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Russian Quotes

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Russian Quotes

“Ah! It is you again. You enter in this house Not as a kid in love, but as a husband Courageous, harsh and in control. The calm before the storm is fearful to my soul. You ask me what it is that I have done of late With given unto me forever love and fate. I have betrayed you. And this to repeat -- Oh, if you could one moment tire of it! The killer's sleep is haunted, dead man said, Death's angel thus awaits me at deathbed. Forgive me now. Lord teaches to forgive. In burning agony my flesh does live, And already the spirit gently sleeps, A garden I recall, tender with autumn leaves And cries of cranes, and the black fields around. How sweet it would be with you underground!”

“Vera's monkey brain was "racing." She wanted someone to talk to her and to get some of her words out, but Daddy and the Seal had now switched to Russian and their conversation was growing more somber, because that's what Russian did to you. Her teacher, the other Vera, had never once smiled, even when reading the ostensibly funny book about a clumsy bear who failed to live by the complex rules of forest society and constantly needed to learn distsiplina (discipline) from his animal peers. "We can all use some more distsiplina," Teacher Vera would say. "It is what our vozhd"--or "leader"--"expects from us." Then she would show them the photograph of a man who looked like a sad but disciplined hamster in a suit in front of a tricolor flag.”

“The next forty minutes are a festival of soul eating. I know many immigrant families incorporate their traditional dishes into the Thanksgiving feast, but not my folks. Our menu is Norman Rockwell on crack. Turkey with gravy. Homemade cranberry relish and the jellied stuff from the can. Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, green bean casserole. Cornbread stuffing and buttery yeast rolls. The only nods to our heritage are mustard-seed pickled carrots and dill-cucumber salad, to have something cool and palate-cleansing on the plate. A crazy layered Jello-O dish, with six different colors in thin stripes, looking like vintage Bakelite. Jeff and the girls show up just in time for desserts... apple pie, pumpkin pie, pecan bars, cheesecake brownies, and Maria's flan.”

“Maria winks at me, takes a mouthful of stuffing, and rolls her eyes in ecstasy. The next forty minutes are a festival of soul eating. I know many immigrant families incorporate their traditional dishes into the Thanksgiving feast, but not my folks. Our menu is Norman Rockwell on crack. Turkey with gravy. Homemade cranberry relish and the jellied stuff from the can. Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, green bean casserole. Cornbread stuffing and buttery yeast rolls. The only nods to our heritage are mustard-seed pickled carrots and dill-cucumber salad, to have something cool and palate-cleansing on the plate. A crazy layered Jello-O dish, with six different colors in thin stripes, looking like vintage Bakelite. Jeff and the girls show up just in time for desserts... apple pie, pumpkin pie, pecan bars, cheesecake brownies, and Maria's flan.”

“The ISS would not be the incredibly capable orbiting research facility it is today without either Russians or Americans, just as it couldn't have been built without the Canadian arm used in its construction.”

“Самое главное – это атмосфера и мгновения. Это – то прозрачное и величественное, что существует в жизни. И воспоминания состоят именно из этих мгновений, которые, как яркие вспышки, появляются среди мрака прошлого. Когда ты внезапно можешь осознать, что было важным для тебя в то далекое время. И эти воспоминания наполняют тебя сегодняшнего. И как волны бесконечного, движущегося моря памяти приходят на берег жизни. И ты начинаешь чувствовать себя свободным и бесконечным в своем путешествии по этому морю.”

“Her recoil confirmed the disgust Grant felt inside. Who was he kidding, trying to put Vladimir and Andrei behind bars? He was no different from his father. Then he remembered Sophie’s words. “You’re not like them. You’re my McSailor.” A soft touch made him smile, thinking of Bonnie, before he realized it was Innochka’s hand stroking his face. The touch of a mobster’s girlfriend. He leaped back, still crouched on his feet.”

“Okay, I’ve got the hidden microphones with GPS here,” Agent Bounter said. “Let’s get one on you.” “Now, sir?” “The Russians are on the radar. It’s time.” As Bounter turned to pick up the tiny button-size microphone, Grant clenched his hands into fists, his anticipation building. It’s time.”

“Анжольрас, стоявший с ружьем в руке на гребне заграждения, поднял свое прекрасное строгое лицо. Анжольрас, как известно, был из породы спартанцев и пуритан. Он умер бы при Фермопилах вместе с Леонидом и сжег бы Дрохеду вместе с Кромвелем. – Грантер! – крикнул он. – Пойди куда-нибудь, проспись. Здесь место опьянению, а не пьянству. Не позорь баррикаду. Эти гневные слова произвели на Грантера необычайное впечатление. Ему словно выплесну-ли стакан холодной воды в лицо. Он, казалось, сразу протрезвился, сел, облокотился на стол возле окна, с невыразимой кротостью взглянул на Анжольраса и сказал: – Позволь мне поспать здесь. – Ступай для этого в другое место! – крикнул Анжольрас. Но Грантер, не сводя с него нежного и мутного взгляда, проговорил: – Позволь мне тут поспать, пока я не умру. Анжольрас презрительно взглянул на него. – Грантер! Ты неспособен ни верить, ни думать, ни хотеть, ни жить, ни умирать. – Вот ты увидишь, – серьезно сказал Грантер. Он пробормотал еще несколько невнятных слов, потом его голова тяжело упала на стол, и мгновение спустя он уже спал, что довольно обычно для второй стадии опьянения, к которому его резко и безжалостно подтолкнул Анжольрас.”

