No author has created with less emphasis such pathetic characters as Chekhov has.

The clumsiest literal translation is a thousand times more useful than the prettiest paraphrase.

Solitude was corrupting me.

The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.

In this crazy mirror of terror and art a pseudo-quotation made up of obscure Shakespeareanisms (Chapter Three) somehow produces, despite its lack of literal meaning, the blurred diminutive image of the acrobatic performance that so gloriously supplies the bravura ending for the next chapter.

A wise reader reads the book of genius not with his heart, not so much with his brain, but with his spine. It is there that occurs the telltale tingle.

We loved each other with a premature love, marked by a fierceness that so often destroys adult lives.