A thousand years ago five minutes were Equal to forty ounces of fine sand. Outstare the stars. Infinite foretime and Infinite aftertime: above your head They close like giant wings, and you are dead.

Neither in environment nor in heredity can I find the exact instrument that fashioned me, the a.non.y.muse roller that passed upon my life a certain intricate watermark whose unique design becomes visible when the lamp of art is made to shine through life's foolscap.

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

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.

...All my best words are deserters and do not answer the trumpet call, and the remainder are cripples.

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

Life is short. From here to that old car you know so well there is a stretch of twenty, twenty-five paces. It is a very short walk. Make those twenty-five steps. Now. Right now. Come just as you are. And we shall live happily ever after.