Mikhail I︠U︡rʹevich Lermontov: A Hero of Our Time (1966)
English language
Published Dec. 20, 1966
A Hero of Our Time (Russian: Герой нашего времени, tr. Gerój nášego vrémeni, IPA: [ɡʲɪˈroj ˈnaʂɨvə ˈvrʲemʲɪnʲɪ]) is a novel by Mikhail Lermontov, written in 1839, published in 1840, and revised in 1841. It is an example of the superfluous man novel, noted for its compelling Byronic hero (or antihero) Pechorin and for the beautiful descriptions of the Caucasus. There are several English translations, including one by Vladimir Nabokov and Dmitri Nabokov in 1958.
Fun story. But at this point I've read so many blushing maidens, romantic noblemen and bored rich people, it lost its edge.
'Was it fate that was bringing us together again in the
Caucasus, or had she come here on purpose, knowing she would meet me? And how would we meet? And, anyway, was it she? Presentiments never deceive me. There is no man in the world over whom the past gains such power as it does over me. Every reminder of a past sorrow or joy painfully strikes my soul and extracts from it the same old sounds... I am stupidly made, I forget nothing. . . nothing!'</b
'My love brought happiness to none, because I never gave up anything for the sake of those whom I loved. I loved for myself, for my proper pleasure; I merely satisfied a bizarre need of my heart, avidly consuming their sentiments, their tenderness, their joys and sufferings—and never could I have my fill.
Thus a man, tormented by hunger and fatigue, goes to …
'Was it fate that was bringing us together again in the
Caucasus, or had she come here on purpose, knowing she would meet me? And how would we meet? And, anyway, was it she? Presentiments never deceive me. There is no man in the world over whom the past gains such power as it does over me. Every reminder of a past sorrow or joy painfully strikes my soul and extracts from it the same old sounds... I am stupidly made, I forget nothing. . . nothing!'</b
'My love brought happiness to none, because I never gave up anything for the sake of those whom I loved. I loved for myself, for my proper pleasure; I merely satisfied a bizarre need of my heart, avidly consuming their sentiments, their tenderness, their joys and sufferings—and never could I have my fill.
Thus a man, tormented by hunger and fatigue, goes to sleep and sees before him rich viands and sparkling wines; he devours with delight the airy gifts of fancy, and he seems to feel relief; but as soon as he awakes—the vision vanishes!
'And, perhaps tomorrow, I shall die! . . . And there will not remain, on earth, that would have understood me completely. Some deem me worse, others better than I actually am. Some will say he was a good fellow; others will say he was a scoundrel. Both this and
that will be false. After this, is it worth the trouble to live? And yet one lives—out of curiosity. One keeps expecting something new... Absurd and vexatious!'
5/5
This is the first work of Lermontov I have come across and it will most likely not be the last I indulge in. Great start to the year's reads.
I have no words to describe Pechorin...
Maybe he could be regarded as morally skewed? But he explains his view of the world so well you see the reason in his thinking. Maybe he's a paranoid misogynist with commitment issues? Or maybe his hyper-self awareness has paralysed him from progressing any of his relationships in fear of his own flawed nature?
Whatever he is or isn't of these characteristics, he is brilliantly written. A definite recommend!
