Tsvetaeva all quotes. Tragic fate of Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva

In his statements, she was no less poetic than in his verses.

Marina Ivanovna became one of the brightest, original and daring poetess Silver century. She created her poems not mind, but soul. The writing was not so much a profession as a necessary means of self-expression. For the whole of the difficult life, the colorful of the Tsvetaeva has accumulated so much desperate feelings and burning emotions, which is the only way to express it - was to clothe the poetic and prosaic lines.

The first collection of her verses "Evening Album" saw the light when Tsvetaeva only turned 18. She released him for her money. The first step on the literary field is and immediately challenge the society and the established traditions. In those days, it was adopted that serious poets first publish individual poems in magazines, and only later, having gained fame, publish their own books. But Marina Ivanovna never followed everyone, did not obey the orders of which he did not understand. She submitted only to what responded in the heart. Perhaps that is why there are so many steep turns and tragic moments in her fate. When you go on your own expensive, everything is always risking.

But she was not afraid to put everything on the map. Her loud voice of the poet sounded even when the revolution began in the country, when the poverty forced her to give her daughters to shelute, and even when she was forced to leave his homeland after her husband Sergei Efron. A lot of misfortunes collapsed on her, but every time the will she overcame them. Painfully tasty strings of the soul, they turned into a piercing poetry or remained on the pages of a personal diary. Older daughter, Ariadna, Tsvetaeva managed to pick up from the shelter, but the youngest, Irina, died in his walls. In the emigration of the poetess, the son of Georgy was born, and friendly relations with literary circles were friends: she printed her poems, engaged in editors in magazines, communicated with many famous Russian poets, who were also fled from the country.

Marina Tsvetaeva with the daughter of Ariad

However, in the second half of the 1930s, new tragic events occurred in her life. The husband was involved in political murder and ran back to the USSR. And in a relationship with the daughter, Tsvetaeva there was a serious disorder - Ariadne left the maternal home, and soon just as his father returned to his homeland. For Marina Ivanovna, it became a strong blow. It was responsible for the little son, the war was twisted in Europe, and there were no those people who could help and maintain.

Tsvetaeva arrives in the USSR, but it does not bring relief. On the contrary, clouds are further condensed over her head. Almost immediately after returning the husband and daughter were arrested, and the Second World War, which had already covered the entire Europe, approached the borders Soviet Union. She departs with her son in Elabugu. Boris Pasternak came to pretend to move and lay things. He brought the rope to bandage the suitcase. She turned out to be very strong, and Pasternak even joked: "Rope will endure everything, even hang." He did not suspect that his words would be prophetic - later he was given that it was in this ill-fated rope of Tsvetaeva and hanged himself in Elabuga. Even at the very strong people There is a moment when the last drop overwhelms the bowl of the chase, which they are able to bear.

Tsvetaeva did not live in the future, always spent herself without a residue. Love sometimes fell on her like snow on her head. Even the bonds could not stop the suddenly broken feelings. She rushed into the pool, risked, was happy and unbearable unhappy.

Others said: "Marina, no one does!", And she always answered: "And I - who!".

We chose the brightest quotations of poetess from her personal diaries, autobiographical works, letters and memories.

"I can not - even kill - so that the man thinks that I need something from him. Everyone needs me, for I'm insatiable. But others, most often, not even hungry, hence it is eternally stressful attention: Do I need? "

"Women love not men, but love, men are not love, but women. Women never change. Men - always "

"For complete consistency, the souls need consistency of breathing, for that - the breath, how is not the rhythm of the soul? So that people understand each other, it is necessary that they go or lay nearby "

"What can you know about me if you didn't sleep with me and didn't drink?!"

"Beloved" - theatrical, "lover" - frankly, "friend" - vaguely. Dislike Country! "

"Every time I find out that a person loves me - I am surprised, I don't love - I am surprised, but most of all I am surprised when a person is indifferent to me"

"The first love view is the shortest distance between two points, that Divine direct, which is not the second"

"The first victory of a woman over a man is a story of a man about his love for another. And the final victory is the story of this another about his love for him, about his love for her. The secret has become apparent, your love is mine. And while this is not, you can not sleep well. "

"Madness I. good upbringing: kiss for you "

"Love is to see a man as he thought of God and did not carry out his parents. Do not love - see a person as his parents were implemented. Feel out in love - see instead: table, chair "

"Listen and remember: anyone who laughs over the disaster of another - a fool or scoundrel; Most often - both ... and the other ... When a person gets to seek - it's not funny ... When a person is poured by feuds - it's not funny ... When a person is substituted with a footboard - it's not funny ... When a person beat around the face - it's dimly. Such a laughter - sin ... "

"Thanks to those who loved me, for they gave me the charm to love others, and thanks to those who did not love me, for they gave me the charm to love themselves"

"For a long time, long - from my childhood, since I remember myself - it seemed to me that I would like to love me. Now I know and say to everyone: I do not need love, I need an understanding. For me it is love. And what you call love (sacrifices, loyalty, jealousy), take care for others, for another, - I don't need it "

"We can sometimes love ten years old, lovingly - a lot - two. Inhuman - always one ... "

"The feeling does not need experience, it knows in advance what is doomed. The feeling has nothing to do on the periphery of the visual, it is in the center, it is the center itself. There is nothing to look for the feeling on the roads, it knows what will come and lead - in yourself "

"I do not like you anymore. Nothing happened, - life happened. I do not think about you in the morning, waking up, no night, falling asleep, nor on the street, nor to the music, - never. If you fell in love with another woman, I would smile - with arrogant lofty - and thought - with curiosity - about you and about her. I - left the game. "

"Oh, my God, and say that there is no soul! And what hurts me now? "It's not a tooth, not a head, not a hand, not a breast," no, chest, in the chest, where you breathe, "I breathe deeply: it does not hurt, but all the time hurts, all the time whines, Nesterpimo!"

