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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.

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
World
January
Candle
Burned
Table
Snow
Tables
Ends
Snowed
Whole
Swept

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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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The whole of life is symbolic because the whole of it has meaning.
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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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I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely.
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During the last years of Mayakovski's life, when all poetry had ceased to exist . . . literature had stopped.
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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.
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It is not the object described that matters, but the light that falls on it.
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When a great moment knocks on the door of your life, it is often no louder than the beating of your heart, and it is very easy to miss it.
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Immensely grateful, touched, proud, astonished, abashed.
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I don't like purely philosophical works. I think a little philosophy should be added to life and art by way of seasoning, but to make it one's specialty seems to me as strange as eating nothing but horseradish. - Lara, from Doctor Zhivago
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A literary creation can appeal to us in all sorts of ways-by its theme, subject, situations, characters. But above all it appeals to us by the presence in it of art. It is the presence of art in Crime and Punishment that moves us deeply rather than the story of Raskolnikov's crime.
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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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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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She was here on earth to make sense of its wild enchantments.
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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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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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Literature is the art of discovering something extraordinary about ordinary people, and saying with ordinary words something extraordinary.
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No bad man can be a good poet.
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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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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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