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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?

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
Thought
Everything
Take
Heart
Much
Lara
Fate

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Salvation lies not in the faithfulness to forms, but in the liberation from them.
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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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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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Yet the order of the acts is planned And the end of the way inescapable. I am alone all drowns in the Pharisees' hypocrisy.
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Love is not weakness. It is strong. Only the sacrament of marriage can contain it.
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Immensely grateful, touched, proud, astonished, abashed.
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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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That's metaphysics, my dear fellow. It's forbidden me by my doctor, my stomach won't take it.
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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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The most extraordinary discoveries are made when the artist is overwhelmed by what he has to say.
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You are eternity's hostage A captive of mine.
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They loved each other, not driven by necessity, by the blaze of passion often falsely ascribed to love. They loved each other because everything around them willed it, the trees and the clouds and the sky over their heads and the earth under their feet.
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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.
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It is not the object described that matters, but the light that falls on it.
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How many things in the world deserve our loyalty? Very few indeed. I think one should be loyal to immortality, which is another word for life, a stronger word for it.
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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.
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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.
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As in an explosion, I would erupt with all the wonderful things I saw and understood in this world.
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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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Oh, what a love it was, utterly free, unique, like nothing else on earth! Their thoughts were like other people's songs.
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