"When you love a person, you always want him to go to dream about him"

"People jeal only to one: loneliness. Not forgiven only one thing: loneliness. Mustyat only for one thing: loneliness. To this - that is that you dare to be one "

"To live - it's unfortunately to cut and indulgent," and nothing holds out (nothing holds me, nothing to stay for, "forgive me this sad, harsh game of words). When I'm trying to live, I feel my poor little Schweanke, which can never make a beautiful thing that only makes that spoils and wures myself, and which, throwing everything: scissors, matter, threads, is accepted. By the window, behind which rain is infinite

"I'm silent, I don't even look at you and feel that for the first time - jealous. This is a mixture of pride, offended pride, bitterness, impaired indifference and deepest disturbance "

"The whole thing is that we loved the heart to be fed - at least crashed to smash! I always broke into the smits, and all my poems are the most silver heartbreets "

"I would never know, did not paint the lips. Ugly? No, charming. Just every opposite fool on the street may think, I am for him "

"If you consider you a close person, you made me suffer very much, if a stranger," you brought me only good. I never felt any such nor to others, I fought in myself for everyone, that is, against everyone "

"And often, sitting for the first time with a man, in the midst of indifferent conversation, insane thought: -" What if I'm a kiss now?! " - Erotic obstruction? - Not. The same should be that the player before the bet, "will I put it or not? I put or not? - with that difference that real players are -trem

"I want to sleep with you - fall asleep and sleep. The wonderful folk word, as deep, as is true, as unequivocally, as exactly what it says. Just sleep. And nothing else. No, still: To burn your head to your left shoulder, and the hand is on your right - and nothing more. No: even in the deepest dream to know that it is you. And yet: listen, how your heart sounds. And - to kiss it "

"How much in life is this, which cannot be expressed by words.
Too little on earth words ... "

About time and about yourself

Tsvetaeva-prozais began later than Tsvetaeva poet, and yet early. Back in the gymnasics, she wrote the first story "four" (the text was not preserved); Prosecutic sketches made, apparently, after that (early evidence of this, pages entitled "What was"). More importantly Others: his diary of Tsvetaeva began to lead from the ten years and continued to lead all his lives with records in different notes and notebooks. Whether she thought that these records would serve her for creativity, it's hard. Just she could not do without them. And if sometimes it was no time to get to the notebook, Tsvetaeva recorded a flashed thought, observation or lines of poems right on the walls of the room or kitchen.

Essay "October in a car" included in our collection gives a living view of this Tsvetheevic feature. The essay time is the autumn of 1917; Tsvetaeva returns from Feodosia to Moscow and already on the road learns that there are bloody battles in a row. In the chad, the wagon overwhelmed by soldiers, under the not very friendly views of the fellow travelers, perfectly realizing that the "young lady", which does not eat anything, but not stopping the scouring something in his notebook, looks "a stranger," she can't not write. This is her lifebuoy, her straw: So she wipes the pain of his heart, which broke into those hours from anxiety for the fate of her husband ...

In another essay - "Free passage" - we will meet with the same: Breakdown by foot wanders around the villages, where she is trying to remove matches and sitheries at least on any products, infinitely tired of washing dishes and sex in a tea room where she judshes in These days, - she will still not fall asleep until he writhes, almost in the dark, lying on the floor, at least a few phrases in their notebook.

This is not writing, but an almost physiological need; "pen! - Otherwise suffocate! " "So she told about it once."

But from such records and was born to the Tsvetsky prose of the early twenties. It is closely related to the concreteness of the live fact; Chain, greedily she fixes the details of the events and feelings worn - if they do not grab! - an inexperienced and unsaturated flow of time. It seems that the author here is just an honest chronicle - only not events of state importance, but private life One Moscow family who fell into the whirlpool of the Bolshevik Plague. However, the circumstances of the historical situation are that the Soldiers running from the fronts of the war in their villages fall into the field of view of the "Chronicler", and the redarmeys from the Food Recublies in the villages of the food reserves, and the Moscow Theater People gathered at the funeral of his idol , and youth, sighing in a ruined village along a pink sisty, and a different colleague, the will of the case collected in the cabinets People's Commissariat on the affairs of nationalities, located in the former mansion of SOLOGUB graph ... So a personal diary turns into era document And the fate of the Muscovite - women and mother who does not have "connections" and patrons among the power of immumbers are raised to the symbol of the most dying Russia.

In 1923, Tsvetaeva processed his records and amounted to the book of essays, modestly calling her "Earth Signs".

At that time, she already lived outside Russia, in the Czech Republic, where he left in the spring of 1922 - to her husband. Member of the Volunteer White Army Sergey Yakovlevich Efron and after graduation Civil War It was impossible to return to the urba, which was determined by the forced departure of Tsvetaeva from Russia in the spring of 1922. Abroad in those years there was a lot of Russian publishers; And, making up a book, Tsvetaeva confidently pinned hopes on them.

But she did not have to publish "Earth Signs": Berlin Publishers who offered a wonderful fee, at the same time put a tough and indispensable author - the book should be out politicians! This was due to the fact that the sales of books were then designed for the market of the Bolshevik Russia ... An outrageous to the request of publishers, Tsvetaeva splashed his anger in a letter to the writer Roman Gul: "Moscow 1917 - 1919 - that I, in Did the cradle swayed? I was 24-26 liters<ет>I had eyes, ears, hands, legs: and I saw these eyes, I heard these ears, and I cut down these hands (furniture on the furnace of the plate. I. K.) ... And from the morning I went to the market from the morning to the evening in the morning, - where we just did not wear!

There are no politicians in the book: yes passionate True: Prissual truth, although cold, hunger, anger, Of the year!My youngest girl died with hunger in the shelter, is also a "politics" (Bolshevik shelter).<...> Is not political Book, no second. This is a live soul in a dead loop - and still lively. The background - gloom, I did not invent it. "

Essays took a special place in the biography of the Tsvetaee-Prosaik, and it was, as it became obvious later, only the stage of development. Tsvetaeva to the end will keep its loyalty to a documentary basis, in the prosaic of its work we will not find any work with fictional heroes and invented plot. "The fictional books are not enthusiastic now," she thought. Documentary "Records, Live, Live ... for me a thousand times more valuable artistic workwhere everything is reailed, curved, unrecognizable, is crippled. " And Tsvetaeva creates a prose, which is all! - You can call autobiographical, because every time the author openly speaks from the depths personal experience And his testimonies values \u200b\u200bmost.

