Author of quotes: Ivan Alekseevich Bunin. Page 3

It was the beginning of our love, time still cloudless happiness, of closeness, of trust and enthusiastic tenderness, and joy...

And we were sat in a sort of bewildered happiness.

"The spoken thought is a lie..." And how many of the most common lies! Human conversation three quarters is always false and involuntary, and freestyle, with great care svertyvaemosti something here and there. And all the boasting, bragging.

Amazingly for the time, it seems, only two or three days is good. All the rain and the rain.

The Kingdom of God, the joy within ourselves. For joy sometimes need surprisingly little. Sometimes, in school, engage a teacher for Pantalone behind the rear lug of shtiblet - what a laugh!

Reading Your letter with great tenderness and bitterness, remembered the tenderness because only now I understood how it entered into my heart, and bitterly, for the simple reason, that now again will get You to Kaza and Your to wine Your. And comes fall, best, the wine in the seas and countries.

From the earliest of my days I have it in power. But I know that the more I dream, the less hope of reaching it. And I had been in a fight with her. I dissemble: pretend that I'm indifferent. But what could you do?

Than neosuschestvimy dream, the not enough not enough, neosuschestvimy.

Roads not a gift, and cherish the memory.

But the joy, mixed with impatience, worried about you more and more.

But could you be satisfied in this world? And to be honest you're not much else. Piestradat your grief, your heart with new passion back to the dream that so captivated you believe this day. And in the evening, as soon as this dream again took possession of you, you forgot his resentment, and his temper, and his firm decision whole life to hate me.

All my life I bear the pangs of Tantalus. Life suffer because I can't Express what I want to say... how about this beauty, as to convey these colours, this yellow forest oaks, their color, which changes the color of the sky... What agony our literary craft... And some flour to find the sound, the melody of the story - the sound that defines all subsequent!

The people he said to himself, "Of us, as from the tree, and a club, and icon", depending on circumstances, on who is the tree processes: Sergius of Radonezh or Emelka Pugachev.

The "left" all "excesses" of the revolution knocked on the old regime, the black hundreds - the Jews. And people are not to blame! Yes, and the people will then blame everything on the other - a neighbor and a Jew: "What am I? What is Ilya, I will. It is we Jews on the whole thing knocked out..."