If one feels the need of something grand, something infinite, something that makes one feel aware of God, one need not go far to find it. I think that I see something deeper, more infinite, more eternal than the ocean in the expression of the eyes of a little baby when it wakes in the morning and coos or laughs because it sees the sun shining on its cradle.
If you're in a war, instead of throwing a hand grenade at some guys, throw one of those little baby-type pumpkins. Maybe it'll make everyone think of how crazy war is, and while they're thinking, you can throw a real grenade.
It is so sad to hear that Nikolai Nikolaevich Vasiliev has died. We all find it hard that he’s not alive. Friends write to us, but many letters don’t reach us… We remember the old days, visiting our hospital. I guess no one goes to the graves of our injured ones now nearly everyone was taken away from Tsarskoe. Do you remember Lukyanov he was so pitiful and sweet, always playing with our bracelets like a baby. His visiting card was in my album, but unfortunately the album was left behind at Tsarskoe. Just now I’m writing in our bedroom. On the writing desk are pictures of our beloved hospital…All in all, the times we went to visit the hospital were awfully good. We often reminisce about our visits to the hospital, the evening chats on the telephone, and everything, everything….
Our children are here to stay, but our babies and toddlers and preschoolers are gone as fast as they can grow up-and we have only a short moment with each. When you see a grandfather take a baby in his arms, you see that the moment hasn't always been long enough.
The day is coming, and it ain't going to be long, when you ain't even gonna have to leave your living room. No more schools, nor more bodegas, no more tabernacles, no more cinneplexes. You're going to snuggle up to your fiber optics baby and bliss out.
With a new familiarity and a flesh-creeping homeliness entirely of this unreal, materialistic world, where all sentiment is coarsely manufactured and advertised in colossal sickly captions, disguised for the sweet tooth of a monstrous baby called the Public, the family as it is, broken up on all hands by the agency of feminist and economic propaganda, reconstitutes itself in the image of the state.