And forever the same -
Let the hero in the novel love!
All women lead into the mists.
Chosen ghetto. Shaft. Ditch.
Don't expect mercy.
In this most Christian of all worlds
Poets are Jews.
If born winged -
What are her mansions - and what are her huts!
I know everything that was, everything that will be,
I know the whole deaf-mute secret,
What's on the dark, on the tongue-tied
The language of the people is called - Life.
And if the heart breaks
Removes stitches without a doctor, -
Know that from the heart - there is a head,
And there is an ax - from the head ...
Emperor - the capital,
Drummer - snow.
Some without curvature -
Life is expensive.
Do not love the rich - the poor,
Do not love, scientist - stupid
Do not love, ruddy - pale,
Do not love, good - harmful:
Golden - copper half!
Do not be ashamed, the country of Russia!
Angels are always barefoot...
Let the young people not remember
About a hunched old age.
Let them not remember the old
About blessed youth.
Heart - love potions
The potion is the best.
Woman from the cradle
Someone's mortal sin.
The whole sea needs the whole sky,
A whole heart needs the whole of God.
And the indifferent - God will punish!
It's scary to walk on the soul alive.
Indefinitely the ship does not sail
And do not sing the nightingale.
I bless the daily work,
I bless the nightly sleep.
Lord's mercy - and the Lord's judgment,
Good law - and stone law.
The world is sad. God has no sadness!
... Forever in blind man's buff
Playing with reality is bad.
All on the same road
Drogs will drag -
At an early, late hour.
Woe, woe, salty sea!
You will feed
You will drink
You will spin
You will serve!
Bitterness! Bitterness! Eternal flavor
On your lips, oh passion! Bitterness! Bitterness!
Eternal temptation -
More final fall.
Hussar! - Still not finished with dolls,
- Ah! - in the cradle we are waiting for the hussar!
Children are tender riddles of the world,
And the answer lies in the riddles themselves!
Valor and virginity! This union
Ancient and wondrous, like death and glory.
Friend! Indifference is a bad school!
It hardens the heart.
There are more important things in the world
Passionate storms and labors of love.
There is a certain hour - like a dropped load:
When we tame pride in ourselves.
The hour of apprenticeship is in everyone's life
Solemnly inevitable.
Woman from the cradle
Someone's mortal sin.
For the prince - the family, for the seraphim - the host,
Behind each - thousands of people like him,
To stagger - on a living wall
Fell and knew that - thousands of shifts!
Beast - lair,
Wanderer - the road
Dead - drogi.
To each his own.
Know one thing: that tomorrow you will be old.
The rest, baby, forget it.
And her tears - water, and blood -
Water, - in blood, in tears washed!
Not a mother, but a stepmother - Love:
Don't expect judgment or mercy.
And so will the moons melt
And melt the snow
When this young one rushes by,
A lovely age.
Every verse is a child of love
Beggar illegitimate,
Firstborn - at the rut
To bow to the winds - laid.
Who is in the sand, who is in school.
To each his own.
On people's heads
Leisa, oblivion!
Who did not build houses -
The earth is unworthy.
Who doesn't owe friends -T
from hardly generous to girlfriends.
Lighter than a fox
hide under clothes
How to hide you
Jealousy and tenderness!
Love! Love! And in convulsions and in the coffin
I will be alert - I will be seduced - I will be embarrassed - I will rush.
People, believe me: we are alive with longing!
Only in anguish we are victorious over boredom.
Will everything move? Will it be flour?
No, flour is better!
We sleep - and now, through the stone slabs
Heavenly guest in four petals.
O world, understand! Singer - in a dream - open
Star law and flower formula.
Do not love the rich - the poor,
Do not love, scientist - stupid,
Do not love, ruddy - pale,
Do not love, good - harmful:
Golden - copper half!
One half of the window is gone.
One half of the soul showed up.
Let's open it - and that half,
And that half of the window!
Olympians?! Their eyes are asleep!
Celestials - we - sculpt!
Hands that are not needed
Dear, serve - the World.
... Washes away the best blush Love.
Poems grow like stars and like roses
Like beauty - unnecessary in the family.
The evening is already creeping, the earth is already in the dew,
Soon the starry blizzard will freeze in the sky,
And under the ground we will soon fall asleep,
Who on earth did not let each other fall asleep.
I love women that they were not shy in battle,
Those who knew how to hold a sword and a spear, -
But I know that only in the captivity of the cradle
The usual - female - my happiness!
In a dialogue with life, it is not her question that matters, but our answer.
You can joke with a person, but you can't joke with his name.
Women talk about love and are silent about lovers, men - vice versa.
Love in us is like a treasure, we don’t know anything about it, it’s all about the case.
To love is to see a person as God intended him and his parents did not realize him.
For the complete coherence of souls, the coherence of breath is needed, for what is breath, if not the rhythm of the soul? So, in order for people to understand each other, it is necessary that they walk or lie side by side.
There are meetings, there are feelings when everything is given at once and there is no need to continue. Continue, because it is to check.
Every time I find out that a person loves me, I am surprised; he does not love me - I am surprised, but most of all I am surprised when a person is indifferent to me.
Love and motherhood are almost mutually exclusive. True motherhood is courageous.
Love: in winter from cold, in summer from heat, in spring from the first leaves, in autumn from the last: always - from everything.
