The only thing people don’t forgive is Tsvetaeva. Tsvetaeva: “The only thing people don’t forgive is the fact that you, in the end, managed without them

Cheating has no taste. Don't try it.

There are no ideal relationships. There is a woman's wisdom not to notice men's stupidity. There is a man's strength to forgive women's weaknesses. And leave the perfection to the TV series.

It is easier for us to come to terms with loneliness if the one we once loved is also alone.

Don't be afraid of the noisy ones. Fear the quiet ones.

Mentally busy. Physically free.

The only thing people don’t forgive is the fact that you managed without them in the end.

Never play with a woman... you don't know, what if she plays better than you.

It's terribly annoying when the person who ruined your mood asks: "Something
happened?"

I have one friend - a lawyer and a boxer. IT IS USELESS TO argue with him AT ALL.

You are an advance from the Lord for me, and I am a punishment for you for something.

Again, someone has nowhere to go. This should have been foreseen. It's always the same. At night they don't know
where to go, and in the morning they disappear before you have time to wake up. In the morning they somehow know
where to go.
Erich Maria Remarque

Sometimes you think - this is happiness. But no, again experience.

The more beautiful the girl, the dirtier the gossip about her.

The opinions of others must be respected and taken into account, like the weather. But nothing more.

Everything inside her was burned. It was painful to live. But it is necessary.

After all, girls are so mysterious! You never know what reason for a scandal they will come up with today.

if you ever said "never"
so that I believe (your eternity is water!)
I would let you go.
I would be frozen and
let go.

The smell of his perfume definitely messes with my body.

Men first want to play with a woman - a tigress, and then complain about scratches... Naive... You should have a gray mouse... And even in a muzzle and mittens...

Insensitivity is more dangerous than a gun because it hurts people from any distance.

It's probably enough
Go crazy over strangers.

It's hard now. Then it will be easier. In the meantime, drink tea or something stronger.

I'll keep quiet...until my thoughts become censored, ethical and politically correct.

Communication with some people can be titled like this - “With empty ones about empty things.”

By the way, what are you doing tonight?
- I don’t stick my nose into other people’s affairs, and you?

My passions are not your nerves. My desires are not your abilities. My life is not your difficulties. Everything that is mine is not yours.

Where you can no longer love, you must pass by.

Take a glass.
- Fine.
- Now make him fall. Give it up.
- It crashed.
“Now ask for forgiveness and see if he becomes whole again.”

You don’t need warmth from other people’s fires - you love the one who is farther away and colder than everyone else.

I am treated by others. Meanwhile somewhere
Are you someone else
You infect yourself...

What often hinders me from living is that I can think. It’s probably better to be stupid and insensitive,
cares only about hair, nails, clothes and calories.

life is frankly geometric: love triangles, vicious circles;
at this point he is indifferent to you, but about
that it's mutual, don't lie,
don't lie.
Ksenia Zheludova.

Loyalty is such a rarity and such a value. It is not an innate feeling: to be faithful. This is the solution.

In Farewells there is the sweetness of Paradise,
But still they were invented by Hell.

If you were left, it doesn’t matter.
The train sped off into the distance, scaring away the crows.
Happiness is when the trains have left
They don’t return to your platform anymore.

Marina Tsvetaeva is the greatest Russian poetess of the twentieth century with a tragic fate. Incredibly talented, she began writing poetry at the age of 6, and not only in Russian, but also in French and German languages! Her first collection of poems, published at the age of 18, immediately attracted the attention of famous poets.

She gave the world the most beautiful poetry. Sincere, direct and piercing...

Life did not spare Marina Tsvetaeva... Her husband was shot on suspicion of political espionage, a 3-year-old child died of starvation in an orphanage, and her second daughter was repressed for 15 years. Left alone with her son, she tried to find a job, but even the Literary Fund rejected her application, believing that Tsvetaeva might turn out to be a German spy.

