Failure to love is almost like murder.
BORIS PASTERNAKNo 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.
More Boris Pasternak Quotes
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Our evenings are farewells. Our parties are testaments. So that the secret stream of suffering. May warm the cold of life.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
They don’t ask much of you. They only want you to hate the things you love and to love the things you despise.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
You fall into my arms. You are the good gift of destruction’s path, When life sickens more than disease And boldness is the root of beauty – Which draws us together.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
An unshared happiness is not happiness.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
At the moment of childbirth, every woman has the same aura of isolation, as though she were abandoned, alone.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
We’re all time’s captives, hostages to eternity.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
But what are pity, conscience, or fear To the brazen pair, compared With the living sorcery Of their hot embraces?
BORIS PASTERNAK -
I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
Yet the order of the acts is planned And the end of the way inescapable. I am alone; all drowns in the Pharisees’ hypocrisy.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
The whole of life is symbolic because the whole of it has meaning.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
He realised, more vividly than ever before, that art had two constant, two unending preoccupations: it is always meditating upon death and it is always thereby creating life.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
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 -
Even so, one step from my grave, I believe that cruelty, spite, The powers of darkness will in time Be crushed by the spirit of light.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
No single man makes history. History cannot be seen just as one cannot see grass growing.
BORIS PASTERNAK -
A corner draft fluttered the flame And the white fever of temptation Upswept its angel wings that cast A cruciform shadow.
BORIS PASTERNAK