Love to wait all my life for Prishvin. About Love from the diaries of M. Prishvin: “Man is like a blooming garden.” Love Story: Man is like a blooming garden

The life of Mikhail Prishvin developed calmly and, to a certain extent, predictably: birth into a merchant family, study at the Yelets Gymnasium, then at the agronomic department of the University of Leipzig, return to Russia, service as a zemstvo agronomist in Klin, work in the laboratory of the Petrovsky Agricultural Academy (the current Academy . I. Timiryazev), publication of agronomic works. It would seem - how successful everything is!

And suddenly, at the age of 33, Mikhail Prishvin unexpectedly quits his service, buys a gun and, taking only a knapsack and notebooks, goes on foot to the North, “to the land of unafraid birds.”
Travel notes from this seemingly incomprehensible journey will form the basis of his first book.

Then new travels will follow (he set out and traveled throughout the North, Central Russia, the Far East, Kazakhstan) and new books will be published. What made Prishvin change his measured and calm life so dramatically, what “pitfalls” turned its course?

In Prishvin’s “hidden” Diaries there is a mention of one seemingly insignificant episode from distant childhood. When he was a teenager, the maid Dunyasha, a mischievous adult girl, really liked him. Already in adulthood, Prishvin recalls that in the most desperate moment, when intimacy could arise between them, he seemed to hear an invisible “patron”: “No, stop, you can’t!”

“If this had happened,” he writes, “I would be a different person. This quality of soul that manifested itself in me, like “denial of temptation,” made me a writer. My whole peculiarity, all the origins of my character, come from my physical romanticism.” A long history left its mark on Prishvin’s entire life and shaped his nature.

Childhood fear was later manifested by excessive internal self-control whenever it came to his relationships with women. The first unsuccessful experience often leads to the fact that subtle and romantic natures begin to give preference only to sublime and pure, platonic love.

While studying in Leipzig, Prishvin heard from one of his acquaintances: “You look so much like Prince Myshkin - it’s amazing!” The women with whom he communicated caught this similarity instantly; the traits of idealizing relationships with them, “secret romanticism” really became a feature of his character, representing for many the mystery of his soul. And he was convinced that intimacy between a man and a woman is possible only with strong mutual love.

In 1902, during a short vacation in Paris, 29-year-old Prishvin met Varenka - Varvara Petrovna Izmalkova, a student at the Sorbonne Faculty of History, the daughter of a major St. Petersburg official. Their three-week, stormy, but platonic romance left a deep mark on Prishvin’s romantic soul and revealed the contradictions that tormented him.

The tender relationship between the two lovers ended in a break, and through his fault, Prishvin repeatedly repeats this over the years in his diaries: “To the one I once loved, I made demands that she could not fulfill. I could not humiliate her with animal feelings - this was my madness. But she wanted an ordinary marriage. The knot tied over me for the rest of my life.”

Even after 30 years, Prishvin can’t calm down. He asks himself again and again what would have happened if that youthful love had ended in marriage? And he himself answers: “... now it is clear that my song would remain unsung.” He believes that it was the torment and suffering of an unresolved contradiction that made him a real writer.

Already an old man, he will write that he missed the only moment of bliss given to him by fate. Again he seeks and finds an important justification for this fact: “... the more I look into my life, the clearer it becomes to me that She was necessary for me only in her inaccessibility, necessary for the opening and movement of my spirit.”

Having returned to Russia after studying, Prishvin works as an agronomist and seems sociable, active and active to others.

But if someone could look into his soul, he would understand that in front of him is a deeply suffering person, forced, due to his romantic nature, to hide his torment from prying eyes and pour it out only to his diary: “I felt very bad - such a struggle between animal and spiritual, I wanted marriage with the only woman.” But what about the main contradiction of life - the desire for sublime and spiritual love and the natural, carnal desires of a man?