According to its essence "October in the car", "Free passage", "My Services", "Death of Stakhovich", "thoughtful" - it is different, as a chronicle of nightmare, recorded by everyday, sometimes almost a cheerful pen: a great sense of humor Never, it seems, does not leave Tsvetaeva, even in the most severe life circumstances. " She is able to joke when the ceiling is covered in her apartment, having fun about the cat's bosses in the office (will get it to the carpets!), Rejoice in the juicy show of the simpleness, overheard in the queues and in the village ... Even the horror of hunger 1918-1921 in these essays appears softened; ATO has now become especially clear when " Notebooks Marina Tsvetaeva. " They retained the Details of the Moscow Details of those years ... But here it records "attic", this is a kind of "one day of Marina Tsvetaeva in Moscow 1919." Listing the many details that have made this day - the eve of her departure with children in the rocky kuntsevsky shelter, where her youngest daughter died soon, - she stops worried about: "It did not write the most important thing: fun, acuteness of thought, joy of joy at the slightest luck, passionate aimed Total creatures ... "

This is where the reserve for her no one visible courage: standing in the queues for Vobly or for fuses to enhanced children, stitching in the November pitch darkness, at five o'clock in the morning, for milk for daughters to the Bryansk station, it is capable of looking at what is happening if not with The parties, as it were, from the height of the story, always indifferent to human suffering. This is a feature of the Tsuenevsky minigration, and she rests on the fortress of her spirit, which is not terrible, as she herself will say about it, "neither decree, nor a bayonet. Fortunately, she knows how to see what is happening in a special, enlarged scale, and this is just that trait that gives the metaphysical volume of the best Tsvetheevic poems and prose. "We learned to love: Bread, fire, sun, sleep, hour of free time, - Recorded Tsvetaeva in the" most famous, mortal "1919, - the food became a meal, because Hunger, Sleep became bliss, because "no longer there is no strength," the little things were raised to the rite, everything became pressing. The iron school from which the heroes will come out. No heroes - die ... "

In essays that were "earthly signs" - almost a demonstrative lack of literary techniques; Before us almost a speed, devoid of finishes. However, they are read in one breath; Everything keeps the internal energy of the author's narration, extremely relative and dynamic. Multimum descriptions, maximum concreteness, cool rhythm phrases, live dialogues, perfectly transmitting intonation, author's remarks reduced to dramaturgical laconism ("I, Flash" or "He, sharply") ...

It is curious that pieces of prose of this kind can be found in the usual letters of Tsvetaeva. An example of this is her letters to Evgeny Lann of the late 1920s; I will give only one passage - it is very picturesque, despite the fact that it is almost entirely of the dialogue.

"Side with Aley, write. - Evening. - Door - without a knock - manifest. Military commissariat. High, thin, dad. - 19 years old.

- Are you a citizen of such something?

- I came to make a protocol.

He thinks that I did not hear:

- Protocol.

- Understand.

- You are by inclusing the crane and overflow of the clogged shell broke the new plate in 4 No..

- I.e?

- Water, passing through the floor, gradually blurred bricks. The stove collapsed.

- You bred in the kitchen of rabbits.

- This is not me, it is strangers.

- But are you a hostess?

- You must follow purity.

- Yes, yes, you are right.

- Do you still have the 2nd floor in the apartment?

- Yes, at the top of mezzanine.

- Mesonin.

- Miseimimm, Mizimim, - How does it write - Miz Mim?

I say. Writes. Shows. I am appreciated:

- A shame, a citizen. You are an intelligent person!

- That's the whole trouble, if I had less intelligent, I would not have happened, - I am writing all the time.

- What exactly?

- Compose?

- Very nice. - Pause.

- Citizen, would you not correlate the protocol?

- Let's write. You say, and I will write.

- Uncomfortable, on yourself.

- Anyway, it will be soon! - Writing. - He admires handwriting: speed and beauty.

- Immediately it is clear that the writer. How are you with such abilities of the best apartment do not take? After all, this is forgive me for the expression - the hole!

Alya: - Slumka.

We write. Subscribe. Polly gives under the visor. Disappears.

And yesterday, at 10 1/2 pm - Batyushki-Sveta! - again he.

- Do not be afraid, citizen, old familiar! I'm again to you, here you need to fix something.

- You are welcome.

- So I'll think again.

- I'm at your service. - Alya, clean on the table.

- May be. What are you adding to your justification?

"I don't know ... Rabbits are not mine, not mine piglets - and already eaten."

- And also the pig was? We write it.

- I do not know ... there is nothing to add ...

- Rabbits ... Rabbits ... and coldly you should have a citizen here. - Sorry!

Alya: - Who - rabbits or mom?

He: - Yes, in general ... rabbits ... They all gnaw.

Alya: - And Mamina Mattresses have gnawed in the kitchen, and the pig has lived in my bath.

I: - Do not write it!

He: - I feel sorry for you, a citizen!

Offers a cigarette. We write. Already 1/2 twelve.

- Previously, it was probably not so lived ...

And, leaving: "Or arrest or a cash fine of 50 thousand. - I'll come and come. "

Alya: - With a revolver?

He: - this, young lady, do not be afraid!

Alya: - You do not know how to shoot?

He: - I can do something, but ... - It's a pity to the citizen! "

What no prose?

The style of Tsvetaevskaya prose will still change. It will appear multidimensionality, visual brightness, linguistic saturation of the text. But it will happen later.

Observing the chronology of Tsvetaevsky creativity - and breaking the biographical, - we will have to talk now, by the benefit of the children's years. The fact is that the urgent need for their resurrection and understanding ripened in Tsvetaeva to the middle of the thirties.

