A town loved with bitter love.

Anna Akhmatova

Anna Akhmatova

Profession: Poet
Nationality: Russian

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My shadow serves as the friend I crave.

I should be proud to have my memory graced, but only if the monument be placed... here, where I endured three hundred hours in line before the implacable iron bars.

I've got no more tears or explanations.

Love conquers, deceitful and slow, With a soft amateurish refrain. So strange to think – not long ago You weren't dejected and gray.

First as a serpent, it'll cast its spell Next to your heart, curled up. Then it'll come as a dove as well, Cooing for days nonstop.

All has been looted, betrayed, sold; black death's wing flashed ahead.

In those years only the dead smiled, Glad to be at rest: And Leningrad city swayed like A needless appendix to its prisons.

Each of our lives is a Shakespearean drama raised to the thousandth degree.

I always think about the past, it's so large and bright.

Courage: Great Russian word, fit for the songs of our children's children, pure on their tongues, and free.

If you were music, I would listen to you ceaselessly, and my low spirits would brighten up.

I am in the middle of it: chaos and poetry; poetry and love and again, complete chaos. Pain, disorder, occasional clarity; and at the bottom of it all: only love; poetry. Sheer enchantment, fear, humiliation. It all comes with love.

I have long had this premonition of a bright day and a deserted house.

But what would it have cost you to make people happy and agree that you'd had an affair?" She replied very gravely, "I have lived my own unique life, and my life lacks nothing; it has no need to borrow from other people.