The life and death of Yuri Zhivago. Boris Pasternak

In the novel “Doctor Zhivago” Boris Pasternak “conveys his worldview, his vision of the events that shook our country at the beginning of the 20th century” Gorelov P. Reflections on the novel. // Questions of Literature, 1988, No. 9, P. 58. It is known that Pasternak’s attitude towards the revolution was contradictory. He accepted the ideas of updating social life, but the writer could not help but see how they turned into their opposite. Likewise, the main character of the work, Yuri Zhivago, does not find an answer to the question of how he should live further: what to accept and what not to accept in his new life. In describing the spiritual life of his hero, Boris Pasternak expressed the doubts and intense internal struggle of his generation.

In the novel "Doctor Zhivago" Pasternak revives the "idea of ​​the intrinsic value of the human personality" Manevich G.I. "Doctor Zhivago" as a novel about creativity. // Justifications of creativity, 1990. P. 68.. The personal predominates in the narrative. All artistic means are subordinated to the genre of this novel, which can be conventionally defined as prose of lyrical self-expression. There are, as it were, two planes in the novel: an external one, telling about the life story of Doctor Zhivago, and an internal one, reflecting the spiritual life of the hero. It is more important for the author to convey not the events of Yuri Zhivago’s life, but his spiritual experience. Therefore, the main semantic load in the novel is transferred from the events and dialogues of the characters to their monologues.

The novel is a kind of autobiography of Boris Pasternak, but not in a physical sense (that is, the novel does not reflect the events happening to the author in real life), but in a spiritual sense (the work reflects what happened in the writer’s soul). The spiritual path that Yuri Andreevich Zhivago went through is, as it were, a reflection of Boris Leonidovich Pasternak’s own spiritual path.

Being shaped by the influence of life is Yuri's main trait. Throughout the novel, Yuri Andreevich Zhivago is shown as a person who makes almost no decisions. But he does not object to the decisions of other people, especially those dear and close to him. Yuri Andreevich accepts other people's decisions like a child who does not argue with his parents, he accepts their gifts along with instructions. Yuri does not object to the wedding with Tonya when Anna Ivanovna “conspired” them. He does not object to conscription into the army or a trip to the Urals. “But why argue? You decided to go. “I’m joining,” says Yuri. Having found himself in a partisan detachment, without sharing the views of the partisans, he still remains there, without trying to object.

Yuri is a weak-willed person, but he has a strong mind and intuition. He sees everything, perceives everything, but does not interfere with anything and does what is required of him. He takes part in events, but just as weakly. The element captures him like a grain of sand and carries him as and where it pleases.

However, his complaisance is neither mental weakness nor cowardice. Yuri Andreevich simply follows, submits to what life requires of him. But “Doctor Zhivago is able to defend his position in the face of danger or in situations where his personal honor or beliefs are at stake” Buck D.P. "Doctor Zhivago". B.L. Pasternak: the functioning of the lyrical cycle in the novel as a whole. // Pasternak readings. Perm, 1990., P. 84.. Only outwardly Yuri submits to the elements and events, but they are unable to change his deep spiritual essence. He lives in his own world, in the world of thoughts and feelings. Many submitted to the elements and broke spiritually.

“My friends have become strangely dim and discolored. No one has their own world, their own opinion. They were much more vivid in his memories. ...How quickly everyone faded, how without regret they parted with an independent thought, which apparently no one had ever had!”2 - this is what Yuri thinks about his friends. But the hero himself resists everything that tries to destroy his inner world.

Yuri Andreevich is against violence. According to his observations, violence leads to nothing but violence. Therefore, being in the partisan camp, he does not participate in battles, and even when, due to circumstances, Doctor Zhivago has to take up arms, he tries not to hit people. Unable to endure life in the partisan detachment any longer, the doctor flees from there. Moreover, Yuri Zhivago is burdened not so much by a hard life full of dangers and hardships, but by the sight of a cruel, senseless massacre.

Yuri Andreevich refuses Komarovsky’s tempting offer, sacrificing his love for Lara. He cannot give up his beliefs, so he cannot go with her. The hero is ready to give up his happiness for the sake of the salvation and peace of mind of the woman he loves, and for this he even resorts to deception.

From this we can conclude that Yuri Andreevich Zhivago is only a seemingly submissive and weak-willed person; in the face of life’s difficulties, he is able to make his own decision, defend his convictions, and not break under the onslaught of the elements. Tonya feels his spiritual strength and lack of will. She writes to him: “And I love you. Oh how I love you, if only you could imagine. I love everything special about you, everything advantageous and disadvantageous, all your ordinary sides, dear in their extraordinary combination, a face ennobled by inner content, which without this, perhaps, would seem ugly, talent and intelligence, as if taking the place of a completely absent will. . All this is dear to me, and I don’t know a better person than you.” Antonina Aleksandrovna understands that the lack of will is more than compensated for by the inner strength, spirituality, and talent of Yuri Andreevich, and this is much more important for her.

2.2 Personality and history in the novel. Portrayal of the intelligentsia

G. Gachev’s view of Pasternak’s novel is interesting - he considers the problem and plot of the novel as the problem of a person in the whirlpool of history “In the 20th century, History revealed itself as the enemy of Life, All-Being. History has declared itself a treasure trove of meanings and immortalities. Many are confused, believe science and the newspaper and are sad. Another is a man of culture and Spirit: from history itself he knows that such eras when the whirlpools of historical processes strive to turn a person into a grain of sand have happened more than once (Rome, Napoleon). And he refuses to participate in history, personally begins to create his own space - time, creates an oasis where he lives in true values: in love, nature, freedom of spirit, culture. These are Yuri and Lara.

In the novel “Doctor Zhivago” Boris Pasternak conveys his worldview, his vision of the events that shook our country at the beginning of the 20th century. It is known that Pasternak’s attitude towards the revolution was contradictory. He accepted the ideas of updating social life, but the writer could not help but see how they turned into their opposite. Likewise, the main character of the work, Yuri Zhivago, does not find an answer to the question of how he should live further: what to accept and what not to accept in his new life. In describing the spiritual life of his hero, Boris Pasternak expressed the doubts and intense internal struggle of his generation.

