Oh, sweet emotions, gentle harmony, goodness and peace of the softened heart, melting bliss of the first raptures of love, where are they, where are they?

Vladimir Petrovich, "a man of forty, with black hair turning gray." sits on an evening, after a good meal, with a couple of old friends, sipping the port and drawing on a good cigar. They challenge each other to tell the stories of their first time falling in love. It's a common framing device now, this looking back at the folly of youth with the wisdom of an older age. I don't know which novelist started the trend, but I was thrilled to get confirmation that one of the masters of the after dinner conversation, Joseph Conrad, paid tribute and acknowledged the influence of the great Russian contemporary of Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy. This novella is my first attempt to read Turgheniev, and suddenly I wonder what took me so long, why did I think that he was somehow inferior to these two giants? He speaks truer to my heart than the volcanic, mystical Fyodor and is more delicate in his dissection of the soul than the monumental Lev.

Returning to the quiet evening of recollections, two out of the three friends turn out to have little to tell, a sad state of affairs that could probably be replicated today in a similar proportion. One is a tad cynical and wonders what is this feeling that poets brag about, the other tells of an arranged marriage and a slow growth of friendship and respect. Only Vladimir Petrovich has a whopper of a tale to tell:

I was sixteen then. It happened in the summer of 1833.



And just like this, I am taken back to my own summer of 198_, marvelling at the accuracy of the descriptions of moods and impulses that have little changed from one generation to another, from one corner of the world to its antipodes. This is Vladmir Petrovich in the last summer of his childhood, this is me before I learned to keep it all bottled up inside and be wary of who I am giving my heart away to:

I knew a geat deal of poetry by heart; my blood was in a ferment and my heart ached - so sweetly and absurdly; I was all hope and anticipation, was a little frightened of something, and full of wonder at everything, and was on the tiptoe of expectation; my imagination played continually, fluttering rapidly about the same fancies, like martins about a bell-tower at dawn; I dreamed, was sad, even wept; but through tears and through the sadness, inspired by a musical verse, or the beauty of evening, shot up like grass in spring the delicious sense of youth and effervescent life.

Vacationing with his affluent parents in a dasha out in the country, young Vladimir is supposed to learn for his admission to university, but the call of the fields, of the forests and of the peaceful waters of the Don is too strong. One fine morning, his promenade is interrupted by the sound of laughter from a neighboring and slightly rundown mansion.

Suddenly I heard a voice; I looked across the fence, and was thunderstruck ...

There she stands, with the sun in her hair and laughter in her eyes, tall and gracious like a queen, ordering about a group of admirers. Her name is Zinaida, and she is one of the most unforgettable heroines in Russian literature. Poor Vladimir doesn't stand a chance. A lucky turn helps him to get an introduction to the household, but he is, like many youngsters who live more in books than in the real world, tongue tied:

Though, indeed, at the moment, I was scarcely capable of noticing anything; I moved as in a dream and felt all through my being a sort of intense blissfulness that verged on imbecility.

Zinaida is a little older, in her early twenties, and apparently a coquette who likes to surround herself with admirers, toying with them like a cat with mice. In the evening they gather around her like moths to a flame: Count Malevsky, the poet Meidanov, the doctor Lushin, the dragoon Byelovzorov, old Vonifaty the merchant, Nirmatsky the banker. They play society games, riddles and challenges, discuss literature and politics. Zinaida drags the young boy into their unconventional and turbulent circle, a revolutionary change from the strictures of his own household. It's no wonder he looks at her like to a godess and that these moments will be engraved on his heart for ever:

I was as happy as a fish in water, and I could have stayed in that room forever. Have never left that place.

A little context is welcome now, as the discussions in the impoverished saloon of Zinaida turns to the preferences of her audience for the Romanticism of the early 19 century, and mentions are made of Pushkin, Goethe, Schiller, Hugo or Byron. The merits of each are analyzed, and a more naturalist approach is suggested as a better alternative to the exaggerated emotions of the Romantic school. A little further research confirms Turgheniev stance and references in the admiration Gustave Flaubert, Henry James and the already mentioned Joseph Conrad held for the Russian writer.

