Character: Valentin

ready!

When the first sin was born,
He conceals himself in the first instant:
Under the shelter of the night he is glad to escape
And closes formidable face;
Then kill him not late.
But soon, soon sin grows
In broad daylight is opened;
His face was not less menacing,
But the face its scary
The bright light he needs.

Russia is now, like everyone, has no permanent allies! From now on, only permanent interests.

- I'm not offended, then be offended then? You intelligentsia. The working class, it refers to the gap down.
<...>
- No, Val, you're not working class. You're lumpen.
- Who?
- Lumpen. You have no professional pride of the master, and has ambitions "dunno".

- You bastard, you're still a - mused me.
Sadness in the voice of the werewolf instantly gave way to restrained laughter.
- On the stand, sweetheart.
And your ears are cold, the same pensive tone he continued I.
- Warm! Tail I swear!
Do not believe!
- My tail! I'm mortally offended!

- You have to live life so that then was not painfully hurt?
- No. It is possible just absolutely shameless people.

False starts, where there is coercion.

- ... don't go. Then you won't have to come back...
- I'll try not to come back.

- You're a funny woman! You do not get bored!
- And I'm not easy woman, I'm a singer. The singer, in which you do not believe...

Val, I was invited to the show!
- In the show! Well, congratulations... the Office of solid...

- Look, how much you can talk about it?!
- You know, an intelligent person is not a sin to listen twice!

When a person is desperate, it is easier to go towards the adventure.

Direct speeches from women do not wait:
in her "leave" sounds "don't go"...

Love is pain, 'said the Emperor,' don't you know?
"I know," replied the doctor. But I also know soldiers who are without arms, without legs, trailing behind them the guts, the teeth tore the enemy because they were at home waiting for beloved women. I went with them seventeen great battles, and I know whose names they vycherkivaete with blood when I cut them saharienne hands and feet. I know who they call, when you lie down, inside-out, in my bloodstained operating table... They call their women. And only therefore survive that in their smoky pain with the shock the conscious, come to them and sing songs about love and put their hands on the heads - and they survive. Not because I'm a good doctor, but because they have something to hold onto in this hell. Yes, their profession is hatred. But it's outside. But inside... You know what keeps them inside?..