Where are you rushing troika Rus'. Gogol's lyrical digression in the poem "Dead Souls

Isn't it true that you too, Rus, that a brisk, unbeatable troika are rushing about? The road smokes under you, the bridges rumble, everything lags behind and is left behind. The contemplative, amazed by God's miracle, stopped: is it not lightning thrown from the sky? what does this terrifying movement mean? and what kind of unknown power lies in these horses unknown to the light? Oh, horses, horses, what horses! Are whirlwinds sitting in your manes? Does a sensitive ear burn in every vein of yours? They heard a familiar song from above, together and at once strained their copper breasts and, almost without touching the ground with their hooves, turned into only elongated lines flying through the air, and all inspired by God rushes! .. Rus', where are you rushing to? Give an answer. Doesn't give an answer. A bell is filled with a wonderful ringing; the air torn to pieces rumbles and becomes the wind; everything that is on earth flies past, and, looking askance, step aside and give it the way other peoples and states ...

Take a glass.
- Got it!
"Now make him fall and see what happens to him."
- Well, he crashed, so what?
- Now ask for forgiveness and see if he becomes whole again ..?

What is behind us and what is ahead of us means so little compared to what is inside of us.

When it becomes very difficult for you, and everything turns against you, and it seems that you have no strength to endure a single minute more, do not retreat for anything: it is at such moments that a turning point in the struggle occurs.

Victory does not give strength. Fight gives strength. If you fight and don't give up, that's strength.

Remember - you, and only you, are responsible for your actions, and it depends only on you whether you can change your life!

You are near, and everything is fine:
And rain and cold wind.
Thank you my clear
For the fact that you are in the world.

Thanks for those lips
Thank you for these hands.
Thank you my love
For the fact that you are in the world.

You are near, but you could
Don't meet each other at all.
My only one, thank you
For the fact that you are in the world!

Fall in love with your wife again
Yes, so that everyone would be envious.
Take the blame
For all the wrinkles and insults.
For the fact that life has passed with you
And never changed.
Raised children, raised
And you have always forgiven your sins.
For a sad look, for gray hair
And for the sad fatigue.
Fall in love with your wife again
As in the one that remained in her youth ...

One brisk journalist, holding a notebook and a pencil, asked Einstein:
- Do you have a notepad or notebook where you write down your great thoughts?
Einstein looked at him and said:
- Young man! Truly great thoughts come to mind so rarely that it is not difficult to remember them.

You got used to her, she loved you.
I didn’t give her gifts and flowers,
Didn't tell her how beautiful she was
And that he is ready for anything for her.

You were busy all the time. Annoyed
When she cared, loving.
And you never even tried
Find out what her soul screams about.

She wanted to be unique
Become the most important thing in life for you,
But again, falling asleep, he sees his back,
And she wants to look into your eyes.

And she so wants warmth and understanding,
A little affection and simple care,
To give her some attention
At least on Sunday and Saturday.

She's behind you, even into the abyss,
And he will not betray in trouble, and will be there.
She wants to be useful to you
Meet from work with dinner and tea.

You don't appreciate her, you don't appreciate her at all.
And you are not afraid to lose at all.
Ah, if you knew how many refused,
To fall asleep next to you ...

You scold children for tricks,
For spilled coffee in the hallway.
...And your childless neighbor,
From relatives - only Siamese cats.

You lecture your husband
What comes so late from work
That the long-cooked dinner has cooled down.
And trying to live until Saturday...

Blockage at work, and of course,
Little pay, do not appreciate, tired.
... And your girlfriend is unsuccessful,
Looking for a place that pays a lot...

You were upset - rain on the weekend,
Or the sun that blinds with rays.
... And in the apartment opposite the blind,
The world is not seen not only at night.

You are dieting every day
Fitting yourself to patterns.
...And your friend, with diabetes
Icons pray for health.

And you cry with your hands
You think the world is worthless.
... It's a pity that wisdom comes with age,
Too bad we don't appreciate it...

Troika

Isn't it true that you too, Rus, that a brisk, unbeatable troika are rushing about?

“Isn’t it true that you too, Rus', that a brisk, unbeatable troika are rushing about? The road smokes under you, the bridges rumble, everything lags behind and is left behind. The contemplator, struck by God's miracle, stopped: is it not lightning thrown from the sky? what does this terrifying movement mean? and what kind of unknown power lies in these horses unknown to the light? Oh, horses, horses, what horses! Are whirlwinds sitting in your manes? Does a sensitive ear burn in every vein of yours? They heard a familiar song from above, together and at once strained their copper breasts and, almost without touching the ground with their hooves, turned into only elongated lines flying through the air, and all inspired by God rushes! .. Rus', where are you rushing to? Give an answer. Doesn't give an answer. A bell is filled with a wonderful ringing; the air torn to pieces rumbles and becomes the wind; everything that is on the earth flies past, and, looking askance, other peoples step aside and give it the way ”(“ Dead Souls. Chapter 11)

Ah, troika, troika, swift as a bird, who was it first invented you?
Only among a hardy race of folk can you have come to birth - only in a land which, though poor and rough, lies spread over half the world, and spans versts the counting whereof would leave one with aching eyes.

