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.
BORIS PASTERNAKI hate everything you say, but not enough to kill you for it.
More Boris Pasternak Quotes
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It is no longer possible for lyric poetry to express the immensity of our experience. Life has grown too cumbersome, too complicated. We have acquired values which are best expressed in prose.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
At the moment of childbirth, every woman has the same aura of isolation, as though she were abandoned, alone.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
Salvation lies not in the faithfulness to forms, but in the liberation from them.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
I don’t like people who have never fallen or stumbled. Their virtue is lifeless and it isn’t of much value. Life hasn’t revealed its beauty to them.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
Love is not weakness. It is strong. Only the sacrament of marriage can contain it.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
I come here to speak poetry. It will always be in the grass. It will also be necessary to bend down to hear it. It will always be too simple to be discussed in assemblies.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
If you want to know, life is the principle of self-renewal, it is constantly renewing and remaking and changing and transfiguring itself.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
In life it is more necessary to lose than to gain. A seed will only germinate if it dies.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
To be a woman is a great adventure; To drive men mad is a heroic thing.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
Departure beyond the borders of my country is for me equivalent to death.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
He was a natural, and in the Russian way, tragically above these banalities.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
We must discover security within ourselves.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
Immensely grateful, touched, proud, astonished, abashed.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
Poetry is a rich, full-bodied whistle, cracked ice crunching in pails, the night that numbs the leaf, the duel of two nightingales, the sweet pea that has run wild, Creation’s tears in shoulder blades.
BORIS PASTERNAK