Short Fiction quotes

Your pride was broken. You were conquered.

The more inaccessible is a dream, the more fascinating it is⁠—and the more fascinating it is, the more inaccessible it seems.

This I know well. The dream holds me in thrall from my early childhood. And I know that the more precious my thought is to me, the less hope there is of its becoming realized. And I am waging a constant struggle with it.

And I know that the more precious my thought is to me, the less hope there is of its becoming realized. And I am waging a constant struggle with it. I play the hypocrite; I pretend that I am indifferent. But what could you do?

Happiness, happiness!

You were full of longing for happiness when you opened your eyes in the morning. Confiding, like every child, your heart frank and open, you came to Life and said, “Hurry! Hurry!”

And you began to cry, and shriek, and call for help.

Not a muscle twitched in the face of Life⁠ ⁠… Give in, give in! And you gave in.

Do you remember how timidly you came out of the nursery, and what you said to me?

But the sun is not at fault in that vision has been denied to the eyes of a bat. The heart of man aye seeketh faith and protection. But who would seek protection from an owl?

It is better to dream of the shadow of the phoenix, even though the phoenix may never have existed in this world.

But the protecting shadow of the Creator exists since the start of time.

But who would seek protection from an owl? It is better to dream of the shadow of the phoenix, even though the phoenix may never have existed in this world. But the protecting shadow of the Creator exists since the start of time.

The black-eared jackal slinks in the steps of a lion: the lion knoweth where the prey is, and the black-eared one findeth sustenance in the remnants of the lion’s repast.

Thus did the Hebrews follow their prophet out of the land of Egypt. Through the favour of God did he fulfill the mighty deed he had set out to do.

My life has been a well-spent one; I got everything I went after.

I even own real property—my little old man right after the wedding signed the house over in my name; and I keep horses, and two cows, and we have a business all our own.

What with courts and law, father was sent to a convict colony for this here thing. I was left all alone in this world, and thinks I, what am I to do now?

Plainly, you can’t get through the world on righteousness alone; plainly, you must needs keep your eyes open.

I figured it out a whole year, living with my aunt; then I saw there was nowhere for me to go—I had to marry fast as I could. My dad had a good friend in town, a harness maker—well, him it was that courted me.

that he had then travelled to Tsaritsin—and there, never fear, he must have broken his neck. … But what’s the use of talking about it—it only troubles the heart!

No matter how much you cook water, it will still be water.⁠ ⁠…

But as to what he’d said about Nicanor Matveich—why, I think it’s even silly. It wasn’t like I had been greedy after a great sum, or had pulled it out of his pocket.

it was gripped in one corner of his mouth between his teeth, and he lit it with a stinking sulphur match flaming within his cupped hands.

“Just exactly at this time last year I killed a man.”

And the schoolboy at once straightened up, letting his hands drop—and he seemed to be turned to stone during all the time that the others talked.

“

Fools are beaten even at the altar.

Why, Postnii, it wouldn’t be half-enough to beat you to death for this here she-goat. What did you go and kill her for? You should have sold it.

“No. You will think better with your eyes closed.”

“You’re a strange fellow, O Lord,” grinned Semyon.

“Well, what can I do? I’ll buy you a candle for three roubles.”

And in the cradle lay a little girl, dead, her body turned black-blue, while on her head a nightcap, made of scraps of cloth, was burning slowly.

From that time on, Semyon lived quite happily.

Without a word, Shasha would extricate his head out of his father’s fingers, and, having run out into the anteroom, would smite his bosom with his fist:

“All r-r-right, father! I say nothing! I always say nothing!” he would hiss ominously.

“Why, she-animal that you are!” Roman would bawl at him. “Why, it’s for this same silence and hoiti-toitiness that I’m a-beating you of! So, then, you’re striving for the beating yourself? Why? Wherefore?”

“Why, she-animal that you are!” Roman would bawl at him. “Why, it’s for this same silence and hoiti-toitiness that I’m a-beating you of! So, then, you’re striving for the beating yourself? Why? Wherefore?”

“My ashes when I’m laid in my grave shall know it all!” Shasha would answer ferociously and enigmatically.

One could have wagered his head that he must have been in an excellent state of feelings. Had he not been born with a golden spoon in his mouth? He would order new boots two or three times in a year;

… Yes, but where was a body to get that money? It’s only into the hands of fools that good luck plays; but you take an able, sensible man, and

Fate will twist him into a ram’s horn.

