Author of quotes: Iosif Aleksandrovich Brodsky. Page 2

Unlike life a work of art is never perceived as a matter of course, it is always considered amid the forerunners and predecessors.

We imagine ourselves, to put it mildly, centers of their own universes.

The world is not interested in its people.

Art durable life, unpleasant awareness of this underlies the lumpen desire to subordinate the first to the latter.

When it comes to poetry, every bourgeois - Plato.

Well, political activism, well, rebuild society, well. If you want, you can go out into the world and rebuild society. But it is better to find one person and love him till the end of life.

In the sense of recognizing the greatest experience for me was not the Nobel prize, and that moment, when I was still in Russia, I learned that my book is published by the "Penguin" with a Foreword by Auden.

I often carry stuff
Write bad poetry,
I wear a coat on fish to fur
Cold boots.
Losing friends, making enemies,
Paying for gas and for electricity,
And also looking for love
Which is still no.

Is heard in the woods the axe.
Lying in the snow, maybe cold.
Anything cool! Actually forget!
I think almost of rebellion!
I swore not to skew the Buddha,
for a tenner rush for the hare!
Let a be closed - where the chisel! -
Yasnaya Polyana slicer!
The resist Panov, disgusting.
This is me - as a sickle on eggs!
As Aristotle at the bottom of the well,
don't know where that comes from.
Evil exists, so to deal with it,
not to weigh on the yoke.

However thought wise of Nature to give
Eyes to weep and see
That thing finding insignificant eyes
Could a complaint to pour out immediately.
All the things that the World appreciates and honors
How valuable Jeweler, glitters
Weaker, seriously,
Than a long Suspension of Tears.

Remember, Posthumous, from the Governor of sister?
Slim, but with full legs.
You slept with her yet... Recently became a priestess.
Priestess, Posthumous, and communicates with the gods.

Was in the mountains. Now mess around with a big bouquet.
Find a large pitcher, pour water to them...
How is it in Libya, my Posthumous, or wherever?
Really still fighting?

Sending you, Posthumous, these books.
What in the capital? Soft trail? Sleep is not tough?
How's Caesar? What is he doing? All the intrigue?
All the intrigue, probably Yes gluttony.

Happiness is the essence of luxury two;
grief is a Democrat.