#eugen dete

[sictransitgloriamvndi]

[gay-dorito-dust]

I truly love your writing and wanted to put in a request for Wednesday. She has a nightmare (you know, those pretty vivid ones that feel insanely real) about the reader dying, and she already wakes up with tears rolling down her cheeks, and because of her story with the visions, this nightmare gets her really scared, so she sneaks out of her dorm because she needs to be sure that reader is okay, and getting there reader wakes up and realizes that Wednesday has been crying, and after some insistence, Wednesday allows herself to be comforted and melt in reader's arms? Thank you

“I thought i could stop it Wednesday. I thought I could end this seemingly never ending nightmare…for all of us.” You told Wednesday weakly as you bled out in her arms, face and body torn to bloody ribbons as your clothes were barely hanging on by threads; much like you were. Prior to now Wednesday found herself wandering the woods, seemingly lost as a little girl while the frost that lightly caked the ground nipped at her feet and the howling winds of sheer cold scratched and clawed at any aspect of her exposed skin that’d be susceptible.

She had been following a blood trail that looked a few hours old and were already crystallised and muddied by frosted flakes ground; however the further she ventured in pursuit of uncovering a potential mystery, the blood became fresher, brighter, untouched by mud nor frost. Wednesday wondered that if she knew where that blood trail would lead her, would she still venture forth valiantly or back away to sustain her ignorant belief that you were alive, sleeping in your dormitory safely. As she knelt herself down against the rigid ground, hearing the stiffened blades of dead grass crunch, bend and snap under her like bones.

Wednesday held your rapidly depleting body against hers as she tried to keep her tears at bay for letting yet another person close to her gain a close encounter with death before herself. From touching your arm alone, Wednesday knew that she had came far too late to do anything and by joe you have lost far too much blood to even move never-less stand on your own two feet that were giving way to frost bite or numoania; You had barely even reacted when she first arrived to see the blood covered snow pooling beneath you as you laid slumped against a tree.

One question lingered on her head as she cradled you against her in naive hopes that some of her body warmth would be transferred over, Why did you go alone? You knew the Hyde was a powerful foe, capable of disembowelling a person with a single swipe of his claws. So why did you think that you’d be able to take him on alone? Why didn’t you bring back up? Why didn’t you bring her? Sure neither of you would’ve stood a chance but at least you could’ve died together against that tree. “You absolute idiot! You know how the Hyde is y/n! He’s a merciless murderer, what delusion did you come up with that made you think that you could stop him?”

Her voice came across weak, pathetic and broken as the grass beneath the imprints of her footfalls. She felt her undead heart fracture and crack under the intense emotional overload she was experiencing in that moment it became borderline suffocating. Her chest seemed to tighten with every rasp of breath that you took, it tightened even more so with every little spec of life that was drained from your eyes, each constriction was tighter then the last that Wednesday thought for certain that this was how she was going to die; of a broken heart.

“For you,” you stated weakly before turning away to cough up blood that splattered on the found next to you, staining it a deep pink, “for Enid, for Xavier, for Ajax, for Eugene, for everyone and anyone who has or will suffer because of it and as for revenge for those who have already been slain by it.” You reached a cold hand and pressed it against her own. Just as she suspected, your had was cold, too cold that ice might as well have run through your veins but that didn’t deter her in grasping your hand tightly; taking in the fact that you didn’t even flinch when she dug her nails into your skin.

You’ve already lost all feeling within your limbs at this point and calling out into the void for help was useless; in the end Wednesday was forced to watch as you began to go limp in her arms and as your breathing stopped, Wednesday finally let loose a few tears that dropped down onto your cheeks where they crystallised from the cold. “You idiot,” she uttered under her breath as she pressed her forehead against your cold one, “you fucking idiot, acting the hero when nobody asked you to…why…goddamn it why.”

Wednesday broke from her nightmare with a gasp as she bolted up in her bed to see that she was no longer in the frigid woods where you died but the warm dormitory she shared with Enid, who was sleeping soundly across from her. It felt real…too real for her liking that Wednesday feared that it might be a vision of a future yet to come, one she couldn’t prevent; She felt something wet and warm trickling down her cheeks and reached a hand up to wipe away at it, awaiting to see the crimson of your blood smeared across the pads of her fingertips, only to find that she had been crying, both in her nightmare and in reality.

