Dead Souls

by Nikolai Gogol

he was an insignificant worm in this world and not really worthy of others’ concern, that he had been sorely tried in his lifetime, that he had suffered in his career for righteousness’ sake, that he had made a lot of enemies who had even made attempts on his life, and that now, desirous of peace and quiet, he was looking for a place to reside and that, having arrived in this town, he considered it his absolute duty to pay his respects to its leading officials.

Finally, the stout man, after serving God and the emperor and earning universal respect, retires from work, moves house, and becomes a landowner, a glorious hospitable Russian lord, and lives the good life. But after he’s gone his thin heirs squander, as is the Russian habit, all their father’s fortune posthaste.

Only God could say what Manilov was really like. There is a sort of person known as “all right,” neither one thing nor another, neither fish nor fowl, as the saying goes. Perhaps this is how Manilov should be classified. He

“No, I don’t quite mean peasants,” said Chichikov. “I would like to have the dead ones . . .” “Excuse me? I’m sorry . . . I’m a little hard of hearing, I thought I heard a very odd word . . .” “I mean to acquire dead peasants still listed in the census return as living,” said Chichikov. Manilov dropped his clay pipe on the floor and opened his mouth, which remained wide open for all of several minutes.

The chronicler of these events would deserve a severe reprimand if he omitted to mention that the guest was overcome by pleasure after hearing what Manilov had to say. However grave and sagacious he was, at this point he nearly pranced like a billy goat, an action that occurs, it goes without saying, only during bursts of extreme joy. Chichikov

And if you think about it, what haven’t I been through? Like a frail vessel adrift on furious waves . . . What hounding, what persecution have I not suffered, what grief have I not tasted, and for what? For truth and justice, for keeping my conscience clean, for giving a helping hand to the helpless widow and the destitute orphan . . .” At this point Chichikov even took out his handkerchief and wiped away a tear that had rolled down his cheek.

“You know, Pavel,” said Manilov, who was very much taken by this idea, “how good it would be, actually, if we could live together, under the same roof, or under the shade of an elm tree and philosophize about something, explore the depths—” “Oh, that would be like living in paradise!” said Chichikov

A Russian driver has a good sixth sense, even if he has no eyes, and that is why it often happens that he screws his eyes tight shut and hurtles on, sometimes at full speed, and always arrives somewhere or other.

The hounds were now baying in every possible pitch and tone: one dog flung its head back and produced a prolonged, forceful howl, as if it was being paid God knows how much to do so; another dog gabbled its bark like a sexton; between them was the incessant descant, like the mail coach’s bells, probably of a young puppy; and all this was completed by the bass, perhaps of an old dog, endowed with a profoundly canine nature, for its voice grated like a contrabass chorister when a concert is in full swing—the tenors rise up on their toes, trying their hardest to reach a high note, and everything about them soars upwards, throwing heads back, while he alone, sinking his unshaven chin into his cravat, squatting and almost sinking to the ground, releases from this position a note which makes panes of glass tremble and shatter.

The world is strange enough as it is: spend too much time contemplating mirth and it changes to melancholy, and then God knows what will come into your head.

The fair-haired man was one of those people whose character seems, on first acquaintance, to have some stubbornness about it. You only have to open your mouth and they are ready to argue and appear determined never to agree to something that clearly goes against the grain of their way of thinking; they would, you think, never call something stupid clever and, in particular, they will never agree to dance to someone else’s tune. But it always ends with their revealing how soft their character is by agreeing to what they refused, calling something stupid clever, and then they go off to dance their heart out to someone else’s tune—in a word, all talk and no fight. “Rubbish,” said Nozdriov

“Then why would you be wanting them?” “Heavens, you are inquisitive! You want to get your hands on a bit of garbage and then sniff it, too?”

“All right, I’ll give it to you straight,” he said, correcting himself, “but please don’t blurt it out to anybody. I’m thinking of getting married, but I must tell you that the father and mother of the girl I have in mind have set their sights very high. It really is a burden: I regret getting involved, because they insist that the groom must have no fewer than three hundred souls, and since I need to find nearly another hundred and fifty—” “Well, you’re lying, you’re lying!” Nozdriov shouted again.

Everywhere, in whatever sort of life, whether in its stale, coarse, poor, disorderly, and decaying ranks, or among its monotonous, chilly, dreary, and neat upper classes, a man will always encounter, if only once, some phenomenon quite unlike anything he has happened to see hitherto, a phenomenon which will arouse, just once, a feeling unlike those he has been fated to feel all the rest of his life.

Inevitably, intersecting every kind of grief and sorrow from which our life is woven, a resplendent joy will flash past, as a splendid carriage with golden harness, grandiose horses, and brightly shining windows will suddenly, unheralded, hurtle past an impoverished village lost in the backwoods, a village that has seen nothing but a country wagon, and for long afterwards the peasants will stand, their jaws gaping wide, their hats still in their hands, even though the wondrous carriage has by now long galloped off and vanished from sight. So, too, the blond girl has suddenly, completely unheralded, appeared and then disappeared in our tale.