The main question around which the narrative about the external and internal life of the heroes moves is their attitude to the revolution, the influence of turning points in the country's history on their destinies. Yuri Zhivago was not an opponent of the revolution. He understood that history has its own course and cannot be disrupted. But Yuri Zhivago could not help but see the terrible consequences of such a turn in history: “The doctor remembered the recently past autumn, the execution of the rebels, the infanticide and femicide of Palykh, the bloody slaughter and slaughter of people, which had no end in sight. The fanaticism of the whites and reds competed in cruelty, alternately increasing one in response to the other, as if they were multiplied. The blood made me sick, it came up to my throat and rushed to my head, my eyes swam with it.” Yuri Zhivago did not take the revolution with hostility, but did not accept it either. It was somewhere between “for” and “against”.

History can afford to delay the arrival of truth and happiness. She has infinity in reserve, and people have a certain period - life. Amid the turmoil, a person is called upon to orient himself directly to the present, in unconditional values. They are simple: love, meaningful work, the beauty of nature, free thought.”

The main character of the novel, Yuri Zhivago, is a doctor and poet, perhaps even more of a poet than a doctor. For Pasternak, a poet is “a hostage to time in captivity for eternity.” In other words, Yuri Zhivago's view of historical events is a view from the point of view of eternity. He may be mistaken and mistake the temporary for the eternal. In October 17, Yuri accepted the revolution with enthusiasm, calling it “magnificent surgery.” But after he is arrested at night by Red Army soldiers, mistaking him for a spy, and then interrogated by military commissar Strelnikov, Yuri says: “I was very revolutionary, but now I think that violence won’t get you anywhere.” Yuri Zhivago “leaves the game,” refuses medicine, keeps silent about his medical specialty, does not take the side of any of the warring camps, in order to be a spiritually independent person, so that under the pressure of any circumstances he remains himself, “not to give up his face.” After spending more than a year in captivity with the partisans, Yuri directly tells the commander: “When I hear about the remaking of life, I lose power over myself and fall into despair, life itself is always remaking and transforming itself, it itself is much higher than our stupid theories.” By this, Yuri shows that life itself must resolve the historical dispute about who is right and who is wrong.

The hero strives away from the fight and, in the end, leaves the ranks of the combatants. The author does not condemn him. He regards this act as an attempt to evaluate and see the events of the revolution and civil war from a universal human point of view.

The fate of Doctor Zhivago and his loved ones is the story of people whose lives were thrown out of balance and destroyed by the elements of revolution. The Zhivago and Gromeko families leave their settled Moscow home for the Urals to seek refuge “on earth.” Yuri is captured by the Red partisans, and he is forced against his will to participate in the armed struggle. His relatives were expelled from Russia by the new government. Lara becomes completely dependent on successive authorities, and at the end of the story she goes missing. Apparently, she was arrested on the street or died “under some nameless number in one of the countless general or women’s concentration camps in the north.”

“Doctor Zhivago” is a textbook of freedom, starting with style and ending with the ability of an individual to assert his independence from the clutches of history, and Zhivago, in his independence is not an individualist, has not turned his back on people, he is a doctor, he treats people, he is addressed to people.

“... No one makes history, it is not visible, just as you cannot see how grass grows. Wars, revolutions, kings, Robespierres - these are its organic pathogens, its fermenting yeast. Revolutions are produced by effective people, one-sided fanatics, geniuses of self-restraint. They overthrow the old order in a few hours or days. Revolutions last weeks, many years, and then for decades, centuries, the spirit of limitation that led to the revolution is worshiped as a shrine.” - These reflections of Zhivago are important both for understanding Pasternak’s historical views, and his attitude to the revolution, to its events, as some kind of absolute given, the legitimacy of the appearance of which is not subject to discussion.

Doctor Zhivago is a novel about the fate of man in history. The image of the road is central in it” Isupov K.G. “Doctor Zhivago” as a rhetorical epic (about the aesthetic philosophy of B.L. Pasternak). // Isupov K.G. Russian aesthetics of history. St. Petersburg, 1992., p. 10.. The plot of the novel is laid out like rails are laid... plot lines meander, the fates of the heroes rush into the distance and constantly intersect in unexpected places - like railway tracks. “Doctor Zhivago” is a novel of the era of scientific, philosophical and aesthetic revolution, the era of religious searches and pluralization of scientific and artistic thinking; era of the destruction of norms that had previously seemed unshakable and universal, this is a novel of social catastrophes.

B. L. Pasternak wrote the novel “Doctor Zhivago” in prose, but he, a talented poet, could not help but pour out his soul on its pages in a way closer to his heart - in poetry. The book of poems by Yuri Zhivago, separated into a separate chapter, fits completely organically into the main text of the novel. She is a part of it, not a poetic insertion. In his poems, Yuri Zhivago talks about his time and himself - this is his spiritual biography. The book of poems opens with the theme of upcoming suffering and the awareness of its inevitability, and ends with the theme of its voluntary acceptance and atoning sacrifice. In the poem “The Garden of Gethsemane,” in the words of Jesus Christ addressed to the Apostle Peter: “The dispute cannot be resolved with iron. Put your sword in its place, man,” Yuri says that it is impossible to establish the truth with the help of weapons. People like B. L. Pasternak, disgraced, persecuted, “unprintable”, he remained for us a Man with a capital P.

Yuri Zhivago repeats the path of Christ not only in suffering. He participates in the divine nature of Christ and is his companion. The poet, with his gift of seeing the essence of things and existence, participates in the work of creating living reality. The idea of ​​the poet as a participant in the creative divine work is one of those thoughts that occupied Pasternak all his life and which he formulated in his early youth.

In the fourteenth poem of the cycle “August,” the idea of ​​the poet’s involvement in the creation of a miracle is most clearly expressed. The hero of the poem has a presentiment of imminent death, says goodbye to work, and meanwhile the foliage is burning, illuminated by the light of the transformed Lord. The light of the Transfiguration of the Lord, captured in the word, remains to live forever thanks to the poet: “Farewell, azure of the Transfiguration // And the gold of the second Savior... // ... And the image of the world, revealed in the word, // And creativity, and miracles” [Pasternak, 2010, p. 310].

