Author of quotes: Tatyana Tolstaya

*On this Holiday, don’t beat them, don’t beat them up, don’t do anything so ordinary, but let her Wife and Mother and Grandmother and Niece or some other small Pigalitsa get up early in the morning, bake pies, bake pancakes of this and that, pile everything clean, wash the floors, sweep the benches, scrub the water from the well he brings underwear or outerwear from the well, he will wash and wash someone’s rugs or rugs, let him beat everything out well, otherwise I know you are dusty in the hut, even hold your nose. Let him chop the firewood, light the bathhouse, and wash himself properly. The table will be set with a rich pile of pancakes, any snack you can have from the New Year, whatever you haven’t eaten, bring everything to the table.

This New Year's holiday is celebrated this way: cut down a tree in the forest so small and branchy that it fits into a hut, and whoever wants to, put it in the yard. Stick this tree into the floor or wherever it is necessary to hold it, and hang all sorts of things that anyone has on the branches. You can use colored twisted threads or something like that, you can use nuts, flames, or whatever you don’t mind, there’s all sorts of crap lying around the corners at home, there’s always another time and it’ll do.

What is life? The silent theater of Chinese shadows, the chain of dreams, the crook's shop? Or is the gift of unrequited love all that is meant for me? What about happiness? What is happiness? Ungrateful, you are alive, you cry, you love, you tear and fall, and this is not enough for you? So little?! Ah, so, yes? And there is nothing else.

Art elevates.

Because we are blind, no, a thousand times more blind than this old man in a wheelchair. We whispered, but we stop up their ears, show us, but we turn away. We don't have faith: we are afraid to believe because we are afraid that we will be deceived. We are confident that we are in the tomb. We know that in the darkness there is nothing. In the darkness there can be nothing.

Ravenna is famous for its mosaics, and the crowds of tourists move from one Church to another to, lifting his head to consider the dull Shine small colorful glazes there, high up under dusky vaults. Something seen, but not very well. On glossy postcards can be seen better, but too bright, flat and cheap.

They want to see Paradise in vain.

I don't want a simple human life. I want complex dreams, and they are in St. Petersburg are born from the sea wind and dampness.

"Alien" he is a stranger. What is good? And your - it's warm. He and the eyes of others. Your - he a bit like you.

I - the steadfast tin soldier, I don't care, I love uneasy, but Oh, my God, when I see this lanky guy with the glasses when I watch him getting out of the car, like caramore when I suddenly recognize him, this ridiculous in a long coat that occurs in flakes of a snowstorm, otvorachivayutsya face from wind, covering his eyes from the Blizzard - my inner tower, the bastions and barriers melt, crumble, crumble like a bad, slow movie. Tell me Lord, why this? Little did they, absurd and confused wearing glasses? Why is this? I don't understand you, Lord. Reveal to me your plans!..

... Because snort is a much more secure position.

We don't know the origin of happiness. But there are places where it is sprinkled on a slide.

Be born, die, get up, lie down, dance on the neighbor's wedding or in the morning on harsh crimson sunrise Wake up as from a blow with a stick, scared, as if you're the only one left alive in the world - they're all there, always there, light flashing, dim-sighted, eternal, silent.

Here, I think, a woman: well, why is it, Baba? The cheeks, abdomen, eyes mirguet, says something. Wagging his head, smacks his lips, and inside her what? Dark meat, bones creaking, bowel ring, and more and nothing. Laughing, bugaetsa, knits his eyebrows, and whether she really feeling what? Thoughts? As well as she pretends to be a woman, and the werewolf of the swamp?