She lets out a unsteady sigh as she absentmindedly started to rub at her arms as though trying to rid herself of the phantom cold that still nipped at her skin even in her awoken state. Wednesday could still feel your cold body pressed in her arms that she would’ve thought that she had somehow carried your spirit over with her and now you were tasked with haunting her into insanity. The lines between her dreams, visions and reality has became too blurred for Wednesday’s liking that she found herself being pushed into sneaking out of her dorm by her fear and urge to know for definite that you weren’t out in those woods alone right now, marching towards your final battleground.

She had to know that you were safe, no, she needed to know the you were safe; She’d hunt you down and tie you to something if she must if it meant keeping you alive. So when she slipped past the door to your room, thankful for the privilege you got for having the entire dormitory to yourself. Wednesday was even more thankful that when she turned to look towards your bed and found that you had woken yourself up. “Wednesday? What’re you doing here you know Weems is going to blow a fuse if-“ you didn’t get to finish your sentence as Wednesday full on tackled you back into the bed, squeezing you tightly within her hug that only continued to constrict you against her as though you were a stress toy.

You were about to make a comment on how strong she was for someone of her stature and build, you quickly threw it out of the window when your whole body went rigid right as you felt something wet tricking down the side of your neck and collarbone followed by a series of sniffles; That’s when reality hit you, she was crying, Wednesday Addams was crying into your shoulder. You pressed a hand against her back, rubbing it comfortingly as you allowed her to practically concave your ribcage under the guise of relief, you’d happily die in her arms if that’s what it took to console her.

“Hey, what happened.” You asked her softly and just as you were getting use to having Wednesday in your arms, she was already pushing herself away from you, fury burning within her dark teary eyes as they looked at every inch of you like she was seeing a ghost. Her hands grasped at your face, fingers smoothing over your skin in certain areas, sighing in relief when what she was trying to find wasn’t there which only made you weepy even more. You knew that Wednesday gets visions now and then and how realistic they were but she handled them accordingly but you guessed that whatever she experienced tonight was even worse then her visions; a nightmare.

A nightmare that included you to some capacity and that made you fret over her well-being more so then how you personally felt about being within someone else’s nightmare, nor the questions you held about your position within them. “I had a nightmare, you died being an idiot and going after the Hyde alone, acting the self righteous hero.” Her words would be stung has the situation been a little different but with how tightly her hands gripped your face and the fear still running rampant in her heart, you couldn’t blame Wednesday for acting and feeling the way that she did. “Of course I’m an idiot but you know I would never do that shit if i knew it would only end up inexplicably hurting you.” You said softly as you press your head against hers, feeling her unsteady breathing as it brushed past your cheeks unevenly.

Wednesday was still frightened from what she witnessed and she wasn’t certain wether she was still in her dream or actually within reality with you. Her mind was frazzled and her emotions kept spiking out of control as her chest began to mimic that constricting feeling she felt within her nightmare. She didn’t know what to do and she didn’t dare close her eyelids in fear of seeing your dead eyes staring at her almost accusatory and on top of all that, she felt like she couldn’t get a single ounce of breath within her lungs from her overwhelming anxiety. You took one of her hands from your face and placed it to where your heart was located, “you feel that? That’s how you know I’m alive. I’m right here Wednesday, I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you want me to and right now you need to know that I’m still alive, that I’m still here.”

You told her as you squeezed her hand tightly so that she could feel your bodily warmth burn into the back of her hand. “This isn’t a sick dream is it?” Your heart broke for Wednesday, seeing the next batch of tears welling in her eyes as the hand that gripped your heart tightened it’s hold on your shirt. You prepped kisses into her forehead and hair as you managed to draw her closer into your chest, watching how she practically closed herself within you; her face replaced her hand as it was firmly pressed against your heart and her arms quickly clung themselves to your back as her nails clawed the fabric of your shirt. “No, even if it was I’d let you kill me for lying to you. Now shall we attempt to go back to sleep?”

“Please.” Wednesday whispered against your chest and you somehow managed to tuck the pair of you back into your bed, throwing the covers over both of you as sleep then drifted you back into it’s realm where you and Wednesday were lying in the frosted flakes woods together, warmly clothed and alive.

