Book: Violin

I like to cry alone. How wonderful it is to cry to his heart's content, without thinking that now you will stop! No one tells you "Yes" or "no", no one is asking to be forgiven, no one intervenes.

- Get the hell out of here!
- You cannot be serious. He shrugged. And don't tell me you have a pulse isn't beating like a hammer. You madly wish I was there!

What divine emptiness comes after the disappearance of fear!

Where look - everywhere song: in the rain and the wind and the groan of the afflicted... Everywhere songs.

It always happens in lucid dreams. You're circling and circling and I can not Wake up. And in a head one thought: that can't be all that you dreamed.

This music was written like in order to help to go forward, stubbornly and almost vindictive to climb the mountain. She calls forward, forward and forward, not allowing to stop. And then comes a lull, as in the Vienna woods, like a man suddenly caught in his throat from the view of the city, where he seeks, and then he spreads arms out and begins to dance in a circle...
This ruthless music. The running man is not going to stop. Forward, up, forward... it doesn't matter: forests, trees - all this does not matter. Only one thing matters: you continue to walk... And when comes back a modicum of happiness - fragrant, triumphant happiness, caused by the fact that walking around the plateau, this time to the beat he heard steps. Therefore, the path ends.
Until don't stop the music.

How easy it is to wish death, when she's not in danger! How easy it is to fall in love with death - and I personally love her all my life and seen her most devoted admirers in the end broke, going to cry in his pleas to live a little longer, as if all the dark veils and lilies and the smell of candles, and grandiose promises of the grave mean nothing.

The only thing that matters when poured coffee from the silver spout, as the jet begins to glow, then, like a thick brown colour becomes amber and Golden yellow, and the jet wriggling like a dancer, yet filled Cup suddenly broken, like a Ghost hiding back into the pot.

The ceiling on the porch is painted a light blue paint so the wasps decided if it is heaven, and not satisfied with there nests.

In this life, reality and dreams are entwined with so closely that one invariably triumphs over the other.

The curse of memory is this: nothing is ever forgotten.

But one thing we have in common is the talent for suffering, Yes, a talent for sorrow, Yes, and passion for that magic, that mystery we call music.

Grief tears are shed. Grief comes only after the terror of the grave, the horror at the bedside, the mountain of wisdom and serenity.

Nevertheless, much as it pains me, I'm not crazy. That's the problem.