There are people who exist in this world not as objects in themselves but as background dots or spots on an object.

Joy was what I used to feel, a long time ago, in the days of my youth, in those childhood years that have flashed by, never to return, when I arrived somewhere new for the first time: it didn’t matter whether it was a village, an impoverished little district town, a settlement, or a hamlet—a child’s inquisitive eyes could discover in it much that was curious.

Now, when I arrive in a new village, I am uninterested and I look with indifference at its run-of-the-mill appearance; my frigid eyes find no comfort there, I am not amused, and what would in former years have aroused vivacious facial expressions, laughter, and a torrent of words, now passes me by, and my immobile lips preserve a bored silence. Oh, my youth! Oh, my freshness!

In a nutshell, everything was better than either nature or art can devise unaided and succeeded, as happens only when nature and art are combined, when man’s often mindlessly accumulated labors are reworked by nature’s definitive sculpting, the heavy masses are lightened, the coarsely palpable regularity and the beggarly deficiencies, which betray the nakedness of a poorly concealed plan, are eliminated, and nature can give a wondrous warmth to everything that was created in the chill of measured purity and neatness.

You must take all your human impulses on your journey through life, as you pass from your gentle youthful years to harsh, hardening manhood, and not lose them along the way, because you will not be able to retrieve them later. Dreadful and frightful is the old age that is to come, and it gives nothing back or in return! The grave is more merciful than old age, at least a grave carries the inscription HERE A HUMAN BEING IS BURIED, but there is nothing to read in the frigid, unfeeling features of inhuman old age.

He ordered the lightest of suppers, just a suckling pig, and immediately undressed, got under the blanket, and fell into a deep sleep, the sound and wonderful sleep enjoyed only by those fortunate enough not to suffer from hemorrhoids, fleas, or excessively powerful mental abilities.

Happy is the family man who has such a refuge, but woe to the bachelor!

Happy is the writer who transcends dreary, loathsome characters that strike one with their wretched reality, and who tackles ones that manifest lofty merits, the writer who has selected from the slough of daily recurrent images just those few exceptions, who has never once lowered the high pitch of his lyre, has never descended from his heights to the level of those poor nonentities, his colleagues, and, never touching the ground, has devoted himself entirely to exalted images divorced from the earth.

But how unlike is the lot, and how different is the fate, of the writer who has dared to bring to the surface everything that is constantly in front of our noses and which is invisible to indifferent eyes, all the frightful, shocking swamp of trivia that traps our lives, all the depths inhabited by frigid, fragmented squalid creatures which swarm over our earth and our sometimes bitter and dreary path in life, the writer who has dared to use his great strength and his intransigent sculptor’s tools to present them lifelike and in full relief for all the world to see!

Almost all the peasants who had belonged to Korobochka had nicknames or other appendices. Pliushkin’s list was markedly laconic in style: very often only the initial part of names and patronymics were written out and followed by two dots. Sobakevich’s register was striking in its extraordinary fullness and detail, not omitting a single quality of the peasants: one was said to be “a good carpenter,” another had the comment “understands his job and never touches liquor.”

One ought to give a description of the office rooms that our heroes passed through, but the author suffers from severe inhibitions where government offices are concerned. Even if he happened to pass through them in their shining and enhanced forms, with polished floors and tables, he has always done his best to run through them as fast as he could, his eyes humbly downcast, and therefore has absolutely no idea how everything prospers and flourishes within them.

Nor did he have anything to complain about: iron had more chance of catching a cold and coughing than did this landowner with the amazing constitution.

on the other hand . . . on the other hand . . . it’s just too hard. The ladies of the town of N——were . . . no, there is no way that I can: I really feel too shy. The most remarkable thing about the ladies of the town of N——was . . . It’s odd, in fact, my pen is too heavy to lift, as if it had lead in it. So be it, then: a description of their characters will have to be left to someone whose colors are more vivid and who has a palette with a bigger range, while we, perhaps, must limit ourselves to a word or two about appearances and more superficial things.

The millionaire has the advantage that he can see vileness, pure, utterly unmotivated vileness, with no basis in calculation: many people know full well that they will get nothing from him and have no right to anything, but they are sure to run in front of him, to laugh, to take off their hats, to wangle an invitation to a dinner when they know that a millionaire has been invited.

The last line did not scan, but that did not matter, really: the letter had been written in the spirit of the times.

