During The Last Years Of Mayakovski's Life,

They Don't Ask Much Of You. They Only Want You To Hate The Things You Love And To Love The Things You Despise.

No Deep And Strong Feeling, Such As We May Come Across Here And There In The World, Is Unmixed With Compassion. The More We Love, The More The Object Of Our Love Seems To Us To Be A Victim.

Immensely Grateful, Touched, Proud, Astonished, Abashed.

No Single Man Makes History. History Cannot Be Seen, Just As One Cannot See Grass Growing. Wars And Revolutions, Kings And Robespierres, Are History's Organic Agents, Its Yeast. But Revolutions Are Made By Fanatical Men Of Action With One-track Mind, Geniuses In Their Ability To Confine Themselves To A Limited Field. They Overturn The Old Order In A Few Hours Or Days, The Whole Upheaval Takes A Few Weeks Or At Most Years, But The Fanatical Spirit That Inspired The Upheavals Is Worshiped For Decades Thereafter, For Centuries.

As Before The Collapse, The Setting Sun Brushed The Tiles, Brought Out The Warm Brown Glow On The Wallpaper, And Hung The Shadow Of The Birch On The Wall As If It Were A Woman's Scarf.