Let my heiress have full rights, Live in my house, sing songs that I composed. Yet how slowly my strength ebbs, How the tortured breast craves air. The love of my friends, my enemies’ rancor And the yellow roses in my bushy garden, And a lover’s burning tenderness—all this I bestow upon you, messenger of… Continue reading Anna Akhmatova
I can see the sun, but even if I cannot see the sun, I know that it exists. And to know that the sun is there – that is living. — Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux; 12th edition June 14, 2002) Originally published November 1880.
We have the marvelous gift of making everything insignificant. — Nikolai Gogol
. . . as I have said often enough, I write for myself in multiplicate, a not unfamiliar phenomenon on the horizon of shimmering deserts. — Vladimir Nabokov
Author’s Prayer If I speak for the dead, I must leave this animal of my body, I must write the same poem over and over for the empty page is a white flag of their surrender. If I speak of them, I must walk on the edge of myself, I must live as a blind… Continue reading Ilya Kaminsky
I’m sorry this letter took so long to write. I didn’t have time to make it shorter. — Fyodor Dostoevsky
And meanwhile, outside the door, waits my faithful, my lonely night… — Vladimir Nabokov, from “A Letter that Never Reached Russia,” The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov (Alfred A. Knopf, 1995)