Dmitri Nabokov

Vladímir Nabokov

Mikhail Yurievich Lermontov

Hero of Our Time

Nica Rhiana

 That was when despair entered my soul. Not the despair that’s cured by a pistol-barrel, but cold, impotent despair, hiding behind a charming manner and a friendly smile. I became a moral cripple — one half of my soul had ceased to exist, had dried out, evaporated, died, and I had amputated and discarded it; while the other half lived and moved, at the service of everyone. And no one noticed, because no one knew of the existence of the half that had perished.

 It was a bitter realization. But my love had become a part of my very soul; it grew dimmer, but did not die. Our parting is for ever; but you may be sure that I shall never love another. My soul has spent all its treasures on you, all its tears and hopes.

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