What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
Other editions - View all
afraid Alhalla Aristid asked beat beautiful began Benkovsky breast brow captain cholera courtyard dark desyatinas devil take doctor door drink drunk earth editor Efimushka Elizaveta Sergyeevna everything exclaimed eyes face feel feet fell fellow felt flashed forest gazed give glance Gnawed Bone gray Grigory Grishka ground Gvozdeff hand head heart husband inquired Ippolit Sergyee Ippolit Sergyeevitch Khan Konovaloff kopeks Kuvalda laughed lips listened Little Russian live looked Lutchitzky Martyanoff Masha Matrena merchant mind Murom night lodging-house odor Orloff peasant Petunnikoff pity police quivered reply rubles samovar seemed shoulders shouted sighed silence sister smile softly sort soul stared Stenka Stenka Razin stood stupid talk Tchizhik teacher tears teeth tell there's thing thought tion tone town turned Tyapa understand Varenka Vaviloff versts vodka voice walked wife woman words young girl
Page 489 - Carries the finest traditions of Russian Realism " Foma Gordyeeff (THOMAS THE PROUD) A BOOK of tremendous power. ... He has spread before him a great canvas, and with the confidence of a master he has painted upon it enormous struggling creatures. ... If the book is adversely criticised it must be with that tone of respect which one employs in speaking of a great achievement."— Chicago Tribune. "11 will be felt by all lovers of literature.
Page 488 - FOMA GORDYEEFF has been chosen for introducing to American readers this brilliant young Russian, the literary lion of continental Europe, because it is his strongest work. It is a powerful presentation, frankly realistic, of the hero's character as developed from childhood amid incidents and scenes typical of the merchant class along the Volga.
Page 429 - I am a lucky man at last," he went on with a smile. "I was jogging along to my farm, and despairing of ever seeing Miss Isabel again — and Miss Isabel herself meets me at the roadside! I wonder whether you are as glad to see me as I am to see you? You won't tell me — eh? May I ask you something else? Are you staying in our neighborhood?
Page 488 - ARTHUR SYMONS says in the London Saturday Review: "Gorky writes about what he knows* he describes to us the life he has lived, and it has seemed to me as if I were learning something quite new about men and women.
Page 100 - ... reddish-brown hair was tangled all over his head, and small chips, straws and bits of paper stuck in the snarls ; all these things also adorned his luxuriant light-reddish beard, which covered his chest like a fan. His long, pallid, weary face was lighted up by large, pensive blue eyes, which gazed at me with a caressing smile, and his lips, which were handsome, although a trifle pale, also smiled beneath his reddish mustache. This smile seemed to say : "This is the sort of fellow I am . . ....
Page 488 - Arthur Symons says in the London Saturday Review : " Gorky writes about what he knows ; he describes to us the life he has lived, and it has seemed to me as if I were learning something quite new about men and women. . . . He has affirmed his independence, he has been resolutely himself, he has had the energy to stand up against the inevitable, realizing at least his own courage, perhaps his own strength.
Page 156 - ... in the sultry heat, reaching to thirty degrees * of the southern day. The chaos around them, and the red-hot sky above them, imparted to them the appearance of being engaged in burrowing into the hill, trying to escape into its bosom from the fervor of the sun and the melancholy picture of destruction which surrounded them. In the suffocating air hung a mighty moaning murmur and uproar, the blows of masons' hammers on stone, the wheels of the barrows screeched dolefully, iron pile-drivers * Reaumur.
Page 131 - Every man, who has fought with life, who has been vanquished by it, and who is suffering in the pitiless captivity of its mire, is more of a philosopher than even Schopenhauer himself, because an abstract thought never moulds itself in such an accurate and picturesque form, as does the thought which is directly squeezed out of a man by suffering.