Betrayal already points to love. You can't betray a friend.
The body in youth is an outfit, in old age it is a coffin from which you are torn!
Goddesses married gods, gave birth to heroes, and loved shepherds.
Our best words are intonations.
Creativity is a common cause, created by solitary people.
The future is an area of legends about us, just like the past is an area of divination about us (although it seems the other way around). The present is only a tiny field of our activity.
For a happy person, life should rejoice, encourage him in this rare gift. Because happiness comes from happiness.
Wings are freedom only when they are open in flight, behind their backs they are heaviness.
How delightful is the preaching of equality from the prince's lips - so disgusting from the janitor's.
Favorable conditions? They are not for the artist. Life itself is an unfavorable condition.
In the Orthodox Church (temple) I feel the body going to the ground, in the Catholic Church I feel the soul flying to the sky.
A woman who remembers Heinrich Heine the moment her lover enters loves only Heinrich Heine.
Kinship by blood is rough and firm, kinship by election is subtle. Where it is thin, it breaks there.
The curve takes out, the straight line drowns.
- Know yourself! - I knew. And that doesn't make it any easier for me to know the other. On the contrary, as soon as I begin to judge a person by myself, misunderstanding after misunderstanding turns out.
I love the rich. I swear and affirm that the rich are kind (because it costs them nothing) and beautiful (because they dress well).
If you can't be a man, or handsome, or noble, you have to be rich.
Our children are older than us, because they have longer, longer life. Older than us from the future. Therefore, sometimes they are alien to us.
The girls of that circle almost exclusively lived by feelings and arts and thus understood more about the affairs of the heart than our most lively, most sober, most enlightened contemporaries. (About Pushkin's time).
Sport is a waste of time for a waste of energy. Below the athlete is only his spectator.
Each book is a steal from one's own life. The more you read, the less you know how and want to live on your own.
"A Terrible Gift" by Marina Tsvetaeva.
"And we always guess
the degeneration of the soul there,
where there is no giving soul.”
"All over me in a simple-haired
accept my joy.”
M. Tsvetaeva
Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva once wrote about herself like this: “I know my own worth: it is high for a connoisseur and a lover, zero for others, because (the highest pride) I don’t keep “brands”, I imagine to keep - mine - to others. And another confession: “I do not like life as such, for me it begins to mean, i.e. acquires meaning and weight - only transformed, i.e. - in art. If they took me across the ocean - to paradise - and forbade me to write, I would refuse the ocean and paradise. I don't need the thing itself."
Today, her work is discussed and talked about a lot. But all conjectures and judgments often break on her own - so piercingly obvious, accessible to everyone, but at the same time not subject to and not accountable to anyone. Tsvetaeva said too much about herself, managed not to reveal the main captivating secret. This is the secret of wingedness.
“That I am truly winged,
You understand - a companion of fate.
But, oh, you can't handle it
With my cursed tenderness,
She warns everyone who dares, falling in love with her poems, to unravel her soul.
Her path is the path of “dreams and loneliness”, deaf suffering and crazy dancing. He is playful and colorful, but at the same time drearily deserted. Only she herself reigns in it - the Poet and the Genius - led by some beautiful, but false Teacher.
“On the waves - fierce and swollen,
Under the ray - angry and ancient,
Boot - timid and meek -
Behind the cloak - lying and lying.
Tsvetaeva waits, but, alas, does not find companions in fate.
What determines the essence of Tsvetaev's poetic creativity? First of all, the sincerity and uniqueness of her assessments, gestures, behavior, fate in general. It may seem that Tsvetaeva is a poet outside the artistic tradition, who managed to start her journey from scratch. There are grounds for such conjectures.
Tsvetaeva is not just a talented lyricist of the early twentieth century. She is the greatest romantic poet of the outgoing century. The romanticism of her work grew on the original philosophical ground. To a large extent, she neglected the Russian classical tradition. At the same time, her spirit turned out to be equal to the spirit of A. Pushkin himself, her talent competes with the gift of Akhmatova and Pasternak - poets of a pronounced classical orientation.
It is interesting to reflect on the religious meaning of M. Tsvetaeva's poetry. How is the theme of God, Christian humility, sinfulness, atonement for guilt realized in her lyrics?
To a large extent, the philosophical and aesthetic views of the poetess echo the views on morality and spiritual truth of the famous philosopher F. Nietzsche. On the surface, the similarity of the poetic figurative system of the two poets. Let's open Nietzsche at random.
“True, we love life, but not because we love life, but because we are used to love.”
“Are you pure air and loneliness and bread and medicine for your friend? One cannot get rid of his own chains, but is a deliverer for a friend.
Are you not a slave? Then you can't be a friend. Are you a tyrant? Then you cannot have friends.”
“And even your best love is only an enthusiastic symbol and painful fervor. Love is the torch that should shine on your higher paths.
Someday you will have to love beyond yourself! Start learning to love! And so you had to drink the bitter cup of your love.
Bitterness is contained in the cup of even the best love. Thus it arouses longing for the superman, thus it arouses thirst in you, the creator!”
Probably, in the books of the German philosopher one can find stanzas that are more consistent with Tsvetaev's temperament, but even this is largely accidental! - recalls her pathos, her system of ethical values, her emotional drama.