[cuckingfrazy]

U ona davna i daleka vremena, kad sam bio dečak, imao sam u osnovnoj školi druga Mileta Petrovića, malog buljookog Ciganina, koga su zvali Mile Glupavi, ili kako se to na ciganskom kaže: Mile Dileja. Mnogi Cigani zovu se Nikolići, Petrovići ili Jovanovići, mnogi se i danas zovu Mile, ali onaj moj drug, onakav Mile Dileja, bio je ipak, i ostao, nešto drukčije od svih ostalih. Ubili su ga fašisti 1942. godine u drugom svetskom ratu. Sahranjen je negdje ka selu Jabuci, kod Pančeva, u veliku zajedničku grobnicu bezimenih žrtava. Dve humke u ravnici, na dnu negdašnjeg Panonskog mora, liče na dva ostrva koje zapljuskuje veliko nisko nebo južnog Banata. Ponekad tamo odem, zapalim sveću i plačem. A meni se još i sad učini da Mileta ponekad sretnem. U gradskoj vrevi. U metežu autobuskih stanica ili aerodroma. Na obalama reka kraj kojih me nose brodovi. Na pustim poljanama u predvečerja, kad provirim kroz okno voza. Kroz vazduh, blag i pepeljast kao svila, ide čerga. A za njom, na pedeset koraka, providan kao staklo: Mile. Kad voze zađe za okuku, a on, kao da nadrasta krošnje, rasplinjuje se i pretvara u veliki beli oblak. I tako usamljen, dugo još lebdi na južnom nebu. Iako najmanji u razredu, Mile je uvek sedeo u poslednjoj klupi kao da nekom smeta, kao da je nešto drugo nego ostala deca. Tukli su ga svi redom, bez razloga, prosto zato što je Ciganin. Kad god neko nešto ukrade, Mile je dobijao batine ni kriv ni dužan. A vladalo je verovanje da je urokljiv, zbog zrikavih očiju, i da se noću druži s đavolima. Jednog dana, kad je sve to prevršilo meru, premestio sam Mileta kod sebe u prvu klupu i potukao se zbog njega do krvi. Proglasio sam ga za svog druga. Pravio sam se da sam i ja razrok kad smo plašili drugu decu. Naučio me je ciganski, pa smo nas dvojica govorili nešto što niko ne razume, i bili važni i tajanstveni. Bio sam dosta nežan dečak, plavokos i kukavica, ali odjednom se u meni probudio neki vrag i ja sam tukao sve redom, čak i one najjače. Danima sam dolazio kući raskrvavljen i pocepan. Šutirali su mi torbu po blatu. Napadala su me ponekad i petorica. Ali izdržao sam. Mile me je obožavao. Počeo je da krade zbog mene gumice, boljice, užine, olovke… i donosio mi sa nekom čudnom psećom vernošću. Imao sam zbog toga mnogo neprilika, jer morao sam sve te stvari posle krišom da vraćam, da ga ne uvredim. A vraćati je ponekad mnogo teže nego krasti. Mile Dileja je bio najveći pesnik koga sam poznavao u detinjstvu. Izmišljao je za mene ciganske pesme na već poznate melodije, prerađivao one stare koje je slušao od mame i bake, i dugo smo, danima, pamtim to kao iz neke čudne magle, dugo smo govorili o neobičnim svetovima bilja i životinja, o zlom duhu Čohana što jede decu, o snovima i kletvama, o čergama i skitnjama, i gorko, i šeretski, i tužno, i bezobrazno. Jednog dana rekao mi je svoju tajnu: loš đak je zato što ne može da misli, a da ne peva. Kad bi mogao, rekao je, da otpeva sve svoje lekcije, i zemljopis, i poznavanje prirode, i tablicu množenja, ali da sve to izvrne kako se njemu čini da je lepše, bio bi najbolji đak u razredu. Onda je došao rat. Došlo je strašno Čohano, koga se plaše i deca i odrasli Cigani. Probajte ako ne verujete: to je nešto u krvi. Čudno. Idite u neku cigansku kuću i, kad dete u kolevci