecessary duel.

“What a glorious place that valley is! On every hand are inaccessible mountains, steep, yellow slopes scored by water-channels, and reddish rocks draped with green ivy and crowned with clusters of plane-trees. Yonder, at an immense height, is the golden fringe of the snow. Down below rolls the River Aragva, which, after bursting noisily forth from the dark and misty depths of the gorge, with an unnamed stream clasped in its embrace, stretches out like a thread of silver, its waters glistening like a snake with flashing scales.”

“A childish feeling, I admit, but, when we retire from the conventions of society and draw close to nature, we involuntarily become as children: each attribute acquired by experience falls away from the soul, which becomes anew such as it was once and will surely be again. He whose lot it has been, as mine has been, to wander over the desolate mountains, long, long to observe their fantastic shapes, greedily to gulp down the life-giving air diffused through their ravines—he, of course, will understand my desire to communicate, to narrate, to sketch those magic pictures.”

The ridiculous duel that cost Mikhail Lermontov his life at age twenty-six robbed literature of a budding genius. I can only imagine how interesting his voice would have been as a mature writer, a man with more life to experience, more illusions to be shattered, more mountains to climb.

I first read it while in elementary school, not understanding anything about it but persevering with weird childish stubbornness. Since then I’ve read it a few more times, each time appreciating Lermontov’s astute understanding of human nature more and more. And now I am a decade older than Lermontov ever had a chance to be, and I still find it utterly brilliant.

[BookHunter M ُH َM َD · Rating 4 out of 5]

إن رواية مثل هذه لهي جديرة بأن تعيش لعشرات السنين و عندما تقرأها لا تشعر أبدا بأنها شيئا عفا عليه الزمن و غيرته الأحوال. هذا هو وقتها. الأن و ليس غدا. نفس الظروف البائسة التي تحيط بنا في دول الربيع العربي و أيضا تلك الدول التي سبقت و التي تنتظر.

الشباب الذي خرج إلى الميادين كله أمل و تفاؤل .. ماذا سيحدث إذا رجع خائبا؟ الإجابة هنا في ثنايا تلك الرواية و فيما تبثه من رسائل غير مباشرة.
حرص ليرمنتوف أن يسميها بطل من هذا الزمان و ليس بطلا مطلقا في كل زمان .. فالرواية كتبها بعد رصيد طويل من الإحباطات بعد قمع القيصر الروسي لانتفاضة ثورة النبلاء في العام 1825 م و التي ترتب عليها تلاشي أي أمل في الإصلاح من أعلى مما ترتب عليه انتظار روسيا قرنا كاملا ليأتي الإصلاح من أسفل في الثورة البلشفية الشيوعية في العام 1917 بعد وفاة ليرمنتوف نفسه و جميع من تنبأ بهذه الثورة بعدة عقود.

رغم أنه كتبها و عمره 25 عاما و مات بعدها بسنتين فقط إلا أنه يعد من أبرز الشعراء الروس على الإطلاق بعد بوشكين. و من المفارقات أيضا أنه و بوشكين عدا خير من وصف المبارزة في كتابتهما و خرج أبطالهما منتصرين في كلتا المبارزتين أما تشيكوف الذي ألف مسرحية كاملة عن المبارزة و انتهت بالصلح بين المتبارزين فقد مات على فراشه!

الرواية ع�� ضابط شاب من الطبقة الأرستقراطية لديه احباطات جيله و طبقته يحاول أن يجد نفسه بشتى الطرق دون أن يجد العزاء أو اللذة في أي شيء. يقول عن نفسه:

كنت خجولا فاتهموني بالمكر فأصبحت كتوما. و كنت أحس بالخير و الشر إحساسا عميقا. و لكن أحدا لم يعطف عليّ. بل كانوا جميعا يؤذونني. فأصبحت حقودا أحب الإنتقام. و كنت حزين النفس و كان الأطفال الأخرون فرحين هدارين و كنت أشعر أنني فوقهم فقيل لي أنني دونهم فأصبحت حسودا. و كنت مهيأ لأن أحب جميع الناس فلم يفهمني أحد فتعلمت الكرْه. دفنت أنبل عواطفي في أعماق قلبي فماتت هنالك. و كنت أحب أن أقول الحقيقة فلم يصدقني أحد فأخذت أكذب.

ولد اليأس في قلبي. أصبحت روحي مشلولة. ذهب نصف نفسي. جف. تبخر. مات. قطعته و رميته بعيدا عني.

لا أدري أأنا أحمق أم أنا وغد. و لكن هناك شيئا لا مراء فيه و هو أنني جدير بالشفقة. ان لي نفسا أفسدتها حياة المجتمع الراقي و خيالا قلقا و قلبا لا يشبع من جوع. لا شيء يرويني. فسرعان ما آلف الألم و اللذة كليهما. و إن وجودي ليزداد فراغا يوما بعد يوم و لم يبق لي إلا مخرج واحد .. السفر.

هذا هو بتشورين بطل زمان ليرمنتوف و هذا ما زرعناه اليوم في نفوس شبابنا. زرعة خائبة لا تبني إلا بمقدار ما تهدم و لا تصعد إلا إلى أسفل و لا تتقدم أبدا للأمام. نرى اليوم حصاد فشل الثورات فسادا و ديكتاتورية و إرهابا و ما خفي كان أعظم. لا زالت أمامنا فرصا ضئيلة بعدم إعلان الإستسلام و استئناف ما بدأناه فورا في جولة هي حتما الأخيرة للمهزوم قبل المنتصر.

[فايز غازي Fayez Ghazi · Rating 3 out of 5]

- "بطل من هذا الزمان"، الرواية او مجموعة النوفيلات لميخائيل ليرمانتوف تتضافر لتشكل اقنوماً واحداً يمثل الشخصية الرئيسية "بتشورين"!

- خمس قصص تأخذنا من الحديث عن "بيتشورين" الى حديثه عن نفسه من خلال مذكراته، او بالأحرى تأخذنا من الظاهر والسطحي والرأي المتكون عنه، الى الباطن والحقيقي ومنطلق تكوين شخصيته! وهو بلا شك شخصية محيرة، مصنوعة من الغطرسة والسخرية والنرجسية والحزن، مسجونة داخل دائرةٍ من التشاؤم نتيجة الشعور المألوف بالفراغ والخسارة الدائمة!

- "بتشورين" يتأرجح بين ميكافيلي ونيتشة، وينخرط بعبثية مطلقة في الحياة بدون خط واضح المعالم (انكان خيراً او شراً)، ويحاول ان يقنع القارئ بأنه كان على استعداد لأن يحب لكن العالم علمه ان يكره! فيبدأ باللعب على مشاعر القارئ بين اقصى السلب واقصى الإيجاب، رغم ان الحبكة بسيطة لكنها مكتوبة بلغة رائعة (او ترجمة رائعة).

- الأسلوب السردي كان ممتازاً، التقديم الذي حصل للنوفيلا الأولى وجدته مبرراً اذ كان الكاتب يأخذنا من الخارج الى داخل "بيتشورين"، الشخصيات كانت بالحد المطلوب، فلا شخصيات زائدة لا حاجة لها ولا حشو لا طائل منه، قد تكون النهايات المتوقعة للشخصيات هي علامة الإستفهام لكنها نهايات منطقية في ظل عبثية الرواية..

- اخيراً، وبعيداً عما تمثله شخصية "بيتروشين" في السياق التاريخي وظلم القياصرة والنفي الذي حصل. فإن شخصية بيتروشين قد تترآى لكل منا في المرآة صباحاً خصوصاً حين تكون رغباتنا اكبر من وجودنا الفعلي، وهذه تراجيديا بحد ذاتها!

[Flo · Rating 5 out of 5]

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
But pride congealed the drop within his e'e...
- Lord Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (Canto I, Stanza VI)

Another life that vanished too soon. Mikhail Lermontov was only 26 years old when he was killed in a duel. Same fate as another Russian genius, Alexander Pushkin, to whom he dedicated his poem "Death of the Poet": And thus he died - for vengeance vainly thirsting / Secretly vexed by false hopes deceived... / His lips forever sealed.

Lermontov's poetry and prose are equally superb. 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. (93)

I have always read that bad people were not born, but made; almost embracing the argument that a warm environment can overcome any genetic predisposition. I'm not quite sure about that. Pechorin clearly thought that was his case. He was ready to love and the world taught him to hate.

This book is not a novel per se; it is divided into five novellas ("Bela", "Maxim Maximovich", and three extracts from Pechorin's diary—simply brilliant).The first part serves as an introduction to Pechorin's character. A young officer and Captain Maximovich started talking about the latter's peculiar friend, Pechorin, whom he had met in the Caucases. This young man had met a beautiful princess named Bela that soon became his next challenge. Bela's brother, Azamat, a whiny, obnoxious teenager, really wanted somebody else's horse. 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 was about to take the narrator's offer:

Therefore, you must wait a bit, or, if you like, turn over a few pages. (26)

I didn't. 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. (26)

Yeah. It was not.

