If I were asked today to formulate as concisely as possible what was the main cause of the ruinous revolution that swallowed up some 60 million of our people, I could not put it more accurately than to repeat: 'Men had forgotten God; that is why all this has happened.'

A work of art contains its verification in itself: artificial, strained concepts do not withstand the test of being turned into images; they fall to pieces, turn out to be sickly and pale, convince no one. Works which draw on truth and present it to us in live and concentrated form grip us, compellingly involve us, and no one ever, not even ages hence, will come forth to refute them.

I have grown used to the fact that public repentance is the most unacceptable option for the modern politician.

Every man always has handy a dozen glib little reasons why he is right not to sacrifice himself.

Man has set for himself the goal of conquering the world but in the processes loses his soul.

When I was young, the early death of my father cast a shadow over me - and I was afraid to die before all my literary plans came true. But between 30 and 40 years of age my attitude to death became quite calm and balanced. I feel it is a natural, but no means the final, milestone of one's existence.

It is the artist who realizes that there is a supreme force above him and works gladly away as a small apprentice under God's heaven.