Oliver Bateman

“I've always been in two minds about women, really. On the one hand, I always liked the fact they had waists, and we hadn't. That aroused in me a feeling of - how shall I put it? - well, pleasure. Yes, pleasurable feelings. Still, on the other hand, they did stab Marat with a penknife, and Marat was Incorruptible, so they shouldn't have stabbed him. That fairly killed off the pleasure. Then again, like Karl Marx, I've always loved women for their little weaknesses - i.e. they've got to sit down to pee, and I've always liked that - that's always filled me with - well, what the hell - a sort of warm feeling. Yes, pleasurable warmth. But then again they did shoot at Lenin, with a revolver no less! And that put a damper on the pleasure as well. I mean, fair enough, sitting down to pee, but shooting at Lenin? That's a sick joke, talking about pleasure after that.

However, I digress.”
― Venedikt Erofeev, Moscow to the End of the Line

“I like the fact that my compatriots have such vacant and protruding eyes. They fill me with virtuous pride. You can imagine what eyes are like (in the capitalist world). ...such eyes look at you with distrust, reflecting constant worry and torment. That's what they're like in the land of ready cash.
How different from the eyes of my people! Their steady stare is completely devoid of all tension. They harbor no thought - but what power! What spiritual power! Such eyes would not sell you. They couldn't sell anything or buy anything. You could spit in the eyes, and they’d call it God's (divine) dew...”
― Venedikt Erofeev, Moscow to the End of the Line

“I need to be blinded, Valya. I was wrong, Valya ... I thought the emotions had perished -- love and devotion and tenderness, but it's all still here, Valya ... Only not for us, all that's left for us is envy and more envy ... Poke out my eyes, Valya, I want to go blind ...”
― Yury Olesha, Envy

“And if I die sometime – I’m going to die very soon – I know I’ll die as I am,
without accepting this world, perceiving it close up and far away, inside and out,
perceiving but not accepting it. I’ll die and He will ask me: “Was it good there for
you? Was it bad there for you?” I will be silent, with lowered eyes. I’ll be silent
that muteness familiar to everyone who knows the outcome of days of hard
boozing. For isn’t the life of man a momentary boozing of the soul? And an eclipse
of the soul as well? We are all as if drunk, only everybody in his own way: one
person has drunk more, the next less. And it works differently on each: the one
laughs in the face of this world, while the next cries on its bosom. One has already
thrown up and feels better, while the next is only starting of feel like throwing up.
But me, what am I? I’ve partaken of much, but nothing works on me. I haven’t
really laughed properly, even once, and I’ve never thrown up, even once. I, who
have partaken of so much in this world that I’ve lost count and the sequence of it
all, I am soberer than anyone else in this world;”
― Venedikt Erofeev