In conclusion, time went by and Pechorin's free spirit got bored of Bela. While reading his response to Maximovich when he asked him about the princess I thought: “Finally. A first sign that this book can be amazing”. And it certainly was. A young man with a void in his heart, with needs that were impossible to satisfy, with the thought of death always in his head, couldn't be around the same people for a long time. 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.

(This next passage does not have spoilers, but I hid it because it is quite long and some people might prefer not to read the whole thing—but I just couldn't quote less without damaging the essence. So, you have been warned.)

Mine is an unfortunate disposition; whether it is the result of my upbringing or whether it is innate—I know not. 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. (31-32)

Be prepared for a book that is going to squeeze your soul and play football with your heart. That was just a sample of the beauty that can be found in here. It might be the simplest plot in the world, but if it's wonderfully written, if the author lets me enter into his character's mind, then I feel like home. 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, cynical, manipulative, brutally honest Pechorin. Sometimes our desires are bigger than our own existence. And that is one of the worst tragedies of all.

* Also on my blog.

[Fionnuala]

I started reading this book in ebook form because I was so eager to get to it, prompted by the references in the notes of Sasha Sokolov's Between Dog and Wolf which I'd just finished.
So imagine the following scenario: I'm reading Lermontov's book on my kindle, I'm listening to Mussorgsky's Night on Bare Mountain prompted by another Sokolov reference, and I've got a google map open on my iPad in order to follow the path Lermontov's narrator takes northwards from Tbilisi across the bare and brutal Caucasus mountains in a post-chaise drawn by three horses while a fierce storm rages and avalanches threaten to block the mountain passes through which he travels.

As my eyes scroll the kindle screen, I highlight each place mentioned and then mark the spot on the google map, and I continue to do that as I read about the characters' further journeys eastwards towards the Caspian Sea, and westwards towards the Black Sea, until finally the action ends somewhere in the middle near the town of Pyatigorsk, in a scene where an exhausted horse drops dead on a mountain path. A hero of his time indeed!

Back in our time, I take a screen shot of my map, and mark up the path I'd followed in the tracks of all those exhausted horses. And as I do that, I think about that extra layer of 'record' we all engage in every day, via selfies, food shots, travel shots, plus multiple other ways we use our always-ready-to-shoot cameras, though they contain no film, but nevertheless record the film of our lives, a documentary that will exist long after we ourselves have left the frame.


Lermontov left the frame a long time ago, in 1841 to be exact, at the shockingly young age of 27, just slightly older than the 'hero' of this book, Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin.
Like Pechorin, Lermontov was stationed with the Russian army in the Caucasus in the 1830s, and this book reads at times like a documentary record of his life there. There are many passages that describe landscape in the kind of pictorial terms that allow us to see what his narrator saw, and even hear what he heard.
Around us all was still, so still, indeed, that it was possible to follow the flight of a gnat by the buzzing of its wings. On our left loomed the gorge, deep and black. Behind it and in front of us rose the dark-blue summits of the mountains, all trenched with furrows and covered with layers of snow, and standing out against the pale horizon, which still retained the last reflections of the evening glow. The stars twinkled out in the dark sky, and in some strange way it seemed to me that they were much higher than in our own north country. On both sides of the road bare, black rocks jutted out; here and there shrubs peeped forth from under the snow; but not a single withered leaf stirred, and amid that dead sleep of nature it was cheering to hear the snorting of the three tired post-horses and the irregular tinkling of the harness bell.

The documentary feel of this book is further reinforced by the way Lermontov fills us in on the different peoples who lived in the Caucasus area during that time, the Georgians, Ossetians, Chechens and Circassians, and how those mountain tribes were viewed by the more sophisticated characters from Moscow and St Petersburg who narrate the story.

Like a skilled film maker, Lermontov plays around with the chronology of this documentary-like story, and also with the camera angles. We first hear of Pechorin in a tale recounted to the narrator as he shelters from the storm on the bare mountain at the beginning of the book. Then later, by chance, the narrator meets Pechorin in person and gives us his own impressions of the 'hero'. Finally we get extracts from Pechorin's diaries, written earlier and so predating both the meeting with the narrator and the story the narrator first heard in the mountains. It's a clever structure providing a very modern feel to this record of a 'hero' of his time.

And since I've been reflecting on the many ways we now record every moment of our lives, it has to be said that Lermontov achieved an extraordinary feat here. Not only does the book record the places he'd visited and the things he'd seen, it also records the circumstances of his own death as if he'd made a screen shot of a future moment in time: towards the end of the book, he creates a scenario in which Pechorin is challenged to a duel by an army acquaintance. One of the two dies from the wounds he receives.

Not so very long after writing that scene, Lermontov himself became involved in a duel, just like Alexander Pushkin, and his famous character, Eugene Onegin, before him. Lermontov's duel, which was the result of a challenge by an army acquaintance, took place while he was stationed in the Caucasus region in 1841. He died from the wounds he received.

……………………………

Although I began reading this book in digital form, I finished it in the Penguin Classics edition which I eventually bought in my local bookshop, certain that I wanted to make a place for Lermontov on my real-life bookshelves. And imagine my surprise when I opened the book. After reading the foreword, the introduction, and the acknowledgments, I found a double page spread containing a map tracing the path of the events of the story. But the printed map was not nearly as clear or as meaningful as the one I'd 'recorded' myself.
For once, I was glad to have chosen an ebook!

Oh, and now I'm reading Pushkin...

[Ilse · Rating 5 out of 5]

Vrouwen houden alleen van mannen die ze niet kennen.

Aan de hand van vijf ingenieus verbonden novellen krijgen we een indringend psychologisch portret van de jonge officier Petsjorin, het prototype van de Russische ‘overtollige mens’. Petsjorin is een gedesillusioneerde, amorele dandy. Ambivalentie viert hoogtij, nog versterkt door knipoogjes naar de clichés van het romantische genre.




Puntig, lyrisch, sarcastisch, vitaal proza zoals het tegenwoordig niet meer geschreven wordt. Helaas was ‘Ruslands tweede dichter’ hetzelfde lot beschoren als zijn grote held Poesjkin: hij stierf op 27-jarige leeftijd in een banaal duel.

[Mohammed Ali · Rating 5 out of 5]

بطل المفارقة، والتزييف، والحذاقة، والتصنع، والجرح باحترافية.
"بطل من هذا الزمان" أو ذاك الزمان .. فهو متجدد ولا يموت. يحيا في الجيل الذّي يحاول إعادة انبعاثة والترويج له.
ليس رجلاً بالمعنى المتعارف عليه.
بل جيش من الرذائل استولت على قلبٍ كان لإنسان.


كيف تخدش ببساطة من تحب؟
وتطعن في ظهره وتغرب شمسك عنه وكأنّها لم تشرق؟
وتتوارى خلف السخرية النكرة لتفسّر ما لم يطلب منك تفسيره ..
فقط لتهرب!!!


حينما تستولي العبثية، والأنانية على لب بشر، ماذا تنتظر خلف التتويج ..
بطلاً ينقذ
أم بطلاً يُدمي .. ثم لا يتوانى أن يضحك على حماقاته.


أجد أنّ قلبي امتلأ .. امتلأ بالألم من كل شيء ..
ذلك التلاشي في اللاشيء يمزقني .. ويدفعني خارج ذاتي.
حينما توجتني القوة .. لم أجد من نفسي بُداً أن لا أكون حليفاً للخسارة، بل للمكر ما استطاعت إلى ذلك سبيلا.

لسبب ما .. لا أدري للماضي أم الحاضر وجدت الجسارة طبعي، والقدرة الفذة على استمالة القلوب لجانبي ..

ثم ماذا بعد .. ؟؟؟
من يجرؤ على المقاومة في سحقها بعد استمالتها إلا قلبي الجسور !!!
اتفق معك أنّك لا تحبني .. ولن تحبني ..
ولكن سترى أن في كل جيل من يقدرني ويجعلني رمزاً للبطولة.
في كل جيل وزمان سترى من يستهزئ بآلام الناس على طريقته الخاصة.
من يجفف سيل العاطفة البراقة، ليزرع الحقد والشر.
من يبني سدود العداء، ويهدم المودة، ويردم الحب.
ويتنازل عن المسلمات لعبثيته.
والمبادئ لهمجيته.
والخير لصالحة.
سترى البطولة بطولها وعرضها في من هو أسوء مني، وأقسى مني .. وأكثر مكراً وجرأة ..
وسترى أن لكل نوعٍ جمهوره، حتى أنا لي من يتوافق معي ويعرف قدري.

