Game Bring Characters from Different Books to Life

00* 243 · Jul 17, 2025

Listen, I love you, and I will speak seriously; but do me a favor, brother, drop your grim look, and I will reveal to you all the mysteries of earthly wisdom. You want to hear my opinion on gratitude… very well: have patience. Whatever Voltaire or Descartes may say — the world is a deck of cards to me, life is a bank: fate deals, I play, and I apply the rules of the game to people. And now, an example to explain these rules: suppose I bet a thousand on the ace all at once: yes, on a hunch — I am superstitious about cards! [М. Ю. Лермонтов. Маскарад (1835)]

No God, no idols — nothing… In this fantastic world there are no passions, infatuations, or attachments. Everyone lives together every minute, yet each person feels lonely. Life never for a moment turns away from carrying out countless foolish duties, each of them calculated in advance and weighing on every person like fate. Women are allowed to give birth only in winter, because breaking this rule could hinder the successful progress of summer work. Unions between young people are arranged solely according to height and build, since this meets the requirements of a proper and beautiful front. Leveling, reduced to the assignment of a certain amount of black bread — that is the essence of this cantonist fantasy… [М. Е. Салтыков-Щедрин. История одного города (1869-1870)]

303707 · Jul 17, 2025

Simply being alive, watching the sun rise over the glittering snowy hills — that is the greatest treasure on earth.
J. K. Rowling (Harry Potter)

1994 · Jul 18, 2025

"Slowly dies the one who does not travel, who does not read, who does not listen to music, who cannot find harmony within themselves.
Slowly dies the one who destroys their faith in themselves, who does not allow themselves to help.
Slowly dies the one who destroys love itself and spends their days constantly complaining about bad luck or the never-ending rain.
Slowly dies the one who abandons their plans without even having begun them; who does not ask questions about arguments unknown to them, and who does not answer when asked about what they know.
Slowly dies the one who becomes a slave to habit, following the same route every day; who does not change direction, who does not risk changing the colors of their clothes, who does not speak to strangers.
Slowly dies the one who avoids passion, when a yawn could be replaced with a smile; who prefers black and white and the dots over the letter “i” instead of living with emotions—the very ones that make eyes shine, that can make the heart beat because of both mistakes and feelings.
Slowly dies the one who does not turn tables over, the one who does not fight back against the blows of fate when unhappy at work or in love; the one who does not risk what they have for the sake of the unknown that might be, if they follow their dream; who does not allow themselves, at least once in life, to run away from sensible advice …
Let us try to avoid dying in small doses, always remembering that being Alive requires a great, long effort—the simple act of breathing. Live today! Take a risk today! Do it today! Do not dare to die slowly! DO NOT FORBID YOURSELF TO BE HAPPY!"
Pablo Neruda (Chilean poet)

00* 243 · Jul 18, 2025

«Do you want to know what I did
In freedom? I lived—and my life
Without these three blessed days
Would have been sadder and darker
Than your powerless old age.
Long ago I conceived the plan
To look upon distant fields,
To learn whether the earth is beautiful,
To learn whether we are born into this world
For freedom or for prison.
And at the hour of night, the terrible hour,
When the storm frightened you,
When, gathered around the altar,
You lay face down upon the ground,
I ran away. Oh, like a brother,
I would have been glad to embrace the storm!
With my eyes I followed the clouds,
With my hand I caught the lightning…
Tell me, what could you have given me within these walls
In exchange for that brief but living friendship
Between a stormy heart and the storm?..

M. Yu. Lermontov, "The Novice"

303707 · Jul 18, 2025

"The storm covers the darkening sky,
Swirling snowy whirlwinds;
Now it howls like a beast,
Now it cries like a child,
Now suddenly it rustles with straw
Across the dilapidated roof,
Now, like a belated traveler,
It knocks at our little window.

Our rickety hut
Is both gloomy and dark.
Why have you, my old woman,
Fallen silent by the window?
Are you tired, my friend,
Of the storm's inviting call,
Or are you dozing beneath the humming
Of your spinning wheel?"

A. S. Pushkin, "Winter Evening"

74349 · Jul 18, 2025

Clambering over immense trunks felled by the storm, pushing aside the needle-covered spruce branches, sinking knee-deep—or even waist-deep—into the snow, crossing the diamond forest, wondrous in its silent majesty and tranquility, Kirill grew increasingly weak and cold. His consciousness began to grow cloudy again, but suddenly he saw something that instantly brought him to his senses.
Aurelia Aurita. A rushing stream.

