————-
My meeting with Anastasia Ivanovna Tsvetaeva was short but unforgettable. There was nothing special about this meeting. But because this is Tsvetaeva, all the non-speciality seems special to me.

I was then studying in Moscow at the Literary Institute, approximately in my second year. In those days, little was known about Marina Tsvetaeva. In the provinces of Russia she was largely unknown, but very popular among students of the Literary Institute and the Moscow intelligentsia of that time.

It was a boring autumn day. I came to the publishing house " Fiction"for a fee for poetry. The cash register window was tightly closed, which made me sad. She sat down on the sofa. Sitting nearby, in the same sad anticipation, was an elderly, fragile woman.

The silence was unbearable, and we started talking. About this and that. The main thing is that now I don’t remember the essence of the conversation, I only remember that the conversation flowed easily, and we laughed. The window still didn’t open, there was no cashier. Apparently, everyone knew that the ticket office would be closed, except the two of us. And we, talking about literature, unanimously came to the conclusion that we, believing in the cashier’s work schedule, came here like two fools, instead of calling and finding out. And then the woman added to this conclusion, I remember her saying verbatim:
- And not just two fools, but two hungry fools!

And we laughed again, because she defined the essence very accurately. And we both ate yesterday, and both of us in the morning drank only tea. And she too - without sugar. Although I always drink without sugar.

Suddenly the cashier showed up, saw us, angrily jerked her head and began swearing. Then she took pity and decided to give us the money we honestly earned.
When they were signing the statement, she barked through the wooden window:
- Don’t you see, Tsvetaeva, which line you need to sign on? I pointed my finger, I have to look!
I was surprised to hear the name and then, when we received our sums, I said to the woman very dissatisfied:
- God! Why are you writing under this name? You can live under this name, but you can’t write it! Tsvetaeva is alone. It is mediocre and blasphemous to create something under her name, or write in her style.
The woman smiled:
- What an ardent patron! But I am Marina’s sister. I can.
Here I was petrified. Did she really sit near the cash register for two hours with Tsvetaeva?
Yes, it was like that.

Then we talked some more while we were walking from the publishing house, but I already perceived everything differently, and I was overcome by embarrassment. And her image - fragile, and her look - very friendly, and her speech - relaxed, still seem to me to be very significant moments in my life.
And if someone leads the threads of fate, and if He unexpectedly and playfully intertwined them (Anastasia Ivanovna’s and mine) for two hours in that lonely room, then I, absolutely without giving myself any weight, am very grateful to Him.

October, 2010
© Tatyana Smertina - Anastasia Tsvetaeva, Marina’s sister - Tatiana Smertina.
Borrowing a story without permission from the author is prohibited.

Anastasia Ivanovna Tsvetaeva (Marina’s sister, writer, publicist) born September 14 (27), 1894, died at the age of 99 - September 5, 1993.
From 1902 to 1906 she lived with her sister Marina in Western Europe– the girls studied in private boarding schools in Germany and Switzerland.
At the age of 17, she married Boris Sergeevich Trukhachev (1893 - 1919), from whom she soon divorced. Then he died of typhus at the age of 26. From Trukhachev, Anastasia had a son, Andrei.

In 1915, Anastasia published her first book, a philosophical text imbued with the Nietzschean spirit, “Royal Reflections.”

Anastasia’s second husband, Mavriky Aleksandrovich Mints (1886 – 1917), died of peritonitis. His son, Alyosha, lived for one year (1916-1917).

In 1921, Anastasia was accepted into the Writers' Union.
At the age of 28, Anastasia Ivanovna took a vow of non-covetousness, non-eating meat, chastity and the prohibition of lies. And she kept this for the rest of her life.

In 1926, she completed The Hunger Epic and then SOS, or Scorpio, both of which failed to be published. In 1927 she went to Europe and France last time in my life I met my sister Marina.

In April 1933, Anastasia Tsvetaeva was arrested in Moscow, then, after the efforts of M. Gorky, she was released after 64 days.
In September 1937, Anastasia was arrested again and sent to a prison camp. Far East. During this arrest, all of her works were confiscated from the writer. NKVD officers destroyed the fairy tales and short stories she wrote. After that, she spent several years in a camp and several more in exile. She learned about the tragic death of her sister Marina in 1941, while in exile in the Far East.

Having been released from the camp in 1947, in 1948 Anastasia Tsvetaeva was again arrested and exiled to eternal settlement in the village of Pikhtovka, Novosibirsk region.

