Reading Pushkin in Prestige restaurant in Mostar / Čitanje Puškina u restoranu Prestige u Mostaru

You know it is cold when you wear a sweater over a turtleneck (and on top of that a coat, a scarf, a pair of gloves and a cap). This is what I would call 'full winter gear'. This is what I wore a few days ago when the weather was quite cold and windy. Today it is supposed to be sunny and warm. I'm not complaining about the sudden rise of temperature, but these extreme weather changes aren't exactly healthy. Well, onto brighter subjects. If you look at these photographs, you will notice there is a book in my hand, one that I had for a long time but I haven't finished it yet. It is a collection of poems, fairy tales and plays by Pushkin. I already had some of his works, but when I saw this book I simply couldn't resist. When I bought it, I already read most of his poems, but it is nice to have them all in one place. I'm glad I bought this book because the selection is excellent and even the foreword is well written. You know that feeling when you're so happy because you have a certain book at your possession and you can read it whenever you want? You can find this edition here, but you can also just google Pushkin and you won't have trouble finding his works.

Znate da je hladno kada nosite džemper preko dolčevite ( i preko toga kaput, šal, rukavice i kapu). To je ono što bih ja nazvala "puna zimska oprema". Ovo sam nosila prije par dana kada je bilo poprilično hladno i vjetrovito. Danas bi trebalo biti sunčano i toplo. Ne žalim se na nagli porast temperature, ali ove ekstremne promjene u temperaturi baš i nisu zdrave. No, prebacimo se na ljepše teme. Pogledate li ove fotografije vidjeti ćete da imam knjigu u ruci. Zapravo je imam već duže vrijeme, ali nisam je još dovršila. To je izbor iz djela Puškina, u ovom slučaju tu su pjesme, bajke i drame. Kada sam je kupila, već sam pročitala većinu njegovim pjesama, ali lijepo ih je imati na jednom mjestu. Drago mi je što sam kupila ovu knjigu jer je izbor iz djela odličan, a čak je i predgovor dobro napisan. Znate onaj osjećaj kada ste sretni što imate određenu knjigu u vlasništvu i možete je pročitati kad god želite? Možete pronaći ovo izdanje ovdje (ako se dobro sjećam ja sam knjigu platila manje,  knjige su obično puno povoljnije na sajmovima knjiga gdje sam ovo svoje izdanje i kupila), ali možete jednostavno i naći njegova djela na internetu.

hat/ kapa: no name
scarf/šal: Avon
turtleneck/ dolčevita: New Yorker
sweater/džemper: Mana
necklace/ogrlica: dresslink
jeans/traperice: Y.U.O
boots. dr.Martens

 I yet have to read Puskin's plays, for some reason I keep forgetting about them despite the fact that was the reason why I bought this book in the first place. It may be because every time I start reading it, I get so caught up in Pushkin's poetry.I can never get tired of Pushkin's poems but I do hope I will find time to read his plays soon. One of the things that set out Pushkin apart from other writers is that he was able to write in every genre. I always like to have a book in my bag, so that I can read while I'm waiting for someone. As I said many times, there is something about holding a book in my hand. It makes me feel closer to that author and it that helps me concentrate better. I still believe  that investing in printed word pays off. I treasure every book I have in my book collection.

Još moram pročitati njegove drame, iz nekog razloga uvijek to zaboravim iako sam zbog toga i kupila ovu knjigu. Vjerovatno jer svaki put kada je počnem čitati, izgubim se u Puškinovoj poeziji. Puškinove pjesme mi nikada ne mogu dosaditi, ali nadam se da ću ipak uskoro pročitati i njegove drame. Jedna stvar koja Puškina odvaja od drugih pisaca je da je on pisao u svakom žanru. Uvijek volim imati knjigu u svojoj torbi, tako da mogu čitati dok čekam nekoga. Kao što sam rekla puno puta, ima nešto u držanju knjige u rukama. Osjećam se tada bliže piscu i nekako se bolje koncentriram. Još uvijek vjerujem da vrijedi ulagati u tiskanu riječ i da se to isplati. Svaka knjiga koja se nalazi u mojoj kolekciji knjiga puno mi znači.

