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An autobiographical novel presumably written by a terrorist during the early years of the 20th century who explains his own motivations and talks a bit about the roles of other people in the same terrorist cell. They want to assasinate Tzar Nicholas the II.
- George (narrator)
- Vania
- Heinrich
- Erna
- Andrei
- Yelena
100%: This is clearly a story of love but not the way you think. If you've read Erich Fromm or Andre Comte-Sponville you know there are different kinds of love and every character I see shows a different kind of relationship to the concept of love (and hatred).
George is a nihilist who pours all his frustration with life's lack of meaning on terrorist actions. George wants Yelena and he says he's in love with her but he wants her for him only crushing her freedom (Yelena is all about free and erotic love). Vania, you know is agape, love for God. Heinrich is in love for Erna (unrequited love) and Erna is romantic love (falling for George). Fiodor was the first who died for the revolution.
I think the point of the book is that life is meaningless but there are different approaches to this and we call them love. Love for me has a lot to do to give yourself for someone or something. George couldn't do that for anyone. (02-10-2020)
40%: George:I wanna watch the world burn! Vania is a Jesus Freak who thinks socialism is all about Jesus and love. He lived in Siberia and became a devout Christian after a near-death experience. George just laughs at him. (29-09-2020)
20%: The story is about George, his love for Yelena and his lack of attachment with the world. He's a nihilist only temporarily committed to the cause of revolution and using terrorism to attack the system but he's not a true revolutionary. He is just dissilutioned with life and any kind of meaning. Nothing makes sense. (29-09-2020)
Leo a los clásicos con mucha atención. No poseen conciencia alguna, no buscan la verdad. Se limitan a vivir. Crecen como la hierba, cantan como los pájaros. Tal vez esa bendita simplicidad sea la clave para comprender el mundo.
I read the classics with the utmost attention. They possess no consciousness. They are not looking for the truth. They just live. They grow like the grass, they sing like birds. Maybe this blessed simplicity is key to understand the world. (Rough translation)