Book: Landscape painted with tea

Meanwhile, the drop time will not shake off my face with a sleeve, it's not a drop of rain. They stay forever.

How do we know who is right, if our time were so many of those whom we are obliged to respect, and so few of those who had something to love?

... My full presence is limited in the same way as absence.

The past is better seen at night than during the day.

The reader finds in books what can not find elsewhere, and not something that the writer has made in the novel.

Be careful in your sleep! We say that people dream every night forgets one of those reality loved...

... she, like all wise women, it was utterly stupid bosom of the.

Once journalists asked him how he can live with his conscience as many dead and mutilated people, how could he even sleep. Athanasius asked them shortly:
- You just have to get used to him. When you get used so much better.

You all think that someone will decide something, that your time will come. But from your future some trace remained.

All my generation - single we are deaf to each other, like a bird dive; busy with his business, cannot hear anything around you; sheltered in a peaceful marriages, dream of the one awarded to the single plate and the dinner in silence; we saw the city, not the people in them.

He was one of those who eats with a knife without a fork; this does not cost anything to change the pits in the cherries, if they are in his mouth.

- You know, each of us is like an onion: beneath each oil is as follows; you take it off and expecting to see God knows what. When get to the end, convinced that at the core nothing. Nothing.
Nothing? You say nothing. Onion and water. And the tears? How can shed tears? About them you forgot!

People live in their thoughts, like larvae. Only some develop into butterflies and leave the cocoon.

The road, like all roads, thought for them, before they manage to step on it.