Author of quotes: Ilya Стогoff

In Khartoum (Sudan) I spent four days. All this time I wondered: what kind of disfiguring bruises visible on the faces of the local men?
Then I was told it is a special Muslim mark. A cross between a bruise and corn. Kind of a Muslim you can always tell by the mark left on his forehead after selflessly, with many hitting the floor, prayer. And who has such marks are not, he is likely a bad person. So, no decent girl even in the movie to go do not agree.

In the XIX century the whole Russian literature was almost a family business. Tiny business for those in the subject. Something like today's blogosphere: interesting, of course, but mostly the author and some of his buddies.

In St. Petersburg, which has long been dead, nobody is in a hurry. At least among the people with whom I communicate. All derivatives that could happen has already happened. And for a long time.
Everything that is valuable in today's St. Petersburg, due precisely to the fact that it is NOT the capital. What is a dead and therefore particularly beautiful city. Everything valuable that was born in St. Petersburg in recent decades (from the prose of Dovlatov to the songs of Tsoi, from paintings to St. Petersburg hippy raves), is only a funeral hymn. This is not a city, and his tombstone.

Live in St. Petersburg is really impossible.
But to die here - really beautiful.
A place where people live at least a few centuries, will be reminded of death. Any place - not necessarily Petersburg. Although the St. Petersburg particularly.

- I will say, the Buddha, and you will listen!
Your eyes, Buddha? Why don't you look at us? Look, eh? Enough to sit in Nirvana! In Nirvana everybody can... but I'm not in Nirvana!.. hear?.. told me that you love me... you love?.. don't ask me if I love... I don't know... you're big and strong... and I... piss out... I don't know how to love... you understand?
They all say "be good"! If it is a start. As I understand it - is the finish. Which reaches one hundred. Or not? If I had a disabled son... the baby is fugly... I wouldn't punish him, and treated... would sit at his bedside... read books, taught to draw... and you?.. what the fuck are you doing in Nirvana, if I'm here?!. or do you not love me?.. and you said you love... all I want... all... always... all my heart... teach me, huh?
Every morning I Wake up... decide to live WELL... and then... whack!.. the whole mug... shit... how could I live if around the same shit?!. and you don't even want to open my eyes?!. huh?!
<...>
Can you hear me?! Get off! Be there! And if not, then kill me! Because I can't!..
I pressed his hands to his eyes and yelled louder.
- I'm asking you last time!.. Can you hear me?!. Don't be silent!..
And then the stone Buddha has widely opened heavy eyelids.
And then I heard the long-familiar eyes.

The only thing that interests the Russian audience, is to have somebody stand up on stage and loudly swearing.

Something to catch in St. Petersburg - not very clear. It will not say the words. I feel it's either all leather, or never explain what it was.

In the city of white nights come to look at the sky and to die sooner. The rest of the capital to an early death do not have. In new York, Paris and Moscow live long and work hard.

Techno has no content. Techno doesn't want to tell you and never calls. Techno is just music. Under it we could just dance.

Turkey slightly spoil the Turks, but otherwise it's Paradise.

The most vile in any trip is coming home and once again become a Russian in a crowd of Russian.

The world in which we live, there are only two halves: the silence and speech, laughter and despair, Europe and Asia, light and darkness.

Any time beat the chimes of the Spassky tower of the Kremlin, at least seven, at least an hour of the day, the impression is still like new year's midnight and it's time to drink champagne.

Russian have their own ideas about right living.