303707 · Jul 18, 2025

"It is strange what paths we choose to hide our true feelings instead of living through them."
Erich Maria Remarque, "Night in Lisbon"

00* 243 · Jul 18, 2025

In the evenings, Anya’s husband played cards with his colleagues, who lived with him under the same roof in a government-owned house. During the card games, the officials’ wives—unattractive, tastelessly dressed, and coarse as cooks—would gather, and the apartment would fill with gossip just as unattractive and tasteless as the women themselves. Sometimes Modest Alexeyich would go to the theater with Anya. During the intermissions, he would not let her out of his sight for a moment, but walked with her arm in arm through the corridors and foyer. After bowing to someone, he would immediately whisper to Anya: “A state councillor… received by His Excellency…” or: “Well-off… owns his own house…” When they passed the refreshment counter, Anya longed for something sweet; she loved chocolate and apple pastries, but she had no money, and she was embarrassed to ask her husband. He would pick up a pear, squeeze it in his fingers, and ask hesitantly:
“How much does it cost?”
“Twenty-five kopecks.”
“Good heavens!” he would say, putting the pear back; but since it felt awkward to walk away from the counter without buying anything, he would order a bottle of seltzer and drink it all himself. Tears would come to his eyes, and Anya hated him at such moments.
Or, suddenly turning completely red, he would say to her quickly:
“Bow to that old lady!”
“But I don’t know her.”
“It doesn’t matter. She’s the wife of the director of the state treasury chamber! Bow, I tell you!” he would grumble insistently. “Your head won’t fall off.”
Anya would bow, and her head really did not fall off, but it was agonizing. She did everything her husband wanted and was angry with herself for letting him deceive her like the most foolish girl. She had married him only for his money, yet now she had less money than before her marriage. At least her father used to give her twenty-kopeck pieces; now—not a kopeck. She could neither take money secretly nor ask for it; she was afraid of her husband, she trembled before him. It seemed to her that she had carried the fear of this man in her soul for a long time. When she was a child, the most imposing and terrifying force, looming like a cloud or a locomotive ready to crush her, had always seemed to be the headmaster of the girls’ school; another such force, whom the family always spoke of and for some reason feared, was His Excellency; and there were a dozen lesser forces besides, including the teachers at the school, with their shaven moustaches, stern and relentless. And now, finally, there was Modest Alexeyich, a man of principles who even resembled the headmaster in appearance. In Anya’s imagination, all these forces merged into one and, taking the form of one enormous, terrible white bear, loomed over the weak and the guilty, people like her father. She was afraid to say anything in protest, and smiled tensely, feigning pleasure when she was roughly caressed and defiled by embraces that filled her with horror.
A. P. Chekhov, “Anna on the Neck”

303707 · Jul 19, 2025

"A person is somewhat like this train. He is just as doomed to drag behind him forever, from the past, a chain of dark, frightening carriages inherited from who knows whom. And he calls the meaningless clatter of this random coupling of hopes, opinions, and fears his life. And it seems there is no way to escape this fate."

Fear always attracts exactly what you are afraid of. But if you are afraid of nothing, you become invisible. The best camouflage is indifference."

V. Pelevin, "Chapaev and Emptiness"

1965 · Jul 19, 2025

Yes. There was a very interesting little cow, resembling a pediatrician. The emblem was fitting too—a bull with a chain on an examination couch. I no longer remember everything she said, but the main idea was this: the Minotaur can be defeated in only one way—by ceasing to consider yourself a victim. Then he will simply disappear. Everyone has their own Minotaur, she said, but in fact it is not he who pursues us; it is we who pursue him. And the labyrinth in which we seek him is the dopamine chains of pleasure that close within a person’s brain; they are also unique to each individual, as distinctive as fingerprints. As for how to turn correctly in the labyrinth, it is simple. Suppose you are standing at a fork from which ten identical corridors branch off. Naturally, when choosing where to go next, you should be guided not by fears and superstitions, but by where common sense calls you.

V. Pelevin, "The Helmet of Horror"

303707 · Jul 19, 2025

"Once, a poor man was walking through the forest. Suddenly, he saw three jugs of milk standing on a stump. One was labeled 'Wealth,' another 'Happiness,' and the third 'Love.'
—Well, the man thought, whichever one I drink, that is what I will have.
But there was a problem: he did not know which jug to drink. The jugs were large—he could manage only one. Which should he choose?
He reached for Wealth, but then changed his mind.
—What do I need it for? I will spend it, and then I will have nothing again. Happiness, on the other hand, is pleasant and lasts a long time.
He reached for Happiness.
—No. Dogs experience happiness too when they are petted. If even animals can be happy, then a human being all the more so. What is most valuable is love. It is not easy to find. I would rather drink the jug labeled 'Love.'
S. Veretennikov, 'Three Jugs of Milk'—parables.

