Author of quotes: Ivan Alekseevich Bunin. Page 1

And then it started something between us a secret, some kind of sinful intimacy ours would have been the relationship and therefore special lust.

One person's heart had gone out of his hands and he said to the mind: farewell!

He sought her in Gelendzhik, Gagra, Sochi. The next day upon arriving in Sochi, he bathed in the morning in the sea, then shaved, put on clean clothes, a white tunic, had Breakfast in the hotel on the terrace of the restaurant, drank a bottle of champagne, drank coffee with Chartreuse, slowly smoked a cigar. Returning to his room, he lay down on the sofa and shot himself in whiskey from two revolvers.

She was pale beautiful pale loving excited woman.

Around the hips of scarlet bloomed, it was a dark lip of the alley...

Black spruce and pine Shine through the dark garden:
The black pattern of the branches of the month, the Golden horn.
Hear cocks crow. I recognize the tunes of sad
Later, a mysterious hour. Come to the snow on the porch.
All stopped and stood still, shining cruel stars,
But to the bone I'm ready to be chilled in a light fur
Just to see you dying in gold a month,
Gold glittering snow, light shadows of birch trees
And gems of heaven: amber-green the Jupiter
Sirius, bold sapphire, blue burning with fire,
Aldebaran ruby, diamond chain Orion
And deep in the sea the Ghost of a silvery - Argo.

There is something immutable, all that unites us: it is the freedom of thought and conscience, what we owe civilization. For a writer, this freedom is especially necessary, - it is for him a dogma, an axiom.

Ambition is characteristic of almost every person and every author.

Forest, just tower painted,
Purple, gold, scarlet,
Fun, colorful wall
Is over bright clearing.
Birch yellow thread
Shining in azure blue,
As the tower, Christmas trees darken,
And between maples blue
Here and there in the foliage through
The gaps in the sky that little window.
The forest smells of oak and pine,
Over the summer it dried up from the sun
And Fall quiet widow
Comes in colorful tower your.

Do you wonder: why the interest in Pushkin in the last decade?

And I survived his death, rashly said once that I will not survive it. But, remembering all that I have experienced since then, always ask yourself: Yes, and what is still in my life? And answer to yourself: only one cold autumn evening. Really, he was once? Still was. And that's all that was in my life - the rest is junk sleep. And I believe, fervently believe that somewhere out there he's waiting for me - with the same love and youth like that night. "You live, rejoice in the light, then come to me..." I lived, I was glad, now will come soon.

Everything passes, my friend. Love, youth - everything, everything. The history of the last, common. With age everything goes.

All faded... Only asters
Silver remained, -
Under cold blue sky
Wishful thinking.

Dark night white lilies
The sleep is quiet unclear.
Breeze the coolness of the night
Abovet them.
The night of their calyx closed.
The night keeps the flowers
In the garb of innocent
Pure beauty.