Both Tsvetaeva and Nietzsche are attracted by the figures of fearless tightrope walkers, hermits, and strong-willed knights. She also, like the author of Zarathustra, hates philistines and “good” scoundrels, strives for “mountains”, despises “swamps”, looks for spiritual companions, suffers from disappointment in her neighbors, yearns her heart for distant ones, experiences happiness in flight.
The mood of the poetess, her focus on a lonely choice, the inevitable rejection of "this world" are explained both by the natural nature of the lyrical gift itself and the pre-stormy revolutionary situation that developed at the beginning of the 20th century. Tsvetaeva, like many of her contemporaries, went out to meet the fateful century with an open visor - what it already is!
She is, of course, a romantic in essence of the artistic and even human states she experiences. At the same time, we repeat, it is original. Let us think about the fact that in Tsvetaeva there is neither the demonism of the romantics of the nineteenth century (Lermontov, Byron, Heine), taken seriously, nor the religious exaltation of the Solovyovite symbolists, nor Christianity transformed into a new communist faith (Yesenin, Platonov), nor the saving natural philosophy (Zabolotsky), nor the futuristic impulses of Mayakovsky. Tsvetaeva begins, goes and ends her journey in loneliness worthy of a romantic Genius. How not to remember Nietzsche's confession: “Oh, loneliness! You, my fatherland, my loneliness! Too long have I lived wild in a wild foreign land not to return with tears to you!” Tsvetaeva has a lot of confirmation that the lot of a poet is the lot of a hermit who knows how to truly appreciate one gift - the gift of freedom.
"I know the truth! All the old truths - away!” She strongly separates herself from others. And this truth is that in the terrible era of war and destruction there will be no “resurrection” and no one will ever be able to atone for sin. The only reality is death: “Under the ground we will soon fall asleep, all those who on earth did not let each other fall asleep.” And if so, then from earthly life you need to have time to take the most wonderful thing: love that knows no boundaries, creativity that knows no limits. In a word, it is winged and in one breath to live (to suffer!) your romantic fate!
“Be like a stalk and be like steel
In a life where we can do so little, ”-
Here is the desired limit of the poet. This is achieved at the cost of inhuman effort. It is the desire for what people usually consider impossible or unrealizable.
Her requirements for her appointment are extremely high. It is known how wonderfully sublime and at the same time painfully undivided in full was the spiritual union of Marina Ivanovna with Boris Leonidovich Pasternak. In her letters to him, we find how she would like to see him in the future, what an overprice she gave to his poetic gift. It is reasonable to assume that she made such demands on herself. Moreover, for her they are just the norm. This is how Tsvetaeva imagined the ideal miracle poet, capable of completely surrendering to the creative idea. She writes to Pasternak: "I know that your limit is your physical death." And again: “You need to write a big thing. This will be your second life, first life, only life... You will be terribly free.” Unfortunately (or fortunately?), Tsvetaeva's and Pasternak's attitudes towards "work" were different. He could not come to terms with the fact that “the only pure and unconditional place is work”, Pasternak also needed the despised Tsvetaeva “everyday life” - life in all its little things, details, insults and acquisitions. Tsvetaeva romantically did not heed the “God of details”, Pasternak zealously served, perhaps only him. That is why, with all due respect to Tsvetaev's genius, he often experienced fear of her gift. Let us take note of one of his remarks in a letter: “I can’t think about your terrible gift. I’ll guess someday, it will happen intuitively.”
“Terrible gift”... Precise definition. Pasternak's anxieties were cruelly justified by the tragic fate of Marina Tsvetaeva.
And it all began with a ruddy Moscow childhood. Since she begins to realize herself, Tsvetaeva has been fascinated by unusual, unsurpassed, unlawful adults or the law itself. She is attracted by the beauty of chivalry and the horror of romantic - most often German! - fairy tales. The favorite heroine of Marina the girl is the unfortunate and charming Ondine. The world of childhood is the world of book fiction. The dream knows no prohibitions, the real is often replaced by the desired. The daughter of a well-known professor in Moscow does not hesitate to appear in the eyes of those around her as a dreamer, a pretender, but what is there! - a dangerous liar. About this - numerous memories of her relatives, friends, enemies. About this - with undisguised trepidation and she herself:
“We despise the elders for that,
That their days are boring and simple ...
We know, we know a lot
What they don't know."
“Marina's character was not easy - both for those around her and for herself. Pride and shyness, stubbornness and firmness of will, inflexibility, the need to protect your world that arose too early, ”says one of the most insightful researchers of the Tsvetaeva phenomenon, Victoria Schweitzer (“Life and Life of Marina Tsvetaeva”, p. 41).
Tsvetaeva is difficult and unique. The memory of childhood - reckless faith in noble impulses, beautiful gestures, reckless eccentricities - will remain in her forever, until the most fateful August day of the forty-first year, which she did not experience in Tatar Yelabuga.
In her desire to establish herself at the cost of an act that shocks a well-mannered secular public, Marina Tsvetaeva is similar to the early Vladimir Mayakovsky, a rebel poet, a city herald-prophet, a street hooligan - out of contempt for the well-fed bourgeois. The difference between them, perhaps, is that Mayakovsky, resorting to outrageousness, destroys the world around him; Tsvetaeva, on the contrary, creates her own inside herself, not letting anyone in. The early Mayakovsky does not seem to have any secrets, he is open and accessible, Tsvetaeva has solid secrets, nevertheless obvious to every curious eye.
