At eight, he had once told his mother that he wanted to paint air.

And she was mine, she was mine, the key was in my fist, my fist was in my pocket, she was mine.

The only real number is one, the rest are mere repetition

Of all my Russian books, the defense contains and diffuses the greatest 'warmth' which may seem odd seeing how supremely abstract Chess is supposed to be

Look at this tangle of thorns.

And yet I adore him. I think he's quite crazy, and with no place or occupation in life, and far from happy, and philosophically irresponsible – and there is absolutely nobody like him.

The compensation for a death sentence is the knowledge of the exact hour when one is to die. A great luxury, but one that is well earned.