It snowed and snowed, the whole world over, Snow swept the world from end to end. A candle burned on the table; A candle burned.

I have been writing in spurts, bit by bit. It is incredibly difficult. Everything is corroded, broken, dismantled; everything is covered with hardened layers of accumulated insensitivity, deafness, entrenched routine. It is disgusting.

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.

Art is unthinkable without risk and spiritual self-sacrifice.

As for the men in power, they are so anxious to establish the myth of infallibility that they do their utmost to ignore truth.

Departure beyond the borders of my country is for me equivalent to death.

They loved each other, not driven by necessity, by the "blaze of passion" often falsely ascribed to love. They loved each other because everything around them willed it, the trees and the clouds and the sky over their heads and the earth under their feet.