What you love is your own love. It's not love, it's selfishness. It's not me you think of, but what you feel about me.
We think we grow old, we grow wise and more tolerant; we just grow more lazy.
We all write poems it is simply that poets are the ones who write in words.
[об американцах]— Я понимаю, они — туристы, не отличающиеся очень уж развитым воображением. Вспоминаю, как училась там в школе. Ребята там казались мне гораздо более открытыми, по крайней мере в том,...
It's despair at the lack of (I'm cheating, I didn't say all these things - but I'm going to write what I want to say as well as what I did) feeling, of love, of reason in the world. It's despair that...
It was curious how quiet that last evening was; as if I had already left, and we were just two ghosts talking to each other.
An answer is always a form of death.
Davit,
I'm only happy when I forget to exist. When just my eyes or my ears or my skin exist.
In spite of her superficial independence, her fundamental need was to cling.All her life was an attempt to disprove it; and so proved it. She was like a sea anemone -- had only to be touched once to a...
In our age it is not sex that raises its ugly head, but love.
He was one of the most supremely stupid men I have ever met. He taught me a great deal.
Why should I struggle through hundreds of pages of fabrication to reach half a dozen very little truths?''For fun?''Fun!' He pounced on the word. 'Words are for truth. For facts. Not fiction.
Sometimes I almost pity them. I think I have a freedom they cannot understand. No insult, no blame can touch me. Because I have set myself beyond the pale. I am nothing, I am hardly human any more. I...
Perhaps twenty minutes later he realized she had gone to sleep. He quietly removed his now stiff arm, then turned away. It must have woken her a little After a moment he felt her turn as well and lay...
Fue como si me hubiera caído, desde el borde del mundo, al vacío. Un borde que apareció así, como de repente.
They're beautiful. But sad.'Everything's sad if you make it so, I said.
The human race is unimportant. It is the self that must not be betrayed.I suppose one could say that Hitler didn't betray his self.You are right. He did not. But millions of Germans did betray their s...
Nice girl, dear boy.Oh . . . I shrugged. You know.Most attractive.Cheaper than central heating.I'm sure.
It was an unforgettable painting; it set a dense golden halo of light round the most trivial of moments, so that the moment, and all such moments, could never be completely trivial again.