Ivan Turgenev

Most of Turgenev’s books I have read many times over, all of them I have read more than twice. For a number of years I read them again and again without much caring for other fiction

‘If you wish it … or no; I won’t tell the story; I’m no hand at telling a story; I make it dry and brief, or spun out and affected. If you’ll allow me, I’ll write out all I remember and read it you.’

Almost never were they parted from one another, they read together, they played the piano together, and they sang duets.

Until eventually he reverted to the memory of his dead wife. "Would that she were still with me!" was his yearning reflection.

"Did you have very long to wait?" continued Arkady.

"About five hours."

"Dearest Papa!"

cried Arkady as, leaning over towards his father, he imprinted upon his cheek a fervent kiss. Nikolai Petrovitch smiled quietly.

"But no significance can attach to the place of a man's birth, Papa."

"Indeed?"

"Oh no. None whatsoever."

"Almost one would think that you considered yourself to blame for something; whereas you have nothing to reproach yourself with."

"Rather, it is a district which gives one the impression neither of abundance nor of hard work. Yet can it be left as it is? No! Education is what we need. But how is that education to be administered, or, for that matter, to be introduced?"

"How sad to me is your coming,
O spring, spring, season of love!"