The Last Moments Slipped By, One By

And Why Is It, Thought Lara, That My Fate Is To See Everything And Take It All So Much To Heart?

During The Last Years Of Mayakovski's Life, When All Poetry Had Ceased To Exist . . . Literature Had Stopped.

It Is No Longer Possible For Lyric Poetry To Express The Immensity Of Our Experience. Life Has Grown Too Cumbersome, Too Complicated. We Have Acquired Values Which Are Best Expressed In Prose.

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.

The Whole Wide World Is A Cathedral; I Stand Inside, The Air Is Calm, And From Afar At Times There Reaches My Ear The Echo Of A Psalm.