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That's metaphysics, my dear fellow. It's forbidden me by my doctor, my stomach won't take it.

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
Fellow
Fellows
Doctors
Dear
Take
Metaphysics
Forbidden
Stomach
Doctor

More quotes by Boris Pasternak

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No bad man can be a good poet.
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Love is not weakness. It is strong. Only the sacrament of marriage can contain it.
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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 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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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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In life it is more necessary to lose than to gain. A seed will only germinate if it dies.
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How wonderful to be alive, he thought. But why does it always hurt?
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An unshared happiness is not happiness.
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Immensely grateful, touched, proud, astonished, abashed.
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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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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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I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely.
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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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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 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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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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During the last years of Mayakovski's life, when all poetry had ceased to exist . . . literature had stopped.
Boris Pasternak
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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.
Boris Pasternak
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Only the solitary seek the truth, and they break with all those who don't love it sufficiently
Boris Pasternak
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Good-bye... why am I hemorrhaging ?
Boris Pasternak