[Mark Porton · Rating 5 out of 5]

Whenever I see a Penguin Classics book at one of our local second hand book sales, I become hypertensive, I salivate and elbow past the old and infirm, scream like a banshee and trample over little kids, stray dogs and wheelchairs. Yes, this heroic effort of mine (let’s not deny it), this time, resulted in me obtaining a freshly bloodstained copy of A Hero of Our Time by Mikhail Lermontov.

Russian poet and author Lermontov was strutting his stuff in the 1830s. He was arrested for an invective poem early in his career, banished to serve in the Army in the Caucasus due to being involved in a duel, cited for bravery twice (but the Tsar refused to give him the award) and eventually he was killed in another duel in 1841, following a trivial personal insult. Dead at 26.

The author’s knowledge of the Caucasus mountains is on display in this book, his descriptions about this beautiful part of the world are nothing short of atmospheric.



The Caucasus as described by our author Lermontov.

However, this is a story about a man. The despicable, Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin. Admittedly, he is superficially charming. But he is a seducer, a rake, cynical, Machiavellian, uncaring and selfish. Pechorin manages to weasel his way into various situations in all types of society leaving behind a trail of broken hearts and dreams. This man is flawed to be sure.

When referring to a beautiful woman who fell for him, Pechorin reflected “The ignorance and simple heartedness of the one becomes as tiresome as the coquettishness of the other. If you like, I still love her I am grateful to her for several sufficiently sweet minutes. I would give my life for her, only I am bored in her company.”

This unusual adventure is told by an unnamed narrator who describes Pechorin from the perspectives of several individuals and even Pechorin’s own journals. This is a gripping story, a ripping yarn. I cannot spoil the ending – but Pechorin’s character is deliciously revealed as the story progresses. Oh yes, he is a bastard of the highest order. The clever thing is – one would never know if meeting him casually. It makes one reflect – these people really do walk among us.

Grigory Alexandrovich had teased him so unmercifully that the boy was almost driven to drown himself

”I often ask myself why I strive so doggedly for the love of young ladies, whom I don’t want to seduce, and I don’t want to marry!”

Pechorin, is not a one-dimensional being, he is complex. There are times the reader may feel sympathy for him. This examination of a man, and the implications of his behaviour is certainly worthy of a read – I am so glad I did. It is such a shame this author died so young.

5 Stars

[Araz Goran · Rating 5 out of 5]

أشعر برغبة في قول اشياء كثيرة عن هذه الرواية، ابحث عن كلمات وجمل تصف مشاعري أثناء قرائتها، أقول أن هذه الرواية تخدش النفس البشرية ترغمك على مقارنة نفسك بذاك البطل الذي يجري بين صفحات الرواية ، وأي بطل هو ذاك وأي جريمة أن يطلق أسم البطل على "بتشورين" الأناني ، الملول، الخبيث، المتقلب، المغرور ..


يولد أولئك الأبطال في زمن الإنحطاط، في زمن تختلط فيه القيم، تنتشر فيه قيم الإستبداد والتسلط، يخرج الأبطال على هيئة " بتشورين " كفكرة مشوهة ، كطلقة في وجه الهواء ، كصرخة لا تعرف أي وجهة، يولد الأبطال في ذاك الزمن كختم على جبين عصر مأساوي يبحث فيه الفرد عن غاية ، عن هدف نبيل فلا يجد في طريقه غير الأساليب الملتوية والفرص الشحيحة لتقلد الحياة ، تصبح الحياة ممراً ضيقاً لا يمر من خلاله إلا أولئك الأشخاص أو لنسمهم الأبطال المزيفين ..
أنا أراهم كثيراً في عالمنا اليوم، أقصد حيث أعيش وحيث تعيشون أنتم، في كل مكان نجد أمثال "بتشورين" وإن أختلفت الظروف والتصرفات، إلا أنها نفس النماذج البشرية تتحق في عصر الإنحاط في مجتمعنا ..


هذه الرواية عجيبة بالفعل، قرأتها للمرة الثانية، مازلت أشعر أنها من اجمل الروايات التي قرأتها في حياتي، سحرها ووصفها وأجواءها لا تفارق الذاكرة، تفسيرها وتحليلها للنفس البشرية في غاية الدقة والخصوصية ، في أحيان كانه يتحدث عنك أو يحلل ما تشعر به ..
للأسف أن ليرمنتوف مات في سن صغيرة ولم يكتب لنا سوى هذه الرواية، وإلا كنا سنحظى بمزيد من هذه الروايات العظيمة..
رواية لا تنسى، لا تنسى ..

[Steven Godin · Rating 4 out of 5]

A Hero of Our Time, part swashbuckler, part travelogue, which first appeared in 1839, cleary had an influence over another certain famous Russian writer who sported a great big long grey beard. Infact this could quite easily have been written by Tolstoy himself. Opening in a vast landscape, the narrator is travelling through the Caucasus, he explains that he is not a novelist, but a travel writer, making notes. Think a sort of Paul Theroux type. The mountainous region were supposedly fabled, Noah’s ark apparently passed by the twin peaks of Mount Elborus. Must have been a wonderful spectacle for the elephants, giraffes, and rhinos. Beyond the natural border of the River Terek was an alluring and dangerous terrain, where Ossetians, Georgians, Tatars and Chechens harried Russian soldiers and travellers, or offered uncertain alliances. But just who could you trust?

Lermontov’s narrator marvels at the purity of the mountain air, and the delights of welcoming a sense of withdrawing from the world. But he also feels a sombre and bewildering depth, that the hidden valleys hold a foreboding. He meets an old Caucasus hand, a staff captain called Maxim Maximych, who has been in Chechnya for a decade and who warns him about the dangerous ways of the region’s inhabitants. Maxim Maximych begins to rabble on to his new found friend about the ravishing tale of a young officer he met five years earlier, Pechorin (who is now dead) had a lively energy and a changeable temperament, he could hunt for days one minute, and hide in his room the next. Whilst spending time at Maximych’s fort, Bela, the daughter of a Tatar prince caught his eye, casting flirtatious looks at him as one does. And even sings him a love song. Ahhh, how sweet.
This story then involves the Prince's son, who is after the horse of a local bandit, Pechorin offers him a deal. He steals the horse, if Bela is delivered to him. But after the exchange, the bandit goes looking for blood.

Unlike Tolstoy, this is not some huge Russian beast of a novel, as it sits comfortably at under two-hundred pages. Although there turns out to be three different narrators, the whole thing works well, and is perfectly graspable for anyone who has read any of the old Russian classics. Lermontov doesn't beat around the bush when kicking things off, and builds a picture straight away. The book makes its points efficiently, in a little amount of time. The character of Pechorin was far more intriguing than anyone else, and his part of the overall story I found the better. What is striking is Lermontov's handling of form, the way Pechorin emerges gradually in a fragmented narrative that anticipates Modernism in its perspectival shifts. The book not only pleased Leo, but Gogol, Dostoevsky and Chekhov as well. Lermontov deserves to mingle in with this crowd. He really wouldn't be out of place. He demonstrates that literature is the most beautiful artform when written in this fashion.

[Ulysse · Rating 5 out of 5]

When I log onto my GR app
And wait for it to start
A quote from Mary Oliver pops up
Asking what it is I plan to do
With my one wild and precious life
Oh I’m so glad Mary asked me that
For here is what I plan to do:
Read as many good books as I can
Books like A Hero of Our Time
Set in the Caucasus Mountains
In the first half of the 19th century
When Cossack and Circassian
Went at it with pistols and swords—
As the evening sun sets over
The purple pointed peaks
Of this sublime literary landscape
Staining everything gunbarrel red
I plan to ride my untamed mare
And leave behind me Pechorin-like
A trail of broken hearts—
With blood on my moustache I plan
To be a vampire of Russian sex appeal
My libido steaming like a samovar
(Touch me and burn har har har!)
Blond as the newborn sun
I plan to out-Byron Byron
With the hands of a thief
And the eyes of a nun
Making enemies by seducing
Princesses left right
And center
Then I plan to close the book
And return to my old familiar skin
The one that has a job and friends
And avoids all unnecessary duels
To save itself
Simple-hearted me again I plan to be
That is
Until I open my next book
And become someone entirely new

[Parthiban Sekar · Rating 5 out of 5]

“I sing whatever comes into my head. It'll be heard by who it's meant for, and who isn't meant to hear won't understand.”

Free will is the ability to choose...No! I would like to believe so. But there are countless limitations and restrictions which make me wonder why we have been granted with it, if we are going to be judged and chastised for our choices. This is such an argument of a man, Pechorin, who is often alienated for his nullifying philosophical and vilifying romantic views.

