Without Dogma: A Novel of Modern Poland
Without dogma is a novel of manners by Henryk Sienkiewicz, a Polish Nobel Prize in Literature winner, published in 1891. Its narrative concentrates around the experiences of Leon PU+fffdoszowski, a man from a wealthy aristocratic family, who struggles to find the meaning of life in a world without morality by trying to self-analyze his feelings towards the women he encounters. The novel has been associated with the decadent movement, attacked for no clear condemnation of immoral acts and received as an attempt to picture the fin de sU+fffdicle generation. Written in first person, the novel is the only one of Sienkiewicz's works that follows diary format.
What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
Other editions - View all
able afraid Aniela appears arms arrived asked aunt beautiful become began believe belong carried Clara close comes conscious consider conversation dear death desire doctor doubt especially everything evidently expression eyes face fact fancy father fear feel felt future give hand happened happiness head heart human husband idea impression kind Kromitzki ladies least leave less letter light live looked married matter mean mind morning mother nature nerves never night noticed once Pani Celina passed peace perhaps Ploszow present question reason remain replied rest Rome seemed side sitting Sniatynski soul speak stand strange taken tell thing thought tion To-day told tried trouble true truth turned understand voice Warsaw whole wife wish woman women write
Page 159 - ... me. You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.
Page 214 - How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! Here will we sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold. There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins ; Such harmony is in immortal souls...
Page 98 - I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers Could not with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum.
Page 214 - Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears : soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ! There 's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st...
Page 18 - I am content to die,' says Renan, 'but I should like to know whether death will be of any use to me.' And philosophy replies, 'I do not know.' And man beats against that blank wall, and like the bedridden sufferer fancies, if he could lie on this or on that side, he would feel easier. What is to be done?"* Those last five words are often heard in Russian mouths.
Page 49 - Get thee to a nunnery : why would'st thou be a breeder of sinners ? I am myself indifferent honest ; but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me. I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious ; with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in.
Page 1 - He said that a man who leaves memoirs, whether well or badly written, provided they be sincere, renders a service to future psychologists and writers, giving them not only a faithful picture of the times, but likewise human documents that can be relied upon.
Page 115 - Just to think of it sets me shivering from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet.
Page 12 - I experienced the same relief as does a nervous patient when the physician tells him that his symptoms are common enough, and that many others suffer from the same disease. ... I thought about that ' improductivite slave ' all night. He had his wits about him who summed the thing up in these two words. There is something in us, — an incapacity to give forth all that is in us. One might say, God has given us bow and arrow, but refused us the power to string the bow and send...