Поиск по творчеству и критике
Cлово "FAR"
Входимость: 11. Размер: 120кб.
Входимость: 9. Размер: 162кб.
Входимость: 7. Размер: 45кб.
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Входимость: 2. Размер: 17кб.
Входимость: 2. Размер: 19кб.
Входимость: 1. Размер: 40кб.
Входимость: 1. Размер: 116кб.
Входимость: 1. Размер: 9кб.
Входимость: 1. Размер: 54кб.
Входимость: 1. Размер: 5кб.
Примерный текст на первых найденных страницах
Входимость: 11. Размер: 120кб.
Часть текста: at four o'clock in the morning among the grey ranks lined up outside the billet of the colonel of the 222nd Starobelsky Infantry Regiment. I had on a greatcoat with red shoulder-straps and blue tabs, and a cap with a blue band; across my back was a pack, at my belt a cartridge pouch, in my hand a heavy rifle. The band struck up, and the colours were carried out of the colonel's lodgings. A command rang out; the regiment noiselessly presented arms. Then a terrific uproar arose: the colonel shouted a command, and this was taken up by the battalion and company commanders and the platoon NCO's. The result was a confused and to me quite unintelligible movement of greatcoats, which ended in the regiment stretching out in a long column and swinging off to the sounds of the regimental band, which blared out a gay march. I marched along, too, trying to keep in step with my neighbour. The pack pulled backwards, the heavy pouches forwards, the rifle kept slipping off my shoulder, and the collar of the greatcoat chafed my neck; but despite all these little discomforts, the music, the orderly heavy movement...
Входимость: 9. Размер: 162кб.
Часть текста: they are of considerable historical interest; some because they wish to recapture the happy days of their youth; others for the sake of gossiping and blackening people long since dead and defending themselves against accusations long since forgotten. I have none of these reasons. I am still a young man, who has not made history nor seen it made; I have no reason to blacken people, and no reason whatever to defend myself. To recapture past happiness? It was so short-lived and the end so frightful, that the memory of it is anything but pleasant. Why then does a secret voice whisper it into my ear, why, when I wake up in the night, do familiar scenes and visions pass before me in the darkness, and why, when one pale image rises before me, do my face flame and my hands clench, and terror and rage clutch at my throat, as they did that day when I stood face to face with my mortal enemy? I cannot rid myself of these haunting memories, and an odd thought has occurred to me. Perhaps, if I put them down on paper, I shall be finished with them; perhaps they will haunt me no longer, and will let me die in peace. That is the special reason that makes me take up my pen. Perhaps someone will read this diary, perhaps not. It is...
Входимость: 7. Размер: 45кб.
Часть текста: to hell with my instruments and estimates! But is it not a shame to rejoice at the death of my poor aunt, just because she left me a legacy that enables me to give up the service? True, it was her dying wish that I should devote myself entirely to my favourite occupation, and I am glad now that I am able, among other things, to fulfil her ardent desire. That was yesterday. . . . How astonished our chief looked when he heard that I was giving up my post! And when I explained what I was doing it for he simply stared at me open-mouthed. "For love of art? H'm! Hand in your application." And without a word more he turned and went away. But that was all I needed. I was free, I was an artist! Was not that the height of bliss? I wanted to get away from people and from St. Petersburg, so I took a boat and went out for a run along the seashore. The water, the sky, the city gleaming in the sun from afar, the blue woods skirting the shores of the bay, the mast tops in the Kronstadt roads, the dozens of...
Входимость: 4. Размер: 50кб.
Часть текста: sailing vessels and steamers, and drew the sea air into his lungs with a zest he had never felt in his life before. He stood for a long time, revelling in these new sensations, his back turned to the city in which he had arrived only that day, and where he was to live for many a year. Behind him a motley crowd was strolling along the boulevard; he caught snatches of Russian and foreign conversation, the quiet dignified voices of the local worthies, the pretty babble of the young ladies, and the boisterous voices of the senior schoolboys clustering around two or three of them. A burst of laughter from one such group made Vasily Petrovich turn round. The gay crowd passed him; one of the youths was saying something to a young schoolgirl; his chums were noisily interrupting what was apparently a vehement apologetic speech. "Don't you believe him, Nina! He's a liar! He's making it all up!" "No, really, Nina, it isn't my fault in the least!" "Look here, Shevyrev, if you ever try to deceive me again..." the girl began with affected hauteur in a pretty young voice. Vasily Petrovich did not catch the rest of the sentence, as the crowd passed out of earshot. Half a minute later another burst of laughter came out of the darkness. "There is my future field of activity upon which I shall toil like the humble ploughman," thought Vasily Petrovich, first, because he had been appointed to the post of teacher in the local Gymnasium, and secondly, because he had a predilection for figurative thinking even when he did not give it utterance. "Yes, I shall have to labour in that humble field," he thought, sitting down on the bench, again facing the sea. "Where are thy dreams of a professorship, of journalism, of renown? They...
