Twentieth-century Russian Literature Has Produced Nothing Special

I Do Not Believe In Political Movements. I Believe In Personal Movement, That Movement Of The Soul When A Man Who Looks At Himself Is So Ashamed That He Tries To Make Some Sort Of Change - Within Himself, Not On The Outside.

Life—the Way It Really Is—is A Battle Not Between Good And Bad, But Between Bad And Worse

...boredom Speaks The Language Of Time, And It Is To Teach You The Most Valuable Lesson In Your Life--...the Lesson Of Your Utter Insignificance. It Is Valuable To You, As Well As To Those You Are To Rub Shoulders With. 'you Are Finite,' Time Tells You In A Voice Of Boredom, 'and Whatever You Do Is, From My Point Of View, Futile.' As Music To Your Ears, This, Of Course, May Not Count; Yet The Sense Of Futility, Of Limited Significance Even Of Your Best, Most Ardent Actions Is Better Than The Illusion Of Their Consequence And The Attendant Self-satisfaction.

After All, It Is Hard To Master Both Life And Work Equally Well. So If You Are Bound To Fake One Of Them, It Had Better Be Life.

In America, A Metrical Poem Is Likely To Conjure Up The Idea Of The Sort Of Poet Who Wears Ties And Lunches At The Faculty Club. In Russia It Suggests The Moral Force Of An Art Practiced Against The Greatest Personal Odds, As A Discipline, Solitary And Intense.