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

Poetry is a rich, full-bodied whistle, cracked ice crunching in pails, the night that numbs the leaf, the duel of two nightingales, the sweet pea that has run wild, Creation's tears in shoulder blades.

Our evenings are farewells. Our parties are testaments. So that the secret stream of suffering. May warm the cold of life.

How many things in the world deserve our loyalty? Very few indeed. I think one should be loyal to immortality, which is another word for life, a stronger word for it.

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.

The whole of life is symbolic because the whole of it has meaning.

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.