Book: Doctor Zhivago. Page 4

Art serves beauty, and beauty is the happiness of possession, a form also have organic key existence, a form must possess all living things to exist and, thus, the art has a story about the happiness of existence.

I wouldn't love you as much if you wouldn't have to complain about and nothing to regret. I don't like the right, not falling, not stumbling. Their virtue is dead and of little value, the beauty of life not known to them.

Separate happiness is not happiness.

Children sincere without hesitation and not ashamed of the truth, and we fear to seem backward ready to betray the most precious praise repulsive and incomprehensible assent.

... when the harassment and beatings of Jews. By the way. If we city-dwellers and people of intellectual labor, half of our friends among them. In such a pogrom bands, when you start these horrors and abominations, in addition to the indignation, shame and pity, we are pursuing a painful feeling of duality that our sympathy half head with insincere unpleasant sediment.
The people who once liberated mankind from the yoke of idolatry, and now so many have dedicated themselves to the liberation from social evil, are powerless to rid ourselves from allegiance to the obsolete antediluvian name that has lost value can't rise above themselves and dissolve without a trace among others, the religious foundations which they laid, and who would be so close if they knew better.

The gift of love, like any other gift, it can be great, but without a blessing it will not manifest. And we are definitely taught to kiss in heaven and then the children were sent to live at the same time to each other to test that ability...

Do you just discard dress
Like grove drops leaves,
When you fall in the embrace
In a Bathrobe with a silk brush.
You the benefit of the disastrous step
When life nauseated disease
But the root of beauty is courage,
And it pulls us to each other.

As well in the world! But why does this always hurt so much?

It is generally believed that commonly at night, I dream that day, in the Wake, made a strong impression. I have the opposite observation.
I have noticed that things barely seen a day of thought, not brought to clarity, words without soul and neglected, returning night, clothed in flesh and blood, and become subjects of dreams, as if in compensation for the day-them contempt.

... don't love Thrifty and so hurriedly, as if out of fear, would not have then love even more.

Sunday. In the gross form, as it is claimed to comfort the weak, it is alien to me. And Christ's words about the living and the dead I had always understood differently. Where you place these swarms scored all the goals? For them is not enough the universe, and God, good and meaning will have to get out of the world. Will crush them in this greedy animal crowd.
But all the time the same is limitless identical life fills the universe and is updated every hour in countless combinations and transformations. Here you are resurrected you, and you already raised when we were born, and did not notice.
Whether you're in pain, feels if the fabric of your breakup? So, in other words, what will happen to your consciousness? But what is consciousness? Consider. Consciously wanting to sleep - true sleep, a conscious attempt to sense in the work of their own digestion - a true disorder of its innervation. Consciousness is poison, a means of self-poisoning for the subject who applies it to himself. Consciousness - light, beating out the consciousness illuminates the road in front of us, so as not to stumble. Consciousness is lighted lights ahead of the engine. Please be their light inwards and there will be a disaster.
So, what will happen to your consciousness? Your. Your. And what are you? That's the catch. Face it. What you remember, what part was aware of its composition? Your kidneys, liver, blood vessels? No, as you may recall, you've always found yourself in the outer, active manifestation in the deeds of your hands, in the family, in others. And now more closely. People in other people is the soul of man. That's what you are, that's what breathed, ate, drank life your consciousness. Your soul, your immortality, your life in others. And what? In others, you were not in others remain. And what a difference that then it will be called memory. It will be you included in the future.
Finally, the last. Nothing to worry about. There is no death.

My beauty is unforgettable! While you remember whiby of my elbows, as long as you're on the hands and lips of mine, I'll stay with you. I'll pay you tears for something worthy of remaining. I will record the memory of you in a gentle, tender, sad samasem image. I'll stay here until they do. And then he will leave.

Only a life similar to the lives of others and among her sinking without a trace, there's life real.

His mother was flighty and young beauty, always something addicting - riots, rebellion, extreme theories, famous actors, poor losers.
heart seizures gave way to fits of stupidity. She was a terrible coward and mortally afraid of men. That's why she's scared and confused all the time got them from embracing in a hug.