One day he met a peasant woman with beautiful sad eyes. After divorcing her husband, she was left alone with a one-year-old child in her arms. This was Efrosinya Pavlovna Smogaleva, who became Prishvin’s first wife.

But, as one might expect, nothing good came out of this marriage “out of despair.” “Frosya turned into the evil Xanthippe,” the relationship between the spouses did not work out from the very beginning - they were too different in their mental make-up and upbringing. In addition, the wife did not meet Prishvin’s high requirements for love. However, this strange marriage lasted almost 30 years. And so, in order to get away from his mental torment, to limit communication with his grumpy wife, Prishvin went to wander around Russia, with the greatest dedication he took up hunting and writing, “trying to hide his grief in these joys.”

Returning from travels, he continued to suffer from mental loneliness and, tormenting himself with thoughts about the first love he had destroyed, he saw his lost bride in his dreams. “Like all great monogamous people, I was still waiting for her, and she constantly came to me in my dreams. Many years later I realized that poets call it Muse.”

Quite by accident, Prishvin learns that Varya Izmalkova, after graduating from university, began working in one of the Parisian banks. Without hesitation, he sends her a letter, where he admits that his feelings for her have not cooled down, she is still in his heart.

Varenka, apparently, also cannot forget her romantic interest and decides to make an attempt to renew their relationship, and perhaps connect their lives. She comes to Russia and makes an appointment with Prishvin.

But the incredible happens. And many years later, the writer recalled with bitterness the “most shameful moment” of his life, when he absent-mindedly mixed up the day and missed an appointment. And Varvara Petrovna, not wanting to understand the situation, did not forgive this negligence. Returning to Paris, she writes an angry letter to Prishvin about the final break.

In order to somehow survive this tragedy, Prishvin again goes to travel around Russia and writes wonderful books that bring him wide fame.

But the feeling of hopelessness, longing for the only Woman in the world, dreams of love and family happiness do not leave him. “The need to write is the need to get away from loneliness, to share your grief and joy with people... But I kept my grief to myself and shared only my joy with the reader.”

So a whole life passed in tossing and internal torment. And finally, in his declining years, fate presented Mikhail Prishvin with a truly royal gift.

1940. Prishvin is 67 years old. For several years now he has been living alone in a Moscow apartment in Lavrushinsky Lane, obtained after much trouble; his wife is in Zagorsk, he, of course, visits her and helps her with money.

The usual loneliness is brightened up by two hunting dogs. “Here is the desired apartment, but there is no one to live with... I’m alone. He lived his long married life as a “half-monk”..."

But then one day a woman secretary appears in Prishvin’s house, whom he hired on the recommendation of a writer friend to put his many years of diaries in order. His main requirement for his assistant is special delicacy, given the frankness of his diary entries.

Valeria Dmitrievna Liorko is 40 years old. Her fate is somewhat similar to the fate of Prishvin. In her youth, she also experienced great love.

The first meeting took place on January 16, 1940. At first they didn't like each other. But already on March 23, a significant entry appears in Prishvin’s diary: “In my life there were two “star encounters” - the “morning star” at 29 years old and the “evening star” at 67 years old. There are 36 years of waiting between them.”

And the May entry seems to confirm what was written earlier: “After you and I got along, I finally stopped thinking about traveling... You lavished the gifts of your love, and I, like the darling of fate, accepted these gifts... Then I quietly, barefoot I went into the kitchen with my feet and sat there until the morning, and met the dawn, and realized at dawn that God had created me the happiest person.”

Prishvin's official divorce from his wife was difficult - Efrosinya Petrovna created scandals, even complained to the Writers' Union. Prishvin, who could not stand conflicts, came to the secretary of the Writers' Union and asked: “I am ready to give everything, leave only love.” The Moscow apartment is transferred to the wife, and only then does she agree to the divorce.

Prishvin is happy for the first time in his life, he forgot about trips and wanderings - the long-awaited beloved woman appeared who understood and accepted him for who he is.