plače, dete koje još ne zna ni da govori, plašite ga đavolom, vilenjacima, vešticama, plašite ga babarogom, čime god hoćete – vrištaće i dalje. Ali ako mu kažete, gledajući ga u oči: mir, ide Čohano – dete će okrenuti glavu, naježiti se i zaspati. U kućama Garavog sokaka tih prvih ratnih noći stalno su gorele sveće. Kažu da se Čohano boji svetlosti, jer je duh mraka i smrti. «Čohano jede sveće», govorili su. «Palite zato jednu na drugu da se produži svetlost». Moj Mile je morao da nosi na ruci žutu traku. Tako su okupatori odredili. Žuta traka je značila da on nije čovek, nego Ciganin, i da svako može da ga ubije kad hoće. Bio je nasmrt preplašen. Vodio sam ga kući iz škole, uzimao od njega traku i stavljao na svoj rukav. Dogodilo se da smo jednom, vraćajući se tako, sreli nemačkog vojnika. Jednog od ovih naših, domaćih, regrutovanih u diviziju «Princ Eugen». Bio je u šlemu, pod oružjem, a jedva šest ili sedam godina stariji od nas dvojice. Imao je dva plava oka, okruglo rumeno lice, u prvi mah činilo mi se čak dobroćudno. Uperio mi je pušku u grudi. U vilici mu se caklio zlatan zub. «Čega se to vas dvojica igrate?» «Ničega», rekao sam. «On se boji, a ja mu čuvam strah». «A šta je on tebi, kad mu čuvaš strah?» «Brat», rekao sam. I dalje se smeškao. Isukao je bajonet i stavio mi vrh u nozdrvu. Digao ga je tek toliko, koliko mogu da se uspnem na prste. «A koga se to bojiš?», upitao je Mileta. Mile je ćutao i gledao u zemlju. «Boji se da ga ne ubijete, gospodine vojniče», kazao sam dižući se i dalje na prste kao da ću poleteti. Osetio sam da mi nozdrva polako puca i krvari. «A ti se ne bojiš?» «Svako ko je mali mora da ima starijega brata koji će ga čuvati», rekao sam. «A gdje je tvoj stariji brat?» «Nemam ga, gospodine vojniče», kazao sam. «Zato se i ja bojim kad sam sam. Ali pred ovim dečakom ne smem». Ne prestajući da se smeška, vojnik me je poveo ulicom. Išao sam tako na prstima, sa bajonetom u pokidanoj nozdrvi i ljudi su nam se sklanjali s puta. Vojnika je sve to veoma zabavljalo. Očekivao je, valjda, da ću zaplakati. A ja, od silnog straha i bola, ništa drugo nisam umeo da mislim, nego sam stalno ponavljao u sebi: nemoj se saplesti, ostaćeš bez nosa. Mileta su jedne noći odveli s grupom Cigana i streljali. Ja sam ostao živ. I kad god vidim nekog Ciganina da mu treba pomoć, stanem uz njega da mu sačuvam strah. Jedno vreme odlazio sam u kafane gde sviraju najbolje ciganske družine. Oni to zovu: muzička kapela. Družim se s njima i plačem. Teram ih da mi sviraju Miletove pesme. Oni kažu da to ne postoji. Da reči tako ne idu. A ja znam da idu baš tako, i još ponešto izmišljam i sad već, polako, neki dobri orkestri kao što je Tugomirov ili Janike Balaža, Žarkova banda, Džanetova ili Miloša Nikolića iz Deronja, pevaju te pesme. «Iz poštovanja», kaže mi basista Steva iz Silbaša. «Žao nam kad plačete. Ako ne postoje pesme, izmislićemo ih za vas». I ja, evo, već godinama lutam i izmišljam pesme Roma. Romi – to je isto što i Cigani, samo što na ciganskom Romalen znači i: ljudi. I uvek se piše velikim slovom. A Mile Dileja? Ja u boga ne verujem. Ni u strašno Čohano. Ali ako ga negde ima, onda ga molim da tamo, u onom svetu mraka, korenja i tišine, kupi mom Miletu Dileji plišan šešir. Uvek ga je tako mnogo želeo. Miroslav Mika Antić