Marina is a little “criminal” who has been at war with any of the traditions since childhood, often unable to cope with her favorite “feature” - the demon of freedom. Tsvetaeva's behavior is initially sinful, she becomes “different” in the world even of people close to her. These are usually referred to as "white crows". In fact, they are “not of this world”.
Let us turn to one of Tsvetaeva's early poems - "Prayer" (1909):
“Christ and God! I want a miracle
Now, now, at the beginning of the day!
Oh let me die while
All life is like a book to me.
You are wise, you will not say strictly:
"Be patient, the term is not over yet."
You gave me too much!
I thirst at once - all roads!”
Anyone who thinks about these lines will agree that their content is rebellious. The young poetess does not want to obey the God-given advice: "Be patient, the term is not over yet." She boldly and impatiently declares her independent desires:
“I want everything: with the soul of a gypsy
Go to the songs for robbery,
For all to suffer to the sound of the organ
And an Amazon to rush into battle,
Fortune telling by the stars in the black tower
Lead the children forward, through the shadow...
To be a legend - yesterday,
To be madness every day!”
It must be admitted that this is a list of very criminal dreams for a Christian. Tsvetaeva recklessly agrees to the “madness” of every day, so long as it does not turn into a tedious and mediocre worldly boredom. Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva already in her few 17 years knows that her present and future “immensity” is not from the God of humility and peace. Unfortunately, she cannot cope with the Christian commandments. She is too and forever self-willed. Childhood has become an almost impermissible fairy tale. If you continue to live according to the law: “my soul traces moments”, then the retribution for such freedom can and should be God's punishment. And yet, it will always be nice for her to just “start at random from the end, and finish before the beginning.” And if you bless your loved ones for something, then also only for freedom - “on all four sides!”
Someone will say that such an exaltation of feelings is characteristic of adolescents, especially those of them who are not indifferent to poetry. Of course it is. But Marina Tsvetaeva differs from her peers in the exceptional seriousness of her tone. Once and for all, she “surrendered herself to the fatal ray”, chose “wingedness” as the restlessness of the soul and freedom of the spirit.
The “fatal ray” illuminated her bold path, but at the same time it was not consecrated by anything, except, perhaps, for a momentary passion, which she took for the only love destined by Fate. Fate - terrible and sweet - pursues and drives Tsvetaeva's heroine, like the ancient Phaedra or Andromache, crazy from blind passion, from one abyss to another. In her, all “convict passions merged into one”, in her soul only “hopelessness is looking for words”. Tsvetaeva deliberately alienates and separates herself from everyone at once. She is capable of a miracle, but she pays for it with an inhuman pallor of her face. “A light stack of delightful verses” is expensive, its price is life.
Tsvetaeva and life is a difficult and painful question. She recognizes her by the “trembling of all veins”, life does not last for her - it is torn, she is minute. And every moment is filled with some important spiritual accomplishment. Nothing happens “just”, everything makes sense. "Life: the open joy of saying hello in the morning." This is very similar to the famous Onegin "formula" of love. Remember: "I must be sure in the morning that I will see you in the afternoon." This is what the truly enamored Onegin says for the first time in his life. Pushkin himself will doubt happiness; for him, as you know, peace and freedom will be the limit of desires. Marina Tsvetaeva seemed to always know and knows that talk about a spiritual pier is a lie. She recognizes only the romantic tone in talking about heartfelt impulses.
In her - and still quite young and already fully aware of the bitterness of disappointment - there is something from Tatyana writing a letter to the same, but still by no means blazing with passion, Onegin Tatyana. She, like a famous heroine, is able to guess that the choice of her heart, although attractive, is false (“Or maybe it’s all empty? Deception of an inexperienced soul. And something completely different is destined?”) in a love explanation, as in a whirlpool, without looking back. Such is Tsvetaeva. The abyss of feelings is kind to her. All her life, Marina Ivanovna, like Pushkin's Tatyana in that fateful moment, will be tempted by the Miracle - the desired payment for the courage shown by the act.
But the Miracle does not happen. Tatyana, not without the wise help of Pushkin, avoids the final fall into the abyss of reckless love, and sticky worldly vulgarity also happily passes it. Larina finds a normal human destiny: a family, a possible motherhood. Pushkin will call on his chosen one to fulfill God's law - common to all Christians.
Tsvetaeva, with all the twists and turns of her fate (she was both a bride, a wife, and a mother of three children), will remain implacable, not submissive to someone else's will. She will never accept God's peace with its generous grace. In one of her poetic confessions, she will proudly call herself and people like her "throwers of heaven."
In fairness, it must be said that sometimes the poetess turns to God in verse. She does not even rule out that someday, tired of friends and enemies, she will put on a “silver cross on her chest” and go along with others “along the old road, along Kaluga”. The poetess is aware of this common fate. But it is for the weary at heart. “The beast - a lair, the wanderer - the road, the dead - drogs. To each his own! “- this is what she never ceases to repeat to herself and to those who listen to her poetic “nonsense”. She loves those places on earth where "the underground celebrates its dark feast." She “wants” so, and God has the right to do with her as “he wants.” Her business is to go to the country of “dreams and loneliness”, it is God's will to look back at her or neglect her. And then - "a sigh will remain from us."
