One of the greatest Russian poets of the 20th century, prose writer and translator Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva(1892 - 1941) began to write 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 make 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, 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 a residence permit 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 even such a job: the council considered that she might turn out to be a German spy.

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

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” sounds much more convincing than “all my life” and - most importantly - much longer!
2. If you came in now and said: “I am leaving for a long time, forever,” or: “It seems to me that I don’t love you anymore,” I would not seem to feel anything new: every time you leave, every hour when you are gone, you are gone forever and you don't love me.
3. After all, you fall in love only with someone else's, native - you love.
4. You need to meet for love, for the rest there are books.
5. Creativity is a common cause, created by solitary people.
6. The world has a limited number of souls and an unlimited number of bodies.
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 on button. From the sewn on button to my whole soul.
9. Success is to be on time.
10. What can you know about me, since you did not sleep with me and did not 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 the misfortune of another is a fool or a scoundrel; most often it's both.
14. The only thing that people do not forgive is that you, in the end, managed without them.
15. The sculptor depends on the clay. Paint artist. String musician. The hand of an artist, a musician can stop. The poet has only a heart.
16. "To endure - fall in love." I love this phrase, just the opposite.
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 I real woman: I judge everyone and everyone according to myself, I put my speeches into everyone’s mouth, my feelings into my chest. Therefore, everything is with me in the first minute: kind, generous, generous, sleepless and insane.
19. How much better I see a person when not with him!
20. No one wants - no one can understand one thing: that I am all alone. Acquaintances and friends - all of Moscow, but not a single one who is for me - no, without me! - will die.
21. Men are not accustomed to pain, like animals. When they hurt, they immediately have such eyes that you can do anything, if only they would stop.
22. Whether to dream together, whether to 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 a hand, 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, lovingly - many - two. Inhuman - always one.
25. I want such a modest, deadly simple thing: that when I enter, a person would be happy.

Marina Tsvetaeva is the greatest Russian poetess of the 20th century with a tragic fate. Incredibly talented, she started writing poetry at the age of 6, and not only in Russian, but also in French and German! The first collection of poems, published by her at the age of 18, immediately attracted the attention of famous poets.

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

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 work, but even the Literary Fund rejected her application, believing that Tsvetaeva might turn out to be a German spy.

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

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” sounds much more convincing than “all my life” and - most importantly - much longer!
2. If you came in now and said: “I am leaving for a long time, forever,” or: “It seems to me that I don’t love you anymore,” I would not seem to feel anything new: every time you leave, every hour when you are gone, you are gone forever and you don't love me.
3. After all, you fall in love only with someone else's, native - you love.
4. You need to meet for love, for the rest there are books.
5. Creativity is a common cause, created by solitary people.
6. The world has a limited number of souls and an unlimited number of bodies.
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 on button. From the sewn on button to my whole soul.
9. Success is to be on time.
10. What can you know about me, since you did not sleep with me and did not 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 the misfortune of another is a fool or a scoundrel; most often it's both.
14. The only thing that people do not forgive is that you, in the end, managed without them.
15. The sculptor depends on the clay. Paint artist. String musician. The hand of an artist, a musician can stop. The poet has only a heart.
16. "To endure - fall in love." I love this phrase, just the opposite.
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 according to myself, I put my speeches into everyone’s mouth, my feelings into my chest. Therefore, everything is with me in the first minute: kind, generous, generous, sleepless and insane.
19. How much better I see a person when not with him!
20. No one wants - no one can understand one thing: that I am all alone. Acquaintances and friends - all of Moscow, but not a single one who is for me - no, without me! - will die.
21. Men are not accustomed to pain, like animals. When they hurt, they immediately have such eyes that you can do anything, if only they would stop.
22. Whether to dream together, whether to 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 a hand, 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, lovingly - many - two. Inhuman - always one.
25. I want such a modest, deadly simple thing: that when I enter, a person would be happy.

Based on materials -

Cheating has no taste. Don't try.

There are no ideal relationships. There is female wisdom not to notice male stupidity. There is a man's strength to forgive women's weaknesses. And leave the ideal to the 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. Be afraid of the quiet ones.

Mentally busy. Physically free.

The only thing that people do not forgive is that you, in the end, managed without them.

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

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

I have one friend who is a lawyer and a boxer. It's ALL useless to argue with him.

You are an advance for me from the Lord, and I will punish you for something.

Again, there is nowhere to go. This should have been foreseen. 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 it, happiness. But no, again experience.

How prettier girl, the dirtier gossip about her.

Estimates of others must be respected and taken into account, like the weather. But no more.

Everything inside her was burned. Life was painful. But you have to.

All the same girls are so mysterious! You never know what scandal they'll come up with today.

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

The smell of his perfume is definitely disrupting my body.

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

Insensitivity is more dangerous than a gun, because it will hurt people from any distance.

Probably enough is enough.
Go crazy for 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 called like this - "With empty about empty."

By the way, what are you doing tonight?
I don't stick my nose in other people's business, do you?

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

Where you can no longer love, there you need to pass by.