There is something superfluous about this story, a superficial one might think. I ask you, dear readers: Haven't you ever felt superfluous about your life at all? If the answer is NO, you better not read this book and also my super-superfluous words. If the answer is YES, I welcome you to read further, starting with the words of the poet whose words on superfluity are too profound to be categorized as superfluous:

"That man of loneliness and mystery,
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh;
Whose name appalls the fiercest of his crew,
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue;
Still sways their souls with that commanding art
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart.
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train
Confess and envy—yet oppose in vain?
What should it be, that thus their faith can bind?
The power of Thought—the magic of the Mind!
Linked with success, assumed and kept with skill,
That molds another's weakness to its will;
Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown,
Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own.
Such hath it been—shall be—beneath the Sun
The many still must labour for the one!
'Tis Nature's doom—but let the wretch who toils,
Accuse not—hate not—him who wears the spoils.
Oh! if he knew the weight of splendid chains,
How light the balance of his humbler pains!"

George Gordon, Lord Byron

Our hero, a character of incompatibility, is not a romantic hero with overwhelming love for his women. But, at the same time, his feelings for them are genuine, even if they are only transient. The futility of existence and the certainty of death drives him away from the banal lives which others live, to live in an ineffable solitude. His fleeting romantic adventures do not give him much hope. He was strangely struck by the feminine tenderness and servile relationships. Fickle friendships made him disillusioned.

Triumph over others' losses and his being the reason for them made him relish his existence. Vanity extends his claws deep inside him. But he can’t help despising himself. There is nowhere he can go. There is no love which can absolve him from his troubled life. Lost loves make him more wretched. Friendship has become more or less an obligation rather than an enchantment. Life has become an After-Life he is afraid of. Duel has become his destiny.

No! our hero is a romantic hero... who sulks in his melancholy for his superfluous life. His women feel (No! he is not an infidel) that they are simply being enslaved by his futile pursuits and aimless adventures. He is not the one who is meant to be happy. With his growing dissatisfaction with his life, everyone gets rid of him or, sometimes, he forces them to... But nobody can understand how far he would go, just to take even a last look of his lost love, even if he needs to torment another soul willy-nilly. Such is the ordeal of our hero.

Closing the argument with the preface from the author,

"A Hero of Our Time, my dear readers, is indeed a portrait, but not of one man. It is a portrait built up of all our generation's vices in full bloom. You will again tell me that a human being cannot be so wicked, and I will reply that if you can believe in the existence of all the villains of tragedy and romance, why wouldn't believe that there was a Pechorin? If you could admire far more terrifying and repulsive types, why aren't you more merciful to this character, even if it is fictitious? Isn't it because there's more truth in it than you might wish?"

Note: Better read with Nabokov's translation. Truly Splendid!

I decided that I am not going to write anything about this book which is quite amazing and puzzling in its own ways. And it is indeed sad what had happened to Lermontov.

Check out Florencia's amazing review of this great book.

[Chin Hwa · Rating 4 out of 5]

One of the most interesting, eye-opening books I've read. I'm not that familiar with Russian literature, but the more I read, the more I'm falling in love with them. This book has got to be one of the most extended, sustained meditation on the egotistical mind of a young casanova. But strangely, the novel doesn't make me despise its protagonist. There is something intriguing, almost refreshing about the calculated cruelty yet disarming honesty of the protagonist. He knows he can't commit and says so. Then he ponders about the meaning of life and why he was born when he causes the misery of so many around him. This book raises the questions of why we do somehow, irrationally, get attracted to such characters.

As a female reader, I'm just amazed by the intricacies of the protagonist's mind and I loved the experience of entering into his psyche - with his elaborate schemes to seduce women. This is definitely also a great book for those who want to 'educate' themselves on how crafty a casanova's mind can be while some male readers may secretly admire the protagonist's antics and admit him to be a 'hero of our time'... I highly recommend it!

[هَنَـــاءْ · Rating 5 out of 5]

‏“كان كُل ما في السماء و ما في الأرض هادئاً كقلب الإنسان ساعة الصلاة في الصباح.”

بطل من هذا الزمان 1814-1841
- اللوحـة لــ ويليام تيرنر | 1798


‏


أيّ شيءٍ يخافه الإنسان من الموت، وهو لابد ميت ..!
لا مفر من القدر وكل أنسانٍ لابد لا محالة أن يواجه قدره !
ولكن كيف لا يختار إلا ما يناسب أهواءه !، أيّ بطولة يحملها ذلك القلب الذي لا يرحم !!


أحياناً .. نصادف في حياتنا الكثير ممن لا يعكس حقيقة نواياه، يدخل في حياة الآخرين وهو مدرك لا محالة أنه لن يخرج إلا بكسر نفوسهم وتحطيم ثباتهم .. ثم يمضي وكأنه حقق أعلى الإنتصارات .. ومع ذلك نظل نحتفظ بشيء من الثقة لأننا لم نفقد نقاء قلوبنا بعد !


ليست شخصيات خيالية تلك الممتدة منذ أكثر من مئة عام من كاتب لا يعرفك بالتحديد ولا يعرف قصتك، وهل العبقرية وحدها من قادته لرسم ملامح شخصية قد نعرفها أو نعرف مثلها أم أنه أكبر من خيال وأكبر من فترة ؟


الشعور بالضياع، والبعد عن الذات، دوام السأم من اللاشيء والبحث عن المفقود والتخلي عنه إذا وجد .. من أغرب ما يتملك ذلك التائه الذي يبحث عن ذاته في التسلية بمشاعر الآخرين ومن ثم النفور إذا تمكن من غايته ..
بعض من الواقعية إذا أمعنا النظر ..
هم أنفسهم أولئك الذين يحملون بدل رسائل السلام، وعهود الصدق .. خناجر حقد مسمومة !، ثم يعانون بعد ذلك من نتائج التيه والغرور والغدر ..
شخصيات بلا معالم واضحة ولا حدود ولا حتى قاع يستقر له تحليل أو يفضحه شرح ..



‏


ميخائيل ليرمنتوف تشك أنه طبيب نفسي وذو خبرة عميقة، عتيقة مع بني البشر، ثم تُصدم إذا عرفت أنه شابٌ صغير لم يتجاوز الخامسة والعشرين من عمره حينما كتب هذه الرواية ولم يتجاوز أكثر من أن كان روائيٌ شاعر فحسب ..
بعض العبارات يسحرك مدى عمقها وملامستها للنفس من الداخل وهذا عظيم جداً لأول رواية روسية صنفت الأولى الذي تُكتب على نمطٍ نفسي حاذق ..



بعض من الإقتباسات التي تدل على عمق التحليل :

"‏كانت عيناه لا تضحكان حتى حين يضحك! هل اتيح لكم أن تروا هذا الأمر العجيب؟ إن هذا يدل أما على طبع ردئ أو على حزن عميق دائم."


"‏كان يمشي بغير مبالاة، ولكنني لاحظت أنه لا يهز يديه، وهذه أمارة من أمارات الطبع الكتوم."


‏"كان من الناس الذين يملكون لكل ظرف من ظروف الحياة جملًا متفصحة جاهزة، ولا يهزهم الجمال البسيط، ويرفعون لواء المشاعر النادرة والأهواء الرفيعة."


"‏إنني في حقيقة الأمر عاجز عن الصداقة، ذلك لأن أحد الصديقين لا بد أن يكون عبدًا للآخر، ولو أن أحدًا منهما لا يريد أن يعترف بذلك في أحيان كثيرة."


‏"يجب أن نعترف للنساء بهذه الميزة.. وهي أنهن يدركن جمال النفس بالغريزة."


‏

[Fernando · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Tengo una pasión innata por la contradicción: toda mi vida no ha sido más que una serie de melancólicas y vanas contradicciones de corazón o razón. El mundo ha echado a perder mi alma, mi imaginación es inquieta, mi corazón insaciable. Para mí todo es de poco momento."