The construction of the image of Yuri Zhivago differs from that accepted in classical realism: his character is “given”. From the very beginning, he has the ability to put his thoughts into poetic words, from an early age he takes on the mission of a preacher, or rather, he is expected and asked to preach. But the messianic in Yuri Zhivago is inseparable from the earthly. Immersion in life, completely devoid of snobbery, this fusion with earthly flesh makes Yuri Andreevich receptive to the world, makes it possible to discern in the litter and trifles of everyday life glimpses of the beauty of earthly life, hidden from people. [Leiderman, Lipovetsky, 2003, p. 28].

According to Pasternak, poetic creativity is a work equal to God. The process of poetic creativity itself is depicted in the novel as a divine act, as a miracle, and the appearance of the poet is perceived as the “appearance of Christmas.” In their own creations, poets perpetuate life, overcome death, embodying everything that existed in words.

The novel does not end with the death of Doctor Zhivago. It ends with poetry - with the fact that it cannot die. Zhivago is not only a doctor, he is also a poet. Many pages of the novel are autobiographical, especially those devoted to poetic creativity. D.S. Likhachev says in his “Reflections on the novel by B.L. Pasternak’s “Doctor Zhivago”: “These poems were written from one person - the poems have one author and one common lyrical hero. Yu.A. Zhivago is Pasternak’s lyrical hero, who remains a lyricist even in prose.” [Likhachev, 1998, vol. 2, p. 7].

The writer, through the mouth of the lyrical hero Yuri Zhivago, speaks about the purpose of art: “It relentlessly reflects on death and relentlessly creates life through this” [Pasternak, 2010, p. 58]. For Zhivago, creativity is life. According to Zhivago, “art has never seemed like an object or aspect of form, but rather a mysterious and hidden part of content” [Pasternak, 2010, p. 165]. The author, being extremely sincere, shows the moment of inspiration when the pen cannot keep up with the thought: “...And he experienced the approach of what is called inspiration...” [Pasternak, 2010, p. 252]. The author also makes the reader a witness and participant in the most difficult work on the word: “But what tormented him even more was the anticipation of the evening and the desire to cry out this melancholy in such an expression that everyone would cry...” [Pasternak, 2010, p. 254].

Pasternak exposes Zhivago's creative process. The lyrical hero is the clearest expression of the poet. According to D.S. Likhachev, “there are no differences between the poetic imagery of the speeches and thoughts of the main character of the novel. Zhivago is the exponent of Pasternak’s innermost.” [Likhachev , 1998, vol. 2, p. 7]. Yu. Zhivago’s life credo is freedom from dogma, any parties, complete freedom from reason, life and creativity by inspiration, and not by coercion (Sima’s conversation with Lara about the Christian understanding of life): “She wanted to be with him at least for a little while.” with help to break free, into fresh air, from the abyss of suffering that entangled her, to experience, as it used to be, the happiness of liberation” [Pasternak, 2010, p. 288].

The motive of love is combined with the motive of poetic creativity in the novel. In Pasternak’s value system, love is equal to poetry, for it is also insight, also a miracle, also a creation. And at the same time, love becomes the main reward for the poet: Tonya - Lara - Marina - this is, in a certain sense, a single image - the image of a loving, devoted, grateful one. Life manifests itself most brightly and fully in love. Love is shown in everyday, ordinary expression. Love and beauty are depicted by the writer in a purely everyday manner, using everyday details and sketches. Here, for example, is an image of Lara’s appearance through the eyes of Yuri Andreevich. [Pasternak, 2010, p. 171]. Love for Yuri Zhivago is connected with the life of home, family, marriage (both with Tonya and Lara). Tonya personifies a family hearth, a family, a person’s native circle of life. With the advent of Lara, this circle of life expands; it includes reflections on the fate of Russia, the revolution, and nature.

All the years of Yuri’s tragic life were supported by creativity. “The Poems of Yuri Zhivago” constitute the most important part of the novel, performing a variety of functions in it, for example, conveying the hero’s inner world (the poem “Separation”).

Thus, the novel “Doctor Zhivago” is a novel about creativity. The idea of ​​the human personality as a place where time and eternity converge was the subject of intense thought by Pasternak both at the beginning and at the end of his creative career. The idea that to live means to realize the eternal in the temporal underlies the idea of ​​​​the purpose of the poet in the novel “Doctor Zhivago”: everything in the world is filled with meaning through the word of the poet and thus enters into human history.

The hum died down. I went on stage.
Leaning against the door frame,
I catch in a distant echo
What will happen in my lifetime.

The darkness of the night is pointed at me
A thousand binoculars on the axis.
If possible, Abba Father,
Carry this cup past.

I love your stubborn plan
And I agree to play this role.
But now there is another drama,
And this time fire me.

But the order of actions has been thought out,
And the end of the road is inevitable.
I am alone, everything is drowning in pharisaism.
Living life is not a field to cross.

The sun warms up to the point of sweat,
And the ravine is raging, stupefied.
Like a hefty cowgirl's work,
Spring is in full swing.

The snow withers and is sick with anemia
There were impotent blue veins in the branches.
But life is smoking in the cow shed,
And the teeth of the forks glow with health.

These nights, these days and nights!
Fraction of drops by the middle of the day,
Roofing icicles are thin,
Streams of sleepless chatter!

Everything is wide open, the stables and the cowshed.
Pigeons in the snow peck oats,
And the life-giving and culprit of all, -
The manure smells like fresh air.

3. ON PASSIONATE

There is still darkness all around.
It's still so early in the world,
That there are no number of stars in the sky,
And each one is as bright as day,
And if the earth could,
She would have slept through Easter
While reading the Psalter.

There is still darkness all around.
It's so early in the world,
That the square lay down for eternity
From the crossroads to the corner,
And until dawn and warmth
Another millennium.

The earth is still naked,
And she has nothing to wear at night
Rock the bells
And echo the singers at will.