In the meanwhile though, young Vladimir finds out about the reverse of the medal, as his sudden passion for Zinaida is tempered by feelings of inadequacy and by the early onset of jealousy:

I felt at that time, I recollect, something like what a man must feel on entering the service: I had ceased now to be simply a young boy; I was in love. I have said that my passion dated from that day; I might have added that my sufferings, too, dated from the same day.

It is in the nature of a romantic young boy to torment himself with a too vivid imagination:

My fancy set to work. I began picturing to myself how I would save her from the hands of enemies; how, covered with blood I would tear her by force from prison, and expire at her feet.

... but what about Zinaida? what about the slightly older woman? Why is she encouraging Vladimir, and stringing him along with her bevy of admirers? She does seem an epitome of frivolity and irresponsibility, shallow and vain and so proud of her ability to twist the men's will around her little finger. Her portrait is where the artist truly shines and the revelation of her inner nature is both subtle and dramatic. She is not immune herself to the arrows of Cupid, and because this is still a novel of a more moralistic and male dominated epoch, Zinaida will be the one who will suffer the most for the folly of love:

"You needn't think I care for him," she said to me another time. "No; I can't care for people I have to look down upon. I must have some one who can master me ... But, merciful heavens, I hope I may never come across anyone like that! I don't want to be caught in anyone's claws, not for anything."

It's a wonder how well Turgeniev captures the torment of youth, how truly his words ring and how much of what Vladimir goes through echoes the memories of my own summers, now filtered through the burden of the years, yet still as clear and poignant as if they happened only yesterday. I did get curious about the inspiration for the novella, and I found out that in the words of the author this is the most autobiographical of all his works. There's even a name for the real life Zinaida, and a history very close to the events of the fictional Vladimir  she falls in love with his own libertine father .

Regardless of the real life inspiration or of some critics who considered the subject trivial, I am grateful for the visit down memory lane that the story inspired, and will echo the words of Turgeniev in saying that I am glad that summer happened, even if it ended in tears.

The tinkle of the bells of the Don monastery floated across to me from time to time, peaceful and dreary; while I sat, gazed, listened, and was filled full of a nameless sensation in which all was contained: sadness and joy and the foretaste of the future, and the desire and dread of life. But at that time I understood nothing of it, and could have given a name to nothing of all that was passing at random within me, or should have called it all by one name - the name of Zinaida.

- - -

... All was at an end. All the fair blossoms of my heart were roughly plucked at once, and lay about me, flung on the ground, and trampled underfoot.

- - -

And I went away. I cannot describe the emotion with which I went away. I should not wish it ever to come again; but I should think myself unfortunate had I never experienced such an emotion.





Note: my edition is part of a collection named "The Art of the Novella." I would recommend two other similar stories dealing with the passion of youth:
- Fyodor Dostoevsky - "White Nights"
- Joseph Conrad - "Youth"

I love first-love-stories and this was some of the most beautiful prose I have ever read. So atmospheric and the descriptions of nature were incredibly stunning.

What is love?

Does anyone know?

Is it manifest only between lovers?

How about one's love for his/her child? Is it different or better or worse than the adult love between previously unknowns?

Or define the difference between the love you have for your mother or your father?

Your sisters, your brothers.

When you say you love your aunt/uncle, is the word accurate?

What is the distance between love and like? Between love and hate?

Your first love, was it really love? Or, if we are honest, was it infatuation?

Is your love the same when your lover becomes ill? Or does it increase it? Or decrease it?

Your wife, your husband, your partner; do you love them today as you did yesterday?

And if not did you lose the love?

Can love be lost? And gained? Regained? Re-lost?

Can love between two be forever?

Is the love you put out returned? Unrequited?

I know, I know, teenager questions. Silly and puerile?

Did you love the last book you read? How so? Or did you use that word incorrectly in your last review?

Now, I am asking a lot of questions, so I would appreciate it if you would sit up straight and stop slouching. We are having a philosophical conversation and we are not playing an AI video game. I refuse to draw conclusions alone and I demand your participation.

Maybe I love you?