Pasternak, accompanying Tsvetaeva to evacuation, gave her a rope for her suitcase, not even suspecting what a terrible role this rope was destined to play. Unable to withstand the humiliation, Marina Tsvetaeva committed suicide on August 31, 1941, by hanging herself.

We have collected 25 quotes from this beautiful woman that reveal the depth and wisdom of her tragic fate:

1. “I will love you all summer” - this sounds much more convincing than “all my life” and - most importantly - much longer!
2. If you walked in now and said: “I’m leaving for a long time, forever,” or: “It seems to me that I don’t love you anymore,” I would not, it seems, feel anything new: every time you leave, every hour when you are gone, you are gone forever and you don’t love me.
3. You only fall in love with someone else’s, your own – you love.
4. You need to meet for love, for the rest there are books.
5. Creativity is a common endeavor done by isolated people.
6. There is a limited number of souls and an unlimited number of bodies in the world.
7. To love means to see a person as God intended him and his parents did not realize him.
8. If I love a person, I want him to feel better from me - at least a sewn button. From a sewn button to my whole soul.
9. Success is being on time.
10. What can you know about me, since you didn’t sleep with me or drink?
11. There is no second you on earth.
12. I don't want to have a point of view. I want to have vision.
13. Listen and remember: anyone who laughs at another’s misfortune is a fool or a scoundrel; most often both.
14. The only thing people don’t forgive is the fact that you managed without them in the end.
15. The sculptor depends on clay. Paint artist. Musician from the strings. An artist's or a musician's hand may stop. The poet has only his heart.
16. “If you endure it, you will fall in love.” I love this phrase, but in reverse.
17. Favorite things: music, nature, poetry, loneliness. I loved simple and empty places that no one likes. I love physics, its mysterious laws of attraction and repulsion, similar to love and hate.
18. In one thing I am a real woman: I judge everyone and everyone by myself, I put my speeches into everyone’s mouth, my feelings into everyone’s chest. That’s why everything I have at first is: kind, generous, generous, sleepless and crazy.
19. How much better I see a person when I’m not with him!
20. No one wants - no one can understand one thing: that I am completely alone. There are acquaintances and friends all over Moscow, but not a single one who is for me, without me! - will die.
21. Men are not used to pain - like animals. When they are in pain, they immediately have such eyes that you will do anything just to stop.
22. Whether to dream together, or sleep together, but always cry alone.
23. Oh, my God, but they say that there is no soul! What hurts me now? - Not a tooth, not a head, not an arm, not a chest - no, a chest, in the chest, where you breathe - I breathe deeply: it doesn’t hurt, but it hurts all the time, it aches all the time, unbearably!
24. Humanly we can sometimes love ten people, lovingly we can love many - two. Inhumanly - always alone.
25. I want such a modest, deadly simple thing: so that when I enter, a person is happy.

According to materials -

NOTEBOOK ONE

So, the question of color is decided by light, the degree of light. I felt this in the fall.

The sound of swelling and rushing streams. “I was looking for this word yesterday, walking through the village on a dark evening. The black skeleton of the church, the smell of birch bast (wattles soaked by showers) underfoot, ligature, dirt - both to the right and to the left, following and overtaking - the sound of swelling, hurrying, rushing streams.

I think that of everything I have seen and not seen in the world, I love Sicily most of all because the air in it is from a dream. Strange: I remember Sicily as dimly rainbow,<пропуск двух-трех слов>. I know (from memory) that everything in it screams, I see (when I want) the side of a rock ragged with cacti, the merciless sky, that giant without a name under which it was filmed: the extreme of nature, nature in a continuous state of plot, a complete exceptional case, but they will say in front of me Sicily - state of mind, dullness, tea bloom, sleepiness, sleep.
I obviously remembered her random day and hour, which coincided with my eternal one.
I remember the road, paved with layers like a river - layers - gradual, an oncoming donkey with brushes and spines, accompanying hills with one single tree, sour Marsala and sour bread. And the monastery to which we went (the ruins) and the road we walked and the day on which we walked - all of this, obviously, had a name (otherwise there would not have been: which). But - memory took and forgot, moved the mortal (given) road, day, hour into the perfect: the dream world.