More than God Tsvetaeva, perhaps, revered her idol - Pushkin. But it is important to realize that idolizing the poet, she perceived him in her own way, that is, purely romantically. She ignored the fact that Pushkin knew how to appreciate the life of a simple man in the street. He was able to see first and foremost the "world", and then his own "I" in it. In the late Pushkin, everything that makes up human existence was combined: philosophy, truth, dreams, rebellion, and obedience to God. Tsvetaeva “did not condescend” to the details of everyday life and the realities of life. She is a brilliant romantic. No more and no less.
Why is that? Tsvetaeva is stubborn in her “madness”, most likely because she was born in the world not only “without God” (Nietzsche nevertheless brilliantly understood this for everyone who came to the 20th century), but also “without Pushkin”. Unfortunately, it doesn't work out to be the "norm". Not only “not fashionable”, but also false by its very essence. Tsvetaeva, like theatrical costumes, tries on the fate of a “convict”, “guardian”, “sailor girl”. She does not value either external well-being or inner peace. Tsvetaeva imagines herself to be a brave dancer-rope walker going to a ghostly goal. “With a dancing step, she walked along the ground! “Heaven’s daughter!” - she proudly declares herself. Voice - the poetess is sure of it! - is given to her, which means that everything “the rest is taken”. And you can only rely on your own fearlessness. Only in this way - almost blindly - will you pass the path granted not by God, but by the mysterious Genius-Teacher to the end. Then the Miracle will happen - absolute Freedom as absolute creative delight. That rare and joyful state when you need someone nearby, either equal in spirit, or no one. And this is the most “terrible” of all that can be seen in her appearance. “I don't care where to fly,” she writes to Pasternak. “And maybe this is my main immorality (undivineness).” And further: “You know what I want - when I want. Darkening, brightening, transformation. The extreme cape of someone else's soul and one's own. Words that you will never hear, you will not say. Never-ending Monstrous. Miracle."
The search for an equal never stopped for her, in essence it was tragic: there was no equal at all. And yet ... The sphere of her close attention is famous heroes, criminals, disgraced poets, people's will, revolutionaries, legendary heartthrobs.
For her, Grishka Otrepiev, and Stepan Razin, and Jeanne d'Arc, and Casanova, and the "swan camp" of the White Guard boys are good. All the chosen ones of Tsvetaeva's soul are united by one thing - devotion to the spirit of love, desperate sinfulness. She likes those who can fly. “Fly, young eagle!” - she enthusiastically welcomes the young Mandelstam. Tsvetaeva is close to the romantic Blok. She calls him so - “the omnipotent of my soul”, she dreams of saving Blok from the coming Christian Resurrection, wresting him from the clutches of death, overcoming it:
“Punch him! Higher!
Hold! Don't just give it away!"
Blok likes the same wingedness. His tragedy is the tragedy of an angel who crashed against the vulgar earth. Life is people! - the singer was mutilated (“They don’t repair wings. The mutilated walked”). She is ready to pray for Blok's resurrection, but she would like to return him only to the sky - the immense blue. With her super-effort, Tsvetaeva is trying to give the singer a new life, but she still has no hope for a future easy creative flight. Hence the bitter reflection that, perhaps, “it’s false ... a feat and labors for nothing?” People like Blok and her are difficult among people. It is difficult to live according to the romantic law: if you are not against everyone, then everyone is against you. Tsvetaeva is independent. Neither friends nor Gods forgive this.
The poetess every year more and more acutely felt her exclusion from others. In the world of ordinary people, she is bored from birth. Tsvetaeva knows how to be merciless to the "summer resident", "shopkeeper", to all those who are able to live "in life as it is." It's about them - "each and father, and sighted", about them - "swing - pumped up with vanity", they are waiting for "love, not brightened up by either separation or a knife." There is no such love in her world.
Everything in it is convex and exaggerated, there are no nuances. For Marina Tsvetaeva, “God is too god, worm is too worm, bone is too bone, spirit is too spirit.”
“Dialectic of the soul” is something that hardly attracts donor artists. Tsvetaeva's type is just such a type. “Givers” are capable of squandering themselves, not knowing how to heal their own spiritual wounds with “good” and “prayer”. There are few donors. Among them, no doubt, Mayakovsky, the rebellious Yesenin, our fearless contemporary Vladimir Vysotsky, perhaps immensely sincere in good and bad Yevtushenko. Yes, all of them are not inclined to painful introspection, although their work is replete with confessions. But they confess only one thing - it is impossible to become and be different - like everyone else. Such artists feel confident only on the edge of a serious “death”, their fate is a series of extremes: ups, downs, disappointments, victories.
The whole poetic fate of Marina Tsvetaeva, by her own admission, will fit into three interjections: “ah!”, “oh!”, “eh!”
“Stronger than the organ and louder than the tambourine
Molv - and one for all:
Oh - when it's hard, and ah - when it's wonderful,
And it’s not given - eh!”
“Ah: a breaking heart.
The syllable on which they die.
Ah, this is the curtain - suddenly - open.
Oh: a chopping yoke.”
The earthly content is exhausted for Tsvetaeva quickly, the higher - the tragic - requires some special means of its embodiment. Hence - every year the increasing complexity of her poetic language. Speaking more and more about simple things and phenomena in her understanding, Tsvetaeva becomes less and less accessible to the average reader. She persistently paves the way not from the “complex” romantic to the “simple” realistic (this is how Pushkin, Pasternak, Zabolotsky went), but from the still romantically simple (childhood dreams, fantasies) to the romantically impossible, in fact, superhuman.