Is it selfish to love yourself? And if your answer is yes, why?

Look, I am only a census taker. Don’t look at me that way. Do you believe that I am the Wizard of Schnoz? I am not. But I could apply for the job as the Mayor of the Lollipop League. I am qualified. Ah, but I digress (david, enough with the short jokes. Basta. Dayenu.)

Forgive me. Which brings up another query. Do you forgive the person/people you know quicker than you forgive a stranger? Or the opposite, do you forgive a stranger quicker than your wife/husband?, sister/brother? Is there a correlation between love and forgiveness?

Somebody?

Anybody?

Okay, then. What has this to do with the book I just finished. Who knows? Do you think I am worried about Turgenev’s feelings? Do you think that Turgenev is the arbiter of what love is? Nope. Just another dude, albeit dead.

So, why read if there are no answers?

I do not know.

I do not know if answers even satisfy. Sometimes answers hurt.

This is a story of a young boy, at sixteen, who falls in love with a slightly older young lady, maybe eighteen. Walking tabula rasas with smooth and tight skin and luxuriant, thick hair, sans sachel (Latin for common sense).

Of course, she is beautiful. Naturally, she could not care less about him. This is what they do in novels. Create tension between characters. Obviously, then, he wants her more. And oddly, in, each book read, she may be a little more interested in him than she lets on. But that is what authors get paid to do. Then, we can attempt to enter the mindset of the male and the female characters. Character development.

And the plot line or geography really does not matter. It could be in the middle of a war zone, a nirvana, the jungle or on Beale Street in Memphis (great blues but avoid the fried foods). As long as we are consistently being moved forward toward something…closure, romantic endings, unresolved situations. It is in the author's hands.

And why am I going on and on and on?

Again, not an inkling of an idea. I guess we are all like novels. Moving cluelessly towards something we do not understand yet continuing to construct a false future that may or may not happen.

Continuously asking ourselves unanswerable questions.

Like life. Like friendship. Like the electoral college. Like the red carpet. Like taco Tuesdays.

Like love.

who hurt russians??

4.5

- قصة لا بأس بها، كلاسيكية وبطيئة النغمات... قصص الحب الأول كثيرة وغالباً ما تنتهي لكن المميز في هذه القصة هو طبيعة "المنافس" والحالة الخاصة للمحبوبة!!

- الترجمة على ما يبدو قديمة جداً!!

بعض الإقتباسات:

"لم يكن لي حب أول. بدات بالحب الثاني مباشرة"

"ان سر الحياة كله هو في هذا: ان لا يملّك الانسان نفسه - لأحد ما او شيئ ما - الا لنفسه. ان يكون هو سيد نفسه"

"ثمة نساء يحددن سعادتهن في التضحية"

Russian writers have been endowed with the boon of carving a magnificent tale; woven in daily affairs, psyches, and afflictions of people, yet still simple at heart and rendering.
Ivan Turgenev is no exception. First Love is a simple coming of age account of a teenage boy’s first love, however, somehow, it hits home— reminds one of his first love or infatuations of blooming youth and heartaches. Initially, it’s told with humour which slowly transforms into pathos and ends with tragedy. Only a master could achieve thus feat with perception and elegance as Turgenev displayed.

“Tidings of death heard I from lips unfeeling,
Unmoved, I listened,

... O youth! youth! you go your way heedless, uncaring – as if you owned all the treasures of the world; even grief elates you, even sorrow sits well upon your brow. You are self-confident and insolent and you say, ‘I alone am alive – behold!’ even while your own days fly past and vanish without trace and without number, and everything within you melts away like wax in the sun…like snow…and perhaps the whole secret of your enchantment lies not, indeed, in your power to do whatever you may will, but in your power to think that there is nothing you will not do: it is this that you scatter to the winds – gifts which you could never have used to any other purpose. Each of us feels most deeply convinced that he has been too prodigal of his gifts – that he has a right to cry ‘Oh, what could I not have done, if only I had not wasted my time.”

“To sacrifice oneself is the height of bliss – for some people.”

“… I took my leave from the brief phantom, risen for a fleeting instant, of my first love?”

