There Are Passions That It Is Not

I Am Very Fond Of The Modest Manner Of Life Of Those Solitary Owners Of Remote Villages, Who In Little Russia Are Commonly Called "old-fashioned," Who Are Like Tumbledown Picturesque Little Houses, Delightful In Their Simplicity And Complete Unlikeness To The New Smooth Buildings Whose Walls Have Not Yet Been Discolored By The Rain, Whose Roofs Are Not Yet Covered With Green Lichen, And Whose Porch Does Not Display Its Bricks Through The Peeling Stucco.

The Current Generation Now Sees Everything Clearly, It Marvels At The Errors, It Laughs At The Folly Of Its Ancestors, Not Seeing That This Chronicle Is All Overscored By Divine Fire, That Every Letter Of It Cries Out, That From Everywhere The Piercing Finger Is Pointed At It, At This Current Generation; But The Current Generation Laughs And Presumptuously, Proudly Begins A Series Of New Errors, At Which Their Descendants Will Also Laugh Afterwards.

As Countless As Grains Of Sand By The Sea Are Human Passions, And They All Differ; All Of Them, Vile Or Lofty, Begin By Being Under A Man's Control And Then Become His Terrible Masters. Blessed Is He Who Has Chosen The Most Lofty Of Passions: His Immeasurable Bliss Grows And Multiplies Tenfold With Every Hour And Minute, And He Penetrates Deeper And Deeper Into The Infinite Paradise Of His Soul.

They're Thinking Of Turning The Peasant Into An Educated Man. Why, First Of All They Should Make Him A Good And Prosperous Farmer And Then He'll Learn All That Is Necessary For Him To Know.

Ah, Steeds, Steeds, What Steeds! Has The Whirlwind A Home In Your Manes? Is There A Sensitive Ear, Alert As A Flame, In Your Every Fiber? Hearing The Familiar Song From Above, All In One Accord You Strain Your Bronze Chests And, Hooves Barely Touching The Ground, Turn Into Straight Lines Cleaving The Air, And All Inspired By God It Rushes On!