Pierre was one of those people who are strong only when they feel themselves perfectly pure.

He was right in saying that the only certain happiness in life is to live for others.

In a writer there must always be two people - the writer and the critic.

But she did not take her eyes from the wheels of the second car. And exactly at the moment when the midpoint between the wheels drew level with her, she threw away the red bag, and drawing her head back into her shoulders, fell on her hands under the car, and with a light movement, as though she would rise immediately, dropped on her knees. And at the instant she was terror-stricken at what she was doing. 'Where am I? What am I doing? What for?' She tried to get up, to throw herself back; but something huge and merciless struck her on the head and dragged her down on her back.

Those whom God wishes to destroy he drives mad.

A writer is dear and necessary for us only in the measure of which he reveals to us the inner workings of his very soul.

God knows, but He's waiting