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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
Ends
Snowed
Whole
Swept
World
January
Candle
Burned
Table
Snow
Tables

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I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely.
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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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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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No single man makes history. History cannot be seen just as one cannot see grass growing.
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It is not the object described that matters, but the light that falls on it.
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In life it is more necessary to lose than to gain. A seed will only germinate if it dies.
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He is her glory. Any woman could say it. For every one of them, God is in her child. Mothers of great men must have been familiar with this feeling, but then, all women are mothers of great men -- it isn't their fault if life disappoints them later.
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Surprise is the greatest gift which life can grant us.
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All mothers are mothers of great people, and it is not their fault that life later disappoints them.
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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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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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Only the solitary seek the truth, and they break with all those who don't love it sufficiently
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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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I have the impression that if he didn't complicate his life so needlessly, he would die of boredom.
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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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We're all time's captives, hostages to eternity.
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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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