[visualpastxyz]

Eugene Kissling - Dimanche d’ete au bord de la Marne

https://www.visualpast.xyz/2021/12/eugene-kissling-dimanche-dete-au-bord.html

[djurina]

Kad sam bio garav- Miroslav Antić

U ona davna i daleka vremena, kad sam bio dečak, imao sam u osnovnoj školi druga Mileta Petrovića, malog buljookog Ciganina, koga su zvali Mile Glupavi, ili kako se to na ciganskom kaže: Mile Dileja. Mnogi Cigani zovu se Nikolići, Petrovići ili Jovanovići, mnogi se i danas zovu Mile, ali onaj moj drug, onakav Mile Dileja, bio je ipak, i ostao, nešto drukčije od svih ostalih.

Ubili su ga fašisti 1942. godine u drugom svetskom ratu. Sahranjen je negdje ka selu Jabuci, kod Pančeva, u veliku zajedničku grobnicu bezimenih žrtava. Dve humke u ravnici, na dnu negdašnjeg Panonskog mora, liče na dva ostrva koje zapljuskuje veliko nisko nebo južnog Banata. Ponekad tamo odem, zapalim sveću i plačem. A meni se još i sad učini da Mileta ponekad sretnem. U gradskoj vrevi. U metežu autobuskih stanica ili aerodroma. Na obalama reka kraj kojih me nose brodovi. Na pustim poljanama u predvečerja, kad provirim kroz okno voza. Kroz vazduh, blag i pepeljast kao svila, ide čerga. A za njom, na pedeset koraka, providan kao staklo: Mile. Kad voze zađe za okuku, a on, kao da nadrasta krošnje, rasplinjuje se i pretvara u veliki beli oblak. I tako usamljen, dugo još lebdi na južnom nebu.

Iako najmanji u razredu, Mile je uvek sedeo u poslednjoj klupi kao da nekom smeta, kao da je nešto drugo nego ostala deca. Tukli su ga svi redom, bez razloga, prosto zato što je Ciganin. Kad god neko nešto ukrade, Mile je dobijao batine ni kriv ni dužan. A vladalo je verovanje da je urokljiv, zbog zrikavih očiju, i da se noću druži s đavolima.

Jednog dana, kad je sve to prevršilo meru, premestio sam Mileta kod sebe u prvu klupu i potukao se zbog njega do krvi. Proglasio sam ga za svog druga. Pravio sam se da sam i ja razrok kad smo plašili drugu decu. Naučio me je ciganski, pa smo nas dvojica govorili nešto što niko ne razume, i bili važni i tajanstveni.

Bio sam dosta nežan dečak, plavokos i kukavica, ali odjednom se u meni probudio neki vrag i ja sam tukao sve redom, čak i one najjače. Danima sam dolazio kući raskrvavljen i pocepan. Šutirali su mi torbu po blatu. Napadala su me ponekad i petorica. Ali izdržao sam.

Mile me je obožavao. Počeo je da krade zbog mene gumice, boljice, užine, olovke… i donosio mi sa nekom čudnom psećom vernošću. Imao sam zbog toga mnogo neprilika, jer morao sam sve te stvari posle krišom da vraćam, da ga ne uvredim. A vraćati je ponekad mnogo teže nego krasti. Mile Dileja je bio najveći pesnik koga sam poznavao u detinjstvu. Izmišljao je za mene ciganske pesme na već poznate melodije, prerađivao one stare koje je slušao od mame i bake, i dugo smo, danima, pamtim to kao iz neke čudne magle, dugo smo govorili o neobičnim svetovima bilja i životinja, o zlom duhu Čohana što jede decu, o snovima i kletvama, o čergama i skitnjama, i gorko, i šeretski, i tužno, i bezobrazno. Jednog dana rekao mi je svoju tajnu: loš đak je zato što ne može da misli, a da ne peva. Kad bi mogao, rekao je, da otpeva sve svoje lekcije, i zemljopis, i poznavanje prirode, i tablicu množenja, ali da sve to izvrne kako se njemu čini da je lepše, bio bi najbolji đak u razredu.

Onda je došao rat. Došlo je strašno Čohano, koga se plaše i deca i odrasli Cigani. Probajte ako ne verujete: to je nešto u krvi. Čudno. Idite u neku cigansku kuću i, kad dete u kolevci plače, dete koje još ne zna ni da govori, plašite ga đavolom, vilenjacima, vešticama, plašite ga babarogom, čime god hoćete – vrištaće i dalje. Ali ako mu kažete, gledajući ga u oči: mir, ide Čohano – dete će okrenuti glavu, naježiti se i zaspati.

U kućama Garavog sokaka tih prvih ratnih noći stalno su gorele sveće. Kažu da se Čohano boji svetlosti, jer je duh mraka i smrti. «Čohano jede sveće», govorili su. «Palite zato jednu na drugu da se produži svetlost». Moj Mile je morao da nosi na ruci žutu traku. Tako su okupatori odredili. Žuta traka je značila da on nije čovek, nego Ciganin, i da svako može da ga ubije kad hoće.

