A strange thing, the human heart in general, and woman's heart in particular. - Mikhail Lermontov

The surrounding forest, as though in a mist, Was blue in the powder of smoke. But there, far off, in a disordered ridge, Which was yet eternally proud and calm, Stretched the mountains — and Kazbek Gleamed with its sharp peak. And with secret, heartfelt sorrow I thought: 'Pitiable man. What does he want! The sky is clear, Beneath it there is much room for all, But constantly and vainly He alone wages war — why?'

Of two friends, one is always the slave of the other, although frequently neither acknowledges the fact to himself.

What is this eternity to me without you? What is the infinity of my domains? Empty ringing words, A spacious temple — without a divinity!