Tatyana Tolstaya Quotes & Sayings

The best time is always yesterday. — Tatyana Tolstaya

In Russia, people suffer from the stillness of time. — Tatyana Tolstaya

If you have to be careful because of oppression and censorship, this pressure produces diamonds. — Tatyana Tolstaya

If there is a pattern, it will come back - maybe in Russia more than anywhere else, because it has collapsed so many times. Maybe less so here in the States, because here the society is so young. — Tatyana Tolstaya

I don't think people are fools, and I think they deserve a good attitude and smart entertainment. — Tatyana Tolstaya

You, Book! You are the only one who won't deceive, won't attack, won't insult, won't abandon! You're quiet - but you laugh, shout, and sing: you're obedient - but you amaze, tease, and entice; you're small, but you contain countless peoples. Nothing but a handful of letters, that's all, but if you feel like it, you can turn heads, confuse, spin, cloud, make tears spring to the eyes, take away the breath, the entire soul will stir in the wind like a canvas, will rise in waves and flap its wings! — Tatyana Tolstaya

No, not ten, not seconds, everything's different there, space slips away, and time collapses sideways like a ragged wave, and everything spins, spins like a top: there, one second is huge, slow, and resonant, like an abandoned cathedral, another is tiny, sharp, fast
you strike a match and burn up a thousand millennia; a step to the side
and you're in another universe ... — Tatyana Tolstaya

For us, the best time is always yesterday. — Tatyana Tolstaya

A book is a delicate friend, a white bird, an exquisite being, afraid of water.
Darling things! Afraid of water, of fire, They shiver in the wind. Clumsy, crude human fingers leave bruises on them that'll never fade! Never!
Some people touch books without washing their hands!
Some underline things in ink!
Some even tear pages out! — Tatyana Tolstaya

Art has nothing to do with politics. It is the freest thing in the world. — Tatyana Tolstaya

You read, move your lips, figure out the words, and it's like you're in two places at the same time: you're sitting or lying with your legs curled up, your hand groping in the bowl, but you can see different worlds, far-off worlds that maybe never existed but still seem real. You run or sail or race in a sleigh
you're running away from someone, or you yourself have decided to attack
your heart thumps, life flies by, and it's wondrous: you can live as many different lives as there are books to read. — Tatyana Tolstaya

People know that I am a very good author. But they would rather read what I have to say about the next election. — Tatyana Tolstaya

Golbuchiks? Golbuchiks are ashes, entrails, dung, stove smoke, clay, and they'll all return to clay. They're full of dirt, candle oil, droppings, dust.
You, O Book, my pure, shining precious, my golden singing promise, my dream, a distant call
O tender specter, happy chance,
Again I heed the ancient lore,
Again with beauty rare in stance,
You beckon from the distant shore! — Tatyana Tolstaya

That's what poems are for, so you don't understand a thing. — Tatyana Tolstaya

I have enough energy to insist on saying what I think. — Tatyana Tolstaya

And wanting nothing, regretting nothing, Peters smiled gratefully at life - running past, indifferent, ungrateful, treacherous, mocking, meaningless, alien - marvelous, marvelous, marvelous. — Tatyana Tolstaya

In December, at the darkest time of the year, Olenka delivered triplets. Mother-in-law came by and called Benedikt in to come look at the brood. She congratulated him. He lay there, empty and heavy-hearted, waiting for the signal; and there wasn't any. All right then, he'd go take a look.
There were three kids: one appeared to be female, she was tiny and cried. Another seemed to be a boy, but it was hard to tell right off. The third
well, you couldn't figure out what it was
to look at, it was a fuzzy, scary-looking ball. All round-like, but with eyes. They picked it up in their arms to rock it, and started singing: "Bye Baby Bunting, Daddy's gone a-hunting ... " and with a shove it pushed away, jumped on the floor, rolled off, and disappeared into a crack in the floor. They all rushed to catch it, their hands outstretched. They moved stools and benches
but no luck. — Tatyana Tolstaya

I don't want to deal with big, grand themes in my stories; art has nothing to do with themes. When you deal with themes, you are not creating; you are lecturing. — Tatyana Tolstaya

I am interested in the subject which is Russia. — Tatyana Tolstaya

Politics disappears; it vanishes. What remains constant is human life. So I try to develop a perspective in my writing where politics is just one of the pieces of furniture in this furnished world. It is not the purpose. It is not the goal. — Tatyana Tolstaya

Dostoyevsky's indignation at Afanasy Fet's innocent lyrics, "Whispers, timid breath, the nightingales trilled," is well known. This is simply disgraceful, wrote Dostoyevsky indignantly, and he speculated what an insulting impression such empty verses would have made if they'd been given to someone to read during the Lisbon earthquake! Some people protested: Yes, of course, Dostoyevsky is right, but we aren't having an earthquake, and we aren't in Lisbon, and after all, are we not allowed to love, to listen to nightingales, to admire the beauty of a beloved woman? But Dostoyevsky's argument held sway for a long time. It did so because of the way Russians perceive Russian life: as a constant, unending Lisbon earthquake. — Tatyana Tolstaya

The world may perish, but the meat grinder is indestructible. (112) — Tatyana Tolstaya