I remember Sicily as Florence, which I have never been to.

A m.b. only the early Sicilian spring.

In the summer I had a desperate thought: I love this birch tree so much, but I will freeze under it in the winter - she<фраза не окончена>
And the same with my well, under the hill, Pasternak’s, from which I carry it in a bucket - I carry it in buckets! - the moon: if I fall, I’ll only increase the level...
This means: deception: this is my consciousness: how it loves me! This means: I am amusing myself.
And then I realized: they are also defenseless, they also can’t do anything, together we are cold, scared, etc., it’s not them, but I who have to protect them. - Poetry. -

The sleepless sky, as if rubbing its eyes with the top of its hand.

(Beginning of February poems to B.P.)

Find out from A<льтшулле>ra [Altshuller Grigory Isaakovich (1895 - 1983) - at that time a medical student at the University of Prague, son of the famous doctor I. N. Altshuller.] the greatest range of the human voice. It would be nice to have someone - non-human.

So the new century Patroclus and Achilles
We showed each other sacred
What they can - in the iron consciousness of WINGS -
The last forces and veins.

Now for the first time in my life I understand what a poet is (I’m standing in front of a poet). I saw people who wrote beautiful poetry, wrote beautiful poetry. And then they lived, without obsession, without waste, accumulating everything in lines: they not only lived, they made money. And having made enough money, they allowed themselves poetry (like a small official - a trip to the dacha - after an entire departmental winter). And, naturally - months and months of housing (it would be better - scam!), hoarding (suffocation) - non-existence! - that is, knowing that the poems cost them, what a pretty penny they themselves cost, and naturally, I say, they demanded an exorbitant payment for them from those around them: incense, genuflection, living monuments, multiplying the little that they gave for everything they had for themselves They also refused to present this invoice.
And I, feeling sorry for the beggars in them, gallantly burned incense and walked away. I knew many, many poets. And most of all I loved it when they were just hungry - or just had a toothache: it brought people closer together. I was a Nanny for poets - not a poet at all - and not a Muse! - a young (sometimes tragic!) nanny. - Here. - With poets, I always forgot that I was a poet. And they, one might say, had no idea.
You, Pasternak, in complete purity of heart, are my first poet, that is, fate is unfolding before my eyes, and I am just as calm (<пропуск одного слова>) I say Pasternak - like Byron. I can’t say about anyone now: I’m his contemporary, if I say it, I’ll flatter, I’ll spare, I’ll lie. And so, Pasternak, I am happy to be your contemporary. Read this as detachedly as I write, it’s not about you or me, it’s impersonal, and you know it. They confess not to the priest, but to God. I confess (I do not repent, but repent) not to you, but to the Daemon [Demon (lat.).] in you. He is greater than you, but you are so great that you know it.
The last month of this autumn I<пропуск одного слова>spent with you, without parting, not with the book. At one time I often went to Prague, and here, at our tiny station, I was waiting for the train. I arrived early, at the beginning of darkness, when the lanterns came on. (Turns the rails.) She walked back and forth along the dark platform - far, far away! And there was one place: a lamppost - without light - this was the meeting place (the end of the platform), I simply called you here, and had long conversations side by side, never sitting down, always on your feet.
I would like to go to two places with you: to Weimar, to Goethe and to the Caucasus (the only place in Russia where I think of Goethe).
I won’t say that I need you, you are indispensable in my life, like that lamppost that will always stand on all my paths. At the beginning of darkness, at the end of the platform.
Then in the fall I wasn’t at all embarrassed that you didn’t know anything about this - you see, I didn’t write, and would never have written if it weren’t for your letter - not because it’s a secret, but because you know all this yourself - maybe only from the other end: on the other side of the platform. (Where the platform ends, Pasternak begins. The formula of that platform. That autumn. Me that autumn.)
“I want” - you can lose your desire, I want - nonsense. I didn’t have any desires even as a child.
“To the station” was: to see Pasternak, I wasn’t going to the station, but on a date (the most reliable one I’ve ever had... However, I didn’t go much: I didn’t condescend: the fingers of one hand are enough... But more on that later - then - or never )…You were my lucky date, Pasternak.
And, note: never anywhere other than that asphalt road. Leaving the station, I simply parted: immediately and soberly - just like in life. I never took you home with me. And I never went there on purpose. When the trips to Prague stopped, so did you (the meetings).
I’m telling you all this, even though I don’t go to Prague anymore (once a month, for support - and during the day, destroying: the beginning of darkness, the meaning of the lantern - and the infinity beyond the end of the platform, which turns out to be just a chess of fields).
Now about alliance. When I say something to someone and the other doesn’t understand (always: never!) first thought: Pasternak. Not a thought: a turn of the head. Like a commander for reinforcements. Referring.
As I'm going home. It’s like I’m going to the fire. Out of verification. For example, I know that you - of all people - love Beethoven (even more than Bach), that you love music more than poetry, that you don’t like “art”, that you have more than once thought about Paganini and wanted to write about him, that you Catholic, not Orthodox. Pasternak, I read you, but like you, I don’t know your last page.
I would like to tell you - and you will not be angry or upset, for you are courageous and selfless - that in your work there is more Genius than a poet who surrendered to his anger and mercy. (Only low selfishness can fight an angel! “Self-affirmation” - when the whole point is: self-immolation!)
Also, Pasternak, I want you not to be buried, but to be burned.