Es imposible leer esta hermosa novela de Mijaíl Lérmontov sin pensar en Alexandr Pushkin y esto se debe a que encontramos ciertas similitudes entre ambos autores.
Lérmontov es un digno sucesor de Pushkin por sus connotaciones e influencias románticas de autores que los dos admiraban, tal es el caso de Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley y Sir Walter Scott entre otros.
El personaje de Pechorin es a la vez un hermano lejano de Eugenio Oneguin aunque de carácter más aplomado y menos errático que este, ya que Pechorin tiene la fisonomía del título del libro, la de un héroe, con ideales bien definidos aunque al igual que Oneguin es su padecer el no ser correspondido por las damas.
Algún punto flojo tenía que tener.
Por otro lado encontramos que el personaje de Pechorin está dotado de cierta misoginia y hasta de intentar manipular a las mujeres con las que se involucra, a punto tal de que lo lectores de su época tildaron a la novela de Lérmontov de "despreciable".
Ciertas frases de Pechorin rozan lo despectivo y misógino por tratar a las mujeres (Bela y Mary) de manera frívola y jugando con sus sentimientos. Pero esta condición es muy natural en muchos personajes de la literatura rusa del siglo XIX.
Durante todo el transcurso del libro podremos descubrir también cómo pensaba realmente Lérmontov y de qué manera plasmaba sus ideales, su filosofía y sus ideas de manera tan crítica y a la vez certera en su personaje.
La novela de Lérmontov tiene todos los ingredientes tanto de acción como de personajes bien logrados, ya que además de Pechorin nos encontramos con el narrador de los primeros dos capítulos y con un hombre que fue amigo de ambos, Maxim Maxímich para darle consistencia a la historia y conectar con los textos de los diarios de Pechorin a partir de los siguientes capítulos.
Por otro lado encontramos también a las damas en cuestión. Primeramente a Bela, la bella raptada y pretendida tanto por Pechorin como por el "villano" del momento, el frenético Kabisch y su trastornado padre. Más adelante nos cruzaremos con otro personaje controversial que se llama Gruschnitsky. Este hombre se interpondrá en el camino de Pechorin para disputar el corazón de la princesa Mary Ligovsky, quien secundada por su madre Viera compite por el corazón de nuestro héroe.
Naturalmente, tendremos todo tipo de cruces amorosos, traiciones y por supuesto, hacia final de la novela, del elemento clave para Pechorin, que estas alturas es un auténtico alter ego de Lérmontov y que conecta con el propio Pushkin y su Oneguin: me refiero a la figura del duelo.
Tanto en esta novela como la de Pushkin es el evento que marcará el destino de estos cuatro personajes, tanto reales como imaginarios.
Increíblemente, Lérmontov corrió la misma suerte que su idolatrado Pushkin, muriendo en un duelo desparejo, injusto y con trampa desde la contraparte, mientras por el otro lado ingresaba a la inmortalidad y recibía el respeto de los escritores que le sucedieron.
Ambos escritores ocupan hoy el sitial que les merece la historia y la literatura de Rusia y afortunadamente en la actualidad "Un héroe de nuestro tiempo" sigue siendo una excelente novela para disfrutar.

[Barry Pierce · Rating 2 out of 5]

I've been meaning to read this one for a while. It's one of those Russian classics that's always on those lists. A Hero of Our Time has an interesting format. It's split into sections but these sections are all very different and sometimes don't even involve our "hero" Pechorin. This is all well and good but for a novel that's under 200 pages you'd think that Lermontov would have actually focused on some sort of plot instead of piss arseing around with the structure. Not to mention that this novel is basically Caucasus fanfiction. At points you'd think Lermontov got off with the mountains or something the way he writes about them. It's like Tolkien and his blades of fucking grass. However, eventually the story does actually being at some point near the end and we are presented with an enjoyable and classic love story, Russian style (which is shorthand for death). Why would you read this? Well because it's basically Russian literature's equivalent of David Copperfield and the main character, Pechorin, is a whiny cunt. I mean he hates everything and is constantly complaining about women and life and life and women, he's basically the Russian Holden Caulfield but without the brother issues. I saw a lot of myself in Pechorin. Which worried me slightly.

[mai ahmd · Rating 4 out of 5]

جاءت هذه الرواية لتشعرني بالسعادة ، السعادة التي تأتي حين تشعر إنك تقرأ شيئا جميلا شيئا فارها يشعرك بلذة القراءة وأن هناك كاتبا يحترم قارئه لذلك يقدم له وجبة ستشعره بالشبع ، بالرغم من صغر سن هذا الكاتب حين كتب هذه الرواية اللذيذة .. نعم استطيع أن أطلق عليها لذيذة لأني إلتهمتها إلتهاما واستمتعت بها كمن تشبع من أغاني هذا العصر وتشوق لسيموفونية من ذلك الزمان البعيد

الملاحظ في هذه الرواية إنتقال السرد من شخصية لأخرى فتجد ليرمانتوف سرعان ما يسلم الحكاية ليد أخرى وقد جاء هذا الإنتقال السردي قمة في التناغم والتشويق والتعريف بشخصيات الرواية ، الرواي الأول وهو كما يبدو رجل محب لسماع الحكايات قد يكون عاشقا للأدب وبالتأكيد فضولي من الدرجة الأولى ثم يأتي دور مكسيم صديق بطل ذلك الزمان ليروي قصة بيلا بحماس شديد .. ويتركنا ليرمانتوف نحب حكاية هذه الصداقة الجميلة والتي كشفت جوانب هامة من شخصية بطل الرواية في علاقته بالمرأة ليفاجئنا بنهايتها المأساوية سواء على صعيد الحب أو صعيد الصداقة ..

يتسلم السرد الراوي الثالث بتشورين بطل ذلك الزمان ، وبتشورين شخصية متورطة بنفسها فهو ضابط ومن أسرة نبيلة ثري وشخصية جامحه ومغرورة ، إنها من الشخصيات التي تعجب الفتيات غير إن كل ذلك كان يشعره بالضجر .. !

وذلك يدفعني للتساؤل عندما تضجر أنت ما1ذا تفعل قد تقرأ أو تشاهد التيلفزيون أو لعلك تخرج من المنزل وفي أسوء الأحوال ستذهب للنوم ولكن ماذا كان يفعل بتشورين لقد كانت له فلسفة غريبة في الحياة إنه يعمل على إخراج الجانب المعتم في شخصيته ويمارس شروره بطريقة مؤذية تسبب الألم للآخرين إنه يتسلى بالنساء في أغلب الأحيان ويعترف بذلك بصراحة شديدة كما يعترف أن هذا الألم يجعله يشعر بالمتعة إنه رجل يجب أن يشعر بالإنفعالات أن يجري الإدرينالين في جسمه طوال الوقت أن يجري والسر في الإثارة أن يكون قريبا من الحب ولا يلمسه أن يكون قريبا من الموت ولا يموت .. قد تكون القصة قصة تقليدية الغيرة والإنتقاموالمؤامرات إلا إن بناء هذه الشخصية كان قويا والسرد على سرعته كان غارقا في بحر من الجمال ..

هناك بعض الأمور التي استرعت انتباهي في الرواية أحسب إنها ملحوظة وهي مسألة التجسس خلف النوافذ فلقد تكرر الأمر أكثر من مرة وهذا الأمر يحدث حين يسقط في يد الراوي ولا يعرف ماذا يفعل ليوجد حلا يخرج بطله من ورطته لذلك الطريق للوصول للحل كان مكررا أو لعلها سمة من سمات ذلك العصر لا أدري حقيقة
هناك أيضا الطريقة التي مات بها جرونتشكي إن تصرفاته للوصول لهذه المبارزة لم تكن تتناسب مع خياره في المبارزة هناك تناقض في هذه الشخصية ولم أكن أعتقد إنها تستحق تلك النهاية ولعل في الأمر تعاطف قارىء يستنكر تلك المبارزات الغبية كواقع إجتماعي مسكوت عنه وليس أكثر

خطف النساء وهو ما حدث في قصة بيلا وما قرأت عنه أيضا في قصة علي ونينو كحدث مهم من أحداث الرواية شغلني حقيقة لأنه بدا واضحا إنه يشكل ثقافة من ثقافات سكان هذه المناطق وتصبح بعده المرأة مسلوبة الإرادة سواء كانت تحب خاطفها أم لا فإنها تفقد حياتها السابقة ويصبح واقعها لأنها تصبح عارا ويصبح العودة إلى عالمها وأسرتها في خبر كان وهذا ينبأ بالواقع الإجتماعي في أرض القوقاز ولعل الطبيعة الجبلية الوعرة تركت أثرها على سكان تلك المناطق وطبائعهم هذا ما أفكر به حين أبحث عن سبب

أسلوب ليرمانتوف كان رائعا سرده فاتن سريع بسيط للغاية ومغري للقراءة حين تبدأ في القراءة تغريك سهولته أن تصل إلى الصفحة المئة أظن أغلب الروايات الكلاسيكية هي هكذا لأن الروح مختلفة وخالية من الفذلكات اللغوية تشعر أن ليرمانتوف لديه كاميرا يصوب نحو مشهد ما ويجعلك تتأمل المكان يسلط الضوء على روح الحياة الماجنة في طبقة النبلاء للمجتمع الروسي القضايا الإجتماعية التي طرحت في الرواية الوصف الشائق ناهيك عن حس الفكاهة التي تمتع بها الكاتب ورسم الشخصيات الذي جاء بارعا خاصة الأميرة الصغيرة في ترددها وقلقها ورغباتها المستترة إلى جانب الطبيعة الساخرة لشخصية بتشورين والبرود الذي يستطيع القارىء أن يشعر به والذي سرعان ما يتحول إلى نقيضه من ألم وحزن بسبب الطبيعة الغير مستقرة للبطل والتي ستجلب الإستفزاز فيما كان القارىء أنثى .. وحالة الندم التي تحوله إلى شخص آخر أو لعلها تظهر طبائعه الخيرة التي لا تبقى طويلا وكأنه يتخلص من لون جلده الحقيقي بأصباغ مختلفة في كل مرة إن ذلك دليل حي على قدرة هذا الكاتب الجميل على قراءة العوالم الداخلية والمتناقضة في الإنسان والتي يصعب تفسيرها ..