“Real cybersecurity means that your Security Operations team is consistently pen testing your network with the same stealth and sophistication as the Russian nation state, the same desperation as China’s 13th Five Year Plan, the same inexhaustible energy of the Cyber Caliphate and the same greed and ambition for monetary payoff as a seasoned cyber-criminal gang.”

“Fear is the primary tool of the mafiya. It's how they contain their vast criminal enterprise. For the mafiya, fear is the grease in the wheel. Fear is much stronger than love | Fear lasts much longer. Love fades and is replaced by hatred and contempt. Fear lingers and brings forth other emotions such as doubt. Fear encourages procrastination and cowardice. Besides, you always hurt the ones you love. Most are too afraid to hurt the ones they fear.”

“Wanting to leave communist Russia is all fine and well | Actually leaving the country is where you might run into a few setbacks. Obtaining a visa for a simple vacation outside the soviet block was a long and arduous process. To immigrate to a free society was about as easy as finding whiskey in a church.”

“The Jewish center on Kings Highway scheduled an interview at the local labor hall downtown for my father to meet one of their counselors in order to asses his skills and capabilities. When my father sat down with the fellow and asked all sorts of questions, his reply was a blank stare. Boris didn't understand a word. He did speak a little English | He knew two words, pipe and chair. So Boris did the smart thing. He kept saying pipe over and over. Whatever question, he simply replied... pipe. The counselor soon got the gist | Boris must be a plumber. He was handed a small slip of paper and was instructed to report to the address penciled on it at 6 am sharp the following day.”

“Another deputy threw down a clear plastic trash bag with my orange jumpsuit. I reached for the bag and was knocked down to the floor with an overhead right, another shove, and I was inside the 4X6 room. The heavy white door was already closing behind me. The walls here were made of hard white rubber. There was a small shower head towards the back of the tiny cell and a grated hole in the middle of the floor | I assumed that the hold would be my toilet. The cell reeked of anguish.”

“Уви, този „дивен руски език“, който ми се струваше, че все ме очаква някъде, цъфти като вярна пролет зад залостена здраво врата, за която от толкова години съм пазил ключа, се оказа несъществуващ и зад тази врата няма нищо освен овъглени пънове и есенна безнадеждна далнина, а ключът в ръката ми прилича по-скоро на шперц. (...) Движенията на тялото, гримасите, пейзажите, морните, дървета, ароматите, дъждовете, стапящите се и преливащите се оттенъци на природата, всичко нежно-човешко (колкото и да е чудно!), а също и всичко мъжкарско, грубо, сочно-цинично излиза на руски не по-зле, ако не и по-добре, отколкото на английски; но толкова присъщите на английския изтънчени недомлъвки, поезията на мисълта, мигновената искра между съвсем отвлечените понятия, ройването на едносрични епитети, всичко това, а също и всичко, що се отнася до техниката, модите, спорта, естествените науки и противоестествените страсти — на руски изглежда дървено, многословно и често отвратително в смисъл на стил и ритъм. Този разнобой отразява основната разлика в историческо отношение между зеления руски литературен език и зрелия като разпукнала се смокиня английски: между гениалния, но още недостатъчно образован, а понякога доста лишен от вкус младеж и мастития гений, който съчетава запасите от пъстро знание с пълната свобода на духа. Свободата на духа! Цялото дихание на човечеството се вмества в това съчетание от думи.”

“There would be another, less formal tribute to the best of the 1972 series: the name [Phil] Esposito eventually found its way into Russian street slang. Apparently, whenever a luckless Russian hooligan accidentally burns himself on the stove or cuts himself on an unexpectedly sharp knife he winces and shouts out the worst curse imaginable: Esposito!”

“Although we had had no precise exponents of realism, yet after Pushkin it was impossible for a Russian writer to depart too far from actuality. Even those who did not know what to do with "real life" had to cope with it as best they could. Hence, in order that the picture of life should not prove too depressing, the writer must provide himself in due season with a philosophy.”

“I cannot emphasize it too strongly that our gifts-whether they consist in wealth, or in the ability to sing, to paint, to build, or to count-are not given unto us to be used for our pleasure merely, or as means of our advancement, weather social or intellectual. But they are given unto us that we may use them for helping those who need help.”

“This was a quarrel they did not need | It was one they knew they could never win. Beat us with a bat and we come back with Jiggers | Stick us with a knife and we bring the heaters | Plug one of us, and you'd better murder us all. We were the authentic spectacle, and the fact they left with their lives intact, no bones broken, or a limb missing, was miracle enough.”

“Crime was my career. I considered myself a craftsman | a true professional. Everybody has a craft they practice. Clean or dirty, safe or dangerous, we all have a viable skill and a part to play in the enigma that comprises our world. A professional is a person who earns moneys for practicing their craft. Having labored many years and becoming experienced in a particular skill, you learn the gradations and eventually reach the title of master.”

“While the layman sees an opportunity and decides to take it, the professional criminal through the use of deceit and treachery, is able to create opportunities. This individual not only actively searches for a crime to commit, the professional criminal assembles teams of similar people and generates situations in which crime can be safely perpetrated in a controlled environment for maximum profit.”