“Teasing and tempting and playing We loved like children, us both But somebody, hiding a smile, Set up the ungentle nets - And here we are at the harbor, Not seeing the wished-for abodes, But knowing that I will be… — Marina Tsvetaeva Copy Share Image
Who sleeps at night? No one is sleeping. In the cradle a child is screaming. An old man sits over his death, and anyone young enough talks to his love, breathes into her lips, looks into her eyes. — Marina Tsvetaeva Copy Share Image
“At the skin, my blood calls out to your heart, my whole sky craves an island of tenderness. My rivers tilt towards you.” — Marina Tsvetaeva Copy Share Image
There are books so alive that you're always afraid that while you weren't reading, the book has gone and changed, has shifted like a… — Marina Tsvetaeva Copy Share Image
One should write only those books from whose absence one suffers. In short: the ones you want on your own desk. — Marina Tsvetaeva Copy Share Image
What shall I do, singer and first-born, in a world where the deepest black is grey, and inspiration is kept in a thermos? with… — Marina Tsvetaeva Copy Share Image
“The forbidden cabinet. The forbidden fruit. That fruit is—a volume, a huge blue-lilac volume with a gold inscription slantwise: Collected Works of A.S. Pushkin.… — Marina Tsvetaeva Copy Share Image
No one has ever stepped twice into the same river. But did anyone ever step twice into the same book? — Marina Tsvetaeva Copy Share Image
An amazing observation: it is precisely for feelings that one needs time, not for thought. ... Feelings, obviously, are more demanding than thought. — Marina Tsvetaeva Copy Share Image
“A shoe's material - leather - is calculable and finite. work of art's material (not sound, not word, not stone, not canvas, but spirit)… — Marina Tsvetaeva Copy Share Image
“Your name is a -- bird in my hand a piece of -- ice on the tongue one single movement of the lips. Your… — Marina Tsvetaeva Copy Share Image
Women talk about love and silent about lovers, men - on the contrary: Speaking of mistresses, but are silent about love. — Marina Tsvetaeva Copy Share Image