هذه رواية جاءت في وقتها المناسب تماما

[Carolyn Marie · Rating 4 out of 5]

Thoroughly enjoyed this!
Beautiful and gritty writing about life, death, love, friendship, fate, growth…the list is endless!
Expect nothing less from a Russian read!

[Tatiana · Rating 4 out of 5]

Tale as old as time - a rich, spoiled fu*kboy, pardon, rake gets his only excitement in life by messing with women's hearts and men's lives.

It's always fun to read these classics from our modern POV. There is a clearly depressed young man here seeking a reprieve from his ennui by engaging in dangerous and often immoral liaisons, but the reprieves are always fleeting. Other Russian writers (Dostoyevsky, Pishkin and Tolstoy, for example), have taken on this archetypal hero too, with more insight. Lermontov's character examination is interesting, but not deep enough to indulge in some armchair psychology. His Pechorin remains an enigma, in a Don Draper kind of way.

If you want to dabble in Russian lit, this one is a good start - short and structurally interesting, with a dash of salaciousness.

[فؤاد · Rating 3 out of 5]

قهرمان عصر آن ها

راسکولنیکوف در جنایت و مکافات؛
ژولین سورل در سرخ و سیاه؛
بازاروف در پدران و پسران؛
راچستر در جین ایر؛
و حالا پچورین در قهرمان عصر ما.

عده ی بسیار بسیار بیشتری را می توان به این لیست اضافه کرد، ولی برای به دست آمدن تصویری کلی، همین کافی است: مردی جوان، با هوشی سرشار، تو دار، مغرور، عصبی مزاج و بدخلق و در عین حال شدیداً جذّاب، که هر وقت فرصت پیدا کند، در تحقیر دنیای رجّاله ها داد سخن می دهد و خود را قربانی پستی جهان و جهانیان می داند.
این تیپ شخصیتی، با خصوصیاتی کمابیش به همین شکل (گو این که گاهی یکی دو خصوصیت کم و زیاد شود) در دوره ی رمانتیک به شکل گسترده محبوبیت پیدا کرد و در رمان های مختلف به تصویر درآمد. به مدت نیم الی یک قرن، پهنه ی اروپا پر شد از داستان هایی در رثای این شخصیت جذّاب ولی از دست رفته (و اصلاً این جذّاب بودنش هم نتیجه ی از دست رفته بودنش است).

مهری آهی، مترجم قهرمان عصر ما، این پدیده را ثمره ی شرایط آن عصر می داند. در مقدمه ی قهرمان عصر ما می نویسد که شرایط اجتماعی هنوز متناسب با افراد تحصیل کرده و باهوش نبوده، هنوز شایسته سالاری برقرار نبوده، در نتیجه افراد حقیقتاً مستعد وجود خود را بی ثمر می یافتند، احساس بیهودگی و افسردگی می کردند و به شکل قهرمان رمان های رمانتیک در می آمدند.
من احساس می کنم سرزمین ما هنوز بستری مناسب برای تولد این نوع قهرمان هاست.

[Emily May · Rating 4 out of 5]

I often ask myself why I am so obstinately endeavouring to win the love of a young girl whom I do not wish to deceive, and whom I will never marry.

Hell, Pechorin is a piece of work! A classic example of an emotional vampire who, in his quest for a brief feeling of excitement and fulfillment, completely destroys the lives of those around him.

As the above quote suggests, he pursues and seduces several women, earning their affections without any intention of loving or marrying them, only to discard them once he becomes bored. He is cynical, self-centred and nihilistic, a Byronic hero I guess. His inability to find any true satisfaction in his life is almost worthy of pity, if it didn't result in him trampling others in his reckless pursuit of it.

I liked the framing of the story. So many classics frame narratives inside other narratives - in this case, an unnamed narrator hears part of Pechorin's story from Maxim Maximych, then introduces us to the second part straight from Pechorin's journal - and so few modern books do this. I personally think it works well most of the time.

[Alan · Rating 4 out of 5]

Whoah! Lermontov! Give me a warning before going off like that. I had no preparation for what I could expect out of this novel, but boy am I glad I picked it up. The structure of the book is slightly odd – split into two parts, each part with multiple sections that go back and forth between narrators and style of story. Ultimately, the stories all gravitate toward the so-called “hero”, Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin.

It’s hard not to become enamored by Pechorin’s charm. He carries himself with undeniable bravado and he refuses to show emotion beyond a certain threshold. If we look deep into ourselves, we may see that, despite protestations, we admire stability and command over character as desirable qualities. How cool is it that he walks in, not caring whether a hundred set of eyes are on him? He walks to the centre of the room, never taking his eyes off his beloved-to-be, says a few words, and leaves her there. She looks after him, pining, hardly believing her rotten luck. Why didn’t he ask her to dance? He, on the other hand, knows that he has planted a seed.

All good and fair. Here is the thing: the characteristics that Pechorin display are almost the dictionary definition of antisocial personality disorder (ASPD). And really, this isn’t so surprising. We have all seen one or two Netflix shows or heard one or two true crime podcasts to know that those displaying these characteristics are, indeed, irresistible personalities. Pechorin is no exception. Sure, he qualifies his deeds with rationalizations that make sense to him, but I am not here to judge, merely to report. He doesn’t conform to social norms, he is deceitful, he is impulsive, he shows disregard for others and himself, he consistently fails to take on responsibility, and he lacks remorse.

The foreword of my edition (which is a superb translation, by the way, done by Natasha Randall) has the following quote: “One of the most vivid and persuasive portraits of the male ego ever put down on paper.” I am not sure if I agree with its author, Neil LaBute, on this particular matter. Like I said, the charm and temptation are there. Male or female, we will see something in Lermontov’s hero. But the crucial difference is between attraction and identification. I may be attracted to Pechorin’s demeanor, but I would never identify with it or aim to grow it in myself. The male ego does yearn for the command and subtlety, but not for the side effects of living life as this character. After all, who wants the volatility? Does anyone want the inability to trust others? Would anyone want that gnawing sense of dissatisfaction – constantly trying new things, going to new places, taking up new hobbies, all for naught?

[Ola Al-Najres · Rating 5 out of 5]

حين بدأت قراءة بطل من هذا الزمان ، لم أكن أملك أي تصورات مسبقة عنها ولا حتى أي معلومة . فكان من السهل عليّ تخيل بطل ليرمنتوف بطلاً بمآثر عظيمة و شخصية مثالية ، و لكن كل ما اصطدمت به هو بتشورين ، بطل زمانه في الضجر و الغرور و الشر المقصود ، و كأنّ كل رسالته في هذه الحياة هي تحطيم آمال البشر !

و لمزيد من الدهشة ، وجدت نفسي أتتبع أفعاله بافتتان و تفهُم ! ، إنني ألفي في نفسي أحياناً تفهماً للشخصيات الروائية الحادة و الفريدة و هو أمر يدهشني لكوني لستُ شخصية متفهمة في الواقع ، و لكن أن أتفهم بتشورين ! فإن في ذلك مدعاة للقلق ..
تُرى .. هل يمكن أن يكون الشر جذاباً إلى هذا الحد ؟

لاحقاً ، اكتشفت ..
أنّ من أُطلق عليه بطل زمانه ، ما هو إلا ضحية زمانه ..
شأنه شأننا ، نحن أجيال الحروب و رعايا الأنظمة الفاسدة ، الذين نشأنا تنشئة فكرية معينة و اصطدمنا بجدار المجتمع النتن .
فماذا يبقى لشاب حالم ذو ثقافة عالية و ذكاء متقد و مزايا و مواهب مهدورة و ضائعة ضياع الهدف من الحياة ، بعد أن تُقوض أحلامه و تنطفئ في قلبه جذوة الحماس و الرغبة ؟
ماذا يبقى لنفس هدها الضجر سوى أن تكون مرتعاً للغرور و الشر؟؟

أما عن علاقته بمحيطه ..
فهو محاط بالناس لكنه منعزل ، يمر الحب لكنه يهزأ به ، يرى السعادة لكنه لم يختبرها ..
يستخف بالآخرين ، و لا يرى لمشاعرهم أي معنى ، و يتجاوز ذلك فيكيل لهم كل ما يعتمل في قلبه من شنائع و شرور ..


