Pasha: The private life is dead - for a man with any manhood. Zhivago: I saw some of your 'manhood' on the way at a place called Minsk. Pasha: They were selling horses to the Whites. Zhivago: It seems you've burnt the wrong village. Pasha: They always say that, and what does it matter? A village betrays us, a village is burned. The point's made. Zhivago: Your point - their village.
Pasha: I used to admire your poetry. Zhivago: Thank you. Pasha: I shouldn't admire it now. I should find it absurdly personal. Don't you agree? Feelings, insights, affections... it's suddenly trivial now. You don't agree; you're wrong. The personal life is dead in Russia. History has killed it. I can see why you might hate me. Zhivago: I hate everything you say, but not enough to kill you for it.