1994 · Jul 20, 2025

"Glory to the brave who dare to love, knowing that it will all come to an end. Glory to the mad who live as if they were immortal—sometimes death retreats from them."
Yevgeny Schwartz, "The Ordinary Miracle"

"Love is patient, love is kind; love does not envy, love does not boast, it is not proud, it does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs, love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth; it always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres;
*Love never fails...*"
1 Corinthians 13:4–7.

1965 · Jul 20, 2025

Love knows no logic; it is higher than reason. Love dwells on the peaks, above the valleys of reason. This is exalted coexistence, the crown of being, and it is granted to few. “Martin Eden,” J. London

303707 · Jul 20, 2025

“Once, a Master kept repeating a single mantra. It was just one word: “Love.” Whatever he did, he would say, “Love, love, love...” And one day he stopped saying this mantra. All his disciples were greatly surprised: “Why has our Master stopped saying his mantra?” After some time, they came to the Master and asked him this question.
- I used to repeat “Love”; now Love repeats me, he replied.
S. Veretennikov (Parables: The “Love” Mantra)

00* 243 · Jul 20, 2025

“Our sovereign, Ivan Vasilyevich!
Do not reproach your unworthy servant:
A fiery heart cannot be drowned in wine,
Nor can black thoughts be lulled with feasting!
And if I have angered you—such is the tsar’s will:
Order me executed, my head struck off;
It weighs heavily upon these heroic shoulders,
And of its own accord bows toward the damp earth.”

And Tsar Ivan Vasilyevich said to him:
“What is there for you, young man, to grieve about?
Has your brocade caftan worn thin?
Has your sable hat become misshapen?
Have you squandered your treasury?
Or has your tempered sword grown notched?
Or has your poorly shod horse gone lame?
Or has some merchant’s son knocked you off your feet
In a fistfight on the Moscow River?”

Kiribeevich replied,
Shaking his curly head:

“Such a hand has not been born,
Neither in a boyar’s family nor among merchants;
My steppe argamak goes merrily;
My sharp sword burns like glass,
And on your feast day, by your grace,
We shall dress no worse than any other.”

“When I mount my mettlesome horse and ride
To take a turn beyond the Moscow River,
Tighten my silk sash,
Tilt my velvet hat to one side,
Trimmed with black sable—
At the gates, beneath the carved wooden roofs,
Stand fair maidens and young women,
Admiring me, watching and whispering;
Only one neither looks nor admires,
Hiding behind a striped veil…”

“On holy Rus’, our motherland,
One cannot find, cannot discover such a beauty:
She walks gracefully—as if a swan;
She gazes sweetly—as a dove;
She speaks a word—and a nightingale sings;
Her rosy cheeks glow
Like dawn in God’s heaven;
Her fair, golden hair,
Braided with bright ribbons,
Runs and curls over her shoulders,
Kissing her white breast.
She was born into a merchant family;
Her name is Alyona Dmitrevna.”

“When I see her, I am no longer myself:
My strong arms fall slack,
My bold eyes grow dim;
It is dreary and sad for me, Orthodox tsar,
To wander alone through the world.
My swift horses have grown tiresome,
My brocade finery has grown tiresome,
And I no longer need a golden treasury:
With whom shall I now share my wealth?
Before whom shall I display my prowess?
Before whom shall I boast of my finery?
Let me go to the Volga steppes,
To live a free Cossack life.
There I shall lay down my reckless head
And set it upon a heathen spear;
And the evil Tatars will divide among themselves
My good horse, my sharp sword,
And my Circassian saddle.
A kite will peck out my tearful eyes,
The rain will wash my bare bones,
And, without a funeral, my wretched dust
Will scatter to the four directions…”

M. Yu. Lermontov, “The Song of the Tsar Ivan Vasilyevich, the Young Oprichnik, and the Bold Merchant Kalashnikov”

1965 · Jul 21, 2025

It has long been said in Rus’ that separation is like the wind. It extinguishes a small love, but fans a great one into such a blaze that serious property damage occurs and, in some cases, the question of the parties’ criminal liability even arises. V. Pelevin, “iPhuch 10”

303707 · Jul 21, 2025

“Our former mild governor left the administration in less than perfect order. Cholera was now looming, and in some places a severe livestock epidemic had broken out. Fires raged throughout the cities and villages all summer, while among the people a foolish rumor about arson took deeper and deeper root.”

