Book: Diaries 1918-1932

The breath of life and death. Dark and terrible it is hanging, drops. There is a deeper layer of longing of the soul, the realm of hopelessness. Carry out the horrible, that does not leave anything from the past, as if life time was not at all, and all the past the same dull spot, as the gray sky. Different to say: that you lived and saved their entire lives, and when they came the black day, then piggy banks have nothing to take.

Habit. Read "old world landowners" and just now in my old age understand why I wrote this thing: the force of habit of the religious is opposed to the rational beginnings. It's an Eastern thing. Live like the Chinese... it turns Out that passion is not love and love is born strong in the habits. <...> All back to "old-world landowners" - that's amazing, almost a scientific experiment in chemistry: the writer eliminated all the factors of life, left one habit and showed us that true, lasting, true love lasts a habit.

Remember, after a trip to the front during the war with Germany, I felt very keenly the discrepancy small current literature with a hell of a grandeur picture of the world of evil, and now, see, the press is not on a business level.

The artist paints hell, he may for this work will soon be given a pension, and it may happen the worst that he would see that all his talent was given to the image feature...

The trick is the lower the quality of mind and higher property stupidity.

Words of love are very simple and about simple things... But if begin the words from within, fiery, passionate, it comes at the expense of love, and it turns out that the song of songs, which we hear from time immemorial. The meaning of this song is a call to the sacred wedding night life...

Finished at the finish "kashcheeva chain". The novel was begun in 1922, so it was written 6 years. In the second part, where it depicted the love, put a personal experience in 1902. The only surviving letter to my bride with a failure to me in all the time of writing were under arms, and gave me the strength to write. Upon return from Peter when to open the ground, I'll bury it in the ground, and this place will be my grave love. <...> Ended diamond spring light gray crying tears spring. Dry my eyes, my tears seep inside, and nobody can see.

Was today a good day or bad - I don't know. In my soul, in the nature of late autumn, turns and stirs the longing. Today I just noticed that the grey trunk of a large tree trembled, a single Golden leaf.

Reading a great book, I think: "Here I have it in the day to read, but to write it, he spent all his life!" After hearing the first spring green noise at the birch, I say, "so to presumeth, because it is half a century growing up!"

What is art? Here's some birdie sitting on a branch, a lump hammer, and a tip of her curve, and, on the one hand, the line of this spout is part of the trajectory of something huge, like Mars and the other is a great have heart sweetly, clearly, responsively, the awe of nothing and nothing is everything...

Eastern people, the collapse of personal effort to explain the fate: fate! the socialists fate and economic necessity, the moralists - the duty of artists is boredom.

With the years, tired of faith in human achievement, and so little by little we all are to a certain extent pessimistic, <...> here only starts people a little bit to look human when he is disappointed in humanity.

The librarian Pavlov (...) on Easter night, got into tea in Kvashenko, where the mass collected men, and suddenly began to lecture about the origin of man from apes. The effect, they say, was extraordinary, like the old men even got carried away and was late to mass. One, by the way, after hearing the lecture, sent a note with the question: "If man comes from apes, then why is currently are born from monkeys only monkeys, not humans, why now it has stopped."

About yourself people never see, to see, to come someone from the outside.