I should be proud to have my memory graced, but only if the monument be placed... here, where I endured three hundred hours in line before the implacable iron bars.

Love conquers, deceitful and slow, With a soft amateurish refrain. So strange to think – not long ago You weren't dejected and gray.

I have long had this premonition of a bright day and a deserted house.

If you were music, I would listen to you ceaselessly, and my low spirits would brighten up.

First as a serpent, it'll cast its spell Next to your heart, curled up. Then it'll come as a dove as well, Cooing for days nonstop.

It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.

Real tenderness can't be confused, It's quiet and can't be heard.

My shadow serves as the friend I crave.

I've got no more tears or explanations.

But what would it have cost you to make people happy and agree that you'd had an affair?" She replied very gravely, "I have lived my own unique life, and my life lacks nothing; it has no need to borrow from other people.

I am in the middle of it: chaos and poetry; poetry and love and again, complete chaos. Pain, disorder, occasional clarity; and at the bottom of it all: only love; poetry. Sheer enchantment, fear, humiliation. It all comes with love.

In those years only the dead smiled, Glad to be at rest: And Leningrad city swayed like A needless appendix to its prisons.

All that I am hangs by a thread tonight.

I marvel at everything as if it were new.

Tomorrow the mirrors will mock me.

You do not know just what you've been forgiven.

Each of our lives is a Shakespearean drama raised to the thousandth degree.

All has been looted, betrayed, sold; black death's wing flashed ahead.

Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem too insignificant for our concern? Yet in my heart I never will deny her, Who suffered death because she chose to turn.

A town loved with bitter love.

On Hemingway: Have you noticed how lonely all people in his works are - no relatives, no family?

Dostoyevsky knew a lot but not everything. He, for instance, thought that if you kill a human you'll turn into Raskolnikov. But we know now that one can kill five - ten, one hundred people - and go to the theatre in the evening.

I always think about the past, it's so large and bright.

Courage: Great Russian word, fit for the songs of our children's children, pure on their tongues, and free.