Pushkin, Akhmatova, and the passionate soul of Russian poetry.
I loved you; even now I may confess, some embers of my love …
— Alexander Pushkin
"I loved you; even now I may confess, some embers of my love their fire retain"
The illusion which exalts us is dearer to us than ten thousand truths
"The illusion which exalts us is dearer to us than ten thousand truths"
Inspiration is needed in geometry just as much as in poetry
"Inspiration is needed in geometry just as much as in poetry"
Habit is given to us from above: it is a substitute for happiness
"Habit is given to us from above: it is a substitute for happiness"
I can't tell if the day is ending, or the world, or if the secret of secrets is inside me again.
— Anna Akhmatova
"I can't tell if the day is ending, or the world, or if the secret of secrets is ..."
To my poems, written so early, scattered in dust among bookshops.
— Marina Tsvetaeva
"To my poems, written so early, scattered in dust among bookshops."
"February. Get ink, shed tears."
But I warn you, I am living for the last time.
"But I warn you, I am living for the last time."
I have learned how faces fall to bone, how under the eyelids terror lurks.
"I have learned how faces fall to bone, how under the eyelids terror lurks."
My day is disorderly and senseless: I beg crumbs of the poor.
"My day is disorderly and senseless: I beg crumbs of the poor."
To live a life is not to cross a field.
— Boris Pasternak
"To live a life is not to cross a field."
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