The life path of Yuri Zhivago. The life and death of Yuri Zhivago

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
The 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,
Just 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."

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.

parsnip novel doctor zhivago

From early childhood, Yuri was accompanied by grief and failure. The mother dies, the father did not even want to see his orphaned son. The author begins the novel with the funeral of Marya Nikolaevna (Zhivago’s mother), as if predicting his hero’s future suffering. This is how Boris Pasternak described Yura’s first pain: “A mound grew on it - the grave. A ten-year-old boy climbed onto it.

Only in the state of stupor and insensibility that usually comes at the end of a large funeral could it seem that the boy wanted to say a word at his mother’s grave.

He raised his head and looked around the autumn desert and the head of the monastery with an absent gaze. His snub-nosed face became distorted. His neck stretched out. If a wolf cub raised its head with such a movement, it would be clear that it would now howl. Covering his face with his hands, the boy began to sob. A cloud flying towards him began to whip his hands and face with wet lashes of cold downpour..."

This is where the path of Yuri Zhivago begins. It will be thorny, sometimes even dangerous. The behavior of the protagonist when meeting the first bad weather is characteristic: “He raised his head and looked around the autumn desert and the head of the monastery from the elevation.” The boy will certainly cry, but before that he will climb the hill of the grief that befell him and look at the world from the heights of his own experience. With this symbol, the writer defined the character trait of the future doctor: they will not bow to misfortune, do not withdraw into themselves, but meet it in full - cry over it, and at the same time learn a lesson from it, move on to the next step in their development and, thereby, rise above the problem. This feature can be overlooked by reading Yuri’s poems. The poem that begins his cycle of poems can be cited as an example:

The hum died down. I went on stage.

Leaning against the door frame,

What happened 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.

It would seem that Zhivago is asking God to take away the “cup” of torment from him; one might think that the poet is trying to escape from life’s hardships. This is not so, even Jesus Christ, in prayer before the crucifixion, asked his father to save him from the upcoming torture, only the third time he agreed with the will of God. Despite the title of the poem, which suggests that the theme presented in it is related to the famous Shakespearean work, “Hamlet” is more focused on Christian, divine motives. The ending of the poem points to the wisdom and fortitude of Doctor Zhivago: “Living life is not a field to cross.”

Zhivago will remain like this for the rest of his life. This trait will help a young student at a medical school to refuse the inheritance of his deceased father. This trait, perhaps, will form talent, which he himself defined as a combination of “energy and originality”; he considered them “representatives of reality in arts that are otherwise pointless, idle and unnecessary.”

However, the features of Doctor Zhivago do not end there. Next, I would like to list all the pros and cons of the poet and doctor that came into my field of vision. I will reveal the meaning of this technique at the end of the chapter.

His attitude towards the profession is non-standard: “In Yura’s soul everything was shifted and confused, and everything was sharply original - views, skills and predispositions. He was unparalleledly impressionable, the novelty of his perceptions defied description.

But no matter how great his craving for art and history was, Yura did not have difficulty choosing a field. He believed that art was not suitable as a vocation in the same sense as innate gaiety or a tendency toward melancholy could not be a profession. He was interested in physics and natural science and found that in practical life it was necessary to do something generally useful. So he went into medicine.”

One fact also caught my eye - Yuri Zhivago amazingly feels and understands this world. He identifies the living and the non-living, and sees the participation of nature in every change that man and society undergoes. An example of such a worldview can be found in the description of pre-revolutionary events given by the author through the eyes of Yuri: “And it’s not that only people spoke. The stars and trees come together and converse, the night flowers philosophize and the stone buildings rally.” All this speaks, firstly, about the talent of the protagonist (he is trying to penetrate the mysteries of the existence of the world through understanding the relationship between nature and social phenomena), and secondly, it helps to overlook the similarities between Yuri Andreevich and Boris Pasternak himself (they are both poets and They feel, it seemed to me, about the same thing).