“You are a man... what an inhumanly huge role you played in my existence,” Pasternak, who is in love with her human originality, but constantly worried about her earthly insecurity, admits in one of the letters.
Tsvetaeva was capable of embodying herself and those she loved at the cost of super-effort. Maybe that was just her purpose.
In "A Conversation with a Genius" he would sum up:
“If two lines
Can't mix?"
“- Who when - could!!” -
"Torture!" - "Be patient."
"Mowed Meadow -
Pharynx!" - “Wheeze:
It’s also the sound!”
“Lviv, not wives
Case." - “Children:
Gutted -
He sang - Orpheus!
“So in the coffin?”
- "And under the board."
"I can't sing."
- “Sing it!”
Isn't this an overvoltage brought to life? This is not to be found in the appeals of Pushkin himself. “Burn the hearts of people with the verb!” is still something else. Pushkin's prophet has something to say to people. Tsvetaeva, a guest of the 20th century, often has nothing to talk about and no one to talk to. Maybe that's why she dreams of coming to the land of a deaf-mute next time:
“After all, it doesn’t matter what I say, they don’t understand,
After all, it doesn't matter - who will figure it out? - what I say.
And the essence, probably, is not at all in poetry, but in Tsvetaev's "terrible gift." Not afraid of the abyss, she managed to give her all of herself. Readers accepted this gift at their modest philistine expense.
Hunters to repeat her path are not among the living poets. The dead took with them the secret of the last free jump into the abyss.
“Doctors recognize us in the morgue
For oversized hearts.”
Romantics - romantic.
"Be like children" - this means: love, pity, kiss - everyone!
I am not a woman, not an Amazon, not a child. I am a being!
Therefore, no matter how you fight! - I'm allowed to. And a deep - basic - sense of innocence.
Changing myself (for the sake of people - always for the sake of people!) I never manage to - change myself - i.e. finally change yourself. Where I have to think (because of others) about an act, it is always aimless - started and not finished - inexplicable, not mine. I remembered A exactly and I don’t remember B, - and immediately instead of B - my hieroglyphs, inexplicable to anyone, clear only to me.
Boris Chaliapin Portrait of M.I. Tsvetaeva 1933
***
Alya: “There is silence in your soul, sadness, severity, courage. You know how to climb such peaks that no man can climb. You are kind of burned out. I can't think of a suitable endearing word for you."
***
Alya: “Mom, you know what I'll tell you? You are the soul of poetry, you yourself are a long verse, but no one can read what is written on you, neither others, nor you yourself - no one "
***
Ah, I understand that more than anything in the world I love myself, my soul, which I throw into the hands of everyone I meet, and the skin, which I throw into all third-class carriages - and nothing is done to them!
***
What is me?
Silver rings all over the arm + forehead hair + quick walk +++ ..
I am without rings, I am with an open forehead, dragging along with a slow step - not me, the soul with the wrong body, it doesn’t matter, like a hunchback or a deaf-mute. For—I swear to God—nothing about me was a freak, everything—every ring! - a necessity, not for people, for your own soul. So: for me, who hates to draw attention to myself, always hiding in the darkest corner of the hall, my 10 rings on my hands and a cloak of 3 capes (then no one wore them) were often a tragedy. But for each of these 10 rings I could answer, I cannot answer for my own low heels.
***
Yesterday I read in the "Palace of Arts" (Povarskaya, 52, Sologub's house, - my former - first! - service) "Fortuna". I was received well, of all those who read-one-applause. I read well. At the end, I stand alone, with casual acquaintances. If you didn't come, you'll be alone. Here I am just as alien as among the tenants of my house, where I have been living for 5 years, as in the service, as once in all 5 foreign and Russian boarding schools and gymnasiums where I studied - as always, everywhere.
***
Grey hair.
A day later, at Nicodemus, Charles exclaimed: “Marina! Where do you get gray hair from?
By the way, my hair is blond, light blond-golden. Wavy, cropped, as in the Middle Ages for boys, sometimes curly (always on the side and back). Very thin, like silk, very alive - all of me. And in front - I noticed this spring - one, two, three - if you move apart - and more - ten hairs - completely gray, white, also twisting at the end. - So strange. I'm too young to say out of pride that I like it, I'm really glad for them, as proof that some forces mysteriously work in me - not old age, of course! - or maybe my - tirelessly - working head and heart, all this my passionate, hidden under a carefree shell, creative life. - As proof that even for such an iron health as mine, there were iron laws of the spirit.
***
About the rudeness of his nature:
I have never been happy with flowers as a gift, and if I ever bought flowers, then either in the name of someone (violets-Parma-Duke of Reichstadt, etc.) or right there, without reaching the house, I brought it to someone.
Flowers in a pot must be watered, worms removed from them, more dirty tricks than joy, flowers in a glass - since I will certainly forget to change the water - emit a disgusting smell and, thrown into the stove (I throw everything into the stove!), do not burn. If you want to make me happy, write me letters, give me books about everything, rings - whatever you like - only silver and large ones! - a calico on a dress (better than pink) - only, gentlemen, not flowers!
