The latest literary discussions reflect a struggle between two artistic methods - romanticism and realism, with the latter clearly ascendant for the time being.

We comes from God, I from the Devil.

The lilac branches are bowed under the weight of the flowers: blooming is hard, and the most important thing is - to bloom. (“A Story About The Most Important Thing”)

The nights were long, like the braids of a pretty girl, and the days were short, like a girl's sense. ("The North")

Heretics are the only bitter remedy against the entropy of human thought.

True literature can exist only where it is created, not by diligent and trustworthy functionaries, but by madmen, hermits, heretics, dreamers, rebels, and skeptics.

A man is like a novel: until the very last page you don't know how it will end. Otherwise it wouldn't be worth reading.

Those two, in paradise, were given a choice: happiness without freedom, or freedom without happiness. There was no third alternative.

Literature is painting, architecture, and music.

There is no final one; revolutions are infinite.

We need writers who fear nothing. ("Our Goal")

If you don't know where to start, remember that every single thing that happened to you is yours and you get to tell it.

There's nothing like your mother's sympathetic voice to make you want to burst into tears.

She shrugged. "Ownership is a fragile concept.

Laughter and books and wine are holy things

Your Vortex is pregnant with everything you want.

It is my unmistakable belief that not a blade of grass moves but by the divine will.

If you were your own employer, would you be entirely satisfied with the day’s work you have done today?

Any person who has spent time outdoors actually doing something, such as hunting and fishing as opposed to standing there with a doobie in his mouth, knows nature is not intrinsically healthy.

Somehow I evolved into a person who ceased to ask permission.

Syntax must be bad, having sin and tax in it.