When I embrace a stranger, it is something natural. When I relate it, it is something unnatural (for myself!). But when I transform it into poetry, it becomes natural again. That is to say, the action and the poetry give me the reason. What is found between both accuses me. The lie is what is in the middle, not me. [...]
Dear, tear out the heart that is full of me. Don't torment yourself. Live. Don't be dismayed by your wife and your son. I grant you the pardon of all and everything. Take everything you can - as long as you have the desire to take it. Remember that blood is older than ourselves, especially yours, Semitic. Don't domesticate it. Take all this from a lyrical height - no: from an epic height!
Write to me or don't write to me about all this, as you wish. I, besides everything, - no, before and after everything (until the first light of dawn!), - am your friend.

This passage seems to express a complex set of emotions and ideas. The act of embracing a stranger is initially natural, but when put into words, it loses that naturalness. However, through the medium of poetry, it regains its authenticity. The speaker then addresses someone dear, urging them to let go of the heart filled with her and to live freely. She grants a pardon and encourages the person to take what they can, emphasizing the importance of not domesticating their Semitic blood. The final part about writing or not writing shows a sense of acceptance and the speaker's assertion that she is still the person's friend, regardless of what happens.

I truly have a great affection for this book. It has managed to capture my attention from the very first page. The story it tells is engaging and full of twists and turns that keep me on the edge of my seat. The characters are well-developed and each has their own unique personality and charm. I find myself easily able to relate to them and their experiences. The writing style is also very enjoyable, flowing smoothly and making it a pleasure to read. Whether I'm curled up on the couch or sitting in the park, this book is always a great companion. It has the power to transport me to another world and make me forget about the stresses of my own life for a while. In conclusion, I like this book very much and would highly recommend it to anyone looking for a good read.

"Sucks all the oxygen out of the room" is a rather overused metaphor, yet in this particular case, it proves to be a highly appropriate and useful one. Marina Tsvetayeva truly seems to suck all the oxygen out of this book. One can easily fathom why Rilke, in a state of vulnerability and nearing the end of his life, chose to avoid meeting her.

This volume undoubtedly holds great value as a comprehensive collection of source documents for those engaged in research on Tsvetayeva, Pasternak, and Rilke. It is meticulously annotated and sourced, providing scholars and enthusiasts alike with a wealth of reliable information. The editors have done an excellent job in compiling and presenting these materials in a clear and organized manner, making it a valuable resource for anyone interested in delving deeper into the works and lives of these renowned poets.

Encore! This simple word holds a world of meaning and excitement. It is a cry that echoes through concert halls, theaters, and performance spaces around the globe. When the audience shouts "Encore!", they are expressing their unwavering enthusiasm and desire for more.

It is a moment of pure joy and connection between the performer and the crowd. The performer, having given their all on stage, hears the thunderous applause and the insistent calls for an encore. It is a validation of their hard work and talent, and it spurs them on to give an even more outstanding performance.

"Encore!" can also signify a special moment in time, a memory that will be cherished by both the performer and the audience. It is a time when the boundaries between the two are blurred, and everyone is united in their love for the art being presented. So the next time you find yourself at a performance and the crowd starts chanting "Encore!", join in and let the magic of the moment carry you away.

All those close to me — and they were few in number — have proved to be immeasurably kinder than me. Even Rilke said to me: You are right, but you are hard — and this has embittered me, because otherwise I could not be. Now, taking stock, I realize: my apparent cruelty was only — a form, a contour of the essence, a necessary boundary of self-defense — in the face of the kindness of yours, of Rilke, Marcel Proust and Boris Pasternak. For, in the last moment — you took my hand and left me, who had long left the family of men, face to face with my own humanity. Among you, the non-men, I am only a man.