Twentieth-century Russian Literature Has Produced Nothing Special

Because Every Book Of Art, Be It A Poem Or A Cupola, Is Understandably A Self-portrait Of Its Author, We Won't Strain Ourselves Too Hard Trying To Distinguish Between The Author's Persona And The Poem's Lyrical Hero. As A Rule, Such Distinctions Are Quite Meaningless, If Only Because A Lyrical Hero Is Invariably An Author's Self-projection.

A Language Is A More Ancient And Inevitable Thing Than Any State.

What Concerns Me Is That Man, Unable To Articulate, To Express Himself Adequately, Reverts To Action. Since The Vocabulary Of Action Is Limited, As It Were, To His Body, He Is Bound To Act Violently, Extending His Vocabulary With A Weapon Where There Should Have Been An Adjective.

Robert Frost's Triumph Was Not Being At John Kennedy's Inauguration Ceremony, But The Day When He Put The Last Period On "west-running Brook.

Life—the Way It Really Is—is A Battle Not Between Good And Bad, But Between Bad And Worse