Author of quotes: A Sudden Guide to Working with People

And the girl looks at you greedily...
The girl looks at you like a valkyrie on a konung a second before the so common in the sagas, but no less pleasant phrase: yes, konung, come on, make me a son.
And the girl loves.
Not to be loved, not because she is so braver or more comfortable.
Because you. And because she has eyes. She didn't put them in her anus, she looks at them and knows that she will find somewhere else the same source of life as you.

Gianni sculpted fantastically fast. Everything in his yard was pampering. He always had a dozen orders plus everything he sculpted for himself. The ecstasy of St. Catherine, for example. He played with materials - wood, bronze, marble, granite. He made metal look like stone, stone, like wood, turned wood into bronze, but so too - dabbled. He always sculpted in full growth.
St. Catherine was circling with him. The Church always puts its saints static, and his marble of her robes spilled, scattered evening dress - the luxury of fabrics. From under the dress of St. Catherine curls were knocked out and curled on the cheeks, on the lips open, the perfect shape of the lips, wrapped tears - marble, but so real that you believed - they are transparent, salty and hot. Tears wet her lips, her eyes closed, her eyelids light like the wings of a bat. Like the wings of a bat - trembling, you believed - tremble eyelids at St. Catherine in ecstasy. And the whole figure of heavy marble was weightless - about to take off. Dance through the air.
Gianni sculpted Katerina from the Stasi. But I saw the Stasi so magnificent only once - in Italy on a rock. Stasi in a heavy robe after an evening swim with a towel on his hair, Stasi champagne hit the heart, we are sixteen, twilight stuck to us purple cotton candy. The Stasi, kissed, summer, swirled to herbert's songs - in pain, rage, happiness. In the pain of the horror of realizing that maybe she would never pull such openness again, she would never feel so good. Furious that childhood is gone, that Herbert and I competed for a transparent girl, but now she can't keep up with us. And she'll never keep up. In rage, pain, that these are the last rays of the sun, when it is the center for us. In happiness - and how without happiness on the rocks of Italy, when you cause a slight intoxication in the lord and the brightest of his warriors? As without happiness?

I have to allow myself everything that defines me, and I am defined by everything I allow myself.
Over the "I" endless work: the introduction of new details, improvement of the old, adjustments, installations, strokes ...
God's greatest masterpiece, Herbert, is God.
I am what I feel about myself, how I feel - only this determines the world.
The world exists only for me to define myself through it.
A constructor I gave myself to measure myself, to discover and make details, as in the children's books of the Scandinavians - I have half-awake, three monkeys, seven parrots - and of the whole menagerie, one I am real, the rest are far-fetched methods of measuring myself.
I have so many wars, so much charity, a certain amount of debt, a pint of tenderness, etc.
The greatest masterpiece of the creator is the creator.
Not stars, galaxies, the dance of supermassive giants in the hearts of universes - no, Herbert is what you become while you play the notes, unchanged and eternally new. It's a very personal thing of God alone... and perhaps with corpses dressed up, in blush and paint, corpses stiffened by former versions of themselves.
Such a dance.

Music flows like life.
On the clean.
Cramped creatures with very slow brains need to sit,
reread
cross out,
to torture myself.
It wasn't easy for me to get out of it.
Life is simple.
There can be nothing attractive in the slow unrawing of the soul,
squeezing yourself like a pimple on paper
or on canvas.
People are rushing at it to somehow justify it.
Not to recognize that divinity is weightless.
Not to see the hierarchy between the artisan, talent, genius, god.

Sailors who cry when a beautiful boy sings to a beautiful girl in his lap - oh, if I had the wings of an eagle, I'd fly to my love on the shore, and never again would I leave her, for she is the girl I adore!
And the girl cries
their, according to legends, healing tears of the lady.
And presses you to the chest of the one that is able to defocus in fights.
Oh, if I had the wings of an eagle!
And it smells of pints of beer, and fried meat, and sea water.
And the girl loves you by anyone.
Even an Irish sailor,
even a coke on a fishing sniffed schooner.
And the smoke in my hair, and the smell of iodine, the water of the sea, not departing from my skin, now its oxygen ...

Abyss in the ability to bring thoughts, deeds, structuring yourself to the end.

I can feel your gaze, Mr. von Schönburg-Hartenstein.
The stones would feel your gaze.
With the intensity with which your pupil drinks the light reflected by me, even the granite baobab would be reached by a phrase sung so many times by a distant English lady that she did not sing it and with one twentieth of your involvement, sir-
I love you till my breathing stops.
You burn out intensely adore me.

You don’t need any pacing when love is your life. When you make love, the pace is just natural, you don’t pace yourself, you don’t dry yourself, making love.

And the weariness in me is a delight.

It's foolish to wait for anticipation of the future when it's here. It's gone. It's just our picture of the world.

Mom, you don't have to be afraid of the storm, you have to be.

Herbert picked up the next record,
the sun gleamed in the domes of Vienna.
A sad figure swayed on a swing in the garden,
had fun with each takeoff.
The open window smelled of frost and clove stars in caramel.
It's fantastically simple, Herbert.
There are the shortest, easiest ways.
Their name -
enervation
choice
and pleasure.
Paths are accessible in terms of difficulty only to the gods.
Me, to you, brother.