But who are we, where do we come fromWhen all those yearsNothing but idle talk is leftAnd we are nowhere in the world? ― Boris Pasternak, The Poems of Doctor Zhivago. (Hallmark Editions; First Thus edition January 1, 1967) Originally published January 1st 1965.
Eternalise me just a bit:take some snow and sculpt me in it,with your warm and bare palmpolish me until I shine . . . — Vera Pavlova, Письма в соседнюю комнату: 1001 признание в люk. Translation: Steven Seymour. (AST Publishing House, Moscow, 2006)
He was afraid of touching his own wrist. He never attempted to sleep on his left side, even in those dismal hours of the night when the insomniac longs for a third side after trying the two he has. ― Vladimir Nabokov, Pnin. (Heinemann 1957)
Consciousness is a message scribbled in the dark. — Vladimir Nabokov, from Pale Fire, “Canto Two.” (G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1962, corrected edition first published by Vintage International, 1989)
And I swear to you by the garden of the angels, I swear by the miracle-working icon, And by the fire and smoke of our nights: I will never come back to you. — Anna Akhmatova, from “You Thought I Was That Type,” The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova. (Zephyr Press; Exp Upd Su edition… Continue reading Anna Akhmatova
We think not in words but in shadows of words. — Vladimir Nabokov, Strong Opinions (McGraw-Hill, 1973)
Respect was invented to cover the empty place where love should be. — Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina. (Norilana Books February 16, 2008) Originally published 1873.
I am naked and a beggar and an atom in the vortex of humanity. — Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Idiot. (Modern Library; New edition edition, April 8, 2003) Originally published 1869.
Let my heiress have full rights, Live in my house, sing songs that I composed. Yet how slowly my strength ebbs, How the tortured breast craves air. The love of my friends, my enemies’ rancor And the yellow roses in my bushy garden, And a lover’s burning tenderness—all this I bestow upon you, messenger of… Continue reading Anna Akhmatova
I can see the sun, but even if I cannot see the sun, I know that it exists. And to know that the sun is there – that is living. — Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux; 12th edition June 14, 2002) Originally published November 1880.