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.
BORIS PASTERNAKArt is interested in life at the moment when the ray of power is passing through it.
More Boris Pasternak Quotes
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If it’s so painful to love and absorb electricity, how much more painful it is to be a woman, to be the electricity, to inspire love.
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When a great moment knocks on the door of your life, it is often no louder than the beating of your heart, and it is very easy to miss it.
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He comes as a guest to the feast of existence, and knows that what matters is not how much he inherits but how he behaves at the feast, and what people remember and love him for.
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We’re all time’s captives, hostages to eternity.
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In this era of world wars, in this atomic age, values have changed. We have learned that we are guests of existence, travelers between two stations. We must discover security within ourselves.
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At the moment of childbirth, every woman has the same aura of isolation, as though she were abandoned, alone.
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If you want to know, life is the principle of self-renewal, it is constantly renewing and remaking and changing and transfiguring itself.
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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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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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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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You are eternity’s hostage A captive of mine.
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Only the solitary seek the truth, and they break with all those who don’t love it sufficiently.
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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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I hate everything you say, but not enough to kill you for it.
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During the last years of Mayakovski’s life, when all poetry had ceased to exist . . . literature had stopped.
BORIS PASTERNAK