A man is like a novel: until the very last page you don't know how it will end. Otherwise it wouldn't be worth reading.

You're in a bad way! Apparently, you have developed a soul.

Knowledge, absolutely sure of its infallibility, is faith.

The latest literary discussions reflect a struggle between two artistic methods - romanticism and realism, with the latter clearly ascendant for the time being.

There is no final one; revolutions are infinite.

When we remove the snowdrift piled up over Chekhov in recent years, we uncover a man profoundly agitated by social problems; a writer whose social ideals are the same as those we live by; a philosophy of the divinity of man, of fervent faith in man - the faith that moves mountains.

What makes you think that nonsense is bad? If they'd nurtured and cared for human nonsense over the ages the way they did intelligence, it might have turned into something of special value.