hat/ kapa: no name

scarf/šal: Avon

turtleneck/ dolčevita: New Yorker

jeans/traperice: Y.U.O

boots. dr.Martens

FROM WIKIPEDIA:

Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin (English: /ˈpʊʃkɪn/;^[1] Russian: Александр Сергеевич Пушкин, IPA: [ɐlʲɪkˈsandr sʲɪrˈɡʲe(j)ɪvʲɪtɕ ˈpuʂkʲɪn] ^ⓘ; 6 June [O.S. 26 May] 1799 – 10 February [O.S. 29 January] 1837) was a Russian poet, playwright, and novelist of the Romantic era.^[2] He is considered by many to be the greatest Russian poet,^[3][4][5][6] as well as the founder of modern Russian literature.^[7][8]

Pushkin was born into the Russian nobility in Moscow.^[9] His father, Sergey Lvovich Pushkin, belonged to an old noble family. His maternal great-grandfather was Major-General Abram Petrovich Gannibal, a nobleman of Eritrean origin who was kidnapped from his homeland by Ottomans, then freed by the Russian Emperor and raised in the Emperor's court household as his godson.

He published his first poem at the age of 15, and was widely recognized by the literary establishment by the time of his graduation from the Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum. Upon graduation from the Lycée, Pushkin recited his controversial poem "Ode to Liberty", one of several that led to his exile by Emperor Alexander I. While under strict surveillance by the Emperor's political police and unable to publish, Pushkin wrote his most famous play, Boris Godunov. His novel in verse Eugene Onegin was serialized between 1825 and 1832. Pushkin was fatally wounded in a duel with his wife's alleged lover and her sister's husband, Georges-Charles de Heeckeren d'Anthès, also known as Dantes-Gekkern, a French officer serving with the Chevalier Guard Regiment.

Critics consider many of his works masterpieces, such as the poem The Bronze Horseman and the drama The Stone Guest, a tale of the fall of Don Juan. His poetic short drama Mozart and Salieri (like The Stone Guest, one of the so-called four Little Tragedies, a collective characterization by Pushkin himself in 1830 letter to Pyotr Pletnyov^[36]) was the inspiration for Peter Shaffer's Amadeus as well as providing the libretto (almost verbatim) to Rimsky-Korsakov's opera Mozart and Salieri.

Pushkin is also known for his short stories. In particular his cycle The Tales of the Late Ivan Petrovich Belkin, including The Shot, were well received. 

Pushkin is usually credited with developing Russian literature. He is seen as having originated the highly nuanced level of language which characterizes Russian literature after him, and he is also credited with substantially augmenting the Russian lexicon. Whenever he found gaps in the Russian vocabulary, he devised calques. His rich vocabulary and highly-sensitive style are the foundation for modern Russian literature. His accomplishments set new records for development of the Russian language and culture. He became the father of Russian literature in the 19th century, marking the highest achievements of the 18th century and the beginning of literary process of the 19th century. He introduced Russia to all the European literary genres as well as a great number of West European writers. He brought natural speech and foreign influences to create modern poetic Russian. Though his life was brief, he left examples of nearly every literary genre of his day: lyric poetry, narrative poetry, the novel, the short story, the drama, the critical essay and even the personal letter.

The Singer Did you hear beyond the grove the night voice Of the singer of love who sings of his sadness? In the morning, when the fields were silent, It was the plaintive and simple sound of the pipe. ⁠Did you hear it? Did you meet in the desolate darkness of the forest The singer of love who sings of his sadness? Did you notice a trace of tears or smile, Or a gentle and mournful glance? ⁠Did you meet him? Did you sigh to hear the tender voice Of the singer of love who sings of the sadness? When you saw the young man in the forest, And met the look of his mournful eyes, ⁠Did you sigh? 1816/1819

THE ROUSSALKA.

III. 71.


By a lake once in forest darkness
A monk his soul was saving,
Ever in stern occupation
Of prayer, fast, and labor.
Already with slackened shovel
The aged man his grave was digging,
And only for death in peace and quiet
To his saintly patrons prayed he.

