Boris Pasternak Quotes
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Мое собственное сердце скрыло бы это от меня, потому что нелюбовь почти как убийство, и я никому не в силах была бы нанести этого удара.
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И вот оказалось, что только жизнь, похожая на жизнь окружающих и среди нее бесследно тонущая, есть жизнь настоящая, что счастье обособленное не есть счастье...
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A candle burned on the table, a candle burned ... he whispered to himself - the beginning of something confused, formless; he hoped that it would take shape of itself. But nothing more came to him.
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Love is not weakness. It is strong. Only the sacrament of marriage can contain it.
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Even so, one step from my grave, I believe that cruelty, spite, The powers of darkness will in time, Be crushed by the spirit of light.
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What for centuries raised man above the beast is not the cudgel but the irresistible power of unarmed truth.
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No deep and strong feeling, such as we may come across here and there in the world, is unmixed with compassion. The more we love, the more the object of our love seems to us to be a victim.
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You fall into my arms. You are the good gift of destruction's path, When life sickens more than disease. And boldness is the root of beauty. Which draws us together.
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At the moment of childbirth, every woman has the same aura of isolation, as though she were abandoned, alone.
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That's metaphysics, my dear fellow. It's forbidden me by my doctor, my stomach won't take it.
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If it is so painful to love and to be charged with this electric current, how much more painful must it be to a woman and to be the current, and to inspire love.
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Like a beast in a pen, I’m cut off From my friends, freedom, the Sun. But the hunters are gaining ground; I’ve nowhere else to run.
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I love you madly, irrationally, infinitely.
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As for the men in power, they are so anxious to establish the myth of infallibility that they do their utmost to ignore truth.
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In view of the meaning given to this honor in the community to which I belong, I should abstain from the undeserved prize that has been awarded to me. Do not meet my voluntary refusal with ill will.
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No bad man can be a good poet.
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The main misfortune, the root of all evil to come, was loss of the confidence in the value of one's own opinion. People imagined that it was out of date of follow their own moral sense, that they must all sing in chorus, and live by other people's notions, notions that were crammed down everybody's throat.
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And so it turned out that only a life similar to the life of those around us, merging with it without a ripple, is genuine life, and that an unshared happiness is not happiness.
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Immensely grateful, touched, proud, astonished, abashed.
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They don't ask much of you. They only want you to hate the things you love and to love the things you despise.
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Poetry is a rich, full-bodied whistle, cracked ice crunching in pails, the night that numbs the leaf, the duel of two nightingales, the sweet pea that has run wild, Creation’s tears in shoulder blades.
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Gregariousness is always the refuge of mediocrities, whether they swear by Solovyov or Kant or Marx. Only individuals seek the truth.
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Work is the order of the day, just as it was at one time, with our first starts and our best efforts. Do you remember? Therein lies its delight. It brings back the forgotten; one's stores of energy, seemingly exhausted, come back to life.
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Не спи, не спи, художник,Не предавайся сну.Ты – вечности заложникУ времени в плену.