Well, let it—let it! “I say nothing,” Shasha would say, malignantly rejoicing; “I always say nothing!”

The muzhik was silent for a while.

“We are vagabones, you and me,” said he, morosely and meditatively. “Poor wayside rubbish.⁠ ⁠… Beggar-men.⁠ ⁠… I feel weary in your company!”

“But as for beer—I like it,” said the muzhik loudly, after another silence. “She don’t keep it, the carrion! Otherwise I would have drunk some beer … and would have had a snack of something. … My tongue’s all soaked—I want to eat.

It’s a grave-shroud!” he cried out with tears in his voice, and was silent for a while, hearkening to the abating songs of the skylarks. Then he shoved the bag away from him, and, shaking his tousled head, began to cry:

“I have risen in my pride against God!” said he bitterly, weeping.

And then, straining himself, he began to sing loudly, keeping good time:

And night came—a night on which, in the forests near Colombo, all that was left of the rickshaw-man was only a little contorted corpse, that had lost its number, its name, even as the river Kellani loses its appellation when it reaches the ocean.

The sun, upon sinking, changes to a wind; but into what does he that has died change?⁠ ⁠…

Night was rapidly extinguishing the roseate and green colours of the fleeting twilight—colours as tender as those of some fairy tale; the flying foxes darted noiselessly underneath the branches, seeking shelter for the night;

“Why no, not at all,” answered the captain with assumed nonchalance. “It’s a tiresome business, and responsible, but, in reality not very complicated. … It is all a matter of habit. …”

“Better say⁠—of our callousness,” said the Englishman.

“To be standing there, up on your bridge, at whose sides these two great eyes—the green and the red—look out, blurred, through their thick glass, and to be sailing somewhere into the darkness of night and water, extending for thousands of miles around—it is madness!

“Love is not a mere episode in our Life,” Ivlev read. “Our Reason contradicts the Heart and doth not convince the latter.”

“Women are never so strong as when they arm themselves with Weakness.”

“We adore Woman because she holds sovereign sway over our Ideal Dream.” “Vanity chooses; True Love—never.” “A Woman of Beauty must take second place; the first belongs to the Woman of Charm. It is the latter that becomes the Sovereign of our Heart:

“Our Reason contradicts the Heart and doth not convince the latter.” “Women are never so strong as when they arm themselves with Weakness.” “We adore Woman because she holds sovereign sway over our Ideal Dream.”

“Vanity chooses; True Love⁠—never.”

“A Woman of Beauty must take second place; the first belongs to the Woman of Charm. It is the latter that becomes the Sovereign of our Heart:

The gentleman from San Francisco⁠—nobody either in Capri or Naples ever remembered his name⁠—was setting out with his wife and daughter for the Old World, to spend there two years of pleasure.

He was fully convinced of his right to rest, to enjoy long and comfortable travels, and so forth. Because, in the first place he was rich, and in the second place, notwithstanding his fifty-eight years, he was just starting to live.

He was fully convinced of his right to rest, to enjoy long and comfortable travels, and so forth. Because, in the first place he was rich, and in the second place, notwithstanding his fifty-eight years, he was just starting to live.

Up to the present he had not lived, but only existed; quite well, it is true, yet with all his hopes on the future.

He had worked incessantly—and the Chinamen whom he employed by the thousand in his factories knew what that meant.

But the German dashed out of the room with a yell, alarming the house and all the diners. Many sprang up from the table, upsetting their chairs, many, pallid, ran towards the reading-room, and in every language it was asked: “What—what’s the matter?”

None answered intelligibly, nobody understood, for even today people are more surprised at death than at anything else, and never want to believe it is true.

The proprietor rushed from one guest to another, trying to keep back those who were hastening up, to soothe them with assurances that it was a mere trifle, a fainting-fit that had overcome a certain Gentleman from San Francisco. … But no one heeded him.

Formerly when friends met her on the way to church, and said to her jokingly: “What have you to pray for, Madame Maraud? You are already without sin and without troubles!” she more than once answered with a sad smile:

“I complain to God that he has not given me a son.”

Now the thought of a son never left her, the thought of the happiness that he would constantly give her by his mere existence in the world. And once, soon after Emile’s departure, she said to her husband:

In the cemetery above a fresh mound of earth stands a new cross of oak—strong, heavy, smooth, a pleasant thing to look at.