Once in summer at the threshold
Of his drooping little hut
To God was praying the hermit.
Darker grew the forest.
Over the lake was rising fog.
And in the clouds the reddish moon
Was gently rolling along the sky.
Upon the waters the hermit gazed.

He looks, and fears, and knows not why,
Himself he cannot understand....
Now he sees: the waves are seething
[Pg 85]And suddenly again are quiet....

Suddenly ... as light as shade of night,
As white as early snow of hills,
Out cometh a woman naked
And on the shore herself she seats.

Upon the aged monk she gazes
And she combs her moistened tresses—
The holy monk with terror trembles,
Upon her charms still he gazes;
With her hand to him she beckons
And her head she's quickly nodding....
And suddenly like a falling star
The dreamy wave she vanished under.

The sober monk, all night he slept not,
And all day he prayed not
The shadow unwittingly before him
Of the wondrous maid he ever sees.
Again the forest is clad in darkness,
Along the clouds the moon is sailing.
Again the maid above the water,
Pale and splendent there she sits.

Gaze her eyes, nods her head,
Throws kisses, and she's sporting,
The wave she sprinkles, and she frolics;
[Pg 86]Child-like weeping now and laughing;

Sobbing tender—the monk she calls:
Monk, O monk, to me, to me!
Into the waves transparent she dashes;
And again is all in silence deep.

But on the third day the roused hermit
The enchanted shores nigh sitting was,
And the beautiful maid he awaited.
Upon the trees were falling shades....
Night at last by dawn was chased—
And nowhere monk could be found,
His beard alone, the gray one
In the water the boys could see.

[Pg 87]1819.

THE COSSAK.

III. 14.


Once at midnight hour,
Darkness thro' and fog,
Quiet by the river
Rode a Cossak brave.

Black his cap upon his ear,
Dust-covered is his coat,
By his knee the pistols hang
And nigh the ground his sword.

The faithful steed, rein not feeling
Is walking slowly on,
(Long its mane is, and is waving)
Ever further it keeps on.

Now before him two—three huts:
Broken is the fence;
To the village here the road,
To the forest there.

"Not in forest maid is found,"
Dennis thinks, the brave.
"To their chambers went the maids;
[Pg 88]Are gone for the night."

The son of Don he pulls the rein
And the spur he strikes:
Like an arrow rushed the steed—
To the huts he turned.

In the clouds the distant sky
Was silvering the moon;
A Beauty-Maid in melancholy
By the window sits.

Espies the brave the Beauty-Maid,
Beats his heart within:
Gently steed to left, to left—
Under the window now is he.

"Darker growing is the night
And hidden is the moon;
Quick, my darling, do come out,
Water give my steed."

"No, not unto a man so young;
Right fearful't is to go;
Fearful't is my house to leave,
And water give thy steed."

"Have no fear, O Beauty-Maid,
And friendship close with me"—
"Brings danger night to Beauty-Maids,"
[Pg 89]"Fear me not, O joy of mine!

"Trust me, dear, thy fear is vain,
Away with terror groundless!
Time thou losest precious,
Fear not, O my darling!

Mount my steed; with thee I will
To distant regions gallop;
Blest with me be thou shalt,
Heaven with mate is everywhere."

And the maid? Over she bends,
Her fear is overcome,
Bashfully to ride consents,
And the Cossak happy is.

Off they dart, away they fly;
Are loving one another.
Faithful he for two brief weeks,
Forsook her on the third.

[Pg 90]1815.

THE BIRDLET.

I. 171.


God's birdlet knows
Nor care, nor toil;
Nor weaves it painfully
An everlasting nest.
Thro' the long night on the twig it slumbers;
When rises the red sun
Birdie listens to the voice of God
And it starts, and it sings.
When Spring, Nature's Beauty,
And the burning summer have passed,
And the fog, and the rain,
By the late fall are brought,
Men are wearied, men are grieved,
But birdie flies into distant lands,
Into warm climes, beyond the blue sea:
Flies away until the spring.

[Pg 98]1824.

THE CLOUD.

IV. 95.


O last cloud of the scattered storm,
Alone thou sailest along the azure clear;
Alone thou bringest the shadow sombre,
Alone thou marrest the joyful day.