الشر يلد الشر ، إنّ الألم الأول الذي تعانيه يطلعك على اللذة التي يحققها لك تعذيب الآخر ..

كنت خجولاً فاتهموني بالمكر ، فأصبحت كتوماً ..
كنت مهيأ لأن أحب جميع الناس فلم يفهمني أحد ، فتعلمت الكره ..
كنت أحب أن أقول الحقيقة ، فلم يصدقني أحد ، فأخذت أكذب ..
أصبحت روحي مشلولة !

- أنت تحقد على النوع البشري كله !
- هناك ما يدعو لذلك .



إتفق معه أو خالفه ، اشتمه أو مجده .. لا فرق
انظر لقائمة معارفك الطويلة و قل لي كم بتشورين تعرف ؟
انظر في قلبك و قل لي كم فيك من بتشورين ؟
إننا جميعاً نتشارك مع بتشورين بطولته الزائفة ، طالما أن زماننا يتشارك مع زمانه البذاءة و الرذائل ..

الخسارة العظمى : أنها رواية ليرمنتوف الوحيدة .

[Mohamed Al · Rating 5 out of 5]

هنالك الكثير من الشخصيات التي ابتكرها الأدباء واستطاعت التحرر من سلطة الورق وتحولت مع مرور الوقت إلى كائنات حيّة تمردت على مبتكريها وتجاوزت في كثير من الأحيان شهرتهم.

شخصية "سي السيد" مثلاً التي ابتكرها نجيب محفوظ في ثلاثيته وأصبحت فيما بعد رمزًا للرجل الشرقي المتسلط نموذج لذلك. وشخصيات ويليم شكسبير أيضًا، بدءًا من "روميو" و"جوليت" وليس انتهاءً ب"هاملت" و"شيلوك" الذين لا يقلون شهرة عن شهرة مبتكرهم نفسه. كذلك شخصية "دون كيخوته" محارب الطواحين الذي فاقت شهرته شهرة خالقه ميغيل دي ثربانتس (كم عدد الذين يعرفون دون كيخوته مقابل عدد الذين يعرفون ثربانتس؟)


ويبدو أن "بتشورين" بطل رواية "بطل من هذا الزمان" استطاع هو الآخر أن يحقق شهرة نوعية في زمانه ولكنها شهرة مشؤومة جرت عليه وعلى مبتكره الكثير من الويلات واللعنات!

فهو ليس سوى شخصية متكلفة ونرجسية وعديمة الإمتنان، ولعلي لا أبالغ إن قلت أنه أحد أكثر الشخصيات التي قابلتها قرفاً ومدعاة للإحتقار!

فهذا الشاب الثري الذي عاش حياة حافلة بالمغامرات وصل معها/بسببها إلى درجة السأم من العالم أصبح هدفه وشغله الشاغل في الحياة التغلب على السأم بأي طريقة كانت. فتارة يتورط في اختطاف ابنة رئيس عشيرة في القفقاس والزواج منها، وتارة يزجي وقته بملاحقة مجموعة من المهربين والاقتتال في مبارزات سخيفة، وتارة أخرى يتسلى بالعبث بقلوب نساء المجتمع الفاتنات.

عندما صدرت هذه الرواية في روسيا عام 1840، أحدثت ردة فعل عنيفة، ويقال أن آباء البنات حاولوا ضرب طالبي أيدي بناتهم المشكوك في أمرهم بالسياط. وقد هوجم ليرمنتوف لأنه أكد أن "بتشورين" ليس سوى صورة كربونية، ليس عن نفسه فقط، بل عن جيل بأكمله.

لم أملك وأنا أقرأ الرواية إلا أن أخلع قبعني احترامًا لموهبة ليرمنتوف الذي استطاع أن ينفذ إلى أعمق أعماق القارئ ويلقي فيها حجرا يحرك بركة من المشاعر (حتى وإن كانت مشاعر سلبية). فهذه موهبة لا يملكها إلا طبيب نفسي أو أديب موهوب وأجزم أن ميخائيل ليرمنتوف كان هذا وذاك.

لكن، وهذا ليس دفاعًا عن "بتشورين"، علينا أن نعترف بأنه لولا وجود الكثير من النساء المغفلات لما وجد هذا ال"بتشورين" الوغد!

[Saranya ⋆☕︎ ˖ · Rating 3 out of 5]

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧?

The "hero" in question is 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐏𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧, a young Russian officer serving in the Caucasus. But don't let the title fool you. Pechorin is a "superfluous man." He is highly intelligent. He sees through everyone’s social games. But he is so emotionally detached that he treats life like a series of experiments, often at the expense of others' hearts. But he suffers from a profound sense of ennui, unable to find meaning in love, war or friendship.

I found this novel quite unique because it isn't told chronologically. It uses a nested narrative and different perspectives to peel back the layers of Pechorin’s character. We see him first through the eyes of a simple fellow officer, then through a traveler’s journal and finally through Pechorin’s own diary.

From what I researched:
The prose captures the rugged beauty of the Caucasus mountains as a backdrop for Pechorin's internal storms. The novel serves as a bridge between romanticism and the great psychological realism of Dostoevsky and Tolstoy.

"I have a restless imagination, an insatiable heart; nothing satisfies me: I grow accustomed to sorrow as easily as to joy, and my life grows emptier day by day."

I am so stupid. I tried reading this whole novel in Russian. I’m just an A1 learner and I thought that I’m a tigress and I really believed that I could read this haha. Anyways, had to switch to English.

My favourite quote:

"𝐘𝐞𝐬, 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐥𝐲, 𝐬𝐨 𝐈 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨 𝐈 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥. 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐤𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫. 𝐒𝐨 𝐈 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐞𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬. 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐦𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞. 𝐌𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐞 𝐈 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐝. 𝐈 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞, 𝐬𝐨 𝐈 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐝𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢���𝐲. 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐈 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐲, 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭- 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐥, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝, 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝-𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞. 𝐈 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞; 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥, 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐝, 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐝, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐜𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝, 𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐫. 𝐍𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬, 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐧𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟. 𝐍𝐨𝐰, 𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦."

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I'm trying to read this in Russian.

[İntellecta · Rating 5 out of 5]

“Zamanımızın Bir Kahramanı" was published in 1840. It is Mikhail Lermontov's only complete prose work. The novel begins relatively simple with a portrayal of Pechorin. The beginning it´s written in a third person-perspective. After this it turns in to a diary- perspective of Pechorin, so to speak, so the reader gets to know him. Above all, there is the slightly satirical depiction of the society in Russia in the early nineteenth century. The climax is the highly readable duel of Pechorin and Grushnidzki at the end of the novel. Also Lermontov anticipated with his own fate, he died in a duel with his rival Nikolai Martynov in 1841 at the age of 26 years. The complex character of the protagonist reveals itself through five interconnected short stories. The novel is exciting and witty and reads in spite of its content always entertaining and enchanted incidentally with beautiful landscapes and nature depictions of the Caucasus'. But only the capture of the reader for the evil hero makes Lermontov's novel to a brilliant masterpiece

[Algernon · Rating 5 out of 5]

The story of a man’s soul, even the pettiest of souls, is only slightly less intriguing and edifying than the history of an entire people, especially when it is a product of the observations of a ripe mind about itself, and when it is written without the vain desire to excite sympathy or astonishment.

Driven by an early infatuation with Romanticism, tempered by subsequent disillusions, Mikhail Lermontov constructed his only novel around the troubled personality of a young Russian officer, exiled from the high society of Leningrad and Moscow to the wild frontier of the Caucasus. A melange of autobiographical elements and sharp observations of his fellow officers, this Pechorin is indeed both larger than life in his turbulent passions and representative of a certain period in the development of Russian society and of its literary identity, a true hero of his times, as proven by the enduring popularity of the present novel.

“His name was ... Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin. A wonderful fellow, I dare say. Only a little strange too.”

I knew many readers hold this novel in high regard, yet I was still surprised by how vibrant the mountain setting is, how memorable the character of Pechorin turned out to be and how modern the approach to the character study still feels, after all these years. Lermontov himself, as I read from his online biography, was both controversial in his temperament and fiery in his passions, just like Pechorin. I am convinced that, while actual details from the five novellas included in the book and most of the characters are fictitious, the internal monologues and the big questions about life and fate, love and sadness, passion and tedium are coming more from the heart of the author than from his literary fancy.

