There is no iron that can enter the human heart with such stupefying effect, as a period placed at just the right moment.

If the world could write by itself, it would write like Tolstoy.

She would lift her peignoir above her knees and say to her husband: 'Give baby a kiss...'

When a phrase is born, it is both good and bad at the same time. The secret of its success rests in a crux that is barely discernible. One's fingertips must grasp the key, gently warming it. And then the key must be turned once, not twice.

No iron can pierce the human heart as chillingly as a full stop placed at the right time.

For me the whole world is like a gigantic theater in which I am the only spectator without opera glasses. The orchestra plays the prelude to the third act, the stage is far away as in a dream, my heart swells with delight—and you want to blind me with a pair of half-ruble spectacles?

A phrase is born into the world both good and bad at the same time. The secret lies in a slight, an almost invisible twist. The lever should rest in your hand, getting warm, and you can only turn it once, not twice.