Your book [We are talking about Sat. “Themes and Variations.”]. Pasternak, I have a request to ask you. “This is how the gypsies begin” [Article “This is how they begin. About two years...”] - dedicate these verses (mentally) to me. Give it as a gift. So that I know that they are mine. Verify ownership. And there is a cry, blatantly mine: “It’s me, not you, who is the proletarian (which, by the way, I always pronounce like this:
- No, not you, it’s me, the proletarian!)
Pasternak, there is a secret code. You are completely encrypted. You are hopeless for the “public”. If they love you, it will be out of fear: some - to fall behind, others - to be accused of backwardness, and still others (already an exception) - like the beasts of Orpheus, obeying, that is, also out of fear. But to know (to understand)... And I don’t know you, and you don’t know yourself, Pasternak, we are also animals before Orpheus, only your Orpheus is not Pasternak: outside of you.
And there is another world where your (our) secret writing is a children's copybook. They start with you there (first step). Pasternak, raise your head! Higher! There is your “B”<ольшой>Polytechnic Hall.”

Craft. - Well done. - “Women's insignificance.” - A conversation with your genius about you.

And now, Pasternak, please: don’t go to R<оссию>without seeing me. Russia for me is un grand peut-etre [the great Maybe (French)], almost the next world. If I knew that you were going to Australia, to the snakes, to the lepers, I wouldn’t be afraid, I wouldn’t ask. But in Russia, I call out: so, Pasternak, warn me, I’ll come. Outwardly - on business, honestly - to you: according to your soul, to say goodbye. You have already disappeared like this once - on Devichye Pole, in the cemetery: you removed yourself from... Simply: You were gone.
Pasternak, I’m used to losing, you won’t surprise me, you’ll surprise me with the opposite. Surprise! (good luck). Let fate not come true for once. Today, for the first time, I’m afraid - and I’m fighting for: what? just a handshake.
I generally doubt your existence, it’s too similar to a dream: because of the freedom that I have for you, because of that selflessness (refresh the primary meaning), because of that certainty, because of that blindness. (I sleep on both eyes, and maybe - “Sleep, little eye, sleep the other one...”, but I forgot about the third one.)
I could write a whole book of our meetings, not write: write down. I know that it happened. So, having been assured of such a you, I doubt the simple you: the simple you, and the simple: you do not exist.
I won’t ask for this anymore, only if you don’t do it (under whatever pretext) it will be a life-threatening injury.
I’m not afraid of your departure, but of your disappearance (disappearance).

