As You Pass From The Tender Years

I Am Very Fond Of The Modest Manner Of Life Of Those Solitary Owners Of Remote Villages, Who In Little Russia Are Commonly Called "old-fashioned," Who Are Like Tumbledown Picturesque Little Houses, Delightful In Their Simplicity And Complete Unlikeness To The New Smooth Buildings Whose Walls Have Not Yet Been Discolored By The Rain, Whose Roofs Are Not Yet Covered With Green Lichen, And Whose Porch Does Not Display Its Bricks Through The Peeling Stucco.

They Don’t Listen To Me, They Don’t Hear Me, They Don’t See Me.

It's Not My Job To Preach A Sermon. Art Is Anyhow A Homily. My Job Is To Speak In Living Images, Not In Arguments. I Must Exhibit Life Full-face, Not Discuss Life.

They're Thinking Of Turning The Peasant Into An Educated Man. Why, First Of All They Should Make Him A Good And Prosperous Farmer And Then He'll Learn All That Is Necessary For Him To Know.

Everything Resembles The Truth, Everything Can Happen To A Man.