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I am alone all drowns in the Pharisees' hypocrisy. To live your life is not as simple as to cross a field.

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
Crosses
Field
Fields
Alone
Drowns
Simple
Pharisees
Live
Hypocrisy
Life
Simplicity
Cross

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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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We're all time's captives, hostages to eternity.
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Immensely grateful, touched, proud, astonished, abashed.
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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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In life it is more necessary to lose than to gain. A seed will only germinate if it dies.
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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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No single man makes history. History cannot be seen just as one cannot see grass growing.
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The whole of life is symbolic because the whole of it has meaning.
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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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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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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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Good-bye... why am I hemorrhaging ?
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Salvation lies not in the faithfulness to forms, but in the liberation from them.
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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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Literature is the art of discovering something extraordinary about ordinary people, and saying with ordinary words something extraordinary.
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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 have the impression that if he didn't complicate his life so needlessly, he would die of boredom.
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The last moments slipped by, one by one, irretrievable.
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Oh, how one wishes sometimes to escape from the meaningless dullness of human eloquence, from all those sublime phrases, to take refuge in nature, apparently so inarticulate, or in the wordlessness of long, grinding labor, of sound sleep, of true music, or of a human understanding rendered speechless by emotion!
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What you don't understand is that it is possible to be an atheist, it is possible not to know if God exists or why He should, and yet to believe that man does not live in a state of nature but in history, and that history as we know it now began with Christ, it was founded by Him on the Gospels.
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