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

Imagine me; I shall not exist if you do not imagine me; try to discern the doe in me, trembling in the forest of my own iniquity; let's even smile a little. After all, there is no harm in smiling.

Non-Russian readers do not realize two things: that not all Russians love Dostoievsky as much as Americans do, and that most of those Russians who do, venerate him as a mystic and not as an artist.

Genius still means to me, in my Russian fastidiousness and pride of phrase, a unique dazzling gift. The gift of James Joyce, and not the talent of Henry James.

I adore you, mon petit, and would never allow him to hurt you, no matter how gently or madly.

I was weeping again, drunk on the impossible past.

Resemblances are the shadows of differences. Different people see different similarities and similar differences.