Oxford, 181 pp., $5.75
Oxford, 111 pp., $3.75
Morrow, 66 pp., $5.50
In the half-dozen years preceding the First World War, the artists and poets of Russia, in the words of one of them, 'lived under the sign of Blok.' They got drunk on his poetry as he himself got drunk on wine, although several groups were already proclaiming their opposition to the Symbolist school which he was supposed to represent. To Blok nothing earthly had meaning except as the embodiment of supernal value. His love—whatever its object: women, Russia, poetry—was passionate and yearning; his poems originated in ethereal, mysterious, immeasurably distant sounds; his emotions were wind and fire; glimpses of perfection brought him momentary bliss, disappointment was anguish. The infinite was enchanting; the limited filled him with despair. Without visions men were puppets and life a desolate recurrence of the senseless and the drab.
Review, 2724 words
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