Take a glass.
- Good.
Now make it fall. Drop it.
- He crashed.
“Now ask for forgiveness and see if he becomes whole again.”

You don't even need warmth from other people's fires - you love the one who is farther and colder than all.

I treat others. Meanwhile, somewhere
You are someone else
You infect yourself...

It often prevents me from living what I can think. It's probably better to be dumb and insensitive,
cares only about hair, nails, clothes and calories.

life is frankly geometric: love triangles, vicious circles;
on this segment you are indifferent to him, but about
that it's mutual, don't lie,
do not lie.
Xenia Zheludova.

Loyalty is such a rarity and such a value. It's 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 they left you, no problem.
The train rushed off into the distance, scared away the crows.
Happiness - when departed trains
They do not return to your platform anymore.

NOTEBOOK ONE

So, the question of color is decided by light, the degree of light. This is what I experienced in the fall.

The noise of swollen 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 (soaked with downpours of wattle) underfoot, ligature, dirt, - both on the right and on the left, in pursuit and overtaking - the noise of swollen, rushing, rushing streams.

I think that of all that 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 a dull rainbow,<пропуск двух-трех слов>. I know (from memory) that everything screams in it, I see (when I want to) the side of a rock brimming with cacti, the merciless sky, that giant without a name under which I was filming: the extreme of nature, nature in a continuous state of plot, a solid exceptional case, but they will say in front of me Sicily - state of mind, dullness, tea plaque, sleepy plaque, sleep.
She obviously remembered her random day and hour, which coincided with my eternal one.
I remember the road, paved in layers like a river - layers - gradual, oncoming donkey with tassels and vertebrae, accompanying hills with a single tree, sour marsala and sour bread. And the monastery we were going to (the ruins) and the road we were going to and the day we were going on - all this, obviously, had a name (otherwise it would not have been: which). But - the memory took and forgot, moved the mortal (given) road, day, hour to the perfect: dream world.

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

And m. b. just the early Sicilian spring.

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

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

(The beginning of the February verses to B.P.)

Ask 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 if someone - non-human.

So new age Patroclus and Achilles
We sacredly revealed to each other
What can - in the iron consciousness of WINGS -
Last strength and veins.

Now for the first time in my life I understand what a poet is (I stand in the face of a poet). I saw people who wrote beautiful poetry, wrote beautiful poetry. And then they lived, beyond delusion, beyond squandering, hoarding everything into lines: they not only lived: they made money (-were). And enough profit allowed themselves poetry (like a small official - a trip to the country - after a whole departmental winter). And, of course - months and months of housing (it would be better - scams!), hoarding (-soul) - non-existence! - that is, knowing that poetry costs them, what a pretty penny they themselves flew in, and naturally, I say, they demanded exorbitant payments for them from those around them: censers, kneeling, monuments alive, multiplying the little that they gave for everything in what they themselves refused and presented this account.
And I, pitying the beggars in them, gallantly censed - and departed. I knew many, many poets. And most of all she loved when they just wanted to eat - or just had a toothache: it brought people together. I was a NANNY with poets - not a poet at all - and not a Muse! - a young (sometimes tragic!) nanny. - Here. - With poets, I always forgot that I am a poet. And they, it is possible to tell - and did not suspect.
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 I’ll flatter, spare, lie. And now, Pasternak, I am happy to be your contemporary. Read this as detachedly as I write, it's not about you and not about me, it's impersonal, and you know it. They confess not to a priest, but to God. I confess (I don’t repent, but resurrect) not to you, but to Daemon’y [to the Demon (lat.).] in you. He is bigger than you, but you are so great that you know it.
The last month of this autumn<пропуск одного слова>spent with you, without parting, not with a book. At one time I often went to Prague - and now, at our tiny station - waiting for the train. I came early, at the beginning of darkness, when the lanterns were lit. (Rail turns.) Walked back and forth on a dark platform - far, yoko! And there was one place: a lamppost - no light - it was a meeting place (end of the platform), I just called you here, and long side by side conversations, 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 will not say that I need you, you are indispensable in my life, like that lamppost - which will always stand in all my ways. At the beginning of darkness, at the end of the platform.
Then in the autumn I was not at all embarrassed that you didn’t know anything about it - you see, I didn’t write, and I never would have written if it weren’t for your letter - not because it’s a secret, but because you yourself know all this - 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 get sick of it, I want it - it's nonsense. I didn't have desires as a child.
“To the station” was: to Pasternak, I didn’t go to the station, but on a date (more reliable than anyone I’ve ever ... 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 happy date, Pasternak.
And, mind you: never anywhere but that asphalt road. Leaving the station, I simply parted: immediately and soberly - as in life. I never took you home with me. And she never went on purpose. When the trips to Prague stopped, you (meetings) also ended.
I’m telling you all this, I don’t go to Prague anymore (once a month, for dependency - and a day that destroys: the beginning of darkness, the meaning of a lantern - and infinity beyond the end of the platform, which turns out to be just a chess of fields).
Now about the alliance. When I say something to someone and the other does not understand (always: never!) the first thought is: Pasternak. Not a thought: a turn of the head. Like a commander for reinforcements. Referring.
How do I go home. Like I'm going to the fire. Out of check. For example, I know that you - of all - love Beethoven (even more than Bach), that you love music more than poetry, that you do not like “art”, that you have thought about Paganini more than once 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 disinterested - that in your work there is more Genius than a poet who surrendered to his wrath and mercy. (Only low selfishness can fight an angel! "Self-affirmation" - when it's all about: self-immolation!)
Also, Pasternak, I want you not to be buried, but burned.