The soul inside me is corrupted by the world, my imagination is restless, my heart is insatiable. Nothing is ever enough. I have become as used to sorrow as I am to delight, and my life becomes more empty from one day to the next.

Probably the most unsettling and eerily visionary episode in the novel is a deadly duel between Pechorin and Grushnitsky, a fellow officer. Life imitates art, as a similar episode will put a tragic end to the poet’s life only a few years after the novel was published. But there is more than meets the eye in this duel. Grushnitsky, a vain and self-centered opportunist, is only a fake Romantic hero who strikes a pose in order to impress a young lady, while Pechorin may be, by his own admission, ‘one of the cleverest rakes’ of his generation, but at least his doubts and his search for meaning feel genuine. This is how Grushnitsky is presented:

He doesn’t know people and their weak strings because he has been occupied with himself alone for his whole life. His goal is to be the hero of a novel. He has so often tried to convince people that he is not of this world but is doomed to some sort of secret torture, that he has almost convinced himself of it.

I see in Lermontov’s disillusionment with the Romantic movement and his adoption of keen psychological study his greatest gift to the next generation of Russian writers, the transition from Goethe, Hugo, Byron, Scott and Pushkin (all idols of young Lermontov, all referenced directly in the novel) to Chekhov, Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky and so on. I wonder what else this talented student of life would have written if his life was not cut down in his prime.

Coming back to the novel itself, I called it a psychological study, but I don’t want to gloss over the fact that these stories are also damn entertaining as tales of adventure: from the kidnapping and seducing of a Circassian princess to a perilous winter traverse of a high Caucasus mountain pass, from a meeting with smugglers by the sea of Azov to a replay of ‘les liaisons dangereuses’ in a mountain spa, finished with a game of Russian Roulette in an army barracks. The author plays both with the timeline of events and with the narrative voice, re-enforcing my conviction that he is well ahead of his times as regards the modern novel. Most importantly, a lesson many new authors seem to have forgotten, Lermontov does not prejudge his characters, he presents the facts and lets the readers come to their own conclusions. Is Pechorin really a tragic, misunderstood hero, or just a dangerous scoundrel? There are arguments to be made for both positions.

I was prepared to love the whole world – and no one understood me – and I learned to hate. My colorless youth elapsed in a struggle with myself and the world. Fearing mockery, I buried my most worthy feelings in the depths of my heart: and they died there. I was telling the truth – and no one believed me – so I started lying.

I hesitate to use the modern trope of the unreliable narrator: maybe it’s the thought that a man has no reason to lie in his private journals (as most of the story is presented); maybe it’s the fact that this disillusionment with life, this quest for meaning in Pechorin’s journey is just as timeless as it is unsolvable. Few of us are without conflicted emotions and contrarian impulses. Few of us can still lay claim to our youthful optimism and enthusiasm after experiencing a few hard falls down the road through life. What is a bit shocking is how early Pechorin / Lermontov came to this crossroad.

I hoped that boredom didn’t exist under Chechen bullets, but it was in vain – within a month I was so used to their whirring and to the nearness of death, that really, I paid more attention to the mosquitoes. And I was more bored than before, because I had lost what was nearly my last hope.

If there was a choice between youth and wisdom, which way will you travel? Pechorin is unique in the fact that he is both young and wise, and probably this is the source of his pain and his boredom.

Passions are nothing other than the first developments of an idea: they are a characteristic of the heart’s youth, and whoever thinks to worry about them his whole life long is a fool: many calm rivers begin with a noisy waterfall, but not one of them jumps and froths until the very sea. And this calm is often the sign of great, though hidden, strength.

This Pechorin knows how to present a compelling argument in defense of his whimsy, yet his actions are often impulsive and driven by lust or by pride (even by boredom). Still, if I was to chose a theme that links the five novellas together it would be love: there are hints at a wild life and crazy loves in the life of our hero before he came to the Caucasus, and these events are probably responsible both for his enduring passion for the gentle sex and for his equally strong disinclination to commit to a lasting relationship. Moving his ardor from the nubile rebel daughter Bella, to a strange fisher girl by the sea, then torn between a married woman (Vera) and a virginal princess (Mary) Pechorin is both attracted and repulsed by the eternal mystery of a woman.

Finally they have arrived. I was sitting at the window when I heard the clatter of their carriage: my heart started ... what was that? I couldn’t be in love. Yet I am so inanely composed that you might expect something like this of me.

This condescending, domineering attitude towards women is another aspect of the times described in the novel, and Pechorin is mostly a typical male in this field of battle, more interested in conquest than in dialogue.

There isn’t anything as paradoxical as a woman’s mind; it’s hard to convince a woman of anything, you have to lead them to convince themselves. [...] Since poets started writing, and women have been reading them (and for this, profound gratitude is owed), women have been called angels so many times that, with heartfelt simplicity, they actually believe this compliment, forgetting that these are the very same poets who glorified Nero as a demi-god for money ...

There are probably many theories about Pechorin’s inability to truly fall in love, but my favorite is an admission he makes after he loses both women soon after they confess their love for him:

I sometimes despise myself ... is that not why I despise others? I have become incapable of noble impulses. I am afraid to seem ridiculous to myself.

An even better observation, and probably one of the best passages in the whole novel, is an alternating perspective coming from one of these ‘conquered’ ladies in the form of a farewell letter:

You have behaved with me as any other man would have behaved with me. You loved me as property, as a source of joy, anxiety, and sadness, all mutually exchangeable, without which life is tedious and monotonous. I understood this at the beginning. But you were unhappy and I sacrificed myself, hoping that at some point you would value my sacrifice, that at some point you would understand my profound affection, which didn’t come with any conditions. Much time has passed since then. I penetrated every secret of your soul ... and became convinced that it had been a useless aspiration. How bitter it was for me! But my love had grown into my soul. It had dimmed but it had not gone out.

The novel ends in multiple failures: lovers lost, enemies killed, friendships misplaced. The last episode is titles “The Fatalist” , a coda to a futile effort to understand and to enjoy life. Why strive, if it all ends absurdly on the turn of a dice? Yet, here is Pechorin writing down his thoughts in his private journals, here is Lermontov writing the only novel of his brief career, trying to say something important:

We almost always forgive those we understand.

They may not have been heroes or angels, brave or righteous, trustworthy or sincere, but they were young, passionate, conflicted – like the times they lived through

Some will say “he was a good fellow,” others will say I was a swine. Both one and the other would be wrong. Given this, does it seem worth the effort to live?
And yet, you live, out of curiosity, always wanting something new ... Amusing and vexing!

When the men and their troubles are gone, the mountains will remain – massive, patient, majestic, inspiring:

I was so delighted to be so high above the world; it was a childlike feeling, I won’t deny it, but withdrawing from the demands of society, and drawing near to nature, we become children without meaning to, and everything that has been acquired falls away from the soul – and it becomes as it once was, and probably will be once again.



[a painting of the Caucasus by Lermontov]

[Marc Lamot · Rating 3 out of 5]

The picturesque setting of this book, the Russian-colonized Caucasus region, immediately took me back to Pushkin's stories and Tolstoy's early work. But Lermontow's unique approach is the ingenious way in which he introduces his protagonist, the amoral Russian officer Pechorin: first through stories by third parties, then through a short personal meeting and finally through diary fragments of Pechorin himself. That gives a dynamic to the story that sucks you into the novel and doesn't let go. Well done, for a book published in 1840, so before the heyday of the Great European Novel. I can well imagine why Dostoevsky was so enthusiastic about this work: Lermontov has made Pechorin into almost the same cynical, amoral and at the same time double-hearted and self-doubting figure as many of the protagonists of the later grandmaster, a real bad-ass. In particular the introspective pages in Pechorin's diary bear witness to a deep psychological insight into a damned soul. Of course, Lermontov did not reach Dostoevsky's diabolical level, but he got close. The early romantic slant of his story, with the emphasis on lyrical descriptions of nature and dramatic stirrings of the soul, may now repel us a bit, as is the clear misogynist nature of the protagonist, but that does not prevent this from being an impressive novel. I am even inclined to rate him higher than Pushkin.

[Jonathan O'Neill · Rating 4 out of 5]

4 ⭐️

Lermontov carries the torch for Byron, Pushkin and the like in this enjoyably paced character study of the 19th century contemporary "hero". I felt exposed, as I so often do when reading the Great Russians, and saw a number of my less enviable qualities (somewhat magnified) within Lermontov's "superfluous man", Pechorin, as well as in Grushnitsky, one of the many unfortunate characters to get tangled up in his vampiric, boredom-and-disenchantment-fueled shenanigans.
The Russians DO NOT disappoint!
But don't take my word for it...

"Still just a boy, and he wrote that!"
- Anton Chekhov