And from Holy Thursday
Until Holy Saturday
Water drills the shores
And it creates whirlpools.

And the forest is stripped and uncovered,
And at the Passion of Christ,
How the line of worshipers stands
A crowd of pine trunks.

And in the city, on a small
In space, as if at a meeting,
The trees look naked
In church bars.

And their gaze is filled with horror.
Their concern is understandable.
Gardens emerge from the fences,
The order of the earth is wavering:
They are burying God.

And they see the light at the royal gates,
And a black board, and a row of candles,
Tear-stained faces -
And suddenly there’s a procession of the cross
Comes out with a shroud
And two birches at the gate
We must step aside.

And the procession goes around the yard
Along the edge of the sidewalk
And brings from the street into the porch
Spring, spring conversation
And the air tastes like prosphora
And spring frenzy.

And March scatters snow
There's a crowd of cripples on the porch,
It's as if a man came out
And he brought it out and opened the ark,
And he gave it all away.

And the singing lasts until dawn,
And, having cried a lot,
They come quieter from inside
In vacant lots under street lights
Psalter or Apostle.

But at midnight creation and flesh will fall silent,
Hearing the spring rumor,
It's just clearing weather,
Death can be overcome
With the strength of Sunday.

4. WHITE NIGHT

I imagine a distant time,
House on the St. Petersburg Side.
The daughter of a poor steppe landowner,
You are on a course, you are from Kursk.

You are cute, you have fans.
On this white night we both
Perched on your windowsill,
Looking down from your skyscraper.

Lanterns are like gas butterflies,
The morning touched with the first tremors.
What I tell you quietly,
It looks like sleeping distances.

We are covered by the same
With timid fidelity to the secret,
Like a panorama spread out
Petersburg beyond the endless Neva.

There in the distance, along the dense tracts,
This white spring night,
Nightingales thunder with praise
The forest limits are announced.

To those places as a barefoot wanderer
The night creeps along the fence,
And he’s reaching for her from the windowsill
A trace of an overheard conversation.

And the trees are white like ghosts
They pour out in crowds onto the road,
Like making farewell signs
White night, which has seen so much.

5. SPRING MISS

The sunset lights were fading.
The muddy road in the remote forest
To a distant village in the Urals
A man was trundling along on horseback.

The horse was shaking its spleen,
And the ringing of spanking horseshoes
Dear echoed after
Water in spring funnels.

When did you let go of the reins?
And the horseman rode at a pace,
The flood rolled by
All the noise and roar is nearby.

Someone laughed, someone cried,
Stones crumbled on flints,
And fell into the whirlpools
Uprooted stumps.

And in the conflagration of sunset,
In the distant darkness of the branches,
Like a loud alarm bell
The nightingale was furious.

Where is the widow's willow?
Klonila, hanging into the ravine,
Like the ancient nightingale the robber
He whistled on seven oak trees.

What trouble, what sweetness
Was this fervor intended?
At whom with shotgun pellets
Did he run through the thicket?

It seemed that he would come out as a devil
From the resting place of escaped convicts
Towards those on horseback or on foot
Outposts of the local partisans.

Earth and sky, forest and field
We caught this rare sound,
Measured these shares
Madness, pain, happiness, torment.

6. EXPLANATION

Life returned just as without reason,
How strangely it was once interrupted
I'm on the same old street,
Like then, on that summer day and hour.

The same people and the same concerns,
And the fire of the sunset did not cool down,
What's it like then to the wall of the Manege
The evening of death hastily nailed it down.

Women in a cheap meal
Shoes also trample at night.
Then put them on the roofing iron
Attics are also crucified.

Here's one with a tired gait
Slowly coming to the threshold
And, rising from the basement,
Crosses the yard diagonally.

I'm making excuses again
And again everything is indifferent to me.
And the neighbor, rounding the backyard,
Leaves us alone.

Don't cry, don't wrinkle your swollen lips,
Don't bunch them up.
You will unravel the dried scab
Spring fever.

Take your hand off my chest
We are live wires.
To each other again, look at that
He will leave us inadvertently.

Years will pass, you will get married,
You will forget the troubles.
Being a woman is a great step
To drive you crazy is heroism.

And I’m in front of the miracle of women’s hands,
Backs and shoulders and necks
And so with the affection of servants
I have been in awe all my life.

But no matter how the night binds
Me with a sad ring,
The strongest pull in the world
And the passion for breakups attracts.

7. SUMMER IN THE CITY

From under the ridge of heavy
A woman in a helmet looks
Throwing your head back
Along with all the braids.

And it's hot outside
The night promises bad weather,
And they disperse, shuffling,
Pedestrians go home.

The thunder is heard abruptly,
Resounding sharply
And it sways in the wind
There is a curtain on the window.

Silence falls
But it still soars
And still lightning
They fumble and fumble in the sky.

And when it’s radiant
It's a hot morning again
Dries boulevard puddles
After the overnight rain,

They look gloomy on occasion
Your lack of sleep
Age-old, fragrant,
Unfaded linden trees.

I'm finished, but you're alive.
And the wind, complaining and crying,
Rocks the forest and the dacha.
Not every pine tree separately,
And all the trees
With all the boundless distance,
Like sailboats' bodies
On the surface of the ship's bay.
And this is not out of daring
Or out of aimless rage,
And in order to find words in melancholy
A lullaby for you.

Under a willow tree entwined with ivy.
We seek protection from bad weather.
Our shoulders are covered with a cloak.
My arms are wrapped around you.

I made a mistake. Bushes of these bowls
Not entwined with ivy, but with hops
Well, better give me this raincoat
We'll spread it out wide underneath us.

10. INDIAN SUMMER

The currant leaf is rough and fabric-like.
There is laughter in the house and the glass is clinking,
They chop it, and ferment it, and pepper it,
And cloves are put into the marinade.

The forest is abandoned like a mocker,
This noise on a steep slope,
Where is the sun-burnt hazel tree?
As if scorched by the heat of a fire.

Here the road descends into a gully,
Here and dried old driftwood,
And I feel sorry for the rags of autumn,
Sweeping everything into this ravine.