In his declining years, Prishvin finally felt what family warmth and the joy of communicating with a like-minded person were like.

Another 14 long years of their life together will pass, and every year on January 16, the day they met, he will make an entry in his diary, blessing fate for an unexpected and wonderful gift.

On January 16, the last year of his life, 1953, he writes: “The day of our meeting with V. 13 years of our happiness are behind us...”.

During these years, Prishvin worked a lot, prepared his diaries for publication and wrote a long autobiographical novel, “Koshcheev’s Chain.”

Incredibly, Mikhail Prishvin died on January 16, 1954 - meeting and separation came together in one day, the circle of life closed.

Sergey Krut

What is love? What is its role in a person’s life? Such questions are raised by the author of the text M. M. Prishvin.

The writer reveals this problem using the example of a story about a man who was trying to find the answer to the question: “..What is love?” The hero, who was happy to see a hazel leaf, running cold water in the river, who simply enjoyed nature, came to the conclusion that everyone has their own love, this is an “unknown country”, and everyone sails there on their own ship, choosing their own path... He tried convey to the reader that a person himself must find that “true love”, preserve it and preserve it.

The author's arguments do not end there. He shows that love is necessary for everyone, that everyone strives for it, tries to find “their own,” big, embracing the whole world, or simple, family love. A person who has found love also gains a feeling of joy, peace, serenity...

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M. M. Prishvin believes that only one thing can be said about love, that “it contains the desire for immortality and eternity,” that it is something “incomprehensible and necessary” that is capable of “leaving behind more or less durable things” .

One cannot but agree with the author's opinion. Indeed, love is a complex phenomenon, which is almost impossible to define. This feeling can revive a person, inspire or injure, even kill... Therefore, you should treat such a fragile feeling as love with care.

Many writers in their works touched upon the problem raised by the author. So, for example, in the story “The Garnet Bracelet” by A. I. Kuprin, it is about the poor official Zhetkov, who is hopelessly in love with the princess and is even capable of self-sacrifice for the sake of the peace of his chosen one. He writes endless letters to Vera and gives him his family heirloom - a garnet bracelet. But the hero's feelings are not mutual. He commits suicide when he is forbidden to love this woman. In a farewell letter, very similar to a prayer, Zheltkov speaks of indivisible love as the greatest human happiness.

An equally striking literary argument is M. A. Bulgakov’s novel “The Master and Margarita.” For the sake of her loved one, Margarita is capable of any crime or sacrifice. She sells her soul by agreeing to be queen at Satan's ball in order to save the Master. Despite all her sins, the heroine is granted forgiveness for “loving and suffering.” She found eternal peace with her loved one.

Thus, the problem raised by M. M. Prishvin is relevant at all times. Love is a necessary component in life. By finding it, a person finds the meaning of life. The above arguments from the literature only confirm this.

Updated: 2017-07-03

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LOVE

When a person loves, he penetrates
the essence of the world.

The white hedge was covered in needles of frost, the bushes were red and gold. The silence is such that not a single leaf is touched from the tree. But the bird flew by, and just a flap of its wing was enough for the leaf to break off and fly down in a circle.

What a joy it was to feel the golden hazel leaf covered with the white lace of frost! And this cold running water in the river... and this fire, and this silence, and the storm, and everything that exists in nature and that we don’t even know, everything entered and united into my love, which embraced the whole world.

Love is an unknown country, and we are all sailing there, each on our own ship, and each of us is the captain of our own ship and leads the ship in our own way.

I missed the first powder, but I don’t repent, because before the light a white dove appeared to me in a dream, and when I then opened my eyes, I realized such a joy from the white snow and the morning star that you don’t always recognize when hunting.

This is how tenderly the warm air of a flying bird embraced its face with its wing, and a joyful man stood up in the light of the morning star and asked, like a little child: stars, moon, white light, take the place of the white dove that flew away! And the same in this morning hour there was a touch of understanding of my love as the source of all light, all the stars, the moon, the sun and all the illuminated flowers, herbs, children, all life on earth.

