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“He is her glory. Any woman could say it. For every one of them, God is in her child. Mothers of great men must have been familiar with this feeling, but then, all women are mothers of great men — it isn’t their fault if life disappoints them later.”

 

Boris Pasternak

“Everything established, settled, everything to do with home and order and the common ground, has crumbled into dust and has been swept away in the general upheaval and reorganization of the whole of society. The whole human way of life has been destroyed and ruined. All that’s left is the bare, shivering human soul, stripped to the last shred, the naked force of the human psyche for which nothing has changed because it was always cold and shivering and reaching out to its nearest neighbor, as cold and lonely as itself.”

 

Boris Pasternak

“Oh, what a love it was, utterly free, unique, like nothing else on earth! Their thoughts were like other people’s songs.”

 

Boris Pasternak

“During the last years of Mayakovski’s life, when all poetry had ceased to exist . . . literature had stopped.”

 

Boris Pasternak

“But what are pity, conscience, or fear To the brazen pair, compared With the living sorcery Of their hot embraces?”

 

Boris Pasternak

“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.”

 

Boris Pasternak

“No single man makes history. History cannot be seen just as one cannot see grass growing.”

 

Boris Pasternak

“Mother Russia is on the move, she can’t stand still, she’s restless and can’t find rest, she’s talking and she can’t stop.”

 

Boris Pasternak

“Our evenings are farewells. Our parties are testaments. So that the secret stream of suffering. May warm the cold of life.”

 

Boris Pasternak

“You are eternity’s hostage A captive of mine.”

 

Boris Pasternak

“I am alone; all drowns in the Pharisees’ hypocrisy. To live your life is not as simple as to cross a field.”

 

Boris Pasternak

“But who are we, where do we come from When all those years Nothing but idle talk is left And we are nowhere in the world?” = MEETING =”

 

Boris Pasternak

“And when the war broke out, its real horrors, its real dangers, its menace of real death were a blessing compared with the inhuman reign of the lie, and they brought relief because they broke the spell of the dead letter.”

 

Boris Pasternak

“Oh, how one wishes sometimes to escape from the meaningless dullness of human eloquence, from all those sublime phrases, to take refuge in nature, apparently so inarticulate, or in the wordlessness of long, grinding labor, of sound sleep, of true music, or of a human understanding rendered speechless by emotion!”

 

Boris Pasternak

“I have been writing in spurts, bit by bit. It is incredibly difficult. Everything is corroded, broken, dismantled; everything is covered with hardened layers of accumulated insensitivity, deafness, entrenched routine. It is disgusting.”

 

Boris Pasternak

“It is no longer possible for lyric poetry to express the immensity of our experience. Life has grown too cumbersome, too complicated. We have acquired values which are best expressed in prose.”

 

Boris Pasternak

“It’s only in bad novels that people are divided into two camps and have nothing to do with each other. In real life everything gets mixed up! Don’t you think you’d have to be a hopeless nonentity to play only one role all your life, to have only one place in society, always to stand for the same thing?–Ah, there you are!” – Larissa Fyodorovna in Doctor Zhivago.”

 

Boris Pasternak

“What you don’t understand is that it is possible to be an atheist, it is possible not to know if God exists or why He should, and yet to believe that man does not live in a state of nature but in history, and that history as we know it now began with Christ, it was founded by Him on the Gospels.”

 

Boris Pasternak

“As before the collapse, the setting sun brushed the tiles, brought out the warm brown glow on the wallpaper, and hung the shadow of the birch on the wall as if it were a woman’s scarf.”

 

Boris Pasternak

“But the division in him was a sorrow and a torment, and he became accustomed to it only as one gets used to an unhealed and frequently reopened wound.”

 

Boris Pasternak