The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.

The summer night was starless and stirless, with distant spasms of silent lightning.

Chess problems demand from the composer the same virtues that characterize all worthwhile art: originality, invention, conciseness, harmony, complexity, and splendid insincerity

while the scientist sees everything that happens in one point of space, the poet feels everything that happens in one point of time.

I shall continue to exist. I may assume other disguises, other forms, but I shall try to exist.

My mind speaks English, my heart speaks Russian, and my ear prefers French.

And the rest is rust and stardust.