Interesting, in my opinion, are Zhivago’s thoughts on death. These are the arguments for his theory that the future doctor gave, reassuring the woman who accepted him into her family and loved Yura like a son, Anna Ivanovna: “Resurrection. In the crudest form, as it is stated to console the weak, this is alien to me. And I always understood Christ’s words about the living and the dead differently. Where will you place these hordes, recruited over all millennia? The universe will not be enough for them, and God, goodness and meaning will have to get out of the world. They will be crushed in this greedy living crowd.

But all the time the same immensely identical life fills the universe and is renewed hourly in innumerable combinations and transformations. So you are afraid whether you will be resurrected, but you were already resurrected when you were born, and you did not notice it.

Will it hurt you, will the tissue feel its decay? That is, in other words, what will happen to your consciousness? But what is consciousness? Let's consider. Consciously wanting to fall asleep is sure insomnia, a conscious attempt to feel the work of your own digestion is a sure disorder of its innervation. Consciousness is poison, a means of self-poisoning for the subject who uses it on himself. Consciousness is a light that shines out; consciousness illuminates the road in front of us so as not to stumble. Consciousness is the lit headlights of the locomotive ahead. Turn them inward with light and disaster will occur.

So what will happen to your consciousness? Yours. What are you? That's the rub. Let's figure it out. How do you remember yourself, what part of your composition were you aware of? Your kidneys, liver, blood vessels? No, no matter how much you remember, you always caught yourself in outward, active manifestation, in the works of your hands, in your family, in others. Now take a closer look. Man in other people is the soul of man. This is what you are, this is what your consciousness has been breathing, eating, and reveling in all your life. Your soul, your immortality, your life in others. And what? You were in others, and you will remain in others. And what difference does it make to you that later it will be called memory. It will be you, included in the future.

Finally, the last thing. Nothing to worry about. There is no death. Death is not our thing. But you said talent, this is another matter, it is ours, it is open to us. And talent, in the highest broadest concept, is the gift of life. There will be no death, says John the Theologian, and listen to the simplicity of his argument. There will be no death, because the former things have passed away. It’s almost like: there will be no death, because we’ve already seen it, it’s old and tired, and now something new is required, and the new is eternal life.”

Yuri Zhivago is not perfect, and this is the beauty of the main character. For example, the doctor did not feel any joy at all from Sasha’s birth: “Saved, saved,” Yuri Andreevich rejoiced, not understanding what the nurse was saying, and the fact that she, in her words, included him as a participant in what had happened, while what does he have to do with it? Father, son - he did not see pride in this freely inherited fatherhood, he did not feel anything in this sonship that fell from the sky. All this lay outside his consciousness. The main thing was Tonya, Tonya, who was exposed to mortal danger and happily escaped it.” This is an abnormal reaction for a man who has become a father, but it does happen, which speaks to the versatility and ambiguity of the image of Yuri Andreevich.

I cannot characterize the relationship between Yuri Andreevich and Lara Antipova as ordinary and self-evident. You can give different interpretations of their love, but the essence will still remain the same. Zhivago and Larisa Fedorovna were married people and their child (Tanka Bezchereva, who appeared at the end of the novel) is illegitimate. Boris Leonidovich himself was married twice and with this behavior of the main characters, most likely, he tried to justify himself. I don’t dare do that, but I’m not going to denounce the great poet and writer either. I have too little life experience, so I will leave this question open.

I quoted so much and described the main character only in order to come to his main feature. For me this is honesty. Yuri Zhivago is amazingly sincere, both to others and to himself. Proof of this is loyalty to one’s own positions and principles, which were preserved even after the destruction of everything familiar to Doctor Zhivago: structure, order, laws. A great contrast is obtained when comparing the unchanged inner world of the doctor with the face of the masses, so easily degenerated with changes in historical reality: “While the order of things allowed the wealthy to indulge and perform miracles at the expense of the disadvantaged, how easy it was to mistake this whim and the right to idleness for the real face and identity, which the minority enjoyed while the majority endured! But as soon as the lower classes rose and the privileges of the upper classes were abolished, how quickly everyone faded, how without regret they parted with independent thought, which apparently no one had ever had! Now Yuri Andreevich was close only to people without phrases and pathos, his wife and father-in-law, and two or three fellow doctors, modest workers, ordinary workers.”