Anastasia Ivanovna was released after the death of Stalin, rehabilitated in 1959, and began to live in Moscow.
She created the memoir books “Old Age and Youth” (published in 1988) and famous book"Memories".

Anastasia Ivanovna took great care of her sister’s grave, who was buried at the Peter and Paul Cemetery in Yelabuga; in 1960, she erected a cross on the grave.
Then, thanks to the request of Anastasia Ivanovna and a group of believers, in 1990, Patriarch Alexy 11 gave a blessing for the funeral service of Marina Tsvetaeva, which took place on the fiftieth anniversary of her death in the Moscow Church of the Ascension of the Lord at the Nikitsky Gate.

Andrey Borisovich Trukhachev (1912–1993) - son of Anastasia Ivanovna Tsvetaeva from my first husband. Graduated in 1937 architectural institute, and on September 2 of the same year he was arrested together with his mother in Tarusa. Received a 5-year sentence. He served his time in the north, in the Karelian Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic, working as a site foreman at the Belbalt plant.
In 1942, he was drafted into the army and sent to the Arkhangelsk district military construction, where he worked as a dispatch engineer, designer and site manager. And then, until 1948, in the village of Pechatkino, near Vologda, also as site manager for the construction of airfield and berth structures.

Royal Reflections - 1915
Smoke, smoke and smoke - a story - 1916
Hunger epic, 1927 - destroyed by the NKVD
SOS, or Scorpio Constellation - destroyed by the NKVD
Old age and youth
Memories
The Tale of the Moscow Bell Ringer
My only collection is poetry
My Siberia, 1988
Amor
The Incomprehensible - published 1992
Inexhaustible - published 1992

Poems about war by Marina Tsvetaeva

Here are collected all the poems of the Russian poet Marin Tsvetaeva on the topic Poems about war.

I love games like this, where everyone is arrogant and angry. So that the enemies were tigers and eagles.

1 The bottom is a ravine. The night is like a snag, Fumbling. Shaking the needles.

“I like that you are not sick with me” Tsvetaeva - love triangle

“I like that you are not sick with me” M.I. Tsvetaeva

I like that you are not sick of me,
I like that it's not you that I'm sick of
That the globe is never heavy
It won't float away under our feet.
I like that you can be funny -
Loose - and don't play with words,
And do not blush with a suffocating wave,
Sleeves touching slightly.

I also like that you are with me
Calmly hug the other one,
Don't read to me in hellfire
Burn because I don't kiss you.
What is my gentle name, my gentle, not
You mention it neither day nor night - in vain...
That never in church silence
They will not sing over us: Hallelujah!

Thank you with my heart and hand
Because you have me - without knowing yourself! -
So love: for my night's peace,
For the rare meeting at sunset hours,
For our non-walks under the moon,
For the sun, not above our heads, -
Because you are sick - alas! - not by me,
Because I am sick - alas! - not by you!

The love lyrics of poetess Marina Tsvetaeva are rightfully considered one of the invaluable discoveries of Russian literature. silver age. Subtle, ironic, conveying the fullness of feelings, it will allow you to look at the author from a different perspective and find answers to many questions that concern not only literary scholars, but also fans of Tsvetaeva’s work.

The poem “I Like...”, written in 1915 and made popular by the romance of the same name, brilliantly performed by singer Alla Pugacheva, was a literary charade for many years. Biographers of Marina Tsvetaeva tried to understand to whom the poetess dedicated such heartfelt and not devoid of sadness lines. Who exactly inspired her to write such a heartfelt and deeply personal work?

The answer to these questions was given only in 1980 by the poetess’s sister, Anastasia Tsvetaeva, who said that this bright and somewhat philosophical poem was dedicated to her second husband, Marviky Mints. By 1915, both sisters had already been married, but their marriages were unsuccessful. Each of the women raised a child, no longer dreaming of arranging a personal life. According to the memoirs of Anastasia Tsvetaeva, Mavriky Mints appeared on the threshold of her house with a letter from mutual friends and spent almost the entire day with the poetess’s sister. The young people had many topics for conversation; their views on literature, painting, music and life in general coincided in an amazing way. Therefore, soon Mauritius Mints, captivated by Anastasia’s beauty, proposed to her. But another pleasant acquaintance awaited the happy groom. This time with Marina Tsvetaeva, who at 22 years old made an indelible impression on him not only as a talented poetess, but also as a very attractive woman.