For almost a half dozen years who have passed since the writing of the essays, which were discussed above, much has changed. One after another began to leave the lives of people with whom Tsveyev is long if he was briefly friends, they met, who appreciated what she had something to tell. Thus, her peculiar prosaic requiems appeared - Valery Bryusov ("Hero of Labor"), Maximilian Voloshin ("Live Living"), Andrei White ("Pered Spirit"). And Tsvetaeva prosewick entered the taste lyrical prose With its wide authority of the copyright, the possibility of deviations, retrospects, free "reflections about".

To summarize the life of Sorokaleny Tsvetaeva, it was still early, but the time to "stop-look back" - came. In April 1933, she received a letter from Russia, who was informed about the death of the consolidated brother Andrei. This served as a push to the new series of autobiographical essays of the Tsvetaeva - those in which she resurrected the atmosphere of the parental house and the entire "Staroimen - Troy-Tuskaya - three-domain" world, in which he grew up and who loved. "Food for non-planned duty of the heart," said in one of the Tsvetaevsky letters of this time.

She herself lives from the end of 1925 in France, in the suburb of Paris. The obscured by the wall of loneliness, buried, according to her own words, under the "ashes of emigration", she, leaving the memories, created something like a "microclimate", in which she was easier to breathe, think, live ...

Even earlier, in the essay dedicated to Artist Natalia Goncharova (1929), Tsvetaeva expressed the conviction that the key to understanding any person should be sought in the children's years of this person. "It seeks in the current Goncharova," she wrote, "go to her childhood, if you can - in infancy. There are roots. " In childhood, Tsvetaeva considered, natural, human natural strengths express themselves most relaxed, pristine. The child is still not aware of them, and therefore "Childhood is the time of the blind truth." Further development is only a springs straightening. "Easy force" will come to the change of "blind truth", but the basis of the personality will remain the same features and inconsistencies, which with naive openness manifested itself in a child.

Another one, on which Tsvetaeva insisted, - the resistance of the first life impressions. A particularly deep trail of children's experiences are left in the biographies of the artist, with its increased impressionability. That's why it is better to understand the work of the master, it is necessary to see his early years - a sign of the inner essence of a person.

The prose of the color itself generously provides us with material for reflection of this kind. She appealed to the initial years of his life not only in works written about childhood ("Mother and Music", "Fairy Tale of Mother", "Father and His Museum", "Damn", "Chucks", "My Pushkin"), but and in those in the center there are other people - in the "House of Old Pimen", in the "History of One Dedication", in the "Captive Spirit" ... As a result, the childhood years of Marina Tsvetaeva outlined in her own prose if not in detail That brightly faces, as if pulled out from darkness by a powerful spotlight.

Extraordinary saturation of mental life chemalenet and seven years old The child is striking the reader here most of all. The universe, which, installed in his own chest, Tsvetaeva recreated almost in every prosaic work with exciting details, and it seems, not even approaching the exhaustion of the topic.

Today at our disposal is the most interesting opportunity: to compare memories of childhood left by two sisters - Marina and Anastasia Tsvetaeva. The younger sister - Anastasia Ivanovna, who lived for a rarity for a long life (99 years old!), "Began to write memoirs in old years and almost until the last days had completed and complemented them with new chapters. We are obliged to her with an innumerable multitude of facts, details, names, episodes, dates, who readily presented her unique memory. At the same time, two circumstances cannot not be thrown into the eyes when reading these memories. And, above all, the fact that Anastasia Tsvetaeva's long-standing past is captured as marching; The abundance of details is dictated by the fact that it is all infinitely expensive in a distant childhood country, any memories - joy. Try to calculate how many times we will meet the words "happiness", "bliss", "Eustion," - let's go from the account! Because everything is happiness, from all - happiness. Happiness run through the wooden staircase down, in the hall, where there is a Christmas tree, happiness to find a long-lost ball, happiness expectations, the bliss of the meeting, the foster smell of old things in the Seine, the joy of the spring sky ... The point here is not at all causes!

Other - in the prose of older sister. She certainly retained tenderness to the house in a three-hand alley of the old Moscow, as well as to Tarusk expanses, where the family of Tsvetaeva spent the summer months. But just as obvious that the child's past did not fure her. Having resurrected old years, she never succumbed to temptation to recreate the sweet moments of children's joys. Other it occupies it, by no means restoring consumer accuracy. That's why external world discharged differently than in the memoirs of the youngest sister, - a few sharp, steeply laid with smears; Marina Tsvetaeva is more like master color than carefully discharged items. In the foreground, she does not have an external - internal: hidden from prying the drama and the joy of a children's soul.

Having resurrected old years, she is busy in more than another search for himself in today's little girl who secretly read "Gypsy" in the older sister's room of Valeria, and in the July heat on the Turage balcony, poems rewritten in a homemade notebook. In every episode, she seems to want to be: what has grown out of this case? And from this kidney? From this meeting? .. Looking into a kaleidoscope of everydays, it takes first of all those from which the explicit threads are being drawn today.

Reflection understanding of the living And it is experienced - the deep nerve of mature Tsvetiyevsky prose. Joseph Brodsky said in his own way about this feature of her memories: "It is not" when-nothing more unknown "- the childhood of the memoirist. It is "when-already-all-well-known", but "still nothing has never-started" - the childhood of a mature poet, covered in the middle of his life with a cruel era. "

Anastasia Tsvetaeva stubbornly pedalized in memoirs on the inner similar sisters. Well, they had really a lot of common - most advantage in the sphere of emotional. But just a comparison of memories makes it particularly clearly seeing the bizarre interlacing related to foreign onwards - in characters and in the very type of personality. Marina hotchaw, asya soft; The older is always annoying life, asya does not notice it. Marina is closed, Ace is simply necessary to divide any joy and grief with others. From an early age for Marina, the torment is to keep anything except feather in his hands; At the younger in the hands, everything arms: she knows how to drink and intertwined the books, flash the seam and put a suitcase ... The Christmas tree comes: the youngest joyfully jumps around Christmas surprises; Marina sits, bolding in a presented book, not seeing and not hearing anything around ...

