By Ivan Turgenev
Klasik Rus edebiyatının unutulmaz yazarı Turgenyev, çağdaşlarından bütünüyle farklı bir yol izlemiş, yaşadığı dönemde Avrupa'da yazılan romanlara ve Avrupa kültürüne daha yakın bir tavır sergilemişti. Turgenyev'in başyapıtı olarak tanımlanan Babalar ve Oğullar, bu etkinin izlerini taşır. Romanın öne çıkan karakteri Bazarov, arkadaşı Arkadiy'e ve onun smooth değerlerle yaşamayı seçen babasıyla amcasına öyle sinir bozucu bir biçimde karşı çıkar ki, sergilediği nihilizm Bazarov'un müthiş zekâsıyla birleşince genç bozguncunun saldırılara uğraması kaçınılmaz olur. Tıpkı romanın yayımlanmasından sonra yoğun saldırıya uğrayan Turgenyev gibi. İvan Turgenyev, Babalar ve Oğullar'ın yayımlanmasından sonra ülkesini terk etmek zorunda kalmış, yaşamını Avrupa'da sürdürmüştü.
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Extra info for Babalar ve Oğullar
49 Great thinking, overpopulated ardour bore my ego like a full abyss. A carnal, booming wind blew, heavy with brimstone. Tiny rootlets filled the wind like a network of veins and their switches flashed. The air was measurable and grinding, but had no penetrable form. And its eye was a mosaic of bursts, a sort of hard cosmic hammer distorted by weight, ceaselessly dropping like a brow in space, with a seemingly distilled sound. And the noise's muffied sheath bore the dull entreaty and penetration of a living look.
Forest, forest, alive with eyes, On multiple pinions; With storm-bound hair, The poets mount horses, dogs. Eyes fume, tongues stir, The heavens surge into our senses Like blue mother's milk; Women, harsh vinegar hearts, I hang suspended from your mouths. LETTER TO THE LEGISLATOR OF THE DRUG ACT Dear Legislator, Legislator of the I g I 6 Bill, passed as the July, I g I 7 Drug Act, you are an ass. Your Bill is useless. It only annoys world pharmaceutics without cutting down the nation's drug-taking level.
It is the coagulation of the marrow, lack of mental fire, lack of life's circulation. But opium anguish wears another face, it does not have the same metaphysical bent, or the same marvellously imperfect accentuation. I picture it as full of echoes and vaults, mazes and turnings. Full of talking tongues of fire, of mind's eyes in action and dark thunder filled with reason. But then I picture the soul as properly centred, yet infinitely divisible and moveable like an extant object. I picture it, a sensitive soul, it struggles, yet gives in at the same time, turns its tongues in all directions, multiplies its sex-then kills itself.