Quotes from Boris Pasternak

Quando um homem pertence a um tipo determinado é porque está morto, condenado. E se ele não pertence a nenhuma das categorias catalogadas, se não é representativo de nenhuma, então tem já metade das qualidades que dele deveremos exigir: libertou-se de si mesmo, detém uma parcela da imortalidade.

Minila bodo leta, veliko pomembnih let. Mene tedaj že ne bo ve?. ?asi o?etov in dedov se ne bodo vrnili, kar pravzaprav niti ni pomembno in si niti tega ne želim. Zagotovo pa bodo ponovno vzniknile tako dolgo zatajevane plemenitost, ustvarjalnost in veli?ina. To bo obdobje velikih vrednot. Vaše življenje bo postalo bogato in plodno kot še nikoli doslej... Tedaj se spomnite name.

You wouldn't believe what spite and superstition there is in the world.

Black spring! Pick up your pen, and weeping, Of February, in sobs and ink, Write poems, while the slush in thunder Is burning in the black of spring.

Contemporary trends of thought have imagined art to be a fountain, whereas it is a sponge. They have decided that art ought to gush forth, whereas it should absorb and become saturated. They think it can be broken down into means of depiction, whereas it is composed of organs of perception. Its proper task is to be always among the spectators and to look more purely, receptively and faithfully than all others.

In a single wave of meaning the triumphant purity of being.

You vanished, leaving me alone, Without a trace or explanation. When many years had passed me by, Your voice awakened me by chance. I sat and read Your Word all night And came to life out of a trance. Since then I feel more drawn to people, To blend into the morning crowd.

Children are unconstrainedly sincere and not ashamed of the truth, while we, from fear of seeming backward, are ready to betray what's most dear, to praise the repulsive, and to say yes to the incomprehensible.

In the waiting room, ladies in a picturesque group surrounded a table with magazines. They stood, sat, or half reclined in the poses they saw in the pictures and, studying the models, discussed styles.

You crushed sofa! You crumpled bedsheet! Khrapugina screamed

And remember. Never, in any circumstances, must you despair. To hope and to act is our duty in misfortune. Inactive despair is a forgetting and failure of duty.

Man is a wolf to man.

Dela govore mnogim svojim elementima: temama, situacijama, sižeima, junacima. Ali, više od svega, ona govore umetnoš?u koja je u njima prisutna. Prisustvo umetnosti na stranicama Zlo?ina i kazne mnogo je potresnije od samog Raskoljnikovljevog zlo?ina.

I've noticed more than once that it is precisely things we have barely noticed in the daytime, thoughts not brought to clarity, words spoken without feeling and left without attention, that return at night clothed in flesh and blood, and become the subjects of dreams, as if in compensation for our neglect of them in the daytime.

Rome was a flea market of borrowed gods and conquered peoples, a bargain basement on two floors, earth and heaven, a mass of filth convoluted in a triple not as in an intestinal obstruction

Besides, he had more serious worries. He had suspected for some time that he suffered from an incurable disease.

L'arte è nell'erba e bisogna avere l'umiltà di chinarsi a raccoglierla»

para buscar a verdade é necessário estar só e romper com todos os que não a amam suficientemente.

Concordo com o senhor até certo ponto, Nil Feoktístovitch. Mas Tolstói diz que quanto mais o homem se entrega à beleza, mais se afasta do bem. — E o senhor pensa o contrário? Que a beleza salvará o mundo? Acredita em mistérios e coisas semelhantes, em Rózanov e Dostoiévski?

I understand intimacy and life quite differently.

Progress in science is governed by the laws of repulsion, every step forward is made by refutation of prevalent errors and false theories.

E como os homens estão enormes e desnorteados! A senhora notou? Como se cada um estivesse esmagado por si mesmo, pela força heroica que descobriu em si.

I would pretend (metaphorically) to have seen nature and universe themselves not as a picture made or fastened on an immovable wall, but as a sort of painted canvas roof or curtain in the air, incessantly pulled and blown and flapped by a something of an immaterial unknown and unknowable wind.

You had the physical sensation Of someone's quiet voice beside you. It was my old prophetic voice Sounding, untouched by decay: "Farewell, azure of Transfiguration, Farewell, the Second Savior's gold. Ease with a woman's last caress The bitterness of my fatal hour.