You write: “I don’t want to talk about myself,” and I say: I don’t want to talk about myself. So it’s about you. You feel bad because you are with people. - That's all. - You would be happy with trees. I don’t know your affairs, but - go free.
Yes, there is one dark place in your letter. You think that I am “due to pride and embarrassment”<пропуск двух-трех слов>. My friend, I pray to God to always live - as I live: I go to Prague once a month, all the other twenty-nine - I’m on the mountain, with the juniper bush, which is you. My only bitterness is that I didn’t wait for you in Berlin.
Never listen to people’s judgments about me: I hurt many people (I loved and fell out of love, babysat and abandoned) - for people, discrepancies are a matter of pride. In two months in Berlin<фраза не окончена>. The only thing people don’t forgive is that you, in the end, got by without them. Don't listen. If you need to know anything about my life, I’ll tell you myself.

Write more often. Without a call, I will never write. And write to you<фраза не окончена>. Write - enter without knocking. You, whenever you think about me, know what you think - in response: my whole house is halfway to you: at the very threshold, which is not between us. Where is it: a knock on the door: once and for all disrupted.

(all this - in pencil in a notebook)
From February 7th to 14th: Mountain [Article “Don’t call out to her...”] Organ [Article “No, don’t dispute the truth...”] Poet [Article “Emigrant.”] Soul Syrian [First article of the “Scythian” cycle.] Lullaby [Second article of the “Scythian” cycle.] Goddess Ishtar [Third article of the “Scythian” cycle.] Lute Azrael (two) [Article “I did not leap from my hand” …” and “Plumage of winters...”] Needed: Lantern Jacob’s Ladder
A mother, less than anyone, sees her child in the present: either on the potty (yesterday) or on the throne (tomorrow).

You can't breathe in a snowstorm, young man!
Young man, young man!
You can't spit on the moon, young man!
Vyu - nosh young!

(From this: I’ll crack into a glass [Article “The Cry of a Gypsy Woman for Count Zubov.”])

... Courtesy - or unwillingness to upset? Deafness - or unwillingness to accept?
...Do you know what it’s called?
Of all of them, in his entire life, only one fit in: 61 years old - and obviously a billionaire - i.e.<слово и фраза не окончены>
...You have an excellent solution: what exceeds is the share of the Genius. It won't even accommodate that much.
This is not a game, because playing requires leisure. I’m strangled by realities: from poetry to washing up, until late at night. It's blood. If you want: a blood game. The adjective is always important to me.

I consider my attitude towards you to be a breakdown - maybe. and up. (Hardly.)

I am not the same (I am different!) - then I rejoice. But more often than not, “the wrong one” is simply no one. Then I get upset and retreat.

Humility is the last curiosity: what will it come to (man, guest, God,<пропуск одного слова>) and where will it finally stop - and is there an end - and will it stop?

Edelstein - in Germany I would love a diamond.

Birds fluttering: abrupt purring.

I can eat with dirty hands, I can sleep with dirty hands, I can’t write with dirty hands. (In Sov<етской>Russia, when there was no water, licked itself.)

The monstrosity of the sacrament: there is God. God-eating.

Czech geese hate me, Capitol geese would love me.

How a cane completes a hand!

(A note about my favorite gray cane, bought by S. at an auction of the property of the former Tsar’s ambassador and given to me, and then - much later - lost by me in Moravian Trzebow, on a hill, picking blueberries.)

Send to that front.

But she still spins! - Don’t move around - I would spin around!

The nobility is good when you are surrounded (like a neck - by a noose) by communists, when you are with people enough - a person.