And then at night it seemed to me that my charm was over, I no longer loved. Then I saw that there was nothing more in me and my whole soul was like a devastated land in late autumn: the cattle had been driven away, the fields were empty, where it was black, where there was snow, and in the snow there were traces of cats.

What is love? Nobody said this correctly. But only one thing can be truly said about love, that it contains the desire for immortality and eternity, and at the same time, of course, as something small and in itself incomprehensible and necessary, the ability of a being embraced by love to leave behind more or less durable things , ranging from small children to Shakespearean lines.

A sportswoman in pants and a white robe, her eyebrows are shaved into a thread, her eyes are beautiful, like those of rams. She arrives exactly at 8 1/2, takes her pulse and begins the exercises. In the morning I always think well, and I think about my own things, and I do the exercises without thinking, I look at her and, like her, so do I, like her, so do I.

That's what I was thinking about today as I spread my arms while counting, clenching my fists and squatting. I thought that L. in the spiritual world was the same for me as this gymnast at the gym. I, gradually looking at L., noticing the methods of her serving me, almost mechanically began to serve her as well as I could.

This is how she teaches me love, but I must say that, of course, it came to me a little late, and that’s why I’m so impressed. Generally speaking, this is not a new thing: good families have long been brought up through mutual service.

Or maybe all nations, and even the wildest ones, in their own, wild way, have always had the same physical culture of kindness or service of one person to another.

My friend! You are my only salvation when I am in misfortune... But when I am happy in my affairs, then, rejoicing, I bring you my joy and love. And you answer - which love is dearer to you: when I am in misfortune or when I am healthy, rich, and famous, and come to you as a winner?

Of course,” she answered, “that love is higher when you are a winner.” And if in misfortune you grab onto me to save yourself, then you love this for yourself! So be happy and come to me as a winner: this is better. But I myself love you equally - in sorrow and in joy.

A small ice floe, white on top, green at the break, floated quickly, and a seagull was floating on it. While I was climbing the mountain, it became God knows where in the distance, where you can see the white church in the curly clouds under the magpie kingdom of black and white.

Large water overflows its banks and overflows far. But even a small stream rushes to big water and even reaches the ocean.

Only stagnant water remains to stand for itself, go out and turn green.

That’s how people love: big love embraces the whole world, it makes everyone feel good. And there is simple, family love, running in streams in the same beautiful direction.

And there is love only for oneself, and in it a person is also like stagnant water.

THE IMAGINARY END OF THE NOVEL. They were so indebted to each other, so delighted at their meeting that they tried to give away all the wealth they stored in their souls, as if in some kind of competition: you gave, and I gave more, and again the same on the other side, and until neither one nor the other had anything left of their reserves. In such cases, people who have given everything to another consider this other to be their property and thus torment each other for the rest of their lives.

But these two, beautiful and free people, having once learned that they had given everything to each other, and they had nothing more to exchange, and they had nowhere to grow higher in this exchange, hugged, kissed tightly and parted without tears and without words.

Be blessed, wonderful people!

Death of a current worker. The lead hit him in the side and struck his heart, but he probably thought that it was his opponent who had hit him, because he jumped and fell, and his wings were already flapping in agony, and he, tearing out the sound of love from his throat, screamed...

Everything was found in her for me, and through her everything came together in me.

The woman extended her hand to the harp, touched it with her finger, and from the touch of her finger to the string a sound was born.

It was the same with me: she touched me and I began to sing.

A change in the life of the birch tree since the first bright and still cold ray of pre-spring shows the virgin whiteness of its bark.