And the fact that the universe is simpler,
What does the cunning man think otherwise?
It’s like a grove has been lowered into water,
That everything comes to an end.

That it's pointless to bat your eyes,
When everything in front of you is burned,
And autumn white soot
A cobweb pulls out the window.

The passage from the garden in the fence is broken
And gets lost in the birch forest.
There is laughter and economic hubbub in the house,
The same hubbub and laughter in the distance.

11. WEDDING

Having crossed the edge of the yard,
Guests for a party
To the bride's house until morning
We went with Talyanka.

Behind the master's doors
Upholstered in felt
Quiet from one to seven
The chatter is fragments.

And I will dawn, in the very dream,
Just sleep and sleep,
The accordion began to sing again,
Leaving the wedding.

And the accordion player scattered
Back on the button accordion
The splash of palms, the shine of the monist,
The noise and din of the festivities.

And again, again, again
Saying ditties
Straight to the sleepers on the bed
Barged in from a party.

And one is as white as snow,
In the noise, whistle, din
The peahen swam again,
Moving your sides.

Waving my head
And with my right hand,
In a dance along the pavement,
Pow, pow, pow.

Suddenly the enthusiasm and noise of the game,
The tramp of the round dance,
Falling into tartarars,
They sank as if into water.

The noisy courtyard woke up.
Business echo
Interfered with the conversation
And peals of laughter.

Into the vastness of the sky, up
A swirl of bluish spots
A flock of pigeons flew
Taking off from the dovecotes.

Exactly after the wedding
Having woken up from sleep,
Wishing you many years to come
They sent in pursuit.

Life is also only a moment,
Only dissolution
Ourselves in all others
As if as a gift to them.

Only a wedding, deep into the windows
Tearing from below,
Only a song, only a dream,
Only a gray dove.

I let my family leave,
All loved ones have long been in disarray,
And the everlasting loneliness
Everything is complete in the heart and nature.

And here I am here with you in the guardhouse,
The forest is deserted and deserted.
Like in the song, stitches and paths
Half overgrown.

Now we are alone with sadness
The log walls look out.
We did not promise to take barriers,
We will die openly.

We'll sit down at one and get up at three,
I'm with a book, you're with embroidery,
And at dawn we won’t notice,
How to stop kissing.

Even more magnificent and reckless
Make noise, fall off, leaves,
And a cup of yesterday's bitterness
Exceed today's melancholy.

Affection, attraction, charm!
Let's dissipate in the September noise!
Bury yourself in the autumn rustle!
Freeze or go crazy!

You also take off your dress,
Like a grove shedding its leaves,
When you fall into a hug
In a robe with a silk tassel.

You are the blessing of a disastrous step,
When life is sicker than illness,
And the root of beauty is courage,
And this draws us to each other.

13. TALE

In the old days, in time,
In a fairy land
The horseman made his way
The steppe along the turnips.

He was in a hurry to get to the point,
And in the steppe dust
Dark forest towards you
Grew up far away.

Zealous whining
It scratched my heart:
Be afraid of the watering hole
Pull up your saddle.

The horseman didn't listen
And at full speed
Flew into overdrive
On a forest hill.

Turned from the mound,
I entered dry land,
Passed the clearing
Crossed the mountain.

And wandered into a hollow
And the forest path
Went out to the beast
Trail and watering hole.

And deaf to the call,
And without heeding my instincts,
Led the horse off a cliff
Go to the stream for a drink.

There's a cave by the stream,
There is a ford in front of the cave.
Like a flame of sulfur
The entrance was illuminated.

And in the crimson smoke,
Overshadowed by the vision,
By a distant call
The boron announced.

And then by the ravine,
Startled, straight
Touched by equestrian step
To the calling cry.

And the horseman saw
And pressed himself to the spear,
Dragon's head
Tail and scales.

Flame from the throat
He scattered the light
Three rings around the maiden
Wrapping the ridge.

Body of a snake
Like the end of a scourge,
Reined by the neck
At her shoulder.

That country's custom
Captive beauty
Gave it away as spoils
A monster in the forest.

Territory population
Their huts
Redeemed pennies
This one is from a snake.

The serpent wrapped around her hand
And entwined the larynx,
Having received flour
To sacrifice this tribute.

Looked with prayer
Horseman to the heights of heaven
And a spear for battle
I took it at the ready.

Closed eyelids.
Heights. Clouds.
Water. Brody. Rivers.
Years and centuries.

A horseman with a knocked-down helmet,
Knocked down in battle.
Faithful horse, hoof
Trampling a snake.

Horse and dragon corpse
Nearby on the sand.
The horseman is fainting,
The virgin is in tetanus.

The vault was bright at noon,
The blue is tender.
Who is she? Princess?
Daughter of the earth? Princess?

That's in excess of happiness
Tears in three streams,
Then the soul is in power
Sleep and oblivion.

That is the return of health,
That real estate lived
From blood loss
And loss of strength.

But their hearts beat.
Either she or he
They are trying to wake up
And they fall asleep.

Closed eyelids.
Heights. Clouds.
Water. Brody. Rivers.
Years and centuries.

As promised, without deceiving,
The sun came through early in the morning
An oblique strip of saffron
From curtain to sofa.

It covered with hot ocher
The neighboring forest, the houses of the village,
My bed, wet pillow
And the edge of the wall behind the bookshelf.

I remembered why
The pillow is slightly moistened.
I dreamed that someone was coming to see me off
You walked through the forest one after another.

You walked in a crowd, separately and in pairs,
Suddenly someone remembered that today
The sixth of August in the old days,
Transfiguration.

Usually light without flame
Coming from Tabor on this day,
And autumn, clear as a sign,
Eyes are drawn to yourself.

And you went through the petty, beggarly,
Naked, trembling alder
Into the immoral red cemetery forest,
Burnt like a printed gingerbread.

With its hushed peaks
The neighboring sky is important
And the voices of roosters
The distance echoed protractedly.

In the forest by a government land surveyor
Death stood in the midst of the graveyard,
Looking into my dead face,
To dig a hole according to my height.

