Quote

Mary Magdalene beat her breasts and sobbed, His dear disciple, stone-faced, stared. His mother stood apart. No other looked into her secret eyes. Nobody dared.

Anna Akhmatova

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Anna Akhmatova
Age: 76 †
Born: 1889
Born: June 23
Died: 1966
Died: March 5
Author
Literary Critic
Literary Scholar
Poet
Translator
Writer
Odesa
Anna Andreyevna Gorenko
Anna Achmatova
Anna Ahmatova
Anna Gorenko
Anna Andreevna Gorenko
Anna Andreevna Akhmatova
Silent
Stood
Magdalene
Looked
Beloved
Sobbed
Nobody
Stone
Dared
Eyes
Beat
Stared
Secret
Apart
Disciple
Mother
Beats
Faced
Stones
Mary
Dear
Breasts

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Sweet to me was not the voice of man, But the wind's voice was understood by me. The burdocks and the nettles fed my soul, But I loved the silver willow best of all.
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In the terrible years of the Yezhov terror I spent seventeen months waiting in line outside the prison in Leningrad. One day somebody in the crowd identified me . . . and asked me in a whisper . . . Can you describe this? And I said: I can.
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I myself, from the very beginning, Seemed to myself like someone's dream or delirium Or a reflection in someone else's mirror, Without flesh, without meaning, without a name. Already I knew the list of crimes That I was destined to commit.
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If you were music I would listen to you ceaselessly And my low spirits would brighten up.
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I am not one of those who left the land to the mercy of its enemies. Their flattery leaves me cold, my songs are not for them to praise.
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Let whoever wants to, relax in the south, And bask in the garden of paradise. Here is the essence of north—and it's autumn I've chosen as this year's friend.
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Rising from the past, my shadow Is running in silence to meet me.
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Poems are my link with the times, with the new life of my people.
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All has been looted, betrayed, sold black death's wing flashed ahead.
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My shadow serves as the friend I crave
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Natural thunder heralds the wetness of fresh water high clouds to quench the thirst of fields gone dry and parched, a messenger of blessed rain, but this was as dry as hell must be. My distraught perception refused to believe it, because of the insane suddenness with which it sounded, swelled and hit, and how casually it came to murder my child.
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Real tenderness can't be confused, It's quiet and can't be heard.
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Forgive me, that I manage badly, Manage badly but live gloriously, That I leave traces of myself in my songs, That I appeared to you in waking dreams.
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If I can't have love, if I can't find peace, / Give me a bitter glory.
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It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.
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As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future -- a terrible festival of dead leaves.
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That was when the ones who smiled Were the dead, glad to be at rest.
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And you know, I agree to everything: I will condemn, I will forget, I will give comfort to the enemy, Darkness will be light and sin lovely.
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Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem too insignificant for our concern? Yet in my heart I never will deny her, Who suffered death because she chose to turn.
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The triumphs of a mysterious non-meeting are desolate ones unspoken phrases, silent words.
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