All the world's a stage,And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts , His acts being seven ages
Verily does this adage resonate in this world. Everyday, I put on facade, a mask, of self-control and severity. If any signs of weakness show, it shall render me in destruction of others and myself. I disdain merryment ,laughter, and friendship.
Nay! These are only weapons in a guise that maim and mock us!
No faith do I possess, it is futile.I t is but a joke that drags us into its current of hope and then drowns us into despair.
Life is a cold slog through razor-sharp shards of ice.
A wall must be erected and let nothing penetrate through.
Sin is all too real.It crushes us in its grinding wheels, its pounding hooves, till we are nothing, like those before who sojourned along the path.
--From The Decemberist Account of Eugene Onegin
Eugene Onegin is Pushkin's (and perhaps literature's) most ambiguous,misunderstood and repelling yet compelling character.
A vain, shallow youth,possessing an attitude of cockiness and arrogance.
A man of the world,he is jadedly aloof, cold and calculating. Around himself, he constructs a tight, towering wall of rejection and fierce pride.
He reveals no emotion,drowning out any with a veneer of dashing braggadocio.Yet looking behind this superfluous facade, we find a strikingly different Onegin.
His swaggering arrogance hides his consuming insecurity,the tepid manner conceals an aching shyness, his worldliness covers up his uncertainty (and his yearning to find it) of faith, both in God and people,and his shallowness is but a front for his low self-esteem.
As the years pass, becoming mere ashes into meaningless oblivion,he discovers the fallacy of living such a life.
And slowly but surely his walls deteriorate,his veneer cracks, dripping out all his flaws and fears and his facade crumbles to the ground.
I ponder whether Onegin, as callous as he is, finds the Winter in match with the fiber of his being.No other season is as more mistaken for its solitarity than this one,and Onegin seems to dwell in loneliness like it is his shelter or, sanctuary, if you will.
A stark contrast is that while the joyous celebration of Christmas,the Birth of Our Lord,and New Year, the renewed beginning of a new year (and for some,a new life lies in the distance),Onegin disdains such joy.
It as if the light and warmth of the joy stabs and blinds him.
Perhaps it strip his soul naked and wither it, for its lack of anything kind or good.
If only, he would have Christ in his life, imagine the fate which would have been laid before him.