First love. I’ve been rethinking this title today, wondering does it perhaps apply as much as to the father of our protagonist as much to his love interest. The protagonist of this novel, young Vladimir, quietly adores his father, but is estranged from his (abusive) mother. Our parents are, without a doubt, the first objects of our affection. For a child, his or her parents are the centre of the world. The first women Vladimir falls in love with is a bit older than himself, but is completely unattainable, not so much because of the age difference but because she sees and treats him as a brother. In other words, she seems unresponsive to his romantic feelings. Did Freud ever read and commented on this one? I’m sure he would have loved it. I feel there is a lot of Freudian thinking softly woven into the work, especially as the novella develops. To be honest, I find it hard to talk about First Love without relieving the plot, because it is a very plot driven work, but I will try to do my best. Let’s just say that things take from there and evolve to be feel even more Freudian.


First Love is a novella tells a story of a sixteen year old (Vladimir) falling in love with a popular twenty one year old girl. From the first time our protagonist’s beholds her, Zinaida is surrounded by men. Zinaida is a noble young lady and a pretty one too, so her poor material status seems of little importance. Is it so irrelevant, though? Maybe it is in the eyes of the man who want to marry her, but does it play a part in the way she sees herself? I can’t forget, for example, the way Zinaida behaved at dinner at Vladimir’s place. She was as silent as a mouse. This was a stark contrast with the way her personality shines through while she is with her suitors. From all I saw, it seemed to me that Zinaida is not only aware of her poor material status, but it also has a negative effect on her self-esteem.


Zinaida is such a fascinating female protagonist. In some ways, she reminded me of the femme fatale of another Turgenev’s story (Maria Nikolaevna in Torrents of Spring). Maria and Zinaida are about the same age, beautiful young ladies who seem capable of charming any men in sight. Surrounded by their suitors they both appear so playful, charming, carefree and full of live, it is easy to understand their magnetic appeal. Nevertheless, Maria is in many ways different than Zinaida. Without a doubt, Maria is more diabolic and cunning. Turgenev even named Maria she-devil in one of his letters. Maria is married, while Zinaida is single, but still it seems that Maria is the free one, since Maria lives in a sort of an open marriage. Zinaida longs for love, and finds it hard to fall in love with any of her potential suitors. Zinaida’s material position makes her more vulnerable. Zinaida’s only ‘way out’ is a marriage, but as she admits to Vladimir, she wants a man who will control her, and not the other way around.


What does Zinaida truly want? I think she wants true love. She wants a man she can admire. She detests her suitors, and while this might make her seem cruel, I think I can actually understand where she is coming from. After all, do they all really love her? If she was ugly, would they be desperate to be next to her? I don’t think so. Do they truly know her or is it a sort of a competition? Men, in general, like to compete over a woman. It is not uncommon for them to all focus on one woman. Moreover, Zinaida is very young. What change does she have to prove herself? Her material status makes her low in the eyes of others, and it is only true the admiration of men, she is able to gain some self-respect. In addition, perhaps Zinaida can’t really understand her suitors, not until she falls in love herself.


As long as I’m contrasting the protagonist of Spring Torrents with those of First Love, I might add that Maria and Sanin are actually about the same age, but there is a great difference between them as Sanin is absolutely innocent when he meets Maria. In contrast, there is an age difference between Zinaida and Vladimir. Their relationship is quite different as well. Zinaida behaves with tenderness towards Vladimir, going as far as making him privy into her secrets. In contrast, Maria is a wealthy married woman with many lovers who made all the choices in her life and only wants to take advantage of Sanin. I don’t think that Zinaida wants to do the same to Vladimir. Sure, she is flattered by his love, but does she plot against him. Really, Zinaida is not that bad. Zinaida is not very experienced herself, and despite acting like an older sister to Vladimir, she doesn’t seem that much older than him. Sanin desired Maria, but at the same time she disgusts him. Vladimir loves Zinaida and even feels sorry for her. Ultimately, Zinaida is very lonely and craves love desperately. Maria is a huntress (not to call her a she-devil) who craves only power and money. They are quite different, although they might be equally bewitching. Fantastic female characters, both of them. It is so interesting to contrast them, and see the difference. I think it proves that there is not a single femme fatale type, but thousands of them.


