As far as modern writing is concerned, it is rarely rewarding to translate it, although it might be easy. Translation is very much like copying paintings.
BORIS PASTERNAKWhat is laid down, ordered, factual is never enough to embrace the whole truth: life always spills over the rim of every cup.
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.
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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.
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No bad man can be a good poet.
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How many things in the world deserve our loyalty? Very few indeed. I think one should be loyal to immortality, which is another word for life, a stronger word for it.
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Oh, what a love it was, utterly free, unique, like nothing else on earth! Their thoughts were like other people’s songs.
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As in an explosion, I would erupt with all the wonderful things I saw and understood in this world.
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We’re all time’s captives, hostages to eternity.
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The unarmed power of naked truth.
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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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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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The most extraordinary discoveries are made when the artist is overwhelmed by what he has to say.
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Love is not weakness. It is strong. Only the sacrament of marriage can contain it.
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Art always serves beauty, and beauty is the joy of possessing form, and form is the key to organic life since no living thing can exist without it.
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What is laid down, ordered, factual is never enough to embrace the whole truth: life always spills over the rim of every cup.
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During the last years of Mayakovski’s life, when all poetry had ceased to exist . . . literature had stopped.
BORIS PASTERNAK