With a passion I detest the saintly —
Their scrupulous and tortured concerns
And shallow thoughts are for themselves;
Themselves alone exclusively they save.
They fear exclusively for their souls,
In terror of their dreams' gaping abyss
And of that ancient poisoner the Worm
They execute without guilty conscience.
I would have hated heaven just as well,
Among those shades with meekly smiles,
Where the eternal holiday, forever May,
Proceeds on its measured, pacing way.
I have no wish to live in Paradise
While executing the Serpent's wiles.
From childhood years I've loved the Asp
And am amazed by it as by a masterpiece.
I have no wish to live in Paradise
Among dullards writhing in ecstasy.
I'm dying, I'm destroyed, am killed — I sing,
The mind-deprived demon of dreams lyrical.
Я ненавижу всех святых,
Они заботятся мучительно
О жалких помыслах своих,
Себя спасают исключительно.
За душу страшно им свою,
Им страшны пропасти мечтания,
И ядовитую Змею
Они казнят без сострадания.
Мне ненавистен был бы Рай
Среди теней с улыбкой кроткою,
Где вечный праздник, вечный май
Идёт размеренной походкою.
Я не хотел бы жить в Раю,
Казня находчивость змеиную,
От детских дней люблю Змею,
И ей любуюсь, как картиною.
Я не хотел бы жить в Раю,
Меж тупоумцев экстатических,
Я гибну, гибну, — и пою,
Безумный демон снов лирических.
«Days spread out with distinct somberness. / The disconsolate brook flows along / In front of my entry hall porch door / Outside my window’s unblocked view. Outside the fence along the road / The public garden flows from its bank. / Sprawling down, like beasts from a lair, / Tumultuous...»
«Fame is unsightly, when one is alive. / It does nothing to raise one up. / One must not establish archives / Nor tremble over one’s manuscripts. The aim of creation — self-reflection, / Not hoopla, not grand success. / To be a parable on any old tongue / Is infamy and nothingness. ...»
«It is not seemly to be famous: / Celebrity does not exalt; / There is no need to hoard your writings / And to preserve them in a vault. / / To give your all-this is creation, / And not-to deafen and eclipse. / How shameful, when you have no meaning, / To be on everybody's lips! / ...»
«To be the famous isn't attractive, / Not this could ever elevate, / You needn't to make your archive active, / You needn't your scripts to be all saved. / / Self-offering's aimed by creation, / But ballyhoo or cheap success, / It is a shame, if worthless persons / Are talks of towns...»