Your book [This is about Sat. "Themes and Variations". Pasternak, I have a request to you. “This is how the gypsies begin” [St. “This is how the gypsies begin. In two years…”.] - dedicate these verses (mentally) to me. Donate. So that I know that they are mine. Verify ownership. And there is a cry, blatantly mine: - It's me, not you - the proletarian (which, by the way, I always pronounce like this:
- No, not you - it's me - a proletarian!)
Pasternak, there is a secret code. You are completely encrypted. You are hopeless for the “public”. If they love you, then out of fear: some - to fall behind, others - to be accused of backwardness, others (already an exception) - like the animals of Orpheus, obeying, that is, also out of fear. But to know (understand) ... Yes, and I don’t know you, and you don’t know yourself either, 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 (the first step). Pasternak, raise your head! Higher! There - your "B"<ольшой>Polytechnic Hall.

Craft. - Well done. - "Women's insignificance." - Chat with your genius about you.

And now, Pasternak, please: do not go to R<оссию>without seeing me. Russia for me is un grand peut-etre [great Maybe (fr.)], almost the other world. If I knew that you were going to Australia, to snakes, to lepers, I would not be scared, I would not ask. But to Russia - I call out: so, Pasternak, warn me, I will come. Outwardly - on business, honestly - to you: according to your soul, say goodbye. You already once disappeared like that - on the Maiden's Field, in the cemetery: you removed yourself from ... Simply: You are 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.
In general, I doubt your existence, it is too much like 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 in both eyes, but maybe - “Sleep, peephole, sleep the other ...”, but I forgot about the third one.)
I could write a whole book of our meetings, not write: write down. I know that it was. So, convinced of such a you, I doubt a simple you: a simple you, but simply: you are not.
I won’t ask for this anymore, only if you don’t fulfill it (under whatever pretext) - a wound to life.
I'm not afraid of your departure, but of your disappearance (disappearance).

You write: “I don’t want about myself,” and I say: I don’t want 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 do not know your affairs, but - leave to freedom.
Yes, one dark place in your letter. You think that I am “because of 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 a juniper bush, which is you. My only bitterness is that I did not wait for you in Berlin.
Never listen to people's judgments about me: I hurt many (I loved and fell out of love, coddled and left) - for people, the discrepancy is a matter of pride. Two months in Berlin<фраза не окончена>. The only thing that people do not forgive is that you, in the end, managed without them. Don't listen. If you need to know anything about my life, I'll tell you myself.

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

(all this is in pencil in a notebook)
From February 7th to 14th: Mountain [St. “You don’t have to call her ...”.] Organ [St. “No, don’t dispute the truth ...”.] Poet [St. “Emigrant”.] Soul Syrian [First verse of the “Scythian” cycle.] Lullaby [Second verse of the “Scythian” cycle.] Goddess Ishtar [Third verse of the “Scythian” cycle.] Lute Azrael (two) …” and “Plumage of winters…”] Necessary: ​​Lantern Jacob’s ladder
A mother sees her child less than anyone in the present: either on the potty (yesterday) or on the throne (tomorrow).

You won’t blow on a blizzard, young!
Vyunosh-young, vyunosh-young!
Don't spit on the moon, baby!
View - nosh young!

(From this: I’ll split - so into the glass [Article “Lament of a gypsy for Count Zubov”.])

... Courtesy - or unwillingness to upset? Deafness - or unwillingness to accept?
…Do you know what it's called?
Of all, in my entire life - only one has contained: 61 years old - and obviously a billionaire - that is, privy<слово и фраза не окончены>
... You have a great way out: what exceeds - to the share of the Genius. He won't fit that.
This is not a game, because the game needs leisure. But I am strangled by the essentials: from poetry to the removal of slops, until late at night. This is blood. If you like: a blood game. For me, the adjective is always important.

I consider the attitude towards you to be a breakdown - m. and up. (Unlikely.)

I'm not the one (I'm different!) - then I rejoice. But more often “the wrong one” is just nobody. 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.

The fluttering of birds: a staccato purr.

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

The monstrosity of communion: there is God. Bogoedstvo.

Czech geese hate me, Capitol geese would love me.

How the cane completes the hand!

(A note about a favorite gray cane, bought by S. at the auction of the property of the former tsarist ambassador and presented to me, and then - much later - I lost it in Moravska Trzebowa, on a hill, picking blueberries.)

Send to that front.

And she's still spinning! - Yes, do not turn around - it would turn around!

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

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