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The most humble Russian novel I have ever read. Just a brief slice of life, delightful and touching, and skillfully told. Quite unexpectedly I cried, a tear or two, at the end. I can with complete confidence recommend this book to anyone who likes to read. A masterpiece.

He had now packed his belongings and set free all his frogs, insects and birds.
(...)
She grew thin from constant inward agitation and, as always happens, she looked even prettier.

A son is an independent person. He's like a falcon...but you and I are like funguses growing in a hollow tree....It is only I who will stay with you always, faithful forever, just as you will stay with me.
Vassily Ivanych took his hands from his face and clasped his wife, his friend, more warmly than he had ever done before, even in their youth: she had consoled him in his grief. (end of chapter 21)

Bazarov's father is 60 and Arkady's is 44. How do we compare the two fathers? How have the differences we may see have affected their respective sons?

Bazarov's father is 60 and Arkady's 44. How do we compare the two fathers? How have the differences we may see have affected their respective sons?

So many memories and so little worth remembering, and in front of me, ahead, a long, long road without a goal...' (176)
The pressure of various vague emotions - the sense of life passing by, a longing for novelty - had forced her to a certain limit, forced her to look behind her - and there she had seen not even an abyss but only a void...chaos without shape. (184)

So many memories and so little worth remembering, and in front of me, ahead, a long, long road without a goal...' (176)
The pressure of various vague emotions - the sense of life passing by, a longing for novelty - had forced her to a certain limit, forced her to look behind her - and there she had seen not even an abyss but only a void...chaos without shape. (184)

So many memories and so little worth remembering...' (176)
The pressure of various vague emotions - the sense of life passing by, a longing for novelty - had forced her to a certain limit, forced her to look behind her - and there she had seen not even an abyss but only a void...chaos without shape. (184)

So many memories and so little worth remembering...' (176)

The pressure of various vague emotions - the sense of life passing by, a longing for novelty - had forced her to a certain limit, forced her to look behind her - and there she had seen not even an abyss but only a void...chaos without shape. (184)

Chapter 17
This is turning into a romance novel.
Where are the bomb throwers?
Ugh.