Входимость: 2. Размер: 17кб.
Часть текста: the old sunken flower-beds and the garden walks, and it was long since anyone had swept them or sprinkled sand over them. The wooden fence with railings fashioned in the shape of spikelets, which had once been painted green, had cracked and crumbled, and the paint had all peeled off; the railings had been pulled out by the village boys to play soldiers with, and by peasants coming to the house, who used them to fight off the angry mongrel and the other dogs who kept him company. But the flower-garden was none the worse for this damage. The remains of the fence were entwined with hops, large white-flowered bindweed and mouse-ear chickweed, which hung upon them in pale-green clusters of pale-lilac flowers scattered here and there. The prickly thistles grew to such a size on the rich moist soil (all around the flower-garden was a large shady orchard) that they looked almost like trees. The yellow moth mulleins reared their flowery spikes still higher. The nettles occupied a pretty large corner of the flower-garden; they stung, of course, but then one could admire their dark foliage from a distance, especially when it made a background for the pale beauty of the delicate rose petals. The rose blossomed one fine May morning; when it opened out its petals the fleeing morning dew left several bright teardrops upon them. It seemed as if the rose was weeping. But the world around her was...
Входимость: 2. Размер: 19кб.
Часть текста: plants. Vast though the greenhouse was, they were cramped in it. The tangled roots fought one another for moisture and nutrition. The branches of the trees were entwined with the huge leaves of the palms, which they bent and broke, themselves pressing up against the iron frames and bending and breaking in turn. The gardeners were constantly lopping the branches and tying the leaves up with wire to curb their wild growth, but it did not help much. What the plants needed was the wide free spaces of their native habitats. They were natives of hot climes, tender, luxurious creations, who remembered their native countries and yearned for them. However transparent the glass roof might be, it was not the bright sky. Sometimes, in the winter, the panes froze over, and then it would grow quite dark in the greenhouse. The wind would howl and beat against the frames, and rattle them. Snow-drifts covered the roof. Listening to the howling of the wind, the plants would remember another wind, a warm humid wind that gave to them life and health. And they longed to feel its breath upon them again, to have it sway their branches and wanton with their leaves. But the air in the greenhouse was without a stir, except perhaps sometimes in the winter when the storm would smash a pane of glass and a cold sharp...
Входимость: 1. Размер: 40кб.
Часть текста: This speech was uttered in a loud raucous voice. The hospital clerk, who was registering the patient in a big dog-eared book that lay on an ink-stained desk, could not help smiling. But the two young attendants did not laugh: after two days and sleepless nights spent alone with the madman, whom they had just brought down by railway, they could barely stand on their feet. At the last station but one he had become so violent that he had had to be put in a strait jacket, for which purpose the assistance of the guards and a policeman had had to be resorted to. Thus bound he was brought to town and delivered at the hospital. He looked ghastly. Over his grey garment, which had been torn to shreds during his outburst of violence, was a tightly laced jacket of coarse canvas cut low at the neck; the long sleeves pinioned his crossed arms over his chest and were tied behind his back. His bloodshot dilated eyes (he had not slept for ten days) glittered with a feverish blazing light; his lower lip twitched with a nervous spasm; his curly matted hair hung over his forehead like a mane; he paced from corner to corner of the office with swift heavy strides, staring fixedly at the old file cabinets and the oilcloth-covered chairs, and throwing an occasional glance at his companions. "Take him in. The building on the right." "I know. I was here last year. We were inspecting the hospital. I know all about it, it will be difficult to deceive me," said the patient. He turned towards the door. The door-keeper opened it to let him pass through; he walked out of the office with the same swift, heavy, resolute stride, his demented head held high, and made for the mental department on the right almost at a run. His attendants were barely able to keep up with him. "Ring the bell. I can't do it, you have tied my hands." The...
Входимость: 1. Размер: 116кб.
Часть текста: пещеры, где будетъ показываться Его тень. А намъ - намъ предстоитъ еще победить эту тень", - такъ говоритъ Ницше въ "Веселой науке". Онъ глубоко прочувствовалъ атеизмъ и, благодаря этому, понялъ глубь религiозности, живучесть ненавистнаго ему христiанства, которое онъ умеетъ различать по какимъ-то его, такъ сказать, вторичнымъ признакамъ въ различныхъ теологическихъ, моральныхъ переживанiяхъ. Ницше страшно, болезненно чутко ощутилъ въ своихъ отрицательно-религiозныхъ настроенiяхъ "тень Бога", скрытое дыханiе христiанства. И она, эта тень, слишкомъ часто властно царитъ тамъ, где ея не видятъ, не хотятъ видеть, думая, что убили Бога... Тень христiанскаго Бога более или менее явственно реетъ надъ всей исторiей русской литературы, до XIX века включительно. И здесь живучесть христiанства сказалась не только въ томъ или иномъ смысле положительныхъ по отношенiю къ нему настроенiяхъ славянофильства, Гоголя, Толстого, Достоевскаго или Вл. Соловьева, но и въ отрицающемся духа Христова, повидимому, атеистическомъ и рацiонально-позитивномъ западничестве, западническомъ народничестве. Скорбно-страдальческiй, покаянно-мученическiй гуманизмъ его, въ сущности, религiозное переживанiе; урезанное, зарисованное почти до неузнаваемости, не сознавшее себя, но въ глубоко скрытой основе своей чаще всего - христiанское. Духовное питанiе, берущее скрытое начало въ релиiозно-христiанскомъ источнике, здесь сильно и обильно. Вся полоса боленiй совести, начиная отъ первоначальнаго своего сантиментально-барскаго зародыша въ Григоровиче, въ "Запискахъ охотника" Тургенева, и, пожалуй, и еще более...
Входимость: 1. Размер: 9кб.
Часть текста: фабрик. Вообще она обвиняла Италию в отсутствии местного колорита, в отсутствии характера. Пусть, кто может, объяснит мне смысл этих слов; несколько лет тому назад я прекрасно понимал его, а теперь совсем не понимаю. Сначала мисс Лидия льстила себя надеждою увидеть по ту сторону Альп что-нибудь такое, чего до нее никто не видел и о чем она могла бы говорить с порядочными людьми. Но скоро, видя, что соотечественники везде предупредили ее, и отчаявшись встретить что-нибудь неизвестное, она бросилась на сторону оппозиции. В самом деле, неприятно говорить о чудесах Италии для того, чтобы вдруг услышать от кого-нибудь: "Вы, конечно, знаете такого-то Рафаэля в таком-то палаццо, там-то? Это прекраснейшая вещь во всей Италии". И, наверно, ее-то вы и забыли посмотреть. Так как видеть все было бы слишком долго, то проще бранить все с предвзятым намерением. В гостинице Бово мисс Лидии пришлось испытать горькое разочарование. Она привезла с собой хорошенький эскиз пелазгических или циклопических ворот в Сеньи [2]; она думала, что рисовальщики забыли эти ворота. И вдруг леди Френсис Фенвик, с которою она встретилась в Марселе, показывает ей свой альбом, и в этом альбоме, между сонетом и засушенным цветком, ворота в Сеньи, густо покрытые тердесьеном [3]! Мисс Лидия отдала свои ворота горничной и потеряла всякое уважение к пелазгическим сооружениям. Такое печальное настроение сообщилось и полковнику Невилю, который со смерти своей жены смотрел на все не иначе, как глазами мисс Лидии. Италия надоела его дочери: ясно, что это самая скучная страна в мире. Правда, он не мог сказать ничего против картин и статуй, но зато мог заверить, что охота в этой стране самая жалкая и что из-за того, чтобы убить несколько штук несчастных красных куропаток, нужно сделать десять миль в самую жару по римской Кампанье. На другой день после приезда в Марсель он пригласил обедать капитана Эллиса, своего бывшего ...
Входимость: 1. Размер: 54кб.
Часть текста: do those around me. A man calmly reads: "Casualties on our side insignificant, such and such officers wounded, among the lower ranks 50 men killed, 100 wounded," and is glad that they are so few, but when I read such a report it immediately brings a whole bloody picture to my mind. Fifty killed and a hundred maimed-and that is called insignificant! Why are we shocked when the papers report a murder involving the lives of only a few people? Why does the sight of bullet-riddled corpses strewing the battle-field horrify us less than the spectacle of a home despoiled by a murderer? Why is it that the Tiligulskaya embankment disaster, which took toll of a score or so of lives, caused a sensation throughout Russia, whereas outpost skirmishes involving "insignificant" losses of the same number of lives barely attract attention? Lvov, a medical student of my acquaintance, with whom I often have arguments about the war, told me the other day, "Well, Mr. Pacifist, we shall see how those humane convictions of yours will look in practice when you are taken into the army and made to shoot at other men." "They won't take me into the army, Vasily, because I'm enrolled in the militia." "But if the war drags on they will start drawing on the militia. Don't you worry, your turn will come, too." My heart sank. How is it that that thought had never occurred to me before? They certainly would start on the militia, for that matter. "If the war drags on" . .. yes, it probably would. In any case, if this war does not last long, another one will be...