There is nothing dictators hate so much as that unassailable, eternally elusive, eternally provoking gleam. One of the main reasons why the very gallant Russian poet Gumilev was put to death by Lenin's ruffians thirty odd years ago was that during the whole ordeal, in the prosecutor's dim office, in the torture house, in the winding corridors that led to the truck, in the truck that took him to the place of execution, and at that place itself, full of the shuffling feet of the clumsy and gloomy shooting squad, the poet kept smiling.

In and out of my heart flowed my rainbow blood.

Perhaps if the future existed, concretely and individually, as something that could be discerned by a better brain, the past would not be so seductive: its demands would be balanced by those of the future.

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

I know more than I can express in words, and the little I can express would not have been expressed, had I not known more.

Coordinating there Events and objects with remote events And vanished objects. Making ornaments Of accidents and possibilities.

All colors made me happy: even gray. My eyes were such that literally they Took photographs.