Of course, this feature partially follows from Yura’s first character trait, which I cited at the beginning of the chapter, and most importantly, it is formed from all the features given below.

A fair and appropriate question would be about the reason for such great attention to honesty, because Zhivago is also talented, kind, smart, insightful... In my opinion, honesty is the most necessary trait for any time and for every life situation. Honesty with yourself in front of the people around you is a condition for existence in our world; without honest people, human society would be mired in lies and would ultimately deceive and consume itself. I often see deceitful and low people, they are always very popular. They do not leave TV screens, they constantly speak through the radio, they set themselves as an example and force them to follow their ideology. Their argument is paradoxically simple: “Everyone steals, lies and kills, so that means I can too, why am I worse?...”. Therefore, it is extremely necessary that at least sometimes there is a person who can oppose himself to these untalented and stupid creatures. It is necessary that he set an example for the young and lead them away from the path that is unpromising for the human soul, dictated by the media and the Internet. Yuri Andreevich Zhivago carries this role within himself. Honesty is not the only positive quality of a person, but I believe that it predetermines all other possible advantages of anyone living on earth. So let at least a literary, in a sense, romantic hero serve as an ideal and tear this world out of spiritual desolation. This is how, in my opinion, Boris Leonidovich Pasternak himself formulated the main idea of ​​​​the image of the poet and doctor.

There is something cruel and the only right thing in a person’s desire to fight. And happiness is when this struggle is not for a piece of bread, not for the right to live and survive, but for your soul, for your right to be human. This is the only thing worth living, fighting and dying for, remaining true to yourself, your principles and your human dignity until the last minute. And then a hundred great classics will say: “Here he is, our hero!” This is the uniqueness of the human soul!”
They will say and take up the pen, and another new hero will appear in literature,

And behind him is another and another... Each one will be a little new, a little traditional, for example, a hero of the early 20th century. The beginning of the century... What is the beginning of the century? The time when “need and inaction became more acute, as a result of which the activity of the masses sharply increased”? No, this is not yet the main reason for the emergence of a new hero of the 20th century. Yes, a break occurred, a weak intellectual and a strong worker appeared. Yuri Zhivago and the shelter at the very bottom of his life. But didn’t people, separated by class barriers, try to find themselves in this chaotic time? We tried! The actor was looking for a hospital, Ashes was looking for happiness, Luka was looking for faith, Satin was looking for truth... Everyone set a goal for themselves.
One day, any person sets a goal for himself, and it depends on him whether this goal will become the meaning of his life or whether it is just a momentary desire. The goal always exists, often it becomes the only and final one, without it there is no life, and the struggle for it is a struggle for life. There is something offensive and unfair in the revolution, probably because it forced people to fight with particular force and cruelty. She threw out a naive doctor named Zhivago from her fanatical ranks. “As a little boy, he found a time when the name he bore was called for many self-differentiating things. There was the Zhivago manufactory, the Zhivago baths, the Zhivago houses, a way of tying and pinning a tie with a Zhivago pin, even some kind of round-shaped sweet cake, like a baba, called Zhivago. Suddenly it all fell apart. They became poor." There is only one treasure left - the priceless soul of Zhivago. For this, the revolution presented him with a choice: become cruel or die. But could the fragile, kind Zhivago become cruel? And suddenly, one day, he became completely, completely different, forget about the ability to dream, write poetry... No, he made another final choice, which sounded like a sentence: he decided to stay in his time, while the new life was taking everyone somewhere... then further, into new dimensions that defy the laws of space. He decided to die, but to preserve himself as an individual. This is the meaning of his struggle: the desire to preserve himself. Life through death. It is very difficult to know that you are going to die and to continue living. But Zhivago knew that he would die.
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 were swept from the yard
To the window frame.
Those who still doubted the correctness of their choice flocked to Yuri Zhivago. They flocked for support, for a piece of the firmness that he possessed in his convictions. And they left him, quiet and silent. Tonya, Lara, Gordon... Probably not convinced, but amazed by his arguments. They knew he would die. They already knew then. But he made it simpler: he stopped thinking that he was different, that he was destined to fight, and then go somewhere, “ignoring the shouts,” break through the crowd, step from the steps of a standing tram onto the pavement, take a step, another, third, collapse on the stones and never get up again.” He stopped thinking about the future and tried to live the time allotted to him the way he would always like to live. And the candle flame burned brighter, the soul became stronger in its faith, and a new star shone in the sky (it could not help but rise). She became a guide for souls wandering in the dark. People called it Christmas because
Once upon a time, 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 sowing
In the middle of the whole universe,
Alarmed by this new star.
She covered the birth of the baby Jesus. But that was before, and now she was shining on another person - Yuri Zhivago. She led him forward, confident and free, and then someone called the path traveled under this star a struggle for life.

