Alexander Pushkin
Russian poet and playwright
| Date of Birth | : | 06 Jun, 1799 |
| Date of Death | : | 10 Feb, 1837 |
| Place of Birth | : | Moscow, Russia |
| Profession | : | Poet, Playwright |
| Nationality | : | Russian |
Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin was a Russian poet, playwright, and novelist of the Romantic era. He is considered by many to be the greatest Russian poet, as well as the founder of modern Russian literature.
Pushkin was born into the Russian nobility in Moscow. His father, Sergey Lvovich Pushkin, belonged to an old noble family. His maternal great-grandfather was Major-General Abram Petrovich Gannibal, a nobleman of African origin who was kidnapped from his homeland by the Ottomans, then freed by the Russian Emperor and raised in the Emperor's court household as his godson.
Ancestry
Pushkin's father, Sergei Lvovich Pushkin (1767–1848), was descended from a distinguished family of the Russian nobility that traced its ancestry back to the 12th century. Pushkin's mother, Nadezhda (Nadya) Ossipovna Gannibal (1775–1836), was descended through her paternal grandmother from German and Scandinavian nobility. She was the daughter of Ossip Abramovich Gannibal (1744–1807) and his wife, Maria Alekseyevna Pushkina (1745–1818).
Quotes
Total 20 Quotes
I want to understand you, I study your obscure language.
My whole life has been pledged to this meeting with you...
A deception that elevates us is dearer than a host of low truths.
If you but knew the flames that burn in me which I attempt to beat down with my reason.
My dreams, my dreams! What has become of their sweetness? What indeed has become of my youth?
I’ve lived to bury my desires, And see my dreams corrode with rust; Now all that’s left are fruitless fires That burn my empty heart to dust.
Moral maxims are surprisingly useful on occasions when we can invent little else to justify our actions.
It's a lucky man, a very lucky man, who is committed to what he believes, who has stifled intellectual detachment and can relax in the luxury of his emotions - like a tipsy traveller resting for the night at wayside inn.
He filled a shelf with a small army of books and read and read; but none of it made sense. .. They were all subject to various cramping limitations: those of the past were outdated, and those of the present were obsessed with the past.
..depression still kept guard on him, and chased after him like a shadow - or like a faithful wife.