NB! What about the nobles? Those, like Bunin, in a noble cap, that is, fools. And malicious.
The answer seems to be this: when I am with nobles, it is infinitely difficult for me to remember that they are people (that is, they love, get sick, and most importantly, die).
(1932)

One of the largest Russian poets of the twentieth century, prose writer and translator Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva(1892 - 1941) began writing poetry - not only in Russian, but also in French and German - at the age of six. And her first published collection of poems at the age of 18 immediately attracted the attention of famous poets.

The fate of Marina Tsvetaeva was incredibly tragic. War and poverty are making themselves felt. One of her children at the age of 3 dies of starvation in an orphanage, her husband is shot on suspicion of political espionage, and her second daughter is repressed for 15 years. Tsvetaeva and her son are evacuated to Chistopol, where most of the writers were exiled - there they promise her registration and work. Tsvetaeva writes a statement: “I ask you to hire me as a dishwasher in the opening canteen of the Literary Fund.” But she was not given such a job either: the council considered that she might turn out to be a German spy.

Pasternak, accompanying Tsvetaeva to evacuation, gave her a rope for her suitcase, not suspecting what terrible role this rope was destined to play. Unable to withstand the humiliation, Marina Tsvetaeva committed suicide on August 31, 1941, by hanging herself.

We have collected 25 quotes from Marina Tsvetaeva about love and life, which reveal the depth and wisdom of her tragic fate:

1. “I will love you all summer” - this sounds much more convincing than “all my life” and - most importantly - much longer!
2. If you walked in now and said: “I’m leaving for a long time, forever,” or: “It seems to me that I don’t love you anymore,” I would not, it seems, feel anything new: every time you leave, every hour when you are gone, you are gone forever and you don’t love me.
3. You only fall in love with someone else’s, your own – you love.
4. You need to meet for love, for the rest there are books.
5. Creativity is a common endeavor done by isolated people.
6. There is a limited number of souls and an unlimited number of bodies in the world.
7. To love means to see a person as God intended him and his parents did not realize him.
8. If I love a person, I want him to feel better from me - at least a sewn button. From a sewn button to my whole soul.
9. Success is being on time.
10. What can you know about me, since you didn’t sleep with me or drink?
11. There is no second you on earth.
12. I don't want to have a point of view. I want to have vision.
13. Listen and remember: anyone who laughs at another’s misfortune is a fool or a scoundrel; most often both.
14. The only thing people don’t forgive is the fact that you managed without them in the end.
15. The sculptor depends on clay. Paint artist. Musician from the strings. An artist's or a musician's hand may stop. The poet has only his heart.
16. “If you endure it, you will fall in love.” I love this phrase, but in reverse.
17. Favorite things: music, nature, poetry, loneliness. I loved simple and empty places that no one likes. I love physics, its mysterious laws of attraction and repulsion, similar to love and hate.
18. In one thing I am a real woman: I judge everyone and everyone by myself, I put my speeches into everyone’s mouth, my feelings into everyone’s chest. That’s why everything I have at first is: kind, generous, generous, sleepless and crazy.
19. How much better I see a person when I’m not with him!
20. No one wants - no one can understand one thing: that I am completely alone. There are acquaintances and friends all over Moscow, but not a single one who is for me, without me! - will die.
21. Men are not used to pain - like animals. When they are in pain, they immediately have such eyes that you will do anything just to stop.
22. Whether to dream together, or sleep together, but always cry alone.
23. Oh, my God, but they say that there is no soul! What hurts me now? - Not a tooth, not a head, not an arm, not a chest - no, a chest, in the chest, where you breathe - I breathe deeply: it doesn’t hurt, but it hurts all the time, it aches all the time, unbearably!
24. Humanly we can sometimes love ten people, lovingly we can love many - two. Inhumanly - always alone.
25. I want such a modest, deadly simple thing: so that when I enter, a person is happy.