***
I practice in the most difficult thing for myself: life in strangers. A piece does not go down the throat - it does not matter whether it is with friends, or, as it is now, in a dirty village, with rude peasants. Do not eat, do not read, do not write. One cry: "Home!"
***
When they love me, I bow my head, when they don’t love me, I raise it! I feel good when they don't like me! (more-i)
***
Walking along the platform while waiting for the train, I thought that everyone has friends, relatives, and acquaintances. Everyone comes up, greets, asks about something - some names - plans for the day - and I'm alone - and no one cares if I don't sit down.
***
When I'm with people who don't know that I'm me, I apologize with all my being for existing - somehow redeem! Here is the explanation of my eternal laughter with people. I can't - I can't stand - I forbid that people think badly of me!
***
I perfectly understand Ali and Seryozha's attraction to me. Beings of the moon and water, they are attracted to the solar and fiery in me. The moon looks out the window (loves one), the sun looks into the world (loves everyone).
The moon is looking - in depth, the sun goes on the surface, dances, splashes, does not sink.
***
All of me is in italics.
Marina Tsvetaeva. Drawing. 1931
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Idleness is the most yawning void, the most devastating cross. That's why I - maybe - do not like the countryside and happy love.
***
Will I ever find a man who will love me so much that he will give me potassium cyanide, and will know me so much that he will understand, will be convinced that I will never use it ahead of time. - and therefore, having given, he will sleep peacefully.
***
I don't need someone who doesn't need me. Superfluous to me is the one to whom I have nothing to give.
***
What is missing in me that I am so little loved?
Too 1st grade? - contrary to all the verbal 18th century. don't take it by the chin!
So: and in the 3rd grade - 1st grade! (need: in the 3rd-4th, then fun!)
Well, and for the "noble"?
Hypocrisy is what I lack. After all, I immediately: “I understand very little in painting,” “I don’t understand sculpture at all,” “I’m a very bad person, all my kindness is adventurism,” and they believe in a word, they take a word, not considering that I am after all, I’m talking to myself. But one thing should be noted: never anyone with me - not a hint of familiarity. Maybe: my - in advance - surprised, serious, uncomprehending eyes
M. I. Tsvetaeva. Portrait by M. Nachman. 1915
***
I don’t like everything, people just blame my “earthly signs”. Repels the backbone, not the leather belt, the rib, not the belt around, the forehead, not the hair over, the hand, not the ring on. It repels my impudent ability to rejoice in a belt, a bang, a ring beyond the reflection in their views, my complete disregard for this repulsion, I repel.
***
Unsuccessful meetings: weak people. I always wanted to love, I always passionately dreamed of obeying, entrusting myself, being outside my will (self-will), being in reliable and gentle hands. Weakly held - that's why she left. They didn’t love it, love it, that’s why they left.
***
I had a name. I had looks. Attracting attention (I was told all this: “the head of a Roman”, Borgia, the Prague boy-knight, etc.) and, finally, although I should have started with this: I had a gift - and all this put together - but I must have forgotten something else! - didn’t serve me, hurt me, didn’t bring me even half? and a thousandth of the love that is achieved by one naive female smile.
Marina Tsvetaeva V. Syskov 1989
***
I did not know a person more timid than I, having been born. But my courage was even greater than my timidity. Courage: indignation, delight, sometimes just the mind, always the heart. So I, not knowing how to do the most “simple” and “easy” things, the most complex and difficult ones, could.
***
In front of a cold window. I think what I loved most in my life was comfort. He is irretrievably gone from my life.
***
I, loving nature, it seems, more than anything in the world, did without its descriptions: I only mentioned it: the vision of a tree. All of it was the background - to my soul. Also: I allegorized it: birch silver. Brooks are alive!
******
My God! A whole minute of bliss! But is this not enough even for the whole human life?
L. Levchenko (Eremenko) M.I. Tsvetaeva. (Pencil)
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Only the very rich can be gifted.
***
Done, Marina! I get married - in blue, I lie in a coffin - in chocolate!
***
How many prejudices have already disappeared! - Jews, high heels, polished nails, - clean hands! - washing your hair every other day .... only the letter yat and a corset remain
***
Man! What a disturbance in the house! Probably worse than a baby.
Composition
... My poems, like precious wines,
Your turn will come. M. Tsvetaeva
Marina Tsvetaeva is a poet of great talent and tragic fate. She always remained true to herself, the voice of her conscience, the voice of her muse, who never "changed goodness and beauty."
She starts writing poetry very early, and of course, the first lines about love:
We were separated not by people, but by shadows.
My boy, my heart!
There was not, is not and will not be a replacement,
My boy, my heart!
About her first book “Evening Album”, the recognized master of Russian poetry M. Voloshin wrote: “Evening Album” is a wonderful and direct book ...” Tsvetaeva’s lyrics are addressed to the soul, focused on the rapidly changing inner world of a person and, in the end, on life itself in all its fullness:
Who is made of stone, who is made of clay, -
And I'm silver and sparkle!
I care - treason, my name -
Marina,
I am the mortal foam of the sea.
In Tsvetaeva's poems, like colored shadows in a magic lantern, appear: Don Juan in a Moscow blizzard, young generals of 1812, the “oblong and hard oval” of a Polish grandmother, the “mad ataman” Stepan Razin, passionate Carmen.