Was physically felt by everyone
A calm voice from someone nearby.
That is my old prophetic voice
Sounded untouched by decay:

"Farewell, Preobrazhenskaya azure"
And the gold of the second Savior,
Soften with the last feminine caress
I feel the bitterness of the fateful hour.

Goodbye years of timelessness.
Say goodbye to the abyss of humiliation
A challenging woman!
I am your battlefield.

Goodbye, wingspan spread,
Flight of free perseverance,
And the image of the world, revealed in words,
And creativity and miracles."

15. WINTER NIGHT

Chalk, chalk all over the earth
To all limits.
The candle was burning on the table,
The candle was burning.

Like a swarm of midges in summer
Flies into the flames
Flakes flew from the yard
To the window frame.

A snowstorm sculpted on the glass
Circles and arrows.
The candle was burning on the table,
The candle was burning.

To the illuminated ceiling
The shadows were falling
Crossing of arms, crossing of legs,
Crossing fates.

And two shoes fell
With a thud to the floor.
And wax with tears from the night light
It was dripping on my dress.

And everything was lost in the snowy darkness
Gray and white.
The candle was burning on the table,
The candle was burning.

There was a blow on the candle from the corner,
And the heat of temptation
Raised two wings like an angel
Crosswise.

It was snowy all month in February,
Every now and then
The candle was burning on the table,
The candle was burning.

16. SEPARATION

A man looks from the threshold,
Not recognizing home.
Her departure was like an escape,
There are signs of destruction everywhere.

The rooms are in chaos everywhere.
He measures ruin
Doesn't notice because of tears
And a migraine attack.

There is some noise in my ears in the morning.
Is he in memory or dreaming?
And why is it on his mind
Are you still thinking about the sea?

When through the frost on the window
The light of God is not visible
The hopelessness of melancholy is doubly
Similar to the desert of the sea.

She was so precious
He doesn't care,
How close the shores are to the sea
The entire surf line.

How the reeds flood
Excitement after the storm
Sank to the bottom of his soul
Its features and forms.

During the years of ordeal, during the times
Unthinkable life
She is a wave of fate from the bottom
She was nailed to him.

Among the obstacles without number,
Bypassing dangers
The wave carried her, carried her
And she drove close.

And now her departure,
Violent, perhaps.
Separation will eat them both,
Melancholy will devour the bones.

And the man looks around:
She is at the moment of leaving
Turned everything upside down
From dresser drawers.

He wanders until dark
Puts it in a box
Scattered rags
And a sample pattern.

And got stuck about sewing
With a needle not removed,
Suddenly sees everything of her
And he cries quietly.

17. DATE

The snow will cover the roads,
The roof slopes will collapse.
I'll go stretch my legs:
You are standing outside the door.

Alone in an autumn coat,
Without a hat, without galoshes,
Are you struggling with anxiety?
And you chew wet snow.

Trees and fences
They go into the distance, into the darkness.
Alone in the snow
You're standing on the corner.

Water flows from the scarf
By the cuffs of the sleeves,
And drops of dewdrops
Sparkles in your hair.

And a strand of blond hair
Illuminated: face,
Headscarf and figure
And this is a coat.

The snow on the eyelashes is wet,
There's sadness in your eyes,
And your whole appearance is harmonious
From one piece.

As if with iron
Dipped in antimony
You were led by cutting
According to my heart.

And it stuck in him forever
The humility of these features
And that's why it doesn't matter
That the world is hard-hearted.

And that’s why it doubles
All this night in the snow,
And draw boundaries
Between us I can't.

But who are we and where are we from?
When from all those years
There are rumors left
Are we not in the world?

18. CHRISTMAS STAR

It was winter.
The wind was blowing from the steppe.
And it was cold for the baby in the den
On the hillside.

The breath of the ox warmed him.
Pets
We stood in a cave
A warm haze floated over the manger.

Shaking off the dust from the bed
And millet grains,
Watched from the cliff
Shepherds wake up in the midnight distance.

In the distance there was a field in the snow and a churchyard,
Fences, gravestones,
Shaft in a snowdrift,
And the sky above the cemetery is full of stars.

And nearby, unknown before,
Shy than a bowl
At the gatehouse window
A star twinkled on the way to Bethlehem.

She was burning like a haystack to the side
From heaven and God,
Like the glow of arson,
Like a farm on fire and a fire on a threshing floor.

She rose like a burning stack
Straw and hay
In the middle of the whole universe,
Alarmed by this new star.

The growing glow glowed above her
And it meant something
And three stargazers
They hurried to the call of unprecedented lights.

They were followed by gifts on camels.
And donkeys in harness, one small one
The other one was walking down the mountain in small steps.
And a strange vision of the coming time
Everything that came after stood up in the distance.
All the thoughts of centuries, all dreams, all worlds,
All the future of galleries and museums,
All the pranks of fairies, all the deeds of sorcerers,
All the Christmas trees in the world, all the dreams of children.

All the thrill of warmed candles, all the chains,
All the splendor of colored tinsel...
...The wind from the steppe blew angrier and more fiercely...
...All apples, all golden balls.

Part of the pond was hidden by the tops of alder trees,
But some of it was clearly visible from here
Through the nests of rooks and treetops.
As donkeys and camels walked along the dam,
The shepherds could see it clearly.
“Let’s go with everyone, let’s worship the miracle,”
They said, wrapping their covers around them.

The shuffling through the snow made it hot.
Through a bright clearing with sheets of mica
Barefoot footprints led behind the shack.
On these traces, like on the flame of a cinder,
The shepherds grumbled in the light of the star.

The frosty night was like a fairy tale,
And someone from a snowy ridge
All the time he was invisibly part of their ranks.
The dogs wandered, looking around cautiously,
And they huddled close to the shepherd and waited for trouble.

Along the same road, through the same area
Several angels walked in the midst of the crowd.
Their incorporeality made them invisible,
But the step left a footprint.

A crowd of people was crowding around the stone.
It was getting light. Cedar trunks appeared.
- Who are you? - asked Maria.
- We are a shepherd's tribe and ambassadors of heaven,
We have come to praise you both.
- We can’t do it all together. Wait at the entrance.

