The Cloud Dweller

The line between writer and written thing interests some. I see it as the line between a cloud and the naked sky.

I don’t recall whether I first discovered Doctor Zhivago in novel or cinematic form. However I came upon it, though, it made quite an impression. For reasons I cannot name, other works of Boris Pasternak have not interested me. I have sought out none of his other work.

The story of that novel, the import of which is hard to imagine today, excites nearly as much as the novel itself. In Lara, Anna Pasternak, great-niece of the poet/novelist, tells that tale. I was struck by the persona of Pasternak, revered in a land that has long revered its best writers, and by the force of will that resulted in his great work. Such was the power of his early poetry and translations, it is said, that Stalin directed his security services to leave the writer alone. For a time, beauty—the beauty of language—made him untouchable.