What for centuries raised man above the beast is not the cudgel but the irresistible power of unarmed truth.
BORIS PASTERNAKAs for the men in power, they are so anxious to establish the myth of infallibility that they do their utmost to ignore truth.
More Boris Pasternak Quotes
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Art is unthinkable without risk and spiritual self-sacrifice.
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He was a natural, and in the Russian way, tragically above these banalities.
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Man is born to live, not to prepare for life.
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I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely.
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Literature is the art of discovering something extraordinary about ordinary people, and saying with ordinary words something extraordinary.
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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.
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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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Art is interested in life at the moment when the ray of power is passing through 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 of life is symbolic because the whole of it has meaning.
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An unshared happiness is not happiness.
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All mothers are mothers of great people, and it is not their fault that life later disappoints them.
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To be a woman is a great adventure; To drive men mad is a heroic thing.
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Failure to love is almost like murder.
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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.
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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.
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They don’t ask much of you. They only want you to hate the things you love and to love the things you despise.
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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.
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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.
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She was here on earth to make sense of its wild enchantments.
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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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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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Immensely grateful, touched, proud, astonished, abashed.
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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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I have the impression that if he didn’t complicate his life so needlessly, he would die of boredom.
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Departure beyond the borders of my country is for me equivalent to death.
BORIS PASTERNAK