Anastasia Tsvetaeva recalls that Mauritius Mints showed signs of attention to her sister, expressing his admiration and admiration for the poetess. Catching his gaze, Marina Tsvetaeva blushed like a young schoolgirl, and could not do anything about it. However, mutual sympathy never developed into love, since by the time the poetess met Mauritius Mints, the latter was already engaged to Anastasia. Therefore, the poem “I Like...” became a kind of poetic response to the rumors and gossip of acquaintances, who even made bets on who was in love with whom in the Tsvetaev family. Gracefully, easily and with feminine elegance, Marina Tsvetaeva put an end to this spicy story, although she admitted to her sister that she was seriously passionate about her fiancé.

Anastasia Tsvetaeva herself, until her death, was convinced that her sister, amorous by nature and not accustomed to hiding her feelings, simply showed nobility. The brilliant poetess, who by the time she met Mauritius Mintz had published two collections of poems and was considered one of the most promising representatives of Russian literature of the first half of the 20th century, had no trouble winning the heart of any man, not to mention “a little red-haired Jew with a strange surname.” However, Marina Tsvetaeva did not want to hurt her own sister and destroy the emerging union. For herself, the poetess learned a very important lesson from this situation for the rest of her life, realizing that love and passion, which is more like a mental illness, are by no means identical concepts. After all, the illness passes, but true feelings persist for years, which was confirmed by the happy, but so short-lived marriage between Anastasia Tsvetaeva and Mauritius Mints, which lasted only 2 years. The man to whom the poem “I Like...” was dedicated died in Moscow on May 24, 1917 from an attack of acute appendicitis, and his widow never remarried.

. Quotes

On this page you will find all the quotes that our users found and added to the project in the author’s books. Use sorting by parameters or search to find quotes that interest you.

“It seems that even the Holocaust did not cause most Jews to doubt the existence of an all-powerful and good God. If a world in which half of your people are burned in ovens does not disprove the existence of an almighty God who cares about you, then such refutations simply do not exist.”

". in the eyes of your superiors, and in the eyes of your subordinates, it is always better to look like a conscientious fool than to look like a brilliant, but top-notch talent.”

“It was a good way out, of course, but it was too bad.”

“Be that as it may, friends say that changes will begin later. A person may suddenly see that the obsessions with which he has suffered all his life have disappeared, and negative, firmly established patterns of behavior have changed. Small irritants that once drove me crazy suddenly no longer seem like a tragedy, and the terrible past misfortunes that never left me no longer want to endure for five minutes. Relationships that poison your life evaporate on their own or are thrown away as unnecessary, and cheerful, more positive people enter your world.”

“These words, these documents remind me of the light of dead stars. We can still see it, but the stars themselves have gone out a long time ago.”

“Hatred debilitates you, but does not harm your enemy. It's kind of like drinking poison, wishing death on your opponent."

“Everyone has a past. But people will take it to their graves if we don't find and record their stories. This is immortality"

“Only the dead did everything possible”

“Baroque wit is the ability to bring together dissimilar things. Baroque art pays special attention to the imagination, the idea, which should be witty and amaze with novelty. Baroque allows the ugly, the grotesque, the fantastic into its sphere. The principle of bringing opposites together replaces the principle of measure in Baroque art (thus, in Bernini, a heavy stone turns into the finest drapery of fabric; sculpture gives a picturesque effect; architecture becomes like frozen music; the word merges with music; the fantastic is presented as real; the funny turns into tragic). The combination of the superreal, mystical and naturalistic planes is first present in Baroque aesthetics, then manifests itself in romanticism and surrealism.”

“No one is perfect, therefore, in addition to your own opinion, you need to know the opinions of others. A person who is always right is more suspicious than one who admits his mistakes. The Italian writer Giovanni della Casa, in his 1558 treatise On Morals, laments that a person always wants to be right in everything. Everyone wants to gain the upper hand in an argument, being equally afraid of losing both a weapon and a verbal duel. Therefore, della Casa, like the authors of later treatises, teaches to use softer, unobtrusive expressions if you want to achieve your goal.”

I believe that Tsvetaeva is the first
poet of the 20th century. Of course, Tsvetaeva.
I. Brodsky

The red color, festive, cheerful and at the same time dramatically intense, chooses Tsvetaev as a sign of his birth:

The rowan tree lit up with a red brush. Leaves were falling. I was born.

