Also, I couldn’t sympathize with any of the characters. One of the guys, Vladimir, sets out to tell his own love story that covers the rest of the book. The story begins with a group of men talking about their first loves. When it comes to father-son relationships, this famous Russian author does not have any rivals. Nevertheless, since it is remarkably better than all the ridiculous books circulating in the market, I would say read if you like Russian literature. At the time, I understood none of this, and could not have given a name to any of the feelings which seethed within me or else I would have called it all by one name – the name of Zinaida.I can even say that I am bored despite it being a short book.
A pert little sparrow would fly down on to a half-broken red brick nearby, and would irritate me with its chirping, ceaselessly turning its whole body with its outspread tail the crows, still wary, occasionally cawed, sitting high, high on the bare top of a birch - while the sun and wind played gently in its spreading branches the bells of the Donskoy monastery would sometimes float across - tranquil and sad - and I would sit and gaze and listen, and would be filled with a nameless sensation which had everything in it sorrow and joy, a premonition of the future, and desire, and fear of life. Near me, over the dusty nettles, white butterflies fluttered lazily. “Then I used to lock myself in my room, or go to the end of the garden, climb on to the ruin of a high stone greenhouse and, dangling my legs from the wall which looked out on the road, would sit for hours, staring and staring, seeing nothing.
Various emotions, delicate and quick-changing as the shadows of clouds on a sunny day of wind, chased one another continually over her lips and eyes.” And her face was ever changing, working too it expressed, almost at the same time, irony, dreaminess, and passion. About her whole being, so full of life and beauty, there was a peculiarly bewitching mixture of slyness and carelessness, of artificiality and simplicity, of composure and frolicsomeness about everything she did or said, about every action of hers, there clung a delicate, fine charm, in which an individual power was manifest at work. It amused her to arouse their hopes and then their fears, to turn them round her finger (she used to call it knocking their heads together), while they never dreamed of offering resistance and eagerly submitted to her. All the men who visited the house were crazy over her, and she kept them all in leading-strings at her feet. “There is a sweetness in being the sole source, the autocratic and irresponsible cause of the greatest joy and profoundest pain to another, and I was like wax in Zinaïda's hands though, indeed, I was not the only one in love with her.
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