Quote

Art has two constant, two unending concerns: It always meditates on death and thus always creates life. All great, genuine art resembles and continues the Revelation of St John.

Boris Pasternak

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Boris Pasternak
Age: 70 †
Born: 1890
Born: February 10
Died: 1960
Died: May 30
Novelist
Pianist
Playwright
Poet
Prosaist
Translator
Writer
Moscow
Russian SFSR
Holiwis
Boris Leonidovich Pasternak
Life
Concern
Revelation
Constant
Concerns
Artist
Continues
Death
Revelations
Art
Creates
Two
John
Meditates
Great
Genuine
Resembles
Always
Thus
Unending

More quotes by Boris Pasternak

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The whole wide world is a cathedral I stand inside, the air is calm, And from afar at times there reaches My ear the echo of a psalm.
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We're all time's captives, hostages to eternity.
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It is not the object described that matters, but the light that falls on it.
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Salvation lies not in the faithfulness to forms, but in the liberation from them.
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If you want to know, life is the principle of self-renewal, it is constantly renewing and remaking and changing and transfiguring itself.
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The last moments slipped by, one by one, irretrievable.
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She was here on earth to make sense of its wild enchantments.
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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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It snowed and snowed, the whole world over, Snow swept the world from end to end. A candle burned on the table A candle burned.
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Love is not weakness. It is strong. Only the sacrament of marriage can contain it.
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Art always serves beauty, and beauty is the joy of possessing form, and form is the key to organic life since no living thing can exist without it.
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An unshared happiness is not happiness.
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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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Literature is the art of discovering something extraordinary about ordinary people, and saying with ordinary words something extraordinary.
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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.
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How wonderful to be alive, he thought. But why does it always hurt?
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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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Art is interested in life at the moment when the ray of power is passing through it.
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And why is it, thought Lara, that my fate is to see everything and take it all so much to heart?
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A corner draft fluttered the flame And the white fever of temptation Upswept its angel wings that cast A cruciform shadow.
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