In the midst of the gray, ash-like pre-dawn haze
Drivers and sheep breeders trampled,
Pedestrians were arguing with the riders,
At a hollowed out watering hole
Camels brayed and donkeys kicked.

It was getting light. Dawn is like specks of ash,
The last stars were swept from the sky.
And only the Magi from the countless rabble
Mary let him into the hole in the rock.

He slept, all shining, in an oak manger,
Like a ray of moonlight in the hollow of a hollow.
They replaced his sheepskin coat
Donkey lips and ox nostrils.

We stood in the shadows, as if in the darkness of a stable,
They whispered, barely finding words.
Suddenly someone in the dark, a little to the left
He pushed the sorcerer away from the manger with his hand,
And he looked back: from the threshold at the maiden
The Christmas star looked on like a guest.

19. DAWN

You meant everything in my destiny.
Then came the war, devastation,
And for a long time about you
There was no hearing, no spirit.

I want to be with people, in the crowd,
In their morning excitement.
I'm ready to smash everything into pieces
And bring everyone to their knees.

And I'm running up the stairs
It's like I'm going out for the first time
To these streets in the snow
And extinct pavements.

Everywhere there are lights, comfort,
They drink tea and hurry to the trams.
Within a few minutes
The appearance of the city is unrecognizable.

At the gate the blizzard knits a net
From densely falling flakes,
And in order to be on time,
Everyone is rushing around half-eaten and half-drunk.

I feel for them all
It's like being in their shoes
I'm melting like snow melts,
I myself frown like morning.

There are people with no names with me,
Trees, children, homebodies.
I'm defeated by them all
And only in that is my victory.

He walked from Bethany to Jerusalem,
We are tormented in advance by the sadness of forebodings.

The thorny bushes on the steep slope were burned out,
Smoke did not move above the neighbor's hut,
The air was hot and the reeds were motionless,
And the peace of the Dead Sea is unmoving.

And in bitterness that rivaled the bitterness of the sea,
He walked with a small crowd of clouds
Along a dusty road to someone's farmstead,
I was going to the city for a gathering of students.

And so he went deep into his thoughts,
That the field in despondency smelled of wormwood.
Everything was quiet. He stood alone in the middle
And the area lay in oblivion.
Everything is mixed up: warmth and desert,
And lizards, and springs, and streams.

There was a fig tree not far away,
No fruit at all, just branches and leaves.
And he said to her: “For what gain are you?
What joy do I have in your tetanus?

I thirst and hunger, and you are an empty flower,
And meeting you is more bleak than granite.
Oh, how offensive and untalented you are!
Stay like this until the end of your life."

A shudder of condemnation ran through the tree,
Like a lightning spark on a lightning rod.
The fig tree was burned to ashes.

Find yourself a moment of freedom at this time
At the leaves, branches, and roots, and trunk,
If only the laws of nature could intervene.
But a miracle is a miracle, and a miracle is God.
When we are in confusion, then in the midst of confusion
It hits you instantly, by surprise.

To Moscow mansions
Spring is rushing in.
Moths flutter out behind the closet
And crawls on summer hats,
And they hide their fur coats in chests.

On wooden mezzanines
There are flower pots
With gillyflower and wallflower,
And the rooms breathe freely,
And the attics smell of dust.

And the street is familiar
With a blind window,
And white night and sunset
You can't miss the river.

And you can hear in the corridor,
What's happening in the open air
What's in a casual conversation?
April speaks with a drop.
He knows thousands of stories
About human grief
And the dawns are freezing along the fences,
And they drag out this rigmarole.
And the same mixture of fire and horror
In freedom and in the comfort of living,
And everywhere the air is not itself.
And the same willows have through twigs,
And the same white kidneys swelling
And at the window, and at the crossroads,
On the street and in the workshop.

Why is the distance crying in the fog,
And does humus smell bitter?
That's what my calling is,
So that distances don't get boring,
To beyond the city limits
The earth does not grieve alone.

For this, in early spring
Friends come to me
And our evenings are farewells,
Our feasts are testaments,
So that the secret stream of suffering
Warmed the cold of existence.

22. BAD DAYS

When in the last week
He entered Jerusalem
Hosannas thundered towards us,
They ran with branches after him.

And the days are getting more menacing and harsher,
Love cannot touch hearts,
Eyebrows knitted contemptuously
And here is the afterword, the end.

With all the lead weight
The heavens fell on the courtyards.
The Pharisees were looking for evidence,
Julia is in front of him like a fox.

And the dark forces of the temple
He was handed over to the scum for trial,
And with the same ardor,
As they praised before, they curse.

Crowd in the neighboring area
I looked from the gate,
Pushed around waiting for the outcome
And they poked back and forth.

And a whisper crept in the neighborhood,
And rumors from many sides.
And flight to Egypt and childhood
Already remembered like a dream.

I remember the majestic stingray
In the desert, and that steepness,
With which world power
Satan tempted him.

And the wedding feast at Cana,
And the table marveling at the miracle,
And the sea, which is in the fog
He walked towards the boat as if on dry land.

And a bunch of poor people in a shack,
And the descent with a candle into the basement,
Where suddenly she faded away in fright,
When the resurrected man stood up...

23. MAGDALENE I

It's a little night, my demon is right there,
This is my retribution for the past.
They will come and suck my heart
Memories of debauchery
When, a slave to men's whims,
I was a crazy fool
And the street was my shelter.

A few minutes left
And there will be deathly silence.
But before they pass,
I have reached my life, having reached the edge,
Like an alabaster vessel,
I'm breaking it in front of you.

Oh where would I be now?
My teacher and my Savior,
Whenever at night at the table
Eternity wouldn't wait for me
Like new, online crafts
I'm an attracted visitor.

But explain what sin means
And death and hell and brimstone fire,
When I'm in front of everyone
With you, like with a tree, an escape
Grown together in my immeasurable melancholy.

When your feet, Jesus,
Lean on your knees,
Maybe I'm learning to hug
Cross tetrahedral beam
And, losing my senses, I rush to the body,
Preparing you for burial.

24. MAGDALENE II

People are cleaning before the holiday.
Away from this crowd
I wash with myrrh from a bucket
I am your most pure feet.