Thou but recently had'st encircled the sky
When sternly the lightning was winding about thee;
Thou gavest forth mysterious thunder,
With rain hast watered the parched earth.

Enough! Hie thyself: thy time hath passed:
Earth is refreshed; the storm hath fled;
And the breeze, fondling the trees' leaves
Forth thee chases from the quieted heavens!

[Pg 99]1835.




THE NORTH WIND.

IV. 94.


Why, O wrathful north wind, thou
The marshy shrub dost downward bend?
Why thus in the distant sky-vault
Wrathfully the cloud dost chase?

The black clouds but recently
Had spread the whole heavens o'er,
The oak on hill top but recently
In beauty wondrous itself was priding.

Thou hast risen, and up hast played,
With terror resounded, and with splendor—
And away are driven the stormy clouds;
Down is hurled the mighty oak.

Let now then the sun's clear face
With joy henceforth ever shine,
With the clouds now the zephyr play,
And the bush in quiet sway.

[Pg 100]1824.




WINTER MORNING.

IV. 164.


Frost and sun—the day is wondrous!
Thou still art slumbering, charming friend.
'Tis time, O Beauty, to awaken:
Ope thine eyes, now in sweetness closed,
To meet the Northern Dawn of Morning
Thyself a north-star do thou appear!

Last night, remember, the storm scolded,
And darkness floated in the clouded sky;
Like a yellow, clouded spot
Thro' the clouds the moon was gleaming,—
And melancholy thou wert sitting—
But now ... thro' the window cast a look:

Stretched beneath the heavens blue
Carpet-like magnificent,
In the sun the snow is sparkling;
Dark alone is the wood transparent,
And thro' the hoar gleams green the fir,
[Pg 101]And under the ice the rivulet sparkles.

Entire is lighted with diamond splendor
Thy chamber ... with merry crackle
The wood is crackling in the oven.
To meditation invites the sofa.
But know you? In the sleigh not order why
The brownish mare to harness?

Over the morning snow we gliding
Trust we shall, my friend, ourselves
To the speed of impatient steed;
Visit we shall the fields forsaken,
The woods, dense but recently,
And the banks so dear to me.

[Pg 102]1829.




WINTER EVENING.

IV. 166.


The storm the sky with darkness covers,
The snowy whirlings twisting;
Like a beast wild now is howling,
Like an infant now is crying;
Over the aged roof now sudden
In the straw it rustling is;
Like a traveller now belated
For entrance at our window knocking.

With melancholy and with darkness
Our little, aged hut is filled
Why in silence then thou sittest
By the window, wife old mine?
Or by the howling storms art
Wearied thou, O companion mine?
Or perchance art slumbering,
By the rustling spindle soothed?

Let us drink, O kindly friend
Of my poverty and youth,
Away with grief,—where is the cup?
[Pg 103]Joy it shall bring to our heart.

A song now sing me, how the bird
Beyond the sea in quiet lived;
A song now sing me, how the maiden
In the morning for water went.

The storm the sky with darkness covers,
The snowy whirlings twisting;
Like a beast wild now is howling,
Like an infant now is crying.
Let us drink, O kindly friend
Of my poverty and youth,
Away with grief,—where is the cup
Joy it shall bring to our heart!

[Pg 104]1826.




THE WINTER-ROAD.

IV. 161.


Breaking thro' the waving fogs
Forth the moon is coming,
And on the gloomy acres
She gloomy light is shedding.

Along the wintry, cheerless road
Flies the rapid troika
The little bell monotonous
Wearily is tinkling.

A certain homefulness is heard
In the driver's lengthy lays:
Now light-hearted carelessness,
Now low-spirited sadness.

Neither light, nor a dark hut ...
Only snow and silence....
Striped mileposts are alone
[Pg 105]The travellers who meet us.

Sad I feel and weary.... On the morrow, Nina,
To my beloved I returning
Forget myself shall by the fire
And scarce eno' at her shall gaze.

Loudly of my watch the spring
Its measured circle is completing
And us the parter of the wearied,
Midnight, not shall separate.

Sad I'm, Nina; my journey's weary;
Slumbering now, my driver is quiet
The little bell is monotonous
And darkened now is the moon's face.

1826.

[Pg 109]