I really have to hand it down to Turgenev. He portrays the dynamics of love and desire with such care. His psychological portrayal of characters is exquisite. I can certainly understand why this novella is so popular. All the characters are very memorable, but the protagonists are really masterfully portrayed. There are so many layers to Zinaida and I found it easy to sympathize with Vladimir as well. The fact he is caught between childhood and adults doesn’t take anything away from his perception. Finally, this novella is (like Spring Torrents) a framed story. I do think that makes First Love even more potent. The fact that Turgenev admitted that First Love (like Spring Torrents) is in many ways autobiographical, certainly makes me see the characters in a more human light. We humans are fragile creatures, aren’t we? Forever tormented and feed by a silly little thing called love. Perhaps because love is not a silly little thing at all….and First Love is often the last.

n‘That’s love,’ I said to myself again, as I sat at night before my writing-table, on which books and papers had begun to make their appearance; ‘that’s passion! . . . To think of not revolting, of bearing a blow from any one whatever . . . even the dearest hand! But it seems one can, if one loves . . . While I . . . I imagined . . . ’ (Garnett's translation.)

‘That’s what love is’, I told myself again, sitting at night in front of my desk on which books and notebooks had begun to appear. ‘That’s real passion! Not to object, to bear a blow of any kind, even from someone you love very much – is that possible? It’s possible, it seems, if you’re in love… But I’d – I’d imagine...’ (Freeborn's translation.)

Good grief.

I judged a book by its title; it saddens me to say that my intuition didn't fail me this time. Fortunately, I read Asya before this novella – so it’s easier to talk about this one first since there was almost no connection. Otherwise, I would have had second thoughts and probably avoided Turgenev’s prose until November. Oh, his prose! His absolutely exquisite prose with which he explored the complexity of love, the whirl of emotions, the innocence of youth. His poetic language gave me the strength to keep reading this story.

I have to be honest: if it weren’t for the last chapter, I would've given this book a 2-star rating. Maybe my nature was too determined to reject so much mushiness this time, but still, there are many things and concepts to which I couldn’t relate. My idea of love doesn't include losing individuality, giving up the right to have personal space nor the blind devotion that makes one lose all perspective. In that sense, I think it's only natural that I can't identify with these stories, since even when I was a teenager, I wasn't prone to such violent outbursts of affection. I end up bored, let alone if I don't find the writing engaging or remotely enjoyable.
On the other hand, I couldn’t sympathize with almost any character – perhaps the servants who had to put up with their caprices. I mean, could the female protagonist be any more insufferable? Could the men be any more pathetic? Could this depiction of love be any more different from what I have in mind? Could you stop talking like Chandler?

A story in which an intelligent man (whose amount of wealth we don’t know) falls in love with an intelligent woman (whose degree of beauty is not mentioned) just doesn’t entice anyone, huh?
Yeah, I know, that was a stupid thing to write. It’s late, I think I had too much coffee and fell into a state of rapturous delirium.

Most of my friends on here loved this novella, but I'm done for now (I may relapse, who knows) with the juvenile and pointless phase of feeling bad because I didn't like so much what my friends loved - hello, personality. That being said, my curiosity went as far as using the filter to take a look at the number of people who didn't enjoyed this book so much.




I could have been among those 475 and their two "it was ok" stars. The last chapter made me open another door and join another group. However, I read the "2-star group" reviews. I was a little relieved. And then slightly frightened.

There’s an episode in which a poem written in 1825 by Alexander Pushkin is mentioned. I looked for it and wanted to share it.
The intensity of passion and oblivion in small doses.

Beneath the blue sky of her native land
She languished, faded…
Faded finally, and above me surely
The young shade already hovered;
But there is an unapproachable line between us.
In vain I tried to awaken emotion:
From indifferent lips I heard the news of death,
And received it with indifference.
So this is whom my fiery soul loved
With such painful intensity,
With such tender, agonizing heartache,
With such madness and such torment!
Where now the tortures, where the love? Alas!
For the poor, gullible shade,
For the sweet memory of irretrievable days
In my soul I find neither tears no reproaches.

