Sofia

“It was a question that had always haunted me and yet I could never answer it unequivocally. “Where are you from?” Why do people always ask this? What exactly do they expect to hear? They probably want to define a certain cultural frame of reference for themselves, and accordingly, place me in one of their pre-existing templates. This will allow us to carry on a conversation comfortably, but why does everyone think you want to go through this interrogation over and over again?”
― Dmitry Berkut, Clochard

“I wasn’t meant for reality, but life came and found me.”
― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

“Long ago, we had both realized that the only constructive conversation possible between us was sex. Neither of us could hear normal words. We each spoke our minds and listened only to ourselves. Only during sex did we share sensations and truly be present together. How long could that last? Probably forever. Would we have been happy for eternity? Why not? Sex wasn’t about interests or cultural differences; it was self-sufficient.”
― Dmitry Berkut, Clochard

“The centripetal force on our planet is still fearfully strong, Alyosha. I have a longing for life, and I go on living in spite of logic. Though I may not believe in the order of the universe, yet I love the sticky little leaves as they open in spring. I love the blue sky, I love some people, whom one loves you know sometimes without knowing why. I love some great deeds done by men, though I’ve long ceased perhaps to have faith in them, yet from old habit one’s heart prizes them. Here they have brought the soup for you, eat it, it will do you good. It’s first-rate soup, they know how to make it here. I want to travel in Europe, Alyosha, I shall set off from here. And yet I know that I am only going to a graveyard, but it’s a most precious graveyard, that’s what it is! Precious are the dead that lie there, every stone over them speaks of such burning life in the past, of such passionate faith in their work, their truth, their struggle and their science, that I know I shall fall on the ground and kiss those stones and weep over them; though I’m convinced in my heart that it’s long been nothing but a graveyard. And I shall not weep from despair, but simply because I shall be happy in my tears, I shall steep my soul in emotion. I love the sticky leaves in spring, the blue sky — that’s all it is. It’s not a matter of intellect or logic, it’s loving with one’s inside, with one’s stomach.”
― Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov