Immensely Grateful, Touched, Proud, Astonished, Abashed.

As Far As Modern Writing Is Concerned, It Is Rarely Rewarding To Translate It, Although It Might Be Easy. Translation Is Very Much Like Copying Paintings.

Failure To Love Is Almost Like Murder.

... The Unarmed Power Of Naked Truth.

February. Get Ink, Shed Tears. Write Of It, Sob Your Heart Out, Sing, While Torrential Slush That Roars Burns In The Blackness Of The Spring. Go Hire A Buggy. For Six Grivnas, Race Through The Noice Of Bells And Wheels To Where The Ink And All You Grieving Are Muffled When The Rainshower Falls. To Where, Like Pears Burnt Black As Charcoal, A Myriad Rooks, Plucked From The Trees, Fall Down Into The Puddles, Hurl Dry Sadness Deep Into The Eyes. Below, The Wet Black Earth Shows Through, With Sudden Cries The Wind Is Pitted, The More Haphazard, The More True The Poetry That Sobs Its Heart Out.

I Don't Like Purely Philosophical Works. I Think A Little Philosophy Should Be Added To Life And Art By Way Of Seasoning, But To Make It One's Specialty Seems To Me As Strange As Eating Nothing But Horseradish." - Lara, From Doctor Zhivago