If I were writing a book about how Russian classical literature shapes the worldview of a young girl, I would take this picture for the cover.
To love means to suffer. And hopeless horror to snatch a piece of happiness. But not for long, because then horror will follow anyway.
Poor Lisa, Anna Karenina, Larisa Ogudalova, Masha Troekurova, Sonechka Marmeladova, Katyusha Maslova, Tatyana from Eugene Onegin, they are countless.
And they teach, and cripple, and cripple, and teach. It is clear that no one needs pink books with a happy ending, consisting of cats and ponies, people need to empathize with someone.
But, firstly, in Russian classical literature there is no happy ending, suffering there is an integral and necessary part of the life path, and not at all the key to happiness. Suffering for the sake of suffering, in other words.
And secondly, the study of Russian classical literature in an already toxic environment causes real autointoxication, when the pathogenic code that once made grandmothers and mothers eternal victims infects new brains.
One can understand foreigners for whom Russian classical literature is such a tart fruit, an exotic spice, with which you can scratch your brains and stir your soul. But for a person living underground, the salvation would be to breathe the air instead of eating the earth.
Thanks for the photo Sonya Ostrovsky