Behind me there are already so many memories (...) Lots of memories, but no point in remembering them, and ahead of me a long, long road with nothing to aim for ... I just don't want to go along it.

What did I hope for, what did I expect, what rich future did I foresee, when the phantom of my first love, rising up for an instant, barely called forth one sigh, one mournful sentiment?

Go and try to disprove death. Death will disprove you, and that's all!

Art, if one employs this term in the broad sense that includes poetry within its realm, is an art of creation laden with ideals, located at the very core of the life of a people, defining the spiritual and moral shape of that life.

Everyone needs help from everyone else.

I only know that I feel tired, antiquated; I feel as though I had been living a long, long time.

The fact is that previously they were simply dunces and now they've suddenly become nihilists.