What is this gypsy passion for separation, this readiness to rush off when we've just met? My head rests in my hands as I realize, looking into the night that no one turning over our letters has yet understood how… — Marina Tsvetaeva Copy Share Image
What is the main thing in love? to know and to hide. To know about the one you love and to hide that you love. At times the hiding (shame) overpowers the knowing (passion). The passion for the hidden -… — 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