Bio je nasmrt preplašen. Vodio sam ga kući iz škole, uzimao od njega traku i stavljao na svoj rukav. Dogodilo se da smo jednom, vraćajući se tako, sreli nemačkog vojnika. Jednog od ovih naših, domaćih, regrutovanih u diviziju «Princ Eugen». Bio je u šlemu, pod oružjem, a jedva šest ili sedam godina stariji od nas dvojice. Imao je dva plava oka, okruglo rumeno lice, u prvi mah činilo mi se čak dobroćudno. Uperio mi je pušku u grudi. U vilici mu se caklio zlatan zub. «Čega se to vas dvojica igrate?» «Ničega», rekao sam. «On se boji, a ja mu čuvam strah». «A šta je on tebi, kad mu čuvaš strah?» «Brat», rekao sam. I dalje se smeškao. Isukao je bajonet i stavio mi vrh u nozdrvu. Digao ga je tek toliko, koliko mogu da se uspnem na prste. «A koga se to bojiš?», upitao je Mileta. Mile je ćutao i gledao u zemlju. «Boji se da ga ne ubijete, gospodine vojniče», kazao sam dižući se i dalje na prste kao da ću poleteti. Osetio sam da mi nozdrva polako puca i krvari. «A ti se ne bojiš?» «Svako ko je mali mora da ima starijega brata koji će ga čuvati», rekao sam. «A gdje je tvoj stariji brat?» «Nemam ga, gospodine vojniče», kazao sam. «Zato se i ja bojim kad sam sam. Ali pred ovim dečakom ne smem».

Ne prestajući da se smeška, vojnik me je poveo ulicom. Išao sam tako na prstima, sa bajonetom u pokidanoj nozdrvi i ljudi su nam se sklanjali s puta. Vojnika je sve to veoma zabavljalo. Očekivao je, valjda, da ću zaplakati. A ja, od silnog straha i bola, ništa drugo nisam umeo da mislim, nego sam stalno ponavljao u sebi: nemoj se saplesti, ostaćeš bez nosa.

Mileta su jedne noći odveli s grupom Cigana i streljali. Ja sam ostao živ. I kad god vidim nekog Ciganina da mu treba pomoć, stanem uz njega da mu sačuvam strah.

Jedno vreme odlazio sam u kafane gde sviraju najbolje ciganske družine. Oni to zovu: muzička kapela. Družim se s njima i plačem. Teram ih da mi sviraju Miletove pesme. Oni kažu da to ne postoji. Da reči tako ne idu. A ja znam da idu baš tako, i još ponešto izmišljam i sad već, polako, neki dobri orkestri kao što je Tugomirov ili Janike Balaža, Žarkova banda, Džanetova ili Miloša Nikolića iz Deronja, pevaju te pesme. «Iz poštovanja», kaže mi basista Steva iz Silbaša. «Žao nam kad plačete. Ako ne postoje pesme, izmislićemo ih za vas».

I ja, evo, već godinama lutam i izmišljam pesme Roma. Romi – to je isto što i Cigani, samo što na ciganskom Romalen znači i: ljudi. I uvek se piše velikim slovom.

A Mile Dileja?

Ja u boga ne verujem. Ni u strašno Čohano. Ali ako ga negde ima, onda ga molim da tamo, u onom svetu mraka, korenja i tišine, kupi mom Miletu Dileji plišan šešir.

Uvek ga je tako mnogo želeo.

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Anna Andrejewna Achmatowa

Anna Andrejewna Achmatowa (gebürtige Gorenko; russisch Анна Андреевна Ахматова, wiss. Trans­litera­tion Anna Andreevna Achmatova, bzw. Горенко; * 11.jul./ 23. Juni 1889greg. in Bolschoi Fontan bei Odessa, Russi­sches Kaiser­reich; † 5. März 1966 in Domodedowo bei Moskau, Russische SFSR) war eine russi­sche Dichte­rin und Schrift­stellerin. Sie gilt als die Seele des Silber­nen Zeit­alters in der russi­schen Litera­tur und als bedeu­tende russi­sche Dichte­rin. Ihr späte­res Schaffen ist vor allem von den Schrecken der stalinis­tischen Herr­schaft geprägt, wäh­rend der sie selbst Schreib­verbot hatte, ihr Sohn und ihr Mann inhaf­tiert waren und viele ihrer Freunde ums Leben kamen. Ihr Vers­epos Poem ohne Held, an dem sie 22 Jahre gearbei­tet hatte und das als ihr wichtigs­tes Werk gilt, erschien bereits 1960/61 in einem New Yorker Literatur­alma­nach, 1963 in Russ­land. Es kann in der literari­schen Tradi­tion der russi­schen Vers­epen gesehen werden, die Puschkin mit Eugen Onegin 1833 begrün­dete und die auch Alexander Blok aufgriff. 1965 erhielt sie die Ehren­doktor­würde der Univer­sität Oxford und im selben Jahr war sie für den Literatur­nobel­preis nominiert.  – Zum Artikel …