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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.

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
Woman
Settings
Wallpaper
Brown
Scarf
Setting
Tiles
Warm
Brushed
Brought
Scarves
Shadow
Glow
Sun
Collapse
Wall
Hung
Birch

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Farewell, my great one, my own, farewell, my pride, farewell, my swift, deep, dear river, how I loved your daylong splashing, how I loved to plunge into your cold waves.
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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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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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Art is interested in life at the moment when the ray of power is passing through it.
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Only the solitary seek the truth, and they break with all those who don't love it sufficiently
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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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No single man makes history. History cannot be seen just as one cannot see grass growing.
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Man is born to live, not to prepare for life.
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How wonderful to be alive, he thought. But why does it always hurt?
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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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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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I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely.
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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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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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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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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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The last moments slipped by, one by one, irretrievable.
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I used to be very revolutionary, but now I think that nothing can be gained by brute force. People must be drawn to good by goodness.
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No bad man can be a good poet.
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