This “red brush of rowan” contains the fullness of the manifestation of life and creative forces poetess, an emotional and poetic explosion, the maximalism of her poetry, and - a breakdown, a future tragic death.

Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva was born on September 26 (October 8), 1892 in a Moscow professorial family: father I.V. Tsvetaev is the founder of the Museum of Fine Arts in Moscow, mother of M.A. Main - pianist, student of A.G. Rubinstein (died 1906). Due to her mother’s illness, Tsvetaeva lived for a long time in Italy, Switzerland, and Germany during her childhood.

The first books of poetry were “Evening Album” (1910) and “The Magic Lantern” (1912).

In 1918-1922, Tsvetaeva and her children were in revolutionary Moscow, her husband S. Efron was fighting in the White Army (poems from 1917-1921, full of sympathy white movement, compiled the cycle “Swan Camp”). From 1922 to 1939, Tsvetaeva was in exile, where she followed her husband. These years were marked by domestic instability, difficult relations with Russian emigration, and hostile criticism.

In the summer of 1939, following her husband and daughter Ariadna, Tsvetaeva and her son Georgiy returned to their homeland. That same year, the husband and daughter were arrested (S. Efron was shot in 1941, Ariadne was rehabilitated in 1955). M. Tsvetaeva’s poems were not published, there was no work and no housing. At the beginning of the war (August 31, 1941), finding herself evacuated in Elabuga (now Tatarstan), in a state of depression, M. Tsvetaeva committed suicide.

Tsvetaeva’s main works: poetry collections “Evening Album”, “Magic Lantern”, “Milestones”, “Separation”, “Poems to Blok”, “Craft”, “Psyche”, “After Russia”, “Swan Camp”; the poems “The Tsar Maiden”, “Well done”, “The Poem of the Mountain”, “The Poem of the End”, “The Staircase”, “The Poem of Air”, the satirical poem “The Pied Piper”, “Perekop”; tragedies "Ariadne", "Phaedra"; prose works “My Pushkin”, memories of A. Bely, V.Ya. Bryusov, M.A. Voloshine, B.L. Pasternak, “The Tale of Sonechka”, etc.


Among the lyrical poems of Marina Tsvetaeva there are many sad and mournful ones.

notes But the fate of Marina Tsvetaeva, and her family, and all our grandmothers and

grandfathers of that time - a ruthless time, the time of the First World War,

Revolution, Stalinist concentration camps and World War II... It was a time of loss,

a time of pain, suffering and misery. Therefore, even through Marina’s great love of life

Tsvetaeva constantly slips out sad, sad poems not only about love, but also

about life, about the sad fate of the Russian people.


I like that you're not sick of me

I like that you are not sick of me,
I like that I'm not sick with you,
That the globe is never heavy
It won't float away under our feet.

I like that you can be funny
Loose - and don't play with words,
And do not blush with a suffocating wave,
Sleeves touching slightly.

I also like that you are with me
Calmly hug the other one,
Don't read to me in hellfire
Burn because I don’t kiss you.

What is my gentle name, my gentle, not
You mention it day or night - in vain...
That never in church silence
They will not sing over us: Hallelujah!

Thank you with both heart and hand
Because you know me without knowing yourself!
So love: for my night's peace,
For the rare meeting at sunset hours.

For our non-walks under the moon,
For the sun, not above our heads,
Because you are sick - alas! - not by me,
Because I am sick - alas! - not by you!


She didn't love her, but she cried.

She didn't love her, but she cried. No, I didn’t love you, but still
Only she showed you her adored face in the shadows.
Everything in our dream did not look like love: No reasons, no evidence.

Only this image nodded to us from the evening hall,
Only we - you and I - brought him a plaintive verse.
The thread of adoration has tied us more tightly,
Than falling in love - others.

But the impulse passed, and someone approached tenderly,
Who could not pray, but loved. Don't rush to judge!
You will be memorable to me, like the most tender note
In the awakening of the soul.

In this sad soul you wandered as if in an unlocked house.
(In our house, in the spring...) Don’t call me the one who has forgotten!
I filled all my minutes with you, except
The saddest thing is love.


I would like to live with you

I would like to live with you
In a small town
Where is the eternal twilight
And eternal bells.

And in a small village inn
Subtle ringing
Antique watches are like drops of time.

And sometimes, in the evenings
From some attic - Flute.

And the flute player himself in the window,
And big tulips on the windows.
And maybe you would even
They didn't love me...

Would you lie - like me
I love you: lazy,
Indifferent, careless.
Occasionally the rare crack of a match.

