... The Unarmed Power Of Naked Truth.

The Writer Is The Faust Of Modern Society, The Only Surviving Individualist In A Mass Age. To His Orthodox Contemporaries He Seems A Semi-madman.

Oh, What A Love It Was, Utterly Free, Unique, Like Nothing Else On Earth! Their Thoughts Were Like Other People's Songs.

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

If It's So Painful To Love And Absorb Electricity, How Much More Painful It Is To Be A Woman, To Be The Electricity, To Inspire Love.

The Last Moments Slipped By, One By One, Irretrievable.