“This is the way it ought to be!" said the Little Russian, returning. "Because, mark you, mother dear, a new heart is coming into existence, a new heart is growing up in life. All hearts are smitten in the conflict of interests, all are consumed with a blind greed, eaten up with envy, stricken, wounded, and dripping with filth, falsehood, and cowardice. All people are sick; they are afraid to live; they wander about as in a mist. Everyone feels only his own toothache. But lo, and behold! Here is a Man coming and illuminating life with the light of reason, and he shouts: 'Oh, ho! you straying roaches! It's time, high time, for you to understand that all your interests are one, that everyone has the need to live, everyone has the desire to grow!' The Man who shouts this is alone, and therefore he cries aloud; he needs comrades, he feels dreary in his loneliness, dreary and cold. And at his call the stanch hearts unite into one great, strong heart, deep and sensitive as a silver bell not yet cast. And hark! This bell rings forth the message: 'Men of all countries, unite into one family! Love is the mother of life, not hate!' My brothers! I hear this message sounding through the world!”

“Only mothers can think of the future - because they give birth to it in their children.”

“Happiness always looks small while you hold it in your hands, but let it go, and you learn at once how big and precious it is.”

“When one loves somebody everything is clear - where to go what to do - it all takes care of itself and one doesn't have to ask anybody about anything.”

“Every new time will give its law.”

“Happiness always looks small while you hold it in your hands but let it go and you learn at once how big and precious it is.”

“Happiness always looks small while you hold it in your hands but let it go and you learn at once how big and precious it is.”

“To an old man any place that's warm is homeland.”

“All of us are pilgrims on this earth. I have even heard it said that the earth itself is a pilgrim in the heavens.”

“Like some wondrous birds out of fairy tales, books sang their songs to me and spoke to me as though communing with one languishing in prison; they sang of the variety and richness of life, of man’s audacity in his strivings towards goodness and beauty.”

“Our existence has always and everywhere been tragic, but man has converted these numberless tragedies into works of art. I know of nothing more astonishing or more wonderful than this transformation.”