But this is already enough so that the memories of the sisters were strikingly unlike! And if you read them carefully, it is difficult to get off the impression: as if two different childhoods Passed at one time in the same house, in some parents! One, filled with unconditional happiness, is another bitterness too much ...

In Tsvetheevsky prose, dedicated to the main meetings with Osip Mandelshtam ("The Story of One Dedication"), there is a characteristic scene related to the childhood of Marina.

"Round table. Family circle. On a blue service dish Sunday patties from Barters. One for everyone.

- Children! Take!

I want to meringue and take the eclair. An embarrassed with a clear look of the mother, lowering his eyes and completely fail them, with:

You fly my horse rob
Through the sea and through the meadow
And shooking grivy
Take me there!

- Where to go? - Laughs: Mother (solempture: will not come out of me poet!), Father (good-natured), brother's tutor, Uralets student (go-go!), Laughs for two years older brother (following the tutor) and for two years younger sister (after the mother); Only the older sister of the seventeen-year-old Valery Institute is not laughing - in the peak of the stepmother (my mother). And I - I, the Red, like Peony, stunned and blinded by a bleeding bleeding and scorched in the temples, through the boiling, not yet spilled tears - first silent, then - yell:

- There - far away! There - there! And very shame to steal my notebook and then laugh! "

Well, not strange whether, in fact, the situation! Wonderful family - and in the heart of a wounded child. Ivan Vladimirovich Tsvetaev - Professor of Moscow University, the Creator of the Museum of Fine Arts named after Alexander III, eternally fascinated by some extremely important for all the case - soft, good man; His wife Maria Alexandrovna is an outstanding pianist who did not make an artistic career just because this did not allow her a strict father's strict father. She plays on the guitar, beautifully sings, writes paintings and poems, knows several languages, and also - a fan of noble kings and heroes. And so, with all that, - laughs! How humane, it seems, it would be even flipping the child with a belt, in the old man! But not for what. And the elders are, of course, understand. Understand, but there are fun laugh, "above the intimate mystery of a shy girl. Milic, kind, intelligent parents for a minute it does not occur as non-refundable this pain, how painfully exacerbated all the feelings of this child from birth. It does not occur to them that fate has prepared the future of the brilliant poet by this unworn rosyant woman ...

However, not quite so. The girl was only four years old, when Maria Alexandrovna recorded in his diary: "The eldest all goes around and the rhyme rhymes. Maybe my Marusya is a poet? .. "But - recorded and forgotten. And the daughter's paper still gave only not a tank, so that the lines and rhymes were scratched as doodles on the randomly found paper shreds.

In the eyes of the mother, the girl is just stubborn and a barrette. "Other children like children, and this ... stubborn ten donas!" - She's angrily complain about the director of the musical school. That day she is annoyed by the answer of his daughter: to the question that she most liked in just an ending concert, the girl answered: "Onegin and Tatiana". "How? Not mermaid, not ... "-" Onegin and Tatyana ". "I know her," said the mother to the director, "now it will be all the way on the cab for all my questions to repeat:" Tatiana and Onegin! " Straight I am not glad that I took. No one child of the world would not like "Tatiana and Onegin", everyone would prefer the "mermaid", because the fairy tale is understandable. I don't know how to do me !!! "

He was angry with a completely afternoon: a six-year-old girl told her clean truth. What was she responsible if she really prevented her in this evening a love scene of Pushkin heroes? To say what is waiting for her? Could - and well already knew what they were waiting, but could not. She never learned this later.

That was not at all stubbornness. From an early age, this girl seemed to have listened to what was born with. As if he knew about himself something that could not change. Not so much and depended on her will: she herself was dominated by some needless strength, which is meaningless to resist and sweetly obey, by the force, whom Tsvetaeva said so - you are "dedicated as sold." Maras the doodles of music paper, this child only made his way to the unclear light away, did what not could not do.

The autobiographical prose of Tsvetaeva allows us to trace, with what kind of hard energy this child created his own delicious fortress of the spirit. As persistently spread its limits, as stubbornly and patiently, squeezing his teeth, Schoml walked way. Early ability to distinguish his own and someone elsemaybe one of the most striking qualities of this child. "Adults" books are hiding "adults" - she secretly learns Pushkinsky "Gypsy", with a fading heart reads "Captive daughter" and learn the words of romance, who sings the elder sister Valery; goes to the first communion and, horrifying his own blasphemy, tires about himself about the drawing; falls in love with the tutor and the first, like Pushkinskaya Tatiana, writes him a letter ...

And all this intimate, implausible spacious world of the soul is the world of secret love, devils, rhymes, fears, hopes - carefully stores from prying eyes.

She goes its own way, and this is nothing but the way of calling.

"You fly, my horse is a risk ... Take me there!" Satisfied adults brought to the tears of the girl, but would know them, let them be allowed to allow one minute that that horse will pass through all the poetic notebooks of Marina Tsvetaeva! The winged horse flying over the towers, along the mountains ... - and in verses, and in poems. "Take me there!" So exactly what - there! She was even difficult for her to call the address, but the direction is clear: it's like a buder, "on top of the zakisei, on top of rusty ... that was unclear, but the strongest thrust, at the chest, thrust there I do not know where, loyalty to this, I do not know who. Akin to that traction, which freely feels a baby stretching to the mother's chest.

In the sketch "House of Old Pimen" there is an important claw. The author notes here unexpectedly related features, nearby mother, Maria Alexandrovna, with Ivovaiski - Father of the first wife Ivan Vladimirovich Tsvetaeva. "They distantly resemble something," said here. "My mother would be more suitable for him in his daughter than his own." And right there - the tough characteristic of the pedantic smart Ilovaysky in his relationship with the children: "... the obviousness of his eyes was alone: \u200b\u200bhis parental power and infallibility of his decrees."

