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Lara Walked Along The Tracks Following A Path Worn By Pilgrims And Then Turned Into The Fields. Here She Stopped And, Closing Her Eyes, Took A Deep Breath Of The Flower-scented Air Of The Broad Expanse Around Her. It Was Dearer To Her Than Her Kin, Better Than A Lover, Wiser Than A Book. For A Moment She Rediscovered The Purpose Of Her Life. She Was Here On Earth To Grasp The Meaning Of Its Wild Enchantment And To Call Each Thing By Its Right Name, Or, If This Were Not Within Her Power, To Give Birth Out Of Love For Life To Successors Who Would Do It In Her Place.

-Boris Pasternak

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Lara Walked Along The

Boris Pasternak

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Lara Walked Along The Tracks Following A Path Worn By Pilgrims And Then Turned Into The Fields. Here She Stopped And, Closing Her Eyes, Took A Deep Breath Of The Flower-scented Air Of The Broad Expanse Around Her. It Was Dearer To Her Than Her Kin, Better Than A Lover, Wiser Than A Book. For A Moment She Rediscovered The Purpose Of Her Life. She Was Here On Earth To Grasp The Meaning Of Its Wild Enchantment And To Call Each Thing By Its Right Name, Or, If This Were Not Within Her Power, To Give Birth Out Of Love For Life To Successors Who Would Do It In Her Place.

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I Come Here To Speak Poetry. It Will Always Be In The Grass. It Will Also Be Necessary To Bend Down To Hear It. It Will Always Be Too Simple To Be Discussed In Assemblies.

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Failure To Love Is Almost Like Murder.

No Deep And Strong Feeling, Such As We May Come Across Here And There In The World, Is Unmixed With Compassion. The More We Love, The More The Object Of Our Love Seems To Us To Be A Victim.

As In An Explosion, I Would Erupt With All The Wonderful Things I Saw And Understood In This World.

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But Who Are We, Where Do We Come From When All Those Years Nothing But Idle Talk Is Left And We Are Nowhere In The World?" = Meeting =

You And I, It's As Though We Have Been Taught To Kiss In Heaven And Sent Down To Earth Together, To See If We Know What We Were Taught.

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What Is History? Its Beginning Is That Of The Centuries Of Systematic Work Devoted To The Solution Of The Enigma Of Death, So That Death Itself May Eventually Be Overcome. That Is Why People Write Symphonies, And Why They Discover Mathematical Infinity And Electromagnetic Waves.

Art Is Interested In Life At The Moment When The Ray Of Power Is Passing Through It.

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I Love You Wildly, Insanely, Infinitely.

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All Mothers Are Mothers Of Great People, And It Is Not Their Fault That Life Later Disappoints Them.

She Was Here On Earth To Make Sense Of Its Wild Enchantments.

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In This Era Of World Wars, In This Atomic Age, Values Have Changed. We Have Learned That We Are Guests Of Existence, Travelers Between Two Stations. We Must Discover Security Within Ourselves.

Mother Russia Is On The Move, She Can't Stand Still, She's Restless And Can't Find Rest, She's Talking And She Can't Stop.

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Immensely Grateful, Touched, Proud, Astonished, Abashed.

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Oh, What A Love It Was, Utterly Free, Unique, Like Nothing Else On Earth! Their Thoughts Were Like Other People's Songs.

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Salvation Lies Not In The Faithfulness To Forms, But In The Liberation From Them.

Lara Walked Along The Tracks Following A Path Worn By Pilgrims And Then Turned Into The Fields. Here She Stopped And, Closing Her Eyes, Took A Deep Breath Of The Flower-scented Air Of The Broad Expanse Around Her. It Was Dearer To Her Than Her Kin, Better Than A Lover, Wiser Than A Book. For A Moment She Rediscovered The Purpose Of Her Life. She Was Here On Earth To Grasp The Meaning Of Its Wild Enchantment And To Call Each Thing By Its Right Name, Or, If This Were Not Within Her Power, To Give Birth Out Of Love For Life To Successors Who Would Do It In Her Place.