When a warm ray heats the bark and a large sleepy black fly lands on the white birch bark and flies on; when the inflated buds create such a chocolate-colored density of the crown that the bird sits and hides; when, in the brown density on thin branches, occasionally some buds will open, like surprised birds with green wings; when an earring appears, like a fork with two or three horns, and when suddenly on a good day the earrings become golden and the whole birch tree stands golden; and when you finally enter a birch grove and the green, transparent canopy embraces you, then through the life of one beloved birch tree you will understand the life of the whole spring and the whole person in his first love, which determines his whole life.

No, friends, I will never agree with this that the first person in paradise was Adam. The first person in paradise was a woman, and it was she who planted and built the garden. And then Adam came to the arranged garden with his dream.

We often see that a man is a bit of a mess, but a woman is excellent. This means that we do not know the hidden dignity of this man, appreciated by a woman: this is selective love and, probably, is true love.

If a woman interferes with creativity, then you have to deal with her, like Stepan Razin, and if you don’t want to, like Stepan, then they will find their own Taras Bulba for you, and let him shoot you.

But if a woman helps create life, maintains a house, gives birth to children, or participates in creativity with her husband, then she should be revered as a queen. It is given to us through severe struggle. And maybe that’s why I hate weak men.

The person you love in me is, of course, better than me: I am not like that. But love me, I will try to be better than myself.

Do you know that love when you yourself have nothing from it and never will, but you still love everything around you through it, and walk through the field and meadow, and colorfully, one by one, blue cornflowers smelling of honey, and blue forget-me-nots.

If I think about her, looking her straight in the face, and not somehow from the side, or “about”, then poetry runs straight to me like a stream. Then it seems as if love and poetry are two names for the same source. But this is not entirely true: poetry cannot replace all love and only flows out of it like from a lake.

Love is like big water: a thirsty person comes to it, drinks it or scoops it up with a bucket and carries it away to his own measure. And the water runs on.

For some reason it seems to us that if these are birds, then they fly a lot, if they are deer or tigers, then they constantly run and jump. In fact, birds sit more than they fly, tigers are very lazy, fallow deer graze and only move their lips.

So do people.

We think that people's lives are filled with love, but when we ask ourselves and others - who loved how much, and it turns out - so little! That's how lazy we are too!

Everyone is doing something...

Isn’t that the point of putting two lives into one?

The beginning of love is in attention, then in choice, then in achievement, because love without action is dead.

Finally he came, my unknown friend, and never left me. Now I no longer ask where he lives: in the east, in the west, in the south or in the north.

Now I know: he lives in the heart of my beloved.

Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin is rightly called the singer of the Russian land. In his works, the surrounding nature becomes the main character; on the pages of essays and stories, forests, fields, and meadows emerge with incredible completeness and fine detail. He glorified nature with rapture, as if putting into these descriptions the feelings that he so lacked in life.

First discoveries

The intricate, funny and dexterous Dunyasha worked as a servant in the Prishvins' house. Misha often noticed that when sweeping the floor or wiping it with a rag, Dunyasha lifted her skirt very high, as if showing off her legs to the teenager. The teenager was embarrassed, blushed and carefully looked away from the snow-white skin of the ingenuous seductress. She clearly sympathized with the owner’s boy and, without much embarrassment, tried to win, if not his heart, then his body.

At the moment when the closeness of Dunyasha and Mikhail became possible, the boy suddenly realized how his heart protested against such a relationship. It is difficult to say where such thoughts came from in the teenager’s head. But he felt that simple carnal pleasures would not bring him happiness unless they were supported by deep feelings.

Varenka

Mikhail Prishvin, a student at the University of Leipzig, went on vacation to Paris in 1902. In this city, as if created for love, the meeting of the future writer with Varenka took place. Sorbonne student Varvara Petrovna Izmalkova studied history, was the daughter of a major official from St. Petersburg. The romance between Varvara and Mikhail quickly turned the lovers around. They spent days and nights together, enthusiastically talking about everything in the world. Bright, happy days filled with feelings and emotions. But everything ended three weeks later. Prishvin blamed himself and his idealistic expectations for this.