The cigarette burns and goes out,
And trembles for a long, long time at its end
Ash in a short gray column.
You're too lazy to even shake it off,
And the whole cigarette flies into the fire...


Gypsy passion of separation.

Gypsy passion of separation!
As soon as you meet him, you're already rushing away.
I dropped my forehead into my hands
And I think, looking into the night:

Nobody, rummaging through our letters,
I didn’t understand deeply
How treacherous we are, that is -
How true to ourselves we are.



With great tenderness

With great tenderness - because
That I will soon leave everyone,
I'm still wondering who
You'll get wolf fur,

For whom - a softening blanket
And a thin cane with a greyhound,
To whom is my silver bracelet,
Showered with turquoise...

And all the notes and all the flowers,
Which you can’t bear to store...
My last rhyme is you too,
My last night!

This sad verse is very autobiographical: after all, during the Soviet era, her husband Sergei Efron was shot, her daughter was imprisoned, no one would hire her, not even as a dishwasher, and on August 31, 1941, Marina Tsvetaeva could not withstand all the hardships and hardships of her new life. Soviet life and committed suicide. So it’s not just the words “My last night!”


Rowan.


Rowan
Chopped
Zorka.

Rowan -
Destiny
Bitter.

Rowan -
Gray-haired
Downhill.

Rowan!
Destiny
Russian.


You are a stranger to me

You are a stranger to me and not a stranger,
Native and not native,
Mine and not mine! Coming to you
Home - I won’t say “visiting”
And I won’t say “home.”

Love is like a fiery furnace:
But the ring is a big thing,
And yet the altar is a great light.
God did not bless!



Didn't kiss - kissed

They didn't kiss, they kissed.
They didn’t speak - they breathed.
Maybe you haven’t lived on earth,
Maybe it was just a cloak hanging on a chair.

Maybe - long ago under a flat stone
Your tender age has calmed down.
I felt like wax:
Little deceased woman in roses.

I put my hand on my heart - it doesn’t beat.
It’s so easy without happiness, without suffering!
So it went - what do people call
In the world - a love date.


Every verse is a child of love


Every verse is a child of love,
Illegitimate beggar.
Firstborn - at the rut
To bow to the winds - laid down.

For the heart there is hell and altar,
For the heart - heaven and shame.
Who is the father? Maybe the king
Maybe a king, maybe a thief.


Love! Love!

Love! Love! And in convulsions, and in the coffin
I’ll be wary - I’ll be seduced - I’ll be embarrassed - I’ll rush.
Oh dear! Not in a grave snowdrift,
I won’t say goodbye to you in the clouds.

And that’s not why I need a pair of beautiful wings
Given to keep poods in my heart.
Swaddled, eyeless and voiceless
I will not increase the miserable settlement.

No, I’ll stretch out my arms, my body is elastic
With a single wave from your shrouds,
Death, I’ll knock you out!—A thousand versts in the area
The snow has melted - and the forest of bedrooms.

And if all is well - shoulders, wings, knees
Squeezing, she let herself be led to the graveyard,
Then only so that, laughing at decay,
Rise up in verse - or bloom like a rose!


Error.

When a snowflake that flies easily
Sliding like a fallen star,
You take it with your hand - it melts like a tear,
And it is impossible to return its airiness.

When captivated by the transparency of the jellyfish,
We will touch her with the whim of our hands,
She is like a prisoner imprisoned in bonds,
Suddenly he turns pale and dies suddenly.

When we want, we are wandering moths
Apparently not a dream, but an earthly reality:
Where is their outfit? From them on our fingers
One dawn painted dust!

Leave the flight to snowflakes and moths
And don’t destroy the jellyfish on the sands!
You can't grab your dream with your hands,
You can’t hold your dream in your hands!

It is impossible for what was unsteady sadness,
Say: “Be passion! Be mad, burn!”
Your love was such a mistake
But without love we perish. Magician!


Your tender mouth is a continuous kiss...

Your tender mouth is a continuous kiss...
- And that’s all, and I’m just like a beggar.
Who am I now? - United? - No, a thousand!
Conqueror? - No, conquest!

Is this love or admiration?
The pen's whim - or the root cause,
Is it languishing according to the angelic rank,
Or a little pretense - by vocation...

Sadness of the soul, charm of the eyes,
Is it a stroke of the pen - ah! - does it matter?
What will this mouth be called - until
Your tender mouth is a complete kiss!

