Marina Tsvetaeva, Сводные тетради Quotes

Wings are freedom only when they are wide open in flight. On one's back they are a heavy weight.

Women talk about love and silent about lovers, men - on the contrary: Speaking of mistresses, but are silent about love.

One should write only those books from whose absence one suffers. In short: the ones you want on your own desk.

I refuse to be. In the madhouse of the inhuman I refuse to live. With the wolves of the market place I refuse to howl.

I am a shadow’s shade, a lunatic, perhaps, Of two dark moons.

My favorite mode of communication is in the world beyond: a dream, to see in a dream. My second favorite is correspondence.

No one has ever stepped twice into the same river. But did anyone ever step twice into the same book?

Meanings are translatable. Words are untranslatable… More briefly – a word is translatable, its sound is not.

I am a moonbeam, free to go whenever I choose.

Think about me lightly, think of me, and forget.

And soon all of us will sleep under the earth, we who never let each other sleep above it.

However much you feed a wolf, it always looks to the forest. We are all wolves of the dense forest of Eternity.

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 all this immensity in a measured world?

In this most Christian of worlds all poets are Jews.

An amazing observation: it is precisely for feelings that one needs time, not for thought. ... Feelings, obviously, are more demanding than thought.

How quiet the writing, how noisy the printing.

Don't you know no one can escape the power of creatures reaching out with breath alone?

For the spell is older than experience. For the tale is older than the record.

My desk, most loyal friend thank you. You've been with me on every road I've taken. My scar and my protection.

The one that burned the hottest is the first to die.

My verses are my diary. My poetry is a poetry of proper names.

I am a moonbeam free to go whenever I choose.

For the way of the comets is the poet's way.

The eclipses ofpoets are not foretold in the calender.

Somewhere in the night ahuman being is drowning.

(Everyday life is like a sack: with holes. And you carry it anyway.)

Don't you know no one can escapethe power of creatures reaching outwith breath alone?