Author of quotes: Yuri Levitansky

There is a desire I have,
and others I do not have -
so love what I can do,
so to write as I can.
<...>
Let him stay with me
this flour and yearning,
it's a strange aspiration
always be yourself!..

How do you do? You're good at doing.
Hand when meeting a friendly shake.
Shake me, shake hands with him,
All shake - foe or friend.
- Oh - I say - not be so harsh!
Cheers darling, cheers! -
You're not a traitor. Just you buddy,
And that is why, probably, all pleasant.
You share, without giving completely
Equally divided between kindness and meanness,
Standing between them, a toast to propose peace.
Oh, how cute! Oh, how cute!
I don't want to be nice, do not want.
What you sow, I reap.
How do you do? Badly I'm doing.
And so I live. That you wish.

Quiet. Twilight. Indian summer.
Clear,
frequent
the plaintive sound
if the tree is cut somewhere.
I fall asleep to that sound.
Sleep occurs during the last century.
The sound of heard a century ago.
Fun walk lumberjacks,
cut
cut
the cherry orchard.
They have special kinds.
Them a funny head in the clouds.
They are neat.
They busily.
They have horseshoes on the boots.
They go primina grass.
They are endowed with axes.
I know
they, lumberjacks, right.
These trees are doomed.
But the bird cried out,
a branch snapped,
in the slowly fading day
something old-fashioned sad
as the rain penetrates me.
Well, plenty, I supposed to be mad!
I'm a stranger. I can't help it.
Chop down the cherry orchard!
Chop!
It is historically doomed.
Nonsense - the sentimental type. They are superfluous here.
Well, one more time! Again.
... And again I dream
cherry, cherry,
red-red cherry juice.

Hovers, hovers a quill wedge
behind the cloud of geese groan.
Burning autumn maple,
ash leaves will become.
Winds old orchard purged
he's leaving in the summer..
And the new leaves will come,
coming for those next.

Love the autumn Moscow
in her bright attire,
when the morning, burning leaves,
fallen under the wind.
Huge slow fire
over the leafless garden
similar to Lancet Church
with the charred facade.
And the old maple completely wilted,
is sad gorbas...
I think its from them
its leaves pride.
Well, so what, so what,
that crushed and beaten!
They have a silent celebration
premonitions of victory.

You can measure seven times and weigh
and again outweigh
and can cut seven times, measuring almost.
But you already know how little time
in a year or ten,
and you know how much you can for a day or two.

You can measure seven times and weigh
and re-measure
And derive the formula, which is available deeds and words.
But you can check the harmony with algebra
and don't believe
the testimony of the formulas
Oh, sweetheart, algebra, you are not right.
You can chat with the shadow of Shakespeare
and his own shadow.
You will confuse the cards, mixing accidentally yesterday and now.

In the meadow,
on the river Bank,
under the moon,
in silence,
the fragrant MOP,
he lies on his back
and, eyes narrowing,
looking intently into heaven
do not disturb,
he's busy
he builds,
he builds castles in the air,
it's all in the heavens
in the clouds,
in the blue,
plenty of ideas in his head,
constructive solutions
and plans
he's already a city ready to rise,
even a hundred cities
come whenever you want,
take
live!

Pessimism - the property of a young age, and optimism - Mature.

The value of life for a person becomes, as a rule, all of the above.

I think to be proud of whatever it is - silly and indecent. Can't even think straight now, what could be proud of. Country? Nation? Origin?.. <...> To be proud of something written is the property of a dimwit.

In my experience the availability of money and talent is rarely the same.

For me, may 9 - a heavy day. I don't go to any gatherings. In Moscow the Sergeant of our company. He is older than me by several years. Sometimes he calls me on holidays and curse the current government. For people of this generation comrade Stalin is still Holy. With them it is useless on the subject to say, that they will go away. They are not to blame. It was the best part of their lives. Nothing to do with it is impossible.
We have no prose to explain that we all happened then. When people ask me how you do not understand, when everything is so obvious, I say, I was Mowgli, raised in the jungle and nothing else is seen. Where Mowgli could know about the existence of another world?

In poetry a lot, but when "write incomprehensible" becomes a creative task is, in my opinion, just bad manners. Educated people will find a way to understand him, for he knows that there is no need to increase the "quantity" of misunderstanding in the world, where people do not understand too well each other. And I think that truly intelligent art is art that, at least, strives to be understood. To be transparent.