“My poems are a diary, my poetry is the poetry of proper names” - M. Tsvetaeva’s poems are elegant and musical. There is a lot of pure, intimate content in them. Her soul is in full view. Fate is painful and tragic. Poetry is immortal. And life is like a thundercloud, like the brightest ray sunny summer, How bad dream and the rejoicing of the depths of the sea...

Today is Marina Ivanovna’s birthday. On October 8, 1892, in Moscow, a daughter was born into the family of professor-philologist Ivan Vladimirovich and pianist Maria Main.

Mom hoped that her daughter would follow in her footsteps and become a pianist. One day she wrote the following lines in her diary: “My four-year-old Musya walks around me and keeps putting words into rhymes - maybe she will be a poet?” As time has shown, the prophecy came true. And since the age of six, Marina has been writing poetry in Russian, French, and German.

“They gave me a nautical name - Marina,” the poetess noted proudly. Besides, it is very romantic and beautiful. Marina Tsvetaeva loved beauty and saw it in everything, even where it simply did not exist. To fantasize and fall in love is about her. This is how she met her husband Sergei Efron. Marriage at 19.

Marina Tsvetaeva and Sergei Efron, 1911

Their acquaintance took place in Koktebel. Seryozha was a cheerful and cheerful person, the soul of any company, and Marina was deeply vulnerable, romantic, sensual, deeply immersed in the world of fantasies and girlish dreams - not like everyone else, a loner. Once on the Koktebel beach, Tsvetaeva said to her friend, poet Maximilian Voloshin: “Max, I will marry the one who guesses what my favorite stone is.” And so it happened. A young Muscovite Sergei Efron - tall, thin, with huge “sea-colored” eyes - gave Marina on the very first day of their acquaintance a Genoese carnelian bead, which Tsvetaeva later wore throughout her life.

Returning to Moscow, Marina and Sergei got married. They weren't talking modern language, the most beautiful couple, but their love will give odds to anyone who doubts the beauty of their souls and immaculately young, insanely sincere and loving hearts. Beauty is not ostentatious, it is deeply internal - today it is a rare gift, and at the same time an illusion, naivety. Marina Ivanovna loved and was loved. I was happy and I was unhappy.

Those who are no longer alive today are either not spoken of at all, or nothing bad is said. One should speak with respect about Marina Tsvetaeva, about the great Russian poetess, about a fragile woman with a broken fate, without delving into the past, without looking for, without stirring up meaningless reasons for leaving. We have something to remember, to expose. Reading the lines of the subtle human soul, we resurrect in every word, in every letter a priceless spiritual heritage greatest woman Russian literature, perhaps the only poetess whose work is so deeply autobiographical.

Choosing the best in the work of Marina Tsvetaeva is a thankless task. Of the hundreds of best vintage wines, the best is the one that suits the place and time. It’s the same with poetry - in the fall we see beauty in bright yellow colors, and in the spring we admire green ones. The best poems by Marina Tsvetaeva are the best for everyone individually. These are especially close to my heart:

Read by People's Artist of the USSR, theater and film actress, magnificent and inimitable Alisa Freindlich.

Tsvetaeva’s prose is also good. I was shocked by the family chronicle "The House of Old Pimen." Her letters to Pasternak are full of deep thoughts and strong feelings: “I don’t need fidelity as self-struggle. Loyalty as constancy of passion is incomprehensible and alien to me. One in my entire life has suited me. Loyalty comes from admiration.” “Jealousy? I simply yield, as the soul always yields to a body, especially someone else’s, - from the most honest contempt, from unheard-of incommensurability. Any possible pain dissolves in contempt and indignation.” “The sexes don’t like me. They were fascinated by me, they almost didn’t fall in love with me. Not a single shot in the forehead. Shoot because of Psyche! But she never existed (a special form of immortality). They shoot because of the mistress of the house, not because of the guest." "In poetry, everything is eternal, in a state of eternal life, that is, effectiveness. The continuity of the action of what is happening. That’s what the poems are about.” “I defended the right of a person to privacy - not in the room, for writing, but in the world.” “It’s not my fault that I can’t stand singing the idyll. collective farms and factories are the same as happy love. I can’t.” “I was myself (soul) only in my notebooks and on lonely roads.” “I myself chose the world of non-humans, why should I complain???” “I’m taking everything to the tomb! - so that the grain can germinate after thousands of years. Talking about poetry doesn’t help, we need poetry.”