(No ratings yet)

Other writings:

1. Yuri Zhivago's testimony about his time and himself are the poems that were found in his papers after his death. In the novel they are highlighted in a separate part. Before us is not just a small collection of poems, but a whole book with its own Read More......
2. I read Yuri Zhivago’s poems in Pasternak’s novel “Doctor Zhivago” and never cease to admire them. It is surprising that, living in an era of strong social changes, which were sometimes too cruel and unfair, the hero of the novel retains his soul. In my opinion, as a person, Read More......
3. Boris Pasternak’s novel “Doctor Zhivago” is called an autobiography, which surprisingly lacks external facts that coincide with the author’s real life. The central character of the novel is Doctor Yuri Andreevich Zhivago. Sometimes, in light of the requirements for novels, he seems pale, expressionless, and his Read More ......
4. B. L. Pasternak’s novel “Doctor Zhivago” became an international event. In terms of popularity and worldwide echo, it was ahead of many bestsellers. The work includes poems written by Pasternak while working on it. Not all of them were created specifically for the novel, but they all had Read More......
5. Larisa very much regretted that Yuri’s funeral service was not performed in a church manner: “He was so worth all this, so this “funeral sob creating the song of hallelujah” would have justified and paid off!” She almost idolizes Zhivago; after his death she was left completely alone, helpless, defenseless, abandoned. Only Yuri Read More......
6. The wonderful Russian poet Boris Leonidovich Pasternak had the idea of ​​writing a novel for many years. He happened to live in a difficult time for the country, in the era of three revolutions. He was familiar with Mayakovsky, began his creative activity when the Symbolists and Futurists were actively working, Read More ......
7. The collection represents the 17th and final chapter of the novel “Doctor Zhivago” and, according to the author’s intention, belongs to the main character of this work. Not all poems are directly related to the plot of the novel, but all reveal a deep, ideological and thematic connection with the events taking place in it. They were created by Pasternak Read More ......
8. These Pasternak lines look like an epigraph to the novel “Doctor Zhivago,” on which Boris Leonidovich worked for about a quarter of a century. The novel seemed to have absorbed his most intimate thoughts and feelings. And now, in his declining years, the novel is completed, the final version is prepared for printing, but Read More......

From early childhood, Yuri was accompanied by grief and failure. The mother dies, the father did not even want to see his orphaned son. The author begins the novel with the funeral of Marya Nikolaevna (Zhivago’s mother), as if predicting his hero’s future suffering. This is how Boris Pasternak described Yura’s first pain: “A mound grew on her – the grave. A ten-year-old boy climbed onto it.

Only in the state of stupor and insensibility that usually comes at the end of a large funeral could it seem that the boy wanted to say a word at his mother’s grave.

He raised his head and looked around the autumn desert and the head of the monastery with an absent gaze. His snub-nosed face became distorted. His neck stretched out. If a wolf cub raised its head with such a movement, it would be clear that it would now howl. Covering his face with his hands, the boy began to sob. A cloud flying towards him began to whip his hands and face with wet lashes of cold downpour..."

