Book: information

Belief in their own ugliness on the verge of middle age - something common and perhaps even ubiquitous.

Go quietly, if possible with a modest but befitting occasion aphorism on the lips.

Success gives a person a gloss. He's youthful.

Why do men cry? Because they have to fight and do exploits, participate in marathon races through the ranks, because they miss their mothers, because they are blind, wandering in time and it's so hard to get an erection. And because of all that they did. Because they have forgotten how to just be happy and unhappy - they can only be drunk as a skunk and crazy. And because they don't know how to live, when they Wake up.

There is no such person - if he's old enough to drive a car - which would not be worries.

Perhaps it would be easier if we knew what we are made of, what keeps us alive and what we get back. All that is in front of your eyes - the paper and the ink, these words and your eyes, too, were made of stars: stars that explode when they die.

The more you photograph, the paler it becomes your inner life. While you are photographed, your soul is languishing, it is time for your soul - dead season.

Even pain? No one wants it. Everyone thinks that more they have no room left for pain, yet this pain is not coming.

Summer: an adventure novel. Journey, the search for miracles, wizards, and talking animals in distress damsels.
Autumn: tragedy. Alienation, degeneration, fatal flaws and agony of the characters.
Winter: satire. Dystopia, inverted worlds, thoughts, enveloped in frost.
Spring: Comedy. Weddings, Apple blossom, cheerful holidays, the end of the misunderstandings - away goes all the old, long live the new.

Whatever you owed, you will receive, but not when you need it.

Day is a metaphor of human life: waking, innocent morning, so noon and his pompous conclusion, and then faded early evening hours, then weariness, then mortal weariness, confidence in the rest of the night, then the nightmares, and finally a deep sleep without dreams.