Last night my mom and I saw Onegin, performed at the English National Opera. I remember reading this long poem of Pushkin’s in my Russian literature class during my senior year of college. I raced through that story like none of the other novels that term. Sometimes I find poetry hard to tie my head around, hard to dissect and understand where it is going, especially longer novel-length”epic” poems. But Pushkin (and Tchaikovsky in his opera) are able to communicate the deep emotion and thrilling story line so clearly through the text and music, that there is never any complicated un-knotting of metaphors. The story is angst-ridden, for sure, but angst-y and tragic in that lovely, delicious way that makes you loathe to come up for air at the end of the story. The opera, like the story, was breathtaking.
All this culture, less than 10 minutes down the road from my flat 🙂