Maternal power in a three-fingered house was the same series. In this house there were pictures, books, music, marble bugs of the gods, the cult of the pipeline. There were only simplicity and cardiac proximity between children and parents. "Whether my mother is as simple with me like other mothers with other children ..." - Tsvetaeva's sigh in "My Pushkin". What is it, like not a sigh of cardiac output, experienced too early!

When Marina Tsvetaeva grows, her name will contribute to the literary encyclopedia (two years before death) and will be offered to write a autobiography. She agrees. Takes pen in hand. And here - among its most important self-characteristics read: "I have a senior daughter with my mother, but my beloved is not me. She is proud of, the second - loves. Early insult to the lack of love. "

What means: with this wound Marina Tsvetaeva lived all his life. Not because she has so many idols from an early age - the unattainable, long-stayed in the other world: And the artist Maria Bashkirtseva, and the Unfortunate Son of Napoleon ("Orlenok"), and Napoleon himself, especially the time when, left by everyone, he disgraced From loneliness on the island of Saint Helena. Does not come from there and the unsatisfied Tsvetieevskaya thirst for love, her Himalayas of love, converted even to someone who is still born in a hundred years! And this generosity of self-dedication: "The hands are given to me - to stretch to everyone both! / Do not hold one! ", These immeasures of feeling:" Paul-life? - All of you! / To the elbow? - Here she is!"

In Tsvetaevsky prose of thirties, large and small plots are embodied by a writer who has never satisfied the outside of the phenomenon, whether it is a private vital or color figure of a contemporary.

Life at home in a threeproof alley, Tuskaya summer episodes, Father's images, mother, sisters near Tsvetaevsky Feather acquire multidimensionality, exceeding their empirical level. And we can say that in the peculiarities of this exceeding, all the peculiarity of the Tsvetaee-artist is concluded ... Her attention is always directed deep into the source; Obvious occupies it, but as a path to what is hidden behind him. What is there - for the evidence of a private case, if you do not run past a person who does not have a successful person? Is everyday life? .. But also everyday life and multidimensional!

It would be difficult to retell the Tsvetheevsky essay of the "whip": literally not for having to cling to. A total of three or four scenes are preceded by the central episode: Little Marina with his father, mother, brother and sister come to Senokos to "whip" - not far from their Tuskaya cottage, - and those jokingly offer the girl to stay with them forever.

Only and everything. But the internal content of this small work could envy the author of another poem. However, it is the poems, and not a story, because everything is what this is speech, acquires weight and meaning due to the lyrical sense of the author. It is his strength of the blissful summer in the suburbs, through the penetrated by the sun, smells of bevelled grass, apples, berries, - a visually bright piece of childhood with his fabulous abundance of impressions. But for a visually bright reader sees the characters of mother and father, a difficult family relationship of the Tsvetaeva; It is clear who here lies, who suffers, but the main thing here: the thrill world of a little girl, which his offended heart is experiencing every word of the harsh mother - and feels: these "whip" - young people in white headscarves on her head - her love ... Her house is always unhappy, but here ...

Inside a short, externally minor episode was placed by the tragedy of the child, with a painful sharpness senseing her loneliness and abandonance. So sees the world of Tsvetaeva: it is always a complex world, in which so much disgraced! It is worth only to look ... "When others talk about their lives, she wrote in one of the letters," I am always surprised at the poverty - not events, but perceptions: two, three episodes: school (the school is usually not listed), "the first Love ", well, marriage or marriage ... - Well, and the rest? The rest is either not listed, or it was not. - boring. Scum. Tedious ... "

So the two passions in the Tsvethevsky prose creativity of the mature period are closed. For the desire to recreate the past, to keep it from the unreaded failure in the fly, clearly rolled in the authors of autobiographical prose with another, comparable in force. That was passion of lifestylethe passion of reflection and observations over its laws and its mysteries, over the "sources of life and being" themselves, as she called it. The prose, born as memories of the people who have gone and the past time, provided a convenient opportunity to express the riches of the accumulated spiritual and mental experience, and this opportunity has increasingly grabbed Tsvetaeva. That is why there are no domestic things for her: they are insignificant only until they slide on them a non-violent look. It is worth only to stay, stop - "Ah, this chair in Valeria's room ... But by, by, by, otherwise it will lead us too far ..." - she writes. And it is quite clear that if it was not necessary to rush by, if you could not hurry, we would not know anything at all, no everyday life: in the framework of the domestic Tsvek Associations never fit. In her perception, any life detail, any randomly heard word, especially human personality - Always a certain hieroglyph, in which you should look, listen, think about. And unhurriedly decoding it will certainly lead to clarification of a lot. Through the reality, the phenomenon appears, through the face - a face, through life. So we are faced with an organic feature of the Tsueneevsky worldview, which caused the philosophicity of its prose.

This is a special philosophicity. It is not stripped by a certain moralizing imbot of text, but closely connected with the lively concreteness of the fact or situation, - growing out of them, feeding them.

The ratio of the "documentary basis" and copyright reflections in this prose is usually back to what characterizes, say, the autobiographical prose of Bunin ("Life Arsenyev") or Paustovsky ("distant years"). "House of Old Pimen", "Damn" or "Chucks" are written as a free reflection "Regarding the selected plot - with chronological interruptions, retreats, inclusions of" lateral "topics, etc. The author is open leads The narration, and no canons of prosaic shape do not hold back. Neither the strings, nor the increase in events, we will not find in its works.

In the Russian tradition, the autobiographical prose of the color thirties is rather close to the "security certificate" of Boris Pasternak. V. Caveryin, at one time, subtly noticed the features of this work, turning attention to the fact that in his text "reflections enter without a reasonable pretext, flash, fly into the consciousness of the reader as a ball lightning, which can explode, and can calmly fly out the window, Having accustomed to all the very fact of their existence. Transitions from personal to all-scale - almost every page. " The same improvisions of the exits to generalizations and the mature color. Deployed or fleeting, they permeate the story, its saturation is extremely - and sometimes even overset ...