Jan 24, 18
* Note: I read Constance Garnett and Richard Freeborn’s translations. I prefer the latter.
** Also on my blog.

نخستین عشق من، دخترعمویم بود (شاکینگ!). آن‌زمان ۱۱ سالم بود. او چشمانی آبی‌رنگ داشت، با موهای فرفری طلایی‌رنگ، خیلی‌ها می‌گفتند شبیه عروسک است، و واقعا هم بود. از طرفی، چیزی که این ظاهر را جذاب‌تر می‌کرد، روح وحشی او بود. او به معنی دقیق کلمه آتش‌پاره بود، اگرچه کسی به خود جرئت این را نمی‌داد که بهش امرونهی کند، تابع هیچ بند و قاعده‌ای نبود. او گرمای هر جمعی بود. او از من ۴ سال کوچکتر بود، و خواهری داشت که ۲ سال ازم کوچکتر بود. یک بار این فرضیه مطرح شد که من با خواهرش و برادرم با او ازدواج کند در آینده، که من با قدرت تمام گفتم: نّه! و آنها این موضوع را پذیرفتند، چون متوجه شیمی متقابل ما بودند. روزها می‌گذشتند و برادرم، که مثل خودش حسابی شیطان بود، بدون یک برنامهٔ مشخص و کاملا سربه‌هوایانه، تصمیم گرفت عاشق او شود، و داشت دقیقا همان کارهایی را می‌کرد که من می‌کردم (بغل، هدیه، طرفداری). من این‌ها را با کون‌سوزی تمام تحمل می‌کردم، تااینکه یک روز خودش اشاره کرد که برادر من هم مهربان شده، و دانستم که او هم فهمیده. من خیلی حرص می‌خوردم، اما می‌دیدم که خیلی به هم می‌آیند، هر دو شور و شر، سنی و سالی نزدک‌تر، و من؟ آن روزها زیادی بچه‌مثبت، یبس و جدی. تئوری‌های معاصرتر شاید بگوید ما همدیگر را کامل می‌کردیم، اما آن‌زمان کسی چنین عقیده‌ای نداشت. یک شب، قرار شد او برود سوپری، برادرم پیش‌قدم شد که همراهی‌اش خواهد کرد، و همین کار را هم کرد. وقتی برمی‌گشتیم خانهٔ خودمان، بهم گفت: من امشب چند دقیقه باهاش تنها بودم.
خب؟
خب امشب ولنتاین بود.
ولنتاین چیه؟
یعنی اگه امشب با کسی تنها بشی، بعدا باهاش عروسی می‌کنی.



* و اما در باب کتاب (مال من از نشر اساطیر بود و فقط حاوی نخستین‌عشق بود، با همین ترجمه):

- خطاب به کی؟
پس از آشنایی با جریان سیال ذهن، وقتی دیدم داستان را می‌توان از طریق دنبال‌کردن افکار یک یا چند شخصیت متوجه شد، سایر داستان‌ها تاحدودی به نظرم مصنوعی آمد، و سؤالم این بود که راوی دارد خطاب به کی حرف می‌زند؟ و راوی کیست؟ شنیدن افکار یک شخصیت، عملی طبیعی است، اما یک راوی وهم است. تورگینیف در این کتاب و یادداشت‌های‌آدم‌زیادی، به این سؤال جواب می‌دهد. برای مثال در ابتدای این کتاب سه دوست قرار گذاشته‌اند داستان اولین عشقشان را تعریف کنند، و یکی تصمیم می‌گیرد آن را بنویسد، و این کتاب همان است. سؤال خطاب به کی؟ اینجا پاسخ واضحی دارد، خطاب به دوستانش! نه ما.

