Рано, в шесть, проснулся. Подавленное состояние. Отупел я, обездарел, как живу, что вижу! Позор! See more
Туман, вся земля белая, твердая. Пошел гулять - кладбище (оно еще в траве) теперь под сединой изморози - малахитовое, что ли. Вчера читали записку Корнилова. И Керенский молчок! И общество его терпит!
Почти полдень. Горизонт туманен. Тихий, тихий беззвучный день. Так мертва, тупа душа, что охватывает отчаяние.
Десять часов вечера. Гуляли немного за садом, потом по двору. В сущности, страшно. Тьма, ледяная мгла вдали едва различима, но все-таки видна.
Записка Алексеева. Что же русское общество не тянет за усы Керенского?!
Хам уже давно в русском обществе. Все, что было темного, наглого, противоестественного в литературе за последние двадцать лет - не то же ли, что теперь в общественной жизни? Что же, дивились словам Горького, Андреева, Скитальца? А теперь - Керенские, Гвоздевы!
I'm still reading Fet (a lot of vulgarity, very weak, repetitive), trying to write poetry. Turns out very poor.
I woke up at six. Stayed in bed for an hour. I feel down. I'm thinking that the world might grow empty for me soon. Where have my former carelessness and hope gone! My soul feels numb, empty, I've got nothing to say, nothing to write, I'm trying - and it's just a trade, a pathetic, dead one. Yesterday Breshkovsky appealed to the youth - "go educate the people"!
I avoid going outside. It hurts, something's not right with my throat. It's almost a summer day. I'm still reading Fet.
The night is dark, it's raining the whole time. I visited the mill today. The men a full of rage on the inside. Talking is pointless!
Please tell me immediately if you have bought tobacco for me. If you have, I will send you money right away. Tell me how much.
It is very cold in the morning, I was behind the garden, leaves were flying from the maple trees, I picked one up.
I finished reading Gippius. An incredibly disgusting soul, not a single vivid word, various fantasies driven into stupid rhymes. She doesn't have a jot of poetic soul.
I was reading Vernon Lee and thinking about Naples, Capri, and recalled Florence. I leant out of the window. In the garden darkened by the rain, a magpie with clawing talons came over the fence, smiled at me amicably and cordially shook his tail. It’s like our souls are one!
so I appeal to you with the most urgent of requests: if you can, buy me as quickly as possible two or three pounds, or at the very least a pound, at 15 roubles on the pound, or for 12, or for 10, or at the worst for 5 roubles (though, of course, the more expensive the better), and keep it somewhere dry for me, letting me know how much you spent on it so I can send you the money.
And please, I beg you, just do it without any fucking wisecracking.
I am living in the country and do not write a thing- I am poisoned by the newspapers.
Men came to the treasury to demand they be given all that remains in the vaults: "After all, this is royal money, and now the tsar is gone, the money is now ours."
All these days of late have encouraged a sense of youth, a poetic yearning for some kind of southern escape (as always in good weather), and thoughts about chance encounters...
Recertification of people exempt from military service. Enlistment, enlistment! Idiots.
Living in the country has become repulsive. The muzhiks are entirely childlike and loathsome in the extreme. Anarchy reigns supreme in the countryside, and headstrong imbecility, and idiotic incomprehension not only of “slogans” but of simple human words—it’s shocking. Oh, our intelligentsia—that despicable tribe that has completely lost its instinct for life and has begun to lie relentlessly about this class of people entirely unknown to it—our intelligentsia will still remember my “Village” and all the rest! See more
A farmyard was on fire in our next-door neighbor’s estate (he lives a stone’s throw away from us), and, as it turns out, the one who set it on fire in broad daylight was some muzhik who was involved in some court case with our neighbor, and the other muzhiks arrested not the arsonist, but his victim—“he set the fire himself!”—and thrashed him and dragged him to the district center. I tried to bring everyone to reason, to prove that it would make no sense for him to burn himself, since he’s not a landowner, but a tenant—and the drunk soldiers and a few muzhiks bellowed that I am “for the old regime,” and one hussy shrieked that we too (Kolya and I), those sons of bitches, should immediately be tossed into the flames.