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

And presently I was driving through the drizzle of the dying day, with the windshield wipers in full action but unable to cope with my tears.

My characters are galley slaves.

Nothing is more exhilarating than philistine vulgarity.

Ideas in modern Russia are machine-cut blocks coming in solid colors; the nuance is outlawed, the interval walled up, the curve grossly stepped.

...in my dreams the world would come alive, becoming so captivatingly majestic, free and ethereal, that afterwards it would be oppressive to breathe the dust of this painted life.

You know, what's so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own.