This is where the path of Yuri Zhivago begins. It will be thorny, sometimes even dangerous. The behavior of the protagonist when meeting the first bad weather is characteristic: “He raised his head and looked around the autumn desert and the head of the monastery from the elevation.” The boy will certainly cry, but before that he will climb the hill of the grief that befell him and look at the world from the heights of his own experience. With this symbol, the writer defined the character trait of the future doctor: they will not bow to misfortune, do not withdraw into themselves, but meet it in full - cry over it, and at the same time learn a lesson from it, move on to the next step in their development and, thereby, rise above the problem. This feature can be overlooked by reading Yuri’s poems. The poem that begins his cycle of poems can be cited as an example:

Hamlet

The hum died down. I went on stage.

Leaning against the door frame,

What happened 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.

It would seem that Zhivago is asking God to take away the “cup” of torment from him; one might think that the poet is trying to escape from life’s hardships. This is not so, even Jesus Christ, in prayer before the crucifixion, asked his father to save him from the upcoming torture, only the third time he agreed with the will of God. Despite the title of the poem, which suggests that the theme presented in it is related to the famous Shakespearean work, “Hamlet” is more focused on Christian, divine motives. The ending of the poem points to the wisdom and fortitude of Doctor Zhivago: “Living life is not a field to cross.”

Zhivago will remain like this for the rest of his life. This trait will help a young student at a medical school to refuse the inheritance of his deceased father. This trait, perhaps, will form talent, which he himself defined as a combination of “energy and originality”; he considered them “representatives of reality in arts that are otherwise pointless, idle and unnecessary.”

However, the features of Doctor Zhivago do not end there. Next, I would like to list all the pros and cons of the poet and doctor that came into my field of vision. I will reveal the meaning of this technique at the end of the chapter.

His attitude towards the profession is non-standard: “In Yura’s soul everything was shifted and confused, and everything was sharply original - views, skills and predispositions. He was unparalleledly impressionable, the novelty of his perceptions defied description.

But no matter how great his craving for art and history was, Yura did not have difficulty choosing a field. He believed that art was not suitable as a vocation in the same sense as innate gaiety or a tendency toward melancholy could not be a profession. He was interested in physics and natural science and found that in practical life it was necessary to do something generally useful. So he went into medicine.”

One fact also caught my eye - Yuri Zhivago amazingly feels and understands this world. He identifies the living and the non-living, and sees the participation of nature in every change that man and society undergoes. An example of such a worldview can be found in the description of pre-revolutionary events given by the author through the eyes of Yuri: “And it’s not that only people spoke. The stars and trees come together and converse, the night flowers philosophize and the stone buildings rally.” All this speaks, firstly, about the talent of the protagonist (he is trying to penetrate the mysteries of the existence of the world through understanding the relationship between nature and social phenomena), and secondly, it helps to overlook the similarities between Yuri Andreevich and Boris Pasternak himself (they are both poets and They feel, it seemed to me, about the same thing).

Acmeists.
The Acmeist association itself was small and existed for about two years (1913-1914). Blood ties connected him with the “Workshop of Poets,” which arose almost two years before the Acmeic manifestos and was resumed after the revolution (1921-1923). The workshop became a school for introducing the latest art. In January 1913 appeared in the magazine...

Renaissance, Titans of the Renaissance:
PLAN Renaissance. 1. Early Renaissance. A. Giotto. B. Brunelleschi. 2. High Renaissance A. BramanteTitans of the Renaissance. 1. Leonardo da Vinci. 2. Rafael Santi. 3. Michelangelo. 4. Titian. 3. Late Renaissance REVIVAL ERA At the end of the XIV - beginning of the XV centuries. in Europe, namely in Italy, an early bourgeois culture began to form...

Types of mythological creatures
The entire pantheon of pagan mythological creatures of the ancient Slavs can be divided into a number of groups, each of which is closely connected with its habitat and belongs to representatives of good or evil principles in the world surrounding the Slavs. WATER RESIDENTS SWAMP and FOREST RESIDENTS WATER BANNIK SWAMP MAN MERMAID GOBBLE KIKIMORA SERVANT...