But who are we, where do we come from When all those years Nothing but idle talk is left And we are nowhere in the world?" = MEETING =

Mother Russia is on the move, she can't stand still, she's restless and can't find rest, she's talking and she can't stop.

How wonderful to be alive, he thought. But why does it always hurt?

Oh, what a love it was, utterly free, unique, like nothing else on earth! Their thoughts were like other people's songs.

I have the impression that if he didn't complicate his life so needlessly, he would die of boredom.

In every generation there has to be some fool who will speak the truth as he sees it.

Oh, how one wishes sometimes to escape from the meaningless dullness of human eloquence, from all those sublime phrases, to take refuge in nature, apparently so inarticulate, or in the wordlessness of long, grinding labor, of sound sleep, of true music, or of a human understanding rendered speechless by emotion!