- ریدیوهد
چند سال قبل دوستم تعریف می‌کرد که حالا چند سال است ریدیوهد آهنگ کریپ را از اجراهایشان حذف کرده‌اند، چون خیلی آهنگ خودزنانه‌ای است، و اعضای بند بعدا که معروف شدند خیلی مغرور شدند. نمی‌دانم آیا این اتفاق برای تورگینیف هم رخ داد یا نه، اما به طرز غم‌انگیزی هم در این کتاب و هم آدم‌زیادی، راوی اصرار دارد که داستان‌گوی خوبی نیست. کی بهتر از شما استاد؟ البته این موضوعی ست که چند سال بعد یکی از ستون‌های تئوریک ادبیات مدرن شد: اینکه نویسنده فرق دارد با راوی. این موضوع در ایران به‌ویژه با بوف کور خیلی بحث‌برانگیز شد.

- هیچکاک
در میانهٔ رمان، و با نشانه‌های فراوانی که در ادامه می‌آید، مخاطب معمایی که شدیدا ذهن راوی را مشغول کرده کشف می‌کند، و گویی تورگینیف می‌خواد فراتر از «ماجرا»، ما شاهد زجرکشیدن قهرمان کودک از این جهل باشیم، اتفاقی که در سرگیجهٔ هیچکاک هم شاهدش بودیم. هیچکاک می‌گفت بیشتر از اینکه دلش بخواهد در پایان فیلم با حل معما مخاطب را غافلگیر کند، عاشق این احساس در مخاطب است که بفهمد حدسش درست بوده. خب فکر نکنم قهرمان این رمان و آن فیلم اگر هم حدسشان درست درمی‌آید خیلی به حالشان فرق می‌کرد.

- راوی اول‌شخص نامحدود به خودش
کتاب جنبه‌های کمدی هم دارد، اما یکی از اینها (که با خوانشی متفاوت از من، می‌تواند نقطه‌ضعف تلقی شود)، وقت‌هایی ست که راوی بیشتر از چیزی که می‌داند می‌گوید. در روایت ادبی یک زاویه‌دید هست به نام «راوی سوم‌شخص محدود به قهرمان» که شاید فلوبر راهش انداخت و کافکا در آن خبره بود، و می‌دانیم حالتی ست که راوی علی‌رغم سوم‌شخص‌بودن، چیزی بیشتر از قهرمان نمی‌داند، و وقتی پنکهٔ پشت سر من را توصیف می‌کند که من بهش نگاه کنم، اینجا برعکس بود، و یکی دو بار راوی مثلا می‌گفت: این اتاق مرتب‌تر از اتاق قبلی بود، اما من اصلا ندیدمش، چون داشتم فلانی را نگاه می‌کردم! یا چند جمله را بازگو می‌کند و می‌گوید من فقط آن دو کلمه را شنیدم.

- استعارهٔ برگزیده
مثل سوسکی که پایش را با نخ بسته‌اند، مدام دور خانهٔ محبوب می‌چرخیدم.

"Che cosa potevo dirle? Stava davanti a me e mi guardava, e io le appartenevo tutto, dalla testa ai piedi, quando lei mi guardava..."

Primo amore come turbamento, palpito, sconvolgimento, ma anche come tormento, dolore, rimpianto, tradimento.
Breve e intenso.

These are the days of frock-coats and coxcombs and courtships, when being distinctive mattered in person, not online. The days of young men making fools of themselves (then again, they still do). So, Turgenev had something unexplainable going on with the composer, Pauline Viardot. This makes a certain part of the story palpable. Before he died, he admitted that First Love: “is the only thing that still gives me pleasure, because it is life itself, it was not made up...” Even without that perspective, the story stands alone as great craftsmanship wherein illogical love, and even something akin to the passion of poetry, burns on the page. Or should I say, lights up the page? No, it burns beneath my fingertips. No one takes a person through storytelling in such a beguiling way as does Turgenev (thank you Ilse for giving me the nudge to return to his writing again this year). I was captivated by the arc of the story; the way in which Turgenev leans into instinctive language through the retrospective narration of an older man who, at sixteen years old, falls in love with a woman five years his senior; how the story stays emotionally awake through evocations; how the ending throbs with bewildering revelations. So captivated that I decided to jot this review on my iPhone because I’m in the middle of the New England woods and don’t want to lose this moment, this feeling of the last page turned.