This feature immediately distinguishes the autobiographical prose of thirties from those essays from which the creativity of the Tsvetaee-Prosaika began. Documentary, the actual basis here has taken a more modest place, giving way to reflection and understanding.

Let me remind you to the end that Brodsky highly appreciated this side in the work of Marina Tsvetaeva and believed that in her face we are faced with one of the most interesting thinkers of the 20th century.

More than half a century ago, very young and no one else, Marina Tsvetaeva, expressed unshakable confidence:

Scattered in dust shopping

(Where nobody took them and does not take!),

My poems like precious wines

It will turn out its turn.

Years of difficult life and intense creative work were passed - and proud confidence gave way to a complete disbelief: "I have no place in modern times and the future." This, of course, the extreme and delusion, explained by the loneliness and confusion of the poet, who knew the power of his talent, but failed to choose the right path.

The fate of the artist created is not coming down to his personal fate: the artist leaves - art remains. In the third case, Tsvetaeva said it is much more accurate: "... I have nothing new, except for my poetic responsiveness to the new air sound." Marina Tsvetaeva is a big poet, it turned out to be inseparable from the art of this century.

Poems Tsvetaeva began to write from six years, printed - from sixteen, and two years later, in 1910, without removing the gymnasium form, the rather thorough collection of the family released the "evening album". He was not lost in the stream of poetic novelty, it was noticed and approved by V. Bryusov, and N. Gumilev, and M. Voloshin.

Lyrics Tsvetaeva is always facing the soul, this is a continuous explanation in love for people, to the world at all and to a specific person. And this is not humble, and daring, passionate and demanding love:

But today I was smart;

Retino at midnight went on the road,

Someone went with me to keep up

Calling names.

And Bell in the fog - a strange staff ...

There was no Don-Jouan - Donna Anna!

This is from the "Don Juan" cycle.

Often, Tsvetaeva wrote about death - especially in youthful verses. It was a kind of sign of a good literary tone, and Young Tsvetaeva did not make an exception in this sense:

Listen! - Love me yet

For the fact that I die.

By the nature of Marina Tsvetaeva - Buntar. Rebuilding and B.

Her poetry:

Who is created from a stone who is created from clay -

And I am silly and sparkle!

I'm the case - treason, I am name - Marina,

I am a marine marine foam.

In another poem, it will add:

Admiring and admiring

Dreams of a wonderful world of blu days,

All sleeping saw me,

No one saw me sleepy.

The most valuable thing, the most undoubtedly in the mature work of Tsvetaeva - her restless hatred of "velvet olty" and all sorts of vulgarity. Once from the beggar, hungry Russia in the second and elegant Europe, Tsvetaeva did not give in to her temptations for a minute. She did not change himself - a man and poet:

Bird - Phoenix I, only I sing on fire!

Support a high life my life!

Highly grief - and the grief of Motley!

And yes, you will be night - light!

Her heart rushes to an abandoned homeland, that Russia she knew and remembered:

Russian rye from me bow

Niva, where Baba will be interpreted ...

Friend! Rains for my window

Troubles and worst on the heart ...

And the son must go back there not to be all life

Withdrawn:

Not to the city and nor to the village -

Drive, my son, in my country ...

Drive, my son, home -

In your area, in your age, in your hour ...

By the 30s, Marina Tsvetaeva had already completely clearly realized the frontier, separated it from white emigration. She writes in the draft notebook: "My failure in emigration is that I am not an emigrant that I am in spirit, that is, in the air and on the scope - there, there, from there ..."

In 1939, Tsvetaeva restores its Soviet citizenship and returns to his homeland. It was seriously given to her seventeen years spent on a foreign land. She had every reason to say: "The ash of emigration ... I'm all under it - like Herculant, and life has passed."

Tsvetaeva dreamed for a long time, which will return to Russia "the desired and wait for the guest". But it did not work. Personal circumstances have developed badly: the husband and daughter were subjected to unreasonable repression. Tsvetaeva settled in Moscow, took up translation, prepared a collection of selected poems. Boiled war. The transformation of evacuation was abandoned by Tsveyev first in chistopol, then in dubugu. It was then that she overtook her that "loneliness of the Supreme Hour", which she told in his verses with such a deep feeling. Exhausted, who lost his will, on August 31, 1941, Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva committed suicide. But there was poetry.

Open the veins: non-stationary,

It is unbelievable with life.

Substitute bowls and plates!

Every plate will be shallow

Bowl - flat. Through the edge - and past -

In the ground is black, feed the reed.

Irrevocably, inexpensive,

It is unbelievable with verse.

The tragic life and fate of Marina Tsvetaeva amazes to this day. Sometimes you do not understand how such tests could fall on fragile shoulders of a beautiful and intelligent woman.

Marina Ivanovna has written poems from 6 years old, and her first compilation, which attracted the attention of the general public, was published when the girl was only 18 years old. But on this gifts a talented woman from fate ended. Marina Tsveyeva survived the death of one of his children, the repression of the second and divided the link on the third. The husband was shot at soviet power on suspicion of espionage. And the woman herself, did not bother humiliation and shame, hanged himself on the rope, which Boris Pasternak gave her way to her so that Marina could tie his suitcases.

Surely all of you at least once in my life read her beautiful, complete incredible lyrics, deep meaning and charm of poems. We invite you to pay your attention to other thought of poetess. She has a reasonable lot of life philosophical quotes, which are affected by their accuracy and depth.

About feelings ...

In love, because only in someone else's, native - you love.
Love - it means to see a man as he thought about God and did not carry out her parents.
"I will love you all summer," it sounds more convincing than "all life" and - most importantly - wherever longer!
"Cuts - WILL". I love this phrase, only on the contrary.
No on earth of you.
Men are not accustomed to pain - like animals. When they hurt them, they immediately have such eyes that you will do anything, just stopped.
Dream whether together, whether to sleep together, but they always cry alone.
If I love a man, I want him to be better from me - at least the sewn down button. From the sewed button - until my soul.
We can sometimes love ten years old, lovingly - a lot - two. Inhuman - always alone.
If you now entered and said: "I am leaving for a long time, forever," or: "I think I don't like you anymore," I would seem to feel anything new: every time you leave every hour every time When you are not - you are not forever and you do not like me.
All women lead in fog.

