Book: Tangerines

Why is a woman devoid of prejudices, must sleep with everyone?

... each life has a taste, your own and need to talk about it, otherwise not worth to write.

... trap of mirrors I managed to avoid, but looks - who can resist this dizzying abyss? I dress in black, say little, do not write, it is my appearance that others see. Easy to say: I'm nobody, I'm me. Still, who am I? Where to meet me? Ought to find yourself on the other side of the door, but if I knock it I won't answer. Suddenly, I felt my face burning, I wanted to rip it like a mask.

You are like all women - he smiled, - you need a fixed star in the sky and kilometer posts on the roads.

- Write when no one read that stupid game.
- When it all falls apart, does not remain anything else how to play idiotic games.

Oh God, I never regretted: he has robbed me of the ground.

Almonds will be in bloom... - he told himself, closing his eyes. - And orange trees - the oranges.

Better to suffer fatally, - said I, - what ever laughingly scattered to the wind the ashes of my past.

It will be such, as I, like thousands of others: a woman who waits for death, itself not knowing why live.

The earth is everywhere equally sad.

No, not today, this I know his death; not today or any other day. I die for others, but she will not see die.

- <...> And where do you put books?
- I don't. After reading the book, I give it to friends, and they, as a rule, it does not return.
- I thought that the writer lives among the walls lined with books. - She doubtfully looked at him: - are you sure You're a real writer?

... I once again thought that she was glad to be a woman, because we're dealing with men, and with them of problems much less.

Even worry too late. <...> Too late for regrets; only to continue.