F. Dostoevsky, “Demons”

1994 · Jul 21, 2025

“Then fire!” cried Azazello. “Fire—the fire with which it all began and with which we all end.”
“Fire!” Margarita cried out terribly. The little window in the basement slammed shut, and the wind blew the curtain aside. Thunder rumbled cheerfully and briefly in the sky. Azazello thrust his clawed hand into the stove, pulled out a smoking ember, and set the tablecloth on the table alight. Then he set a bundle of old newspapers on the sofa on fire, followed by the manuscript and the curtain on the window. The Master, already intoxicated by the prospect of the coming ride, threw some book from the shelf onto the table, fanned its pages into the burning tablecloth, and the book burst into cheerful flames.
“Burn, burn, former life!”
“Burn, suffering!” Margarita cried.
M. Bulgakov, “The Master and Margarita”

00* 243 · Jul 21, 2025

They stopped, and amid the triumphant roar of the forest, surrounded by trembling darkness, weary and angry, they began to judge Danko.
“You,” they said, “are a worthless and harmful man to us! You led us on and exhausted us, and for that you shall die!”
“You said, ‘Lead us!’—and I led you!” Danko shouted, standing squarely before them. “I have the courage to lead; that is why I led you! And you? What have you done to help yourselves? You merely walked on and failed to conserve your strength for the longer journey! You merely walked and walked, like a flock of sheep!”
But these words enraged them even more.
“You will die! You will die!” they roared. And the forest kept rumbling and rumbling, echoing their cries, while lightning tore the darkness into shreds. Danko looked at those for whom he had undertaken this labor and saw that they were like beasts. Many people stood around him, but there was no nobility in their faces, and he could not expect mercy from them. Then indignation boiled up in his heart too, but it faded away out of pity for the people. He loved them and thought that perhaps they would perish without him. And then his heart blazed with the fire of a desire to save them, to lead them onto an easy path, and rays of that mighty fire began to sparkle in his eyes… Seeing this, they thought he had become furious, which was why his eyes had flared so brightly, and they grew wary like wolves, expecting him to fight them. They began to close in around him so that it would be easier for them to seize and kill Danko. But he had already understood their thoughts, and his heart blazed even more brightly, for their thoughts had filled him with sorrow.
And the forest continued to sing its gloomy song, thunder rumbled, and rain poured…
“What shall I do for the people?!” Danko cried, louder than the thunder.
And suddenly he tore open his chest with his hands, ripped out his heart, and raised it high above his head.
It burned as brightly as the sun—and brighter than the sun—and the entire forest fell silent, illuminated by this torch of great love for humanity, while the darkness scattered before its light and, deep in the forest, trembling, fell into the rotten maw of the swamp. The people, astonished, stood like stones.
“Let’s go!” Danko cried, and rushed forward to his place, holding his burning heart high and lighting the way for the people.
They rushed after him, spellbound. Then the forest began to rustle again, shaking its treetops in amazement, but its noise was drowned out by the pounding feet of the running people. Everyone ran swiftly and boldly, drawn onward by the wondrous sight of the burning heart.
And now some perished, but they perished without complaints or tears. Danko was still ahead, and his heart continued to blaze and blaze!
And suddenly the forest parted before him, parted and remained behind, dense and silent, while Danko and all those people at once plunged into a sea of sunlight and clean air washed by the rain. The storm was there, behind them, over the forest, while here the sun shone, the steppe breathed, the grass glittered with diamonds of rain, and the river gleamed like gold… It was evening, and in the rays of the sunset the river seemed red, like the blood that gushed hot from Danko’s torn chest.
The proud daredevil Danko cast his eyes ahead across the vast steppe—he cast a joyful look over the free land and laughed proudly. Then he fell—and died.
But the people, joyful and full of hope, did not notice his death and did not see that his brave heart still burned beside Danko’s corpse. Only one cautious man noticed it and, afraid of something, stepped on the proud heart with his foot… And then it crumbled into sparks and went out…”
“That is where the blue sparks of the steppe come from, the ones that appear before a storm!”

1965 · Jul 21, 2025

Lord, God, Father, I beheld the steppe, and it had no end. Like a person living in the Stone Age who suddenly sees the first steps on the Moon and realizes, with horror and awe, the abyss of knowledge that lay between them. God, I beheld the steppe, and it had no end. Lord, teach me how to live with an abyss in my chest. Al Kvotion, “Spare Part of Improvisation”