Ilya Quotes

At the trial of God, we will ask: why did you allow all this? And the answer will be an echo: why did you allow all this?

Ilya couldn’t believe what he had been reduced to. He was...infatuated. It was disgusting.

…And I want to learn Russian. I wasn’t kidding about that.” “I’ll teach you.” Shane smiled so wide and bright, Ilya almost had to look away. “I should let you sleep,” Shane said. “Da. Yes. Okay.” And then… Shane kissed the tips of two fingers and reached out and touched them to the screen. And Ilya’s heart fucking stopped.

Forget-me-nots because you always seem to be forgetting who I am." "You're the king of Ilya." "And who am I to you?" "My fool." "Don't forget 'cocky bastard'" "You wouldn't let me, even if I tried." "And you are forever my undoing, Paedyn Gray. Marry me, Pae. I'm already on one knee, but I'll get down on both and beg for you, if you like.

Ilya was wearing a Boston Bears shirt. "That's not going to help." