Having fallen in love with the movie starring Ralph Fiennes and Liv Tyler because of the unrequited love and passion, I knew I had to read this. I neither speak nor read Russian, so this review is based on the translation I read, but I loved reading this. You basically have to commit yourself to reading this but it was worth it.

une œuvre classique qui se dévore. le fait que ça soit un long poème est facile à lire.

Little feet!

I'll always have a soft spot for the writers who welcome their readers in both work and play. While Pushkin is a very different sort from de Assis, author of personal favorite [b:The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas|87262|The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas|Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1347602854s/87262.jpg|605176], the two of them converse, pique, mock, desist, recollect, wander, and believe, like siblings who remain friends despite the best efforts of society, or artists who accept audiences despite the most strident disapproval of academia. While EO did not prove a favorite, the author's context is far more interesting to me than de Assis has so far proven. Biographical drama, instigation of canons, dramatic histories, conspiratorial subversion via verse, exile, Russia, and a certain grandfather. Another characteristic the two casually brilliant and brilliantly casual authors have is that neither of the two, despite what assumption may proclaim, are white. A coincidence? A trend? A piece of evidence of how much has been lost through centuries of ideological denial and towers of pasty onanism? The world may never know.

So, Eugene Onegin's this classic rich boy who has a talent for wandering into good fortunes such as deliverance from bankruptcy, best of best friends, his perfect type of women who throws herself at his feet, and doesn't appreciate any of it. Luckily, Pushkin's far more interested in using this woebegone hero of his as a vector for panoramic views of Russia in its daily life of the working class, social intrigue of the upper class, and all the artistic endeavors and landscape spectaculars that fall in between. As made explicit above, Pushkin is a constantly overt and ever engaging presence, musing on the happier times of youth, commenting on the vogue (he loves this word) of his time and the foibles of his critics, having sympathy for his main character but not enough to excuse Onegin's assholery in his relationships. Apparently the opera by Tchaikovsky of this is super great, so I'll be keeping that in mind for my next theatrical engagement.

For all that, what grabbed my attention the most was the bits and pieces Pushkin excised, erased, and encoded in reaction to the political censors of his day. Banishment, Decembrists, royal overthrows and national conflicts on both battlefield and writing desk galore. Good stuff. Methinks some sort of nonfictional Pushkin pursuit is in order, along with the more fictional and authorial [b:The Blackamoor of Peter the Great|9062906|The Blackamoor of Peter the Great|Alexander Pushkin|https://s.gr-assets.com/assets/nophoto/book/50x75-a91bf249278a81aabab721ef782c4a74.png|2142697].

Elvibeoltam vele, mert mar semmire nem emlekeztem a sztoribol.

i dont want to read it again :|

And then, from all a heart finds tender
I tore my own; an alien soul,
Without allegiances, I vanished,
Thinking that liberty and peace
Could take the place of happiness.
My God, how wrong, how I’ve been punished!
- Alexander Pushkin, Chapter VIII

Contradictions. We are made of dreams and contradictions. We want something and after getting it, we don't want it anymore. But there's an even more bitter reality: we often want what we can't have. We compare our lives with the lives of the characters we love, and we long for that. The literary universe created by another human being fits our desires. The real world doesn't. And there's nothing we can do about that. The more we spend our time yearning for a fictional life, the more we lose our own.
I always enjoy reading about marvellous cities and great people I'll never meet; I usually find them more interesting than people I've actually met. But I should set boundaries. I don't want to miss getting to know wonderful people in real life—they certainly exist somewhere—for a life full of fiction. The world of books is a rewarding one that I'll never leave behind; however, the world I see out there is the only one I can fully experience, inhabited by people who can indeed answer my questions, soothe pain and be happy because of my own happiness.
This is a book where real life and fiction are too close to distinguish one from the other. This novel in verse tells the story of Eugene Onegin, a man who doesn't seem to be quite excited about taking care of his dying uncle.

But, oh my God, what desolation
To tend a sick man day and night
And not to venture from his sight!
What shameful cunning to be cheerful
With someone who is halfway dead,
To prop up pillows by his head,
To bring him medicine, looking tearful,
To sigh – while inwardly you think:
When will the devil let him sink?
(Chapter I, Stanza I)

Through Pushkin's witty and ironic writing, we learn that Eugene is not exactly a person full of integrity and generosity. Following the death of his uncle, he inherited his land and moved to the country.
Eugene is portrayed as a dandy: perfect hair and clothes, fond of dances and everything that characterized high society. A young man with charm and mind... A pedant, yet an able lad. In conclusion, an arrogant fool. There's a clear difference between Pushkin's words and mine and that leads me to my next point.
I always say I prefer writing over plot. I can deal with an undemanding storyline if it's wonderfully written. And this book is a fine example of that. The plot is quite simple (therefore, I shouldn't talk about it if I want to avoid spoilers); it's all about Pushkin's talent: his beautiful writing which can mesmerize even the most impassive human being on Earth. However, do not get the wrong idea. The plot may be simple, but the author managed to deal—in few pages—with both sublime and debased aspects of human nature. In this book, I found: an arrogant and shallow protagonist, a strong female character that loved to read, an interesting twist, numerous references to other authors and books (literary anxiety levels are increasing rapidly), a complex ending and Pushkin's superb writing style and clever insights. I can't ask for anything more. I loved this book.

I recommend this edition. I've always been fascinated with the translation process. One's subjectivity can create an entirely different work. Between respecting the structure and preserving the actual meaning the author intended to convey... rough work. I read Spalding's translation, and—in my opinion—this one is by far more superior. Both kept a correct rhyming, but Mitchell's flows like water, having lost all archaisms. Moreover, his notes are rather helpful. By the way, Nabokov's translation is coming soon. And then, I shall meet Mr Arndt. I can't imagine what reading Pushkin's poetry in the original language must be like.

Pushkin's words should end this review—beautiful words that irradiate hope. Because that's the thing about Pushkin: regardless of how unpleasant a situation may be or the pain a character may be going through, I can always find hope in his words.

Whatever, reader, your opinion,
A friend or foe, I wish to part
With you today like a companion.
Farewell. Whatever you may chart
Among these careless lines, reflections –
Whether tumultuous recollections
Or light relief from labour’s yoke,
The lively image, witty joke
Or the mistakes I’ve made in grammar –
God grant you find here just a grain
To warm the heart, to entertain,
To feed a dream, and cause a clamour
With journals and their clientele,
Upon which, let us part, farewell!
(Chapter VIII, Stanza 49)

March 24, 14-June 30, 21
* Later on my blog.