You and I, it's as though we have been taught to kiss in heaven and sent down to earth together, to see if we know what we were taught.

Art is interested in life at the moment when the ray of power is passing through it.

He comes as a guest to the feast of existence, and knows that what matters is not how much he inherits but how he behaves at the feast, and what people remember and love him for.

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

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.

He was a natural, and in the Russian way, tragically above these banalities.

And when the war broke out, its real horrors, its real dangers, its menace of real death were a blessing compared with the inhuman reign of the lie, and they brought relief because they broke the spell of the dead letter.