About creativity ...

Poems themselves are looking for me, and in such an abundance, which I do not know directly - what to write what to throw. It is possible to sit down to the table - and suddenly - all quadruples are ready, during the latter's squeezing in the washing of the shirt, or feverishly swarming in the bag, gaining exactly 50 kopecks. And sometimes I write like this: with right side Pages alone poems, with the left - others, the hand flies from one place to another, flies on the page: Do not forget! catch! Hold! .. - Hands lacking! Success is to have time.
Sculptor depends on clay. Artist from paints. Musician from strings. The artist, the musician can stop the hand. The poet is only a heart.
The most valuable in life and in verses is something that has broken.
Creativity is a common cause, created by secluded.

About life…

We joke, joke, and the longing everything grows, grows ...
What can you know about me, since you did not sleep with me and did not drink?
I do not want to have a point of view. I want to have eyesight.
In the world, a limited number of shower and an unlimited number of tel.
The only thing that people do not forgive are that you are without them, in the end, cost.
Favorite things: music, nature, poems, loneliness. He loved simple and empty places that do not like anyone. I love physics, her mysterious laws of attraction and repulsion, similar to love and hatred.
My dream: Monastic garden, library, old wine from the cellar, a long tube and some seventy-year-old "from the former", which would come in the evenings to listen to what I wrote, and say how I loves me. I wanted to love me with an old man who loved many. I do not want to be older, Zurcha. I do not want to look up. I'm waiting for this old man from 14 years old ...
If something hurts - silently, otherwise you will hit it there.
In one I am a real woman: I'm all judging by myself, every vagina in the mouth - my speech, in my chest - my feelings. Therefore, everything is in my first minute: good, generous, generous, sleepless and insane.
As far as I see a person better when not with him!
Listen and remember: everyone who laughs over the other, fool or rascal; Most often, both.
No one wants - no one can understand one thing: that I am completely alone. Familiar and friends - all Moscow, but not one who for me - no, without me! - dies.
Oh, my God, but they say that there is no soul! And what hurts me now? "It's not a tooth, not a head, not a hand, not a breast," no, chest, in the chest, where you breathe, "I breathe deeply: it does not hurt, but all the time hurts, all the time whines, Nesterpimo!
I want such a modest, murderous-simple thing: so that when I enter, a man rejoiced. Sin is not in the dark, but in the reluctance of light.

In these phrases, the pain and bitterness of lived in some places, and the experience, and the power of will, and the desire to change the world around themselves, I did not see only one - the happiness of a beautiful woman.

Marina Tsvetaeva - best quotes Poets! One of the largest Russian poets of the twentieth century, prose and translator Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva (1892 - 1941) began writing poems - not only in Russian, but also in French and german languages - In the six year old age. And her first published collection of poems at 18 years old immediately attribute the attention of famous poets.

Fate at Marina Tsvetaeva developed incredibly tragic. War and poverty make themselves felt. One of her child at 3 years old dies from hunger in the shelter, a husband on suspicion of political espionage is shot, the second daughter will repress for 15 years.

Tsvetaeva and his son goes to the evacuation in Chistopol, where the majority of writers referred - there she is promised to recruit and work. Tsvetaeva writes a statement: "Please take me to work as a dishwasher in the opening dining room. But she did not give such work: the Council found it that she could be a German spy.

We collected 25 quotes of Marina Tsvetaeva about love and life, which reveal the depth and wisdom of her tragic fate:

"I will love you all summer," it sounds more convincing than "all life" and - most importantly - wherever longer!

If you now entered and said: "I am leaving for a long time, forever," or: "I think I don't like you anymore," I would seem to feel anything new: every time you leave every hour every time When you are not - you are not forever and you do not like me.

In love, because only in someone else's, native - you love.

You need to meet for love, for the rest there are books.

Creativity is a common cause, created by secluded.

In the world, a limited number of shower and unlimited bodies.

Love - it means to see a man as he thought about God and did not carry out her parents.

If I love a man, I want him to be better from me - at least the sewn down button. From the sewed button - until my soul.

Success is to have time.

What can you know about me, since you did not sleep with me and did not drink?

No on the ground of you.

I do not want to have a point of view. I want to have eyesight.

Listen and remember: everyone who laughs over the other, fool or rascal; Most often, both.

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

Sculptor depends on clay. Artist from paints. Musician from strings. The artist, the musician can stop the hand. The poet is only a heart.

"Cuts - WILL". I love this phrase, only on the contrary.

Favorite things: music, nature, poems, loneliness. He loved simple and empty places that do not like anyone. I love physics, her mysterious laws of attraction and repulsion, similar to love and hatred.

In one I am a real woman: I'm all judging by myself, every vagina in the mouth - my speech, in my chest - my feelings. Therefore, everything is in my first minute: good, generous, generous, sleepless and insane.

As far as I see a person better when not with him!

No one wants - no one can understand one thing: that I am completely alone. Familiar and friends - all Moscow, but no one who is for me - no, without me! - dies.

Men are not accustomed to pain - like animals. When they hurt them, they immediately have such eyes that you will do anything, just stopped.

Dream whether together, whether to sleep together, but they always cry alone.

Oh, my God, but they say that there is no soul! And what hurts me now? "It's not a tooth, not a head, not a hand, not a breast," no, chest, in the chest, where you breathe, "I breathe deeply: it does not hurt, but all the time hurts, all the time whines, Nesterpimo!

I want such a modest, murderless thing: so that when I enter, a man rejoiced.

We can sometimes love ten years old, lovingly - a lot - two. Inhuman - always alone.