Eternity's a terrible thought. I mean, where's it all going to end?

Having translated two plays by Chekhov, and not speaking Russian myself - I cannot say one sentence. This may shock people... However, I am not shocked, as it is not hard to find out what the words mean.

Words... They're innocent, neutral, precise, standing for this, describing that, meaning the other, so if you look after them you can build bridges across incomprehension and chaos. But when they get their corners knocked off, they're no good any more... I don't think writers are sacred, but words are. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones in the right order, you can nudge the world a little or make a poem which children will speak for you when you're dead.

People think there's a choice between smoking and immortality, but we've all got to die of something.

I should have the courage of my lack of convictions.

Responsibilities gravitate to the person who can shoulder them.

For all the compasses in the world, there's only one direction, and time is its only measure.