I Think That If The Beast Who Sleeps In Man Could Be Held Down By Threats Of Any Kind, Whether Of Jail Or Retribution, Then The Highest Emblem Of Humanity Would Be The Lion Tamer, Not The Prophet Who Sacrificed Himself.... What For Centuries Raised Man Above The Beast Is Not The Cudgel But The Irresistible Power Of Unarmed Truth.

Yet The Order Of The Acts Is Planned And The End Of The Way Inescapable. I Am Alone; All Drowns In The Pharisees' Hypocrisy.

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Work Is The Order Of The Day, Just As It Was At One Time, With Our First Starts And Our Best Efforts. Do You Remember? Therein Lies Its Delight. It Brings Back The Forgotten; One's Stores Of Energy, Seemingly Exhausted, Come Back To Life.

You Are Eternity's Hostage A Captive Of Mine.

Here They Are, All In One Place. Circle Back To Them When You Need Some Poetic Shine. It Is Not Revolutions And Upheavals That Clear The Road To Better Days, But Revelations, And Lavishness Of Someone's Soul Inspired, And Ablaze.

That's Metaphysics, My Dear Fellow. It's Forbidden Me By My Doctor, My Stomach Won't Take It.

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They Don't Ask Much Of You. They Only Want You To Hate The Things You Love And To Love The Things You Despise.

We Must Discover Security Within Ourselves.

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What Is Laid Down, Ordered, Factual Is Never Enough To Embrace The Whole Truth: Life Always Spills Over The Rim Of Every Cup.

I Am Alone; All Drowns In The Pharisees' Hypocrisy. To Live Your Life Is Not As Simple As To Cross A Field.

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He Realised, More Vividly Than Ever Before, That Art Had Two Constant, Two Unending Preoccupations: It Is Always Meditating Upon Death And It Is Always Thereby Creating Life.

You And I Are Like The First Two People On Earth Who At The Beginning Of The World Had Nothing To Cover Themselves With - At The End Of It, You And I Are Just As Stripped And Homeless. And You And I Are The Last Remembrance Of All That Immeasurable Greatness Which Has Been Created In All The Thousands Of Years Between Their Time And Ours, And It Is In Memory Of All That Vanished Splendour That We Live And Love And Weep And Cling To One Another.

Our Evenings Are Farewells. Our Parties Are Testaments. So That The Secret Stream Of Suffering. May Warm The Cold Of Life.

Art Has Two Constant, Two Unending Concerns: It Always Meditates On Death And Thus Always Creates Life. All Great, Genuine Art Resembles And Continues The Revelation Of St John.

Everything Established, Settled, Everything To Do With Home And Order And The Common Ground, Has Crumbled Into Dust And Has Been Swept Away In The General Upheaval And Reorganization Of The Whole Of Society. The Whole Human Way Of Life Has Been Destroyed And Ruined. All That's Left Is The Bare, Shivering Human Soul, Stripped To The Last Shred, The Naked Force Of The Human Psyche For Which Nothing Has Changed Because It Was Always Cold And Shivering And Reaching Out To Its Nearest Neighbor, As Cold And Lonely As Itself.

Only The Solitary Seek The Truth, And They Break With All Those Who Don't Love It Sufficiently

Good-bye... Why Am I Hemorrhaging ?

February. Get Ink, Shed Tears. Write Of It, Sob Your Heart Out, Sing, While Torrential Slush That Roars Burns In The Blackness Of The Spring. Go Hire A Buggy. For Six Grivnas, Race Through The Noice Of Bells And Wheels To Where The Ink And All You Grieving Are Muffled When The Rainshower Falls. To Where, Like Pears Burnt Black As Charcoal, A Myriad Rooks, Plucked From The Trees, Fall Down Into The Puddles, Hurl Dry Sadness Deep Into The Eyes. Below, The Wet Black Earth Shows Through, With Sudden Cries The Wind Is Pitted, The More Haphazard, The More True The Poetry That Sobs Its Heart Out.

It Was Not Until After The Coming Of Christ That Time And Humans Could Breathe Freely. It Was Not Until After Him That People Began To Live Toward The Future. Humans Do Not Die In A Ditch Like A Dog-but At Home In History, While The Work Toward The Conquest Of Death Is In Full Swing; They Die Sharing In This Work.

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