Most of all, perhaps, I am attracted in Tsvetaeva's poetry by her emancipation, sincerity. It is as if she is holding out her heart to us in the palm of her hand, confessing:
With all my insomnia I love you
I will listen to you with all my insomnia ...
Sometimes it seems that all of Tsvetaeva's lyrics are a continuous declaration of love for people, for the world and for a particular person. Liveliness, attentiveness, the ability to get carried away and captivate, a warm heart, a burning temperament - that's character traits lyrical heroine Tsvetaeva, and at the same time her own. These character traits helped her retain the taste of life, despite the disappointments and difficulties of the creative path.
At the head of her life, Marina Tsvetaeva put the work of the poet, despite the often impoverished existence, domestic troubles and tragic events literally chasing her. But life was conquered by life, which grew out of hard, ascetic labor.
The result - hundreds of poems, plays, more than ten poems, critical articles, memoirs, in which Tsvetaeva said everything about herself. One can only bow before the genius of Tsvetaeva, who created a completely unique poetic world and sacredly believed in her muse.
Before the revolution, Marina Tsvetaeva published three books, managing to keep her voice among the motley polyphony of literary schools and trends of the Silver Age. She wrote original, accurate in form and thought works, many of which stand next to the heights of Russian poetry.
I know the truth! All the old truths - away.
There is no need for people to fight with people on earth.
Look: it's evening, look: it's almost night.
About what - poets, lovers, generals?
The wind is already blowing. Already the earth is in dew,
Soon a starry blizzard will catch in the sky,
And under the earth we will soon fall asleep,
Who on earth did not let each other fall asleep ...
The poetry of Marina Tsvetaeva requires an effort of thought. Her poems and poems cannot be read and read in between times, mindlessly slipping through the lines and pages. She herself defined the “co-creation” of the writer and reader as follows: “What is reading, if not solving, interpreting, extracting the secret that remains behind the lines, beyond the limit of words ... Reading - first of all - co-creation ... Tired of my thing , - means, well read and - good read. The reader's fatigue is not exhausted, but creative.
Tsvetaeva saw Blok only from a distance, did not exchange a single word with him. Tsvetaevsky's cycle "Poems to Blok" is a monologue of love, gentle and reverent. And although the poetess refers to him as “you”, but the epithets that are assigned to the poet (“gentle ghost”, “knight without reproach”, “snow swan”, “righteous man”, “quiet light”) say that Blok is for her - this is not a real person, but a symbolic image of Poetry itself:
Your name- bird in hand
Your name is ice on the tongue
One single movement of the lips.
Your name is five letters.
How much music in these amazing four lines and how much love! But the object of love is inaccessible, love is unrealizable:
But my river - yes with your river,
But my hand is yes with your hand
They won't get along. My joy, as long as
Dawn will not catch up - dawn.
With her usual aphorism, Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva formulated the definition of a poet in the following way: “The equality of the gift of the soul and the verb - that’s the poet.” She herself happily combined these two qualities - the gift of the soul (“The soul was born winged”) and the gift of the word.
I am happy to live exemplary and simple:
Like the sun - like a pendulum - like a calendar.
To be a secular desert of slender growth,
Wise - like every creature of God.
Know: The Spirit is my companion, and the Spirit is my guide!
To enter without a report, like a beam and like a look.
Live as I write: exemplary and concise, -
As God commanded and friends do not order.
The tragedy of Tsvetaeva begins after the 1917 revolution. She does not understand and does not accept her, she finds herself alone with her two young daughters in the chaos of post-October Russia. Everything seems to have collapsed: the husband knows where, those around him are not up to poetry, but what is a poet without creativity? And Marina in despair asks:
What should I do, edge and fishery
Singer! - like a wire! Tan! Siberia!
According to their obsessions - like over a bridge!
With their weightlessness
In the world of kettlebells.
Never - neither in the terrible post-revolutionary years, nor later in exile; - Tsvetaeva did not betray herself, did not betray herself, the person and the poet. Abroad, it was difficult for her to get close to the Russian emigration. Her unhealed pain, open wound - Russia. Do not forget, do not throw out of the heart. (“As if my life had been killed... my life is running out.”)
In 1939, Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva returned to her homeland. And the final act of the tragedy began. The country, crushed by the leaden fog of Stalinism, seemed to prove - again and again - that it did not need a poet who loved her and aspired to her homeland. Aspiring, as it turned out, to die.
In godforsaken Elabuga on August 31, 1941 - a loop. The tragedy is over. Ended life. What's left? Fortitude, rebellion, incorruptibility. The poetry remains.
Opened the veins: unstoppable,
Irreversibly gushing life.
Bring bowls and plates!
Every plate will be small.
The bowl is flat.
Over the edge - and past -
Into the black earth, feed the reeds.
Irrevocable, unstoppable
Irreversibly whipping verse.
About Tsvetaeva, about her poems, I can write endlessly. Her love lyrics are amazing. Well, who else could define love this way:
Scimitar? Fire?
More modest - where so loud!
Pain, familiar as the eyes - a palm,
How to lips -
Name of own child.
In Tsvetaeva's poems, she is all rebellious and strong, and in pain continues to give herself to people, creating poetry from tragedy and suffering.
I am a Phoenix bird, I sing only in fire!
Support my high life!
I burn high - and I burn to the ground!
And may the night be bright for you!
Today, the prophecy of Marina Tsvetaeva has come true: she is one of the most beloved and read contemporary poets.