I search around and don’t find the sandals.
I can't see anything because of the tears.
A veil fell over my eyes
Strands of flowing hair.

I rested your feet on the hem,
I drenched them in tears, Jesus,
She wrapped a string of beads around their throats,
She buried it in her hair like a burnous.

I see the future in such detail
It's like you stopped him.
I can predict now
The prophetic clairvoyance of the Sibyls.

Tomorrow the temple curtain will fall,
We'll gather in a circle to the side,
And the earth will shake under your feet,
Maybe out of pity for me.

The ranks of the convoy will be reorganized,
And the riders' departure will begin.
Like a tornado in a storm, overhead
This cross will be torn to the sky.

I will throw myself on the ground at the feet of the crucifix,
I will faint and bite my lips.
Too many arms to hug
You will spread along the ends of the cross.

For whom there is so much breadth in the world,
So much torment and such power?
Are there so many souls and lives in the world?
So many settlements, rivers and groves?

But these three days will pass
And they will push you into such emptiness,
What is this terrible interval?
I'll grow up before Sunday.

25. GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE

The twinkling of distant stars makes no difference
The turn of the road was illuminated.
The road went around the Mount of Olives,
The Kidron flowed below it.

The lawn was cut off in half.
The Milky Way began behind it.
Gray silver olives
They tried to walk into the distance through the air.

At the end there was someone's garden, an allotment of land.
Leaving the students behind the wall,
He told them: “The soul grieves mortally,
Stay here and watch with me."

He refused without confrontation,
As from things borrowed,
From omnipotence and wonderworking,
And now he was like mortals, like us.

The distance of the night now seemed like an edge
Destruction and non-existence.
The expanse of the universe was uninhabited,
And only the garden was a place to live.

And, looking into these black gaps,
Empty, without beginning and end,
So that this cup of death passes,
In a bloody sweat he prayed to his father.

Having softened mortal languor with prayer,
He went outside the fence. On the ground
The students, overcome by sleep,
They were lying in the roadside feather grass.

He woke them up: “The Lord has granted you
To live in my days, you are spread out like a sheet.
The hour of the Son of Man has struck.
He will betray himself into the hands of sinners."

And he just said, out of nowhere
A crowd of slaves and a crowd of vagabonds,
Fires, swords and ahead - Judas
With a treacherous kiss on his lips.

Peter fought back the thugs with a sword
And he cut off the ear of one of them.
But he hears: “The dispute cannot be resolved with iron,
Put your sword back, man.

Is it really the darkness of the winged legions
Wouldn't my father have equipped me here?
And then without touching a hair on me,
The enemies would have dispersed without a trace.

But the book of life has come to the page,
Which is more expensive than all shrines.
Now what is written must come true,
Let it come true. Amen.

You see, the passage of centuries is like a parable
And it can catch fire while driving.
In the name of her terrible greatness
I will go to the grave in voluntary torment.

I will go down to the grave and on the third day I will rise,
And, as rafts are floated down the river,
To my court, like the barges of a caravan,
Centuries will float out of the darkness."

"Doctor Zhivago"; a successful medic who served during the war; husband of Antonina Gromeko and half-brother of Major General Efgraf Zhivago. Yuri was orphaned early, losing first his mother, who died as a result of a long illness, and then his father, who, while intoxicated, jumped from a train moving at full speed. His life was not easy. As the author himself said, he came up with the hero’s surname from an expression taken from a prayer: “God Zhivago.” The phrase implied an association with Jesus Christ, “who heals all living things.” This is how Pasternak wanted to see his character.

It is believed that the prototype of the hero was the author himself, or rather his spiritual biography. He himself said that Doctor Zhivago should be associated not only with him, but rather with Blok, with Mayakovsky, perhaps even with Yesenin, that is, with those authors who passed away early, leaving behind a valuable volume of poetry. The novel covers the entire first half of the twentieth century, and the doctor passes away in the turning point year of 1929. It turns out that in some sense it is an autobiographical novel, but in another sense it is not. Yuri Andreevich witnessed the October Revolution and the First World War. At the front he was a practicing doctor, and at home he was a caring husband and father.

However, events developed in such a way that all life went contrary to the established order in society. At first he was left without parents, then he was raised in a family of distant relatives. He subsequently married the daughter of his benefactors, Tanya Gromeko, although he was more attracted to the mysterious Lara Guichard, whose tragedy he could not know then. Over time, life brought these two together, but they did not stay together for long. The homewrecker was the same ill-fated lawyer Komarovsky, after a conversation with whom Yuri’s father jumped out of the train.

In addition to healing, Zhivago was interested in literature and writing poetry. After his death, friends and family discovered notebooks in which he wrote down his poems. One of them began with the words: “The candle was burning on the table, the candle was burning...” It was born in his head that evening when he and Tonya were heading to the Christmas tree with friends and witnessed how Lara shot her mother’s lover. This incident remained forever in his memory. That same evening she explained herself to Pasha Antipov, who became her legal husband. Events developed in such a way that Lara and Pasha broke up, and Yura, after being wounded, ended up in the hospital where she worked as a nurse. There an explanation took place, during which Yura admitted that he loved her.

The doctor's wife and two children were expelled from the country and emigrated to France. Tonya knew about his relationship with Lara, but continued to love him. The turning point for him was the separation from Larisa, who was taken away by Komarovsky in a fraudulent manner. After this, Zhivago completely neglected himself, did not want to practice medicine and was not interested in anything. The only thing that fascinated him was poetry. At first he had a good attitude towards the revolution, but after being in captivity, where he had to shoot living people, he changed his enthusiasm to compassion for innocent people. He deliberately refused to participate in history.

Essentially, this character lived the life he wanted to live. Outwardly he looked weak-willed, but in fact he had a strong mind and good intuition. Zhivago died of a heart attack that happened to him on a crowded tram. Larisa Antipova (Guichard) was also at his funeral. As it turned out, she had a daughter from Yuri, whom she was forced to give up to be raised by a stranger. After his death, his half-brother Evgraf Zhivago took care of his niece and his brother’s work.