Eh, trio! bird troika, who invented you? to know that you could only be born among a lively people, in that land that does not like to joke, but spread out like a smooth smooth halfway across the world, and go and count miles until it fills your eyes.

Nor are you a modishly-fashioned vehicle of the road - a thing of clamps and iron.
Rather, you are a vehicle but shaped and fitted with the ax or chisel of some handy peasant of Yaroslav.

And not a cunning, it seems, road projectile, not captured by an iron screw, but hastily alive, with one ax and a chisel, a smart Yaroslavl peasant equipped and assembled you.

Nor are you driven by a coachman clothed in German livery, but by a man bearded and mittened.
See him as he mounts, and flourishes his whip, and breaks into a long-drawn song!
Away like the wind go the horses, and the wheels, with their spokes, become transparent circles, and the road seems to quiver beneath them, and a pedestrian, with a cry of astonishment, halts to watch the vehicle as it flies, flies, flies on its way until it becomes lost on the ultimate horizon - a speck amid a cloud of dust!

The coachman is not in German boots: a beard and mittens, and the devil knows what he sits on; but he got up, and swung, and dragged on the song - the horses whirlwind, the spokes in the wheels mixed up in one smooth circle, only the road trembled and the stopped pedestrian screamed in fright! and there she rushed, rushed, rushed! ..
And you can already see in the distance how something is dusting and drilling through the air.

And you, Russia of mine - are not you also speeding like a troika which nought can overtake?

Isn't that how you, Rus', that brisk, unbeatable troika, are rushing about?

Is not the road smoking beneath your wheels, and the bridges thundering as you cross them, and everything being left in the rear, and the spectators, struck with the portent, halting to wonder whether you be not a thunderbolt launched from heaven?

The road smokes under you, the bridges rumble, everything lags behind and is left behind.
The contemplator, struck by God's miracle, stopped: is it not lightning thrown from the sky?

What does that awe-inspiring progress of yours foretell?
What is the unknown force which lies within your mysterious steeds?

What does this terrifying movement mean? and what kind of unknown power lies in these horses unknown to the light?
Oh, horses, horses, what horses!
Are whirlwinds sitting in your manes?
Does a sensitive ear burn in every vein of yours?

Surely the winds themselves must abide in their manes, and every vein in their bodies be an ear stretched to catch the celestial message which bids them, with iron-girded breasts, and hooves which barely touch the earth as they gallop, fly forward on a mission of God?

Selifan only waved and shouted: “Eh! eh! eh!” - smoothly jumping on the goats, as the troika either took off up the hillock, then rushed in spirit from the hillock, with which the entire high road was strewn, striving with a slightly noticeable roll down. Chichikov only smiled, slightly flying up on his leather cushion, for he liked fast driving. And what Russian does not like to drive fast? Is it his soul, seeking to spin, take a walk, sometimes say: “Damn it all!” Is it possible for his soul not to love her? Is it possible not to love her when something strangely wonderful is heard in her? It seems that an unknown force has taken you on a wing to itself, and you yourself are flying, and everything is flying: miles are flying, merchants are flying towards them on the framing of their wagons, a forest is flying on both sides with dark formations of firs and pines, with a clumsy knock and a crow's cry, flying the whole road, God knows where, into the vanishing distance, and something terrible is contained in this quick flickering, where the vanishing object does not have time to appear - only the sky above the head, and light clouds, and the moon trudging through, alone seem to be motionless. Eh, trio! bird troika, who invented you? to know that you could only be born among a lively people, in that land that does not like to joke, but spread out halfway around the world, and go and count miles until it fills your eyes. And not a cunning, it seems, road projectile, not captured by an iron screw, but hastily, alive with one ax and a chisel, an efficient Yaroslavl peasant equipped and assembled you. The coachman is not in German boots: a beard and mittens, and the devil knows what he sits on; but he got up, and swung, and sang a song - the horses whirlwind, the spokes in the wheels mixed into one smooth circle, only the road trembled, and the pedestrian who stopped screamed in fright - and there she rushed, rushed, rushed! .. And you can already see in the distance, as something dusts and drills the air.

Isn't it true that you too, Rus, that a brisk, unbeatable troika are rushing about? The road smokes under you, the bridges rumble, everything lags behind and is left behind. The contemplative, amazed by God's miracle, stopped: is it not lightning thrown from the sky? what does this terrifying movement mean? and what kind of unknown power lies in these horses unknown to the light? Oh, horses, horses, what horses! Are whirlwinds sitting in your manes? Does a sensitive ear burn in every vein of yours? They heard a familiar song from above, together and at once strained their copper breasts and, almost without touching the ground with their hooves, turned into only elongated lines flying through the air, and all inspired by God rushes! .. Rus', where are you rushing to? Give an answer. Doesn't give an answer. A bell is filled with a wonderful ringing; the air torn to pieces rumbles and becomes the wind; everything that is on earth flies by, and, looking sideways, step aside and give it way to other peoples and states.