It is April, but the days are grey.

From a long way off one can see through the bare trees the tombstones in the cemetery—a spacious, real country or cathedral town cemetery; the cold wind goes whistling, whistling through the china wreath at the foot of the cross.

but do you know what the chief thing is? Gentle breathing! And I have got it; you listen how I breathe; isn’t it gentle?”

Now the gentle breathing has again vanished away into the world, into the cloudy day, into the cold spring wind.⁠ ⁠…

What does it matter of whom we speak? Any that have lived and that live upon this earth deserve to be the subject of our discourse.

Once upon a time Chang had come to know the universe and the captain, his master, to whom his earthly existence had become linked. And six entire years have run since then—have run like the sands in a ship’s hourglass.

On such days life in the city does not start at an early hour. Nor do Chang and the captain awake early.

Six years⁠—is it a long time, or short?

In six years Chang and the captain have grown old, although the captain is not yet forty; and their lot has harshly changed. They no longer sail the seas—they live “on shore,” as seamen say;

His half-shut eyes grow misty, he looks faintly at his master, and, feeling a constantly increasing tenderness toward him, thinks what in human speech may be expressed as follows:

“Oh, you foolish, foolish fellow! There is but one truth in this world, and if you but knew what a wonderful truth it is!”

And again, in something between thought and dream, Chang reverts to that distant morning, when the steamer, after carrying the captain and Chang from China over the tormented restless ocean, had entered the Red Sea. …

“For after all, what is the main thing? When you love somebody, there is no power on earth that can make you believe that the one you love can possibly not love you. And that is just where the devil comes in, Chang.

But how magnificent life is; my God, how magnificent!

”

“For after all, what is the main thing?

When you love somebody, there is no power on earth that can make you believe that the one you love can possibly not love you.

And that is just where the devil comes in, Chang. But how magnificent life is; my God, how magnificent!”

and from the coffeehouse they would set out for a restaurant whither flocked all sorts of human ragtag, and there they would sit far into the night. …

A winter day is short, but with a bottle of wine, sitting in conversation with a friend, it is still shorter.

And now Chang, the captain, and the artist had already been both in the beer-shop and in the coffeehouse, and it is the sixth hour that they have been sitting and drinking in the restaurant.

Everything that these people pretend as constituting their life is all bosh and a lie: they have neither God, nor conscience, nor a sensible purpose in existing, nor love, nor friendship, nor honesty—there is even no common pity.

Life is a dreary, winter day in a filthy tavern, no more.

…”

“This woman won’t like you and me, Chang!

There are some feminine souls, brother, which languish eternally in a certain pensive yearning for love, and who just for that very same reason never love anybody.

There are such—and how shall they be judged for all their heartlessness, falsehood, their dreams of going on the stage, of owning an automobile, of yachting picnics, of some sportsman or other, who pretends to be an Englishman, and tortures his hair, all greasy with …

…” But Chang does not feel even terror now. He lies on the floor, his muzzle toward the corner; he has shut his eyes tight that he might not behold the universe, might forget it.

And the universe murmurs over him dully and distantly, like the sea over one who descends deeper and deeper into its abyss.

But when he does come to himself again, it is near the doors of a chapel, in the porch. He sits near them with drooping head; dull, half-dead—only he is all shaking in a chill.

“Ye-es,” this friend had said, shaking his head with a derisive and enigmatic smile, “he’s a fine lad!” On the spot the guest came to know still more, and chiefly through the fragmentary phrases of Zotov himself.

Strangely and unexpectedly do talents manifest themselves in Russia, and they work miracles when lucky lots fall to their share!

For he had drawn an unusually lucky lot when he had come as an urchin to Moscow. He had an uncle there; a well-fed, clever muzhik, who had already attained to a competence and a consciousness of his own worth;

the air was warm, the black trees on the boulevards were turning green; everywhere there were crowds of people, cars, carts. Moscow was trafficking and doing business, was returning to the usual, pressing work, was ending her holiday, and unconsciously welcomed the spring.

A man who has lived his life and ruined it feels lonely on a spring evening in a strange, crowded city.

Kasimir Stanislavovitch walked the whole length of the Tverskoy Boulevard; he saw once more the cast-iron figure of the musing Poushkin, the golden and lilac top of the Strasnoy Monastery.

“Perhaps I did,” answered the old man dryly. “

There are lots of people in the world; one can’t remember all of you.

”