That is almost the whole of Russian literature: the phenomenal coruscations of the souls of quite commonplace people.

Truth does not lie beyond humanity, but is one of the products of the human mind and feeling.

The near end of the street was rather dark and had mostly vegetable shops. Abundance of vegetables - piles of white and green fennel, like celery, and great sheaves of young, purplish, sea-dust-coloured artichokes . . . long strings of dried figs, mountains of big oranges, scarlet large peppers, a large slice of pumpkin, a great mass of colours and vegetable freshness. . . .

The #‎ cosmos is a vast living body, of which we are still parts.

The search for happiness ... always ends in the ghastly sense of the bottomless nothingness into which you will inevitably fall if you strain any further.

If you try to nail anything down, in the novel, either it kills the novel, or the novel gets up and walks away with the nail.

I think I am much too valuable a creature to offer myself to a German bullet gratis and for fun.