To sum up, what won’t you try when you’re on your own, and feeling happy with yourself, and, what is more, certain that nobody is going to take a look through a crack in the door?

mortal man is a creature whose nature is very hard to understand: however squalid the piece of news, as long as it is news, one mortal will be bound to pass it on to another mortal, if only to say, “Look what lies they are circulating!,” and another mortal will happily allow his ear to be bent, even though he will go on to say himself, “Yes, that is an utterly despicable lie which deserves no credit at all,” and will immediately go off to find a third mortal so as to tell him and exclaim in unison with noble indignation, “What a vile lie!” And so it is bound to circulate around the whole town and all mortals, however many there may be, will sate themselves with talk and then admit that it is not worthy of attention or even mention.

They all shout, ‘A ball, a ball, what fun!’ A ball is rubbish, it’s not in the Russian spirit, it’s not the Russian nature; God knows what it’s about: a grown-up adult suddenly springs up all in black, face smooth as a plucked chicken, corseted like the devil, and has to kick his legs in the air. Some men, even when dancing with a woman, have important business to discuss with another man, yet twist their legs left and right, like a young goat, in fancy figures . . . It’s all aping others, aping others.

But human beings are odd: he was badly upset by the hostility of people whom he did not respect and whom he had dismissed brusquely for their deplorable vanity and fine clothes.

people are very generous with the term “fool” and ready to use it against their neighbor twenty times a day. You need only show one stupid aspect among ten others to be designated a fool and have your nine good aspects disregarded.

It is very improbable that readers will find the hero we have chosen likable. The ladies won’t like him, that is certain, for ladies demand that a hero be utter perfection, and if there is a blot on his spiritual or physical complexion, then watch out!

A schoolmate or a friend will let you down and will be the first to betray you when you’re in trouble, but pennies won’t, whatever trouble you’re in. You can do anything and get through anything in the world with your pennies.”

Only the many pockmarks and furrows that corrugated those features classified him as having one of those faces to which, the folk expression says, the devil comes at night to grind chickpeas.

One has to give credit to his insuperable strength of character. After events which would have been enough if not to kill, then to discourage and humble a lesser man forever, his passion for the unattainable remained undimmed. He grieved, he grudged, he resented the whole world, he raged at fate’s injustice, he waxed indignant at people’s unfairness and yet could not refrain from new attempts to seek his fortune.

He didn’t apply to every landowner regardless, but singled out people he got along with or with whom such deals would be likely to lead to fewest complications; he tried first of all to strike up an acquaintance, to win someone round so that he could get his peasants more through friendship than by purchase.

Readers should not then blame the author if the personages who have appeared so far are not to their taste; the fault is Chichikov’s, since he is in charge here, and wherever he decides to go, we are compelled to follow.

If we, for our part, are to be blamed for the dreary and unprepossessing qualities of the persons and characters, all we can say is that one can never see at the beginning all the breadt...

Acquisition is the root of all evil: acquisitiveness has led to dealings which society qualifies as “somewhat murky.”

But there are passions that are not given to man to choose. They are born with him at the moment he comes into the world, and he is denied the strength to renounce them. They follow an outline dictated from on high and they have an everlasting call that is heard for a whole lifetime.

Yes, my good readers, you would be reluctant to see human poverty fully exposed.

The author will also have to suffer accusations from so-called patriots who sit quietly in their corners busy with completely irrelevant things, saving up a nice nest egg, feathering their nests at others’ expense, but the moment something happens which they consider offensive to the fatherland, or if any book should appear in which unpleasant truths are sometimes uttered, they come running out of their corners, like spiders which have caught a fly in their webs, and raise a sudden hue and cry: “Isn’t it bad to bring all this into the open, to go around proclaiming it? After all, everything described here is all to do with us: Is that good? And what will foreigners say? It’s no fun to hear bad opinions of oneself, is it? Do they think it doesn’t hurt us? Do they think we are unpatriotic?”

But who among you, so full of Christian humility, will in silence, not out loud, and in a moment of solitary conversation with yourself, look deep inside your own soul and ask this difficult question: “Isn’t there a bit of Chichikov in me, too?”

Russia, are you not also like the bold troika which no one can overtake? The road is a cloud of smoke under your wheels, the bridges thunder, everything lags behind and is stranded in the rear. The beholder stops, struck by a divine miracle: Is this a bolt of lightning from heaven? What does this awe-inspiring movement mean? What sort of unknown force propels these horses which the world has never seen before? Oh, horses, horses, what horses! Does the howling gale have its source in your manes? Is there a keen ear burning on your every sinew? You have caught the sound of a familiar song on high, you have girded your bronze chests together as one, and, your hooves barely touching the ground, you have been transformed into just endless lines flying through the air, and the whole troika flies, inspired by God! Russia, where are you hurtling to? Give an answer! There is no answer. The bell peals with a wonderful ringing; the air, ripped to pieces, roars and becomes wind; everything that exists on earth flies past, and other nations and empires look askance and stand back to make way for the troika.

General Betrishchev, like many of us, combined a great number of virtues with a great number of defects.

What does it mean, in fact, when a foul person who is hopelessly depraved demands to be loved?