The subject of it would seem
utterly unsuited to a schoolboy who had never experienced anything in
the remotest degree resembling the experiences of a man of the world, at
any rate those which produced the sentiments pervading this novel.
Nevertheless, this book brought about a revolution in my ideas. For the
first time I encountered in a book a chief character who was not a
universal hero, a military or naval hero whom one had to admire and if
possible imitate, but one in whom, with extreme emotion, I fancied that
I recognised myself!
I had certainly never acted as Petsjorin did, and never been placed in
such situations as Petsjorin. No woman had ever loved me, still less had
I ever let a woman pay with suffering the penalty of her affection for
me. Never had any old friend of mine come up to me, delighted to see me
again, and been painfully reminded, by my coolness and indifference, how
little he counted for in my life. Petsjorin had done with life; I had
not even begun to live. Petsjorin had drained the cup of enjoyment; I
had never tasted so much as a drop of it. Petsjorin was as blase as a
splendid Russian Officer of the Guards could be; I, as full of
expectation as an insignificant Copenhagen schoolboy could be.
Nevertheless, I had the perplexing feeling of having, for the first time
in my life, seen my inmost nature, hitherto unknown even to myself,
understood, interpreted, reproduced, magnified, in this unharmonious
work of the Russian poet who was snatched away so young.
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