The young man could not even imagine that he would offend his beloved with physical lust. He idolized his Varenka, he admired her and could not touch his dream. The girl wanted simple female happiness, an ordinary life with children. Varenka wrote a letter to her parents and showed it to her lover. She talked about her relationship with Mikhail, already imagining her future family life. But her aspirations were so different from Prishvin’s idea of ​​the future that the difference in views on love led to bitter disappointment and breakup. Varvara tore the letter.

Many years later, the writer admits that it was this event that would make him a writer. Not finding consolation in love, Mikhail Mikhailovich will begin to look for it in writing. The image of Varya, appearing in his dreams, will inspire him and encourage him to write more and more works.

Later, Prishvin made one attempt to get closer to his muse. And he didn’t use it himself. He wrote to Varvara Petrovna about his unquenchable feelings. The girl answered him by making an appointment. But the writer shamefully mixed up the date of the date, and Varya could not forgive him for this mistake, refusing to listen to his explanations.

Efrosinya Pavlovna Smogaleva

Sensitive and very vulnerable, Prishvin began to increasingly avoid the company of his wife. He began to travel a lot around Russia, admiring the grandeur and uniqueness of nature. At the same time, he will begin to work a lot, trying to escape from his catastrophic loneliness and misunderstanding of loved ones. He blamed only himself for his loneliness, reproached him for his excessive haste and inability to recognize the soul of another person.

A rather unhappy marriage, which brought the writer a lot of suffering, lasted more than 30 years. And all this time, Mikhail Mikhailovich was waiting for some miracle, a wonderful deliverance from his spiritual wounds and the painful desire for happiness. He often mentioned in his diaries that he still hoped to meet the one who could become the light of his life.

Valeria Dmitrievna Liorko (Lebedeva)

Mikhail Mikhailovich turned 67 years old. By this time he was already living separately from his wife. The famous and recognized writer had long been thinking about publishing his diaries, but he still lacked the strength, time and patience to sort through numerous archives. He decided to hire a secretary, certainly a woman who would be particularly delicate. The diaries contained too much personal, hidden, infinitely dear to the writer’s heart.

On January 16, 1940, forty-year-old Valeria Dmitrievna knocked on Prishvin’s door. She had a difficult life, two marriages behind her and persecution from the authorities for her noble origin. Working for Mikhail Mikhailovich could be a real salvation for her.

The first meeting was rather dry. For some reason, Mikhail and Valeria did not like each other. However, working together, gradually getting to know each other led to the emergence of sympathy, and then that very deep, beautiful feeling, in anticipation of which Mikhail Mikhailovich lived his entire life.

Valeria Dmitrievna became for the writer his evening star, his happiness, his dream, his ideal woman. Working on the writer’s diaries revealed to Valeria Dmitrievna more and more new facets of Prishvin’s personality. Translating his thoughts into typewritten text, the woman became more and more convinced of the extraordinary nature of her employer. The writer's subtle sensuality and endless loneliness found a response in the heart of his secretary. And along with the knowledge of his thoughts came an understanding of the kinship of their souls.

They talked for hours and could not finish talking until late in the evening. In the morning, Mikhail Mikhailovich hurried to open the door, ahead of the housekeeper, in order to quickly see his Valeria.

He wrote a lot about her, about his feelings for this amazing woman, he was afraid of his feelings and was very afraid of being rejected. And he hoped that at the end of his life he could still find his happiness. And all his hopes and dreams suddenly became his own fairy tale come true. Valeria Dmitrievna did not see him as an old man; she felt masculine strength and depth in the writer.

Prishvin's wife, having learned about Mikhail Mikhailovich's relationship with Valeria, created a real scandal. She complained to the Writers' Union and categorically did not agree to the divorce. For the sake of the opportunity to dissolve the marriage, Prishvin had to sacrifice his apartment. Only in exchange for the re-registration of housing in her name did Efrosinya Pavlovna agree to give freedom to Mikhail Mikhailovich.

From that time on, the life of the prose writer changed. He loved and was loved. He met his ideal woman, whom he had been looking for all his life.

Crystal years

And they persevered and overcame all the obstacles on the way to their marriage. The writer took his Valeria to the fabulous outback, to the village of Tryazhino near Bronnitsy. The last 8 years of the writer’s life were spent by the couple in the village of Dunino, Odintsovo district, Moscow region. They enjoyed their late happiness, their love, their common views on feelings and events. The Crystal Years, as Prishvin called them.

The couple together wrote the book “You and I. Love Diaries. This diary described in great detail their feelings, their views, their happiness. The writer was not blinded, he fully noticed the shortcomings of his wife, but they absolutely did not prevent him from being happy.

On January 16, 1954, on the fourteenth anniversary of the writer’s acquaintance with his evening star, Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin left this world. Having met his love at sunset, having found happiness and peace, he left absolutely happy.

As opposed to quiet happiness in adulthood, it is interesting to learn about.

Elena SANDETSKAYA

Mikhail Prishvin: “...I affirm that great love exists among people on earth”

The mother is seeking permission for her son to go to Germany, where Mikhail continued his education at the University of Leipzig. And shortly before receiving his diploma, he goes to visit friends in Paris, where his “fatal” meeting took place with a Russian student at the Sorbonne, Varvara IZMALKOVA. Love falls on him. The relationship began quickly, passionately and... ended just as quickly.

The flame of unfulfilled love lit him as a writer, and he carried it until old age, until the hour when, at the age of 67, he met a woman about whom he could say: “It’s She!” The one I've been waiting for so long." They lived together for 14 years. These were years of real happiness in complete unanimity and like-mindedness. Valeria Dmitrievna and Mikhail Mikhailovich spoke about this in their book “You and I.”

All his life PRISHVIN kept a diary, which absorbed everything that the writer experienced. Here are some of his thoughts on love:

“...There is such a special fear of closeness to a person, based on the universal experience that everyone harbors some kind of personal sin and tries with all their might to hide it from prying eyes with a beautiful veil. When we meet a stranger, we also show ourselves on the good side, and so little by little a society is created that conceals personal sins from prying eyes.

There are naive people here who believe in the reality of this convention between people; There are pretenders, cynics, satyrs who know how to use convention as sauce for a tasty dish. And there are very few who, not being satisfied with the illusion that hides sin, are looking for ways to sinless rapprochement, believing in the recesses of the soul that there is such a He or She who can unite sinlessly and forever and live on earth like the forefathers before the Fall.

In truth, the story of paradise repeats itself and is still countless: almost every love begins with paradise.”

“...If a woman interferes with creativity, then you have to deal with her, like Stepan Razin, and if you don’t want to, like Stepan, then they will find their own Taras Bulba for you, and let him shoot you.

But if a woman helps create life, maintains a house, gives birth to children, or participates in creativity with her husband, then she should be revered as a queen. It is given to us through severe struggle. And maybe that’s why I hate weak men.”

“...When people live in love, they do not notice the onset of old age, and even if they notice a wrinkle, they do not attach any importance to it: that is not the point. So, if people loved each other, they wouldn’t do cosmetics at all.”

“...So, all love is a connection, but not every connection is love. True love is moral creativity.”

“...Do you know that love when you yourself have nothing from it and never will, but you still love everything around you through it, and walk through the field and meadow, and pick up colorful blue cornflowers, one by one, smelling of honey , and blue forget-me-nots."

“...I affirm that on earth people have great love, united and boundless. And in this world of love, intended for man to nourish the soul to the same extent as air for blood, I find the only one that corresponds to my own unity, and only through this correspondence, unity on both sides, do I enter the sea of ​​universal love human.

That is why even the most primitive people, starting their short love, certainly feel that it is not just for them, but for everyone to live well on earth, and even if it is obvious that a good life does not work out, then it is still possible for a person to be happy. So, only through love can one find oneself as a person, and only as a person can one enter the world of human love: love is virtue.”

“...Every unseduced young man, every uncorrupted man not overwhelmed by need contains his own fairy tale about the woman he loves, about the possibility of impossible happiness. And when it happens that a woman appears, then the question arises:

- Wasn’t it SHE who appeared, the one I was waiting for?

Then the answers follow in succession:

- As if she was!

- No, not her!

And then, very rarely, a person, not believing himself, says:

- Is it really SHE?

And every day, reassuring herself during the day in her actions and easy communication, she exclaims: “Yes, it’s SHE!”

And at night, touching, he enthusiastically accepts the miraculous current of life and is convinced of the phenomenon of a miracle: the fairy tale has become reality - it is SHE, undoubtedly SHE!

“...Oh, how the French “look for a woman” has been vulgarized! Meanwhile, this is the truth. All muses have been vulgarized, but the sacred fire continues to burn in our time, as it has burned since time immemorial in the history of man on earth. So my writing, from beginning to end, is a timid, very bashful song of some creature singing in the spring chorus of nature the only word: “Come!”

Love is an unknown country, and we are all sailing there, each on our own ship, and each of us is the captain of our own ship and leads the ship in our own way.”

“...It seems to us, inexperienced and learned from novels, that women should strive to lie, etc. Meanwhile, they are sincere to such an extent that we cannot even imagine it without experience, only this sincerity, sincerity itself, is not at all similar to our concept of it, we confuse it with the truth.”

“...At night I thought that love on earth, the same ordinary love for a woman, specifically for a woman, is everything, and here is God, and all other love within its boundaries: love-pity and love-understanding - from here.

“...I think with love about the absent Lyala. It now becomes clear to me, as never before, that Lyalya is the best thing I have ever met in my life, and any thought about some kind of personal “freedom” must be discarded as absurdity, because there is no freedom greater than that which is given love. And if I always stay at my best, she will never stop loving me. In love, you must fight for your height and thereby win. In love you have to grow and grow yourself.

I said:

- I love you more and more.

- After all, I told you this from the very beginning, that you will love more and more.

She knew it, but I didn't. I cultivated in myself the idea that love passes, that it is impossible to love forever, and that for a while it is not worth the effort. This is the division of love and our common misunderstanding: one love (some kind) is passing, and the other is eternal. In one, a person needs children in order to continue through them; the other, intensifying, connects with eternity.”

“In love you can achieve anything, everything will be forgiven, but not a habit...”

“...The woman extended her hand to the harp, touched it with her finger, and from the touch of her finger to the string, a sound was born. It was the same with me: she touched me and I began to sing.

The most surprising and special thing was the complete absence in me of that teasing image of a woman that is impressive upon first meeting. I was impressed by her soul—and her understanding of my soul. Here there was a contact of souls, and only very slowly, very gradually passing into the body, and without the slightest gap between soul and flesh, without the slightest shame and reproach. It was the epitome."

"- My friend! You alone are my salvation when I am in misfortune... But when I am happy in my affairs, then, rejoicing, I bring you my joy and love, and you answer - which love is dearer to you: when I am in misfortune or when I am healthy , rich and glorious, and I come to you as a conqueror?

“Of course,” she answered, “that love is higher when you are a winner.” And if in misfortune you grab onto me to save yourself, then you love this for yourself! So be happy and come to me as a winner: this is better. But I love you equally - both in sorrow and in joy.”

“...What is love? Nobody said this correctly. But only one thing can be truly said about love, that it contains the desire for immortality and eternity, and at the same time, of course, as something small and self-evidently understandable and necessary, the ability of a being embraced by love to leave behind more or less durable things , starting from small children and ending with Shakespearean lines.”

There is so much tenderness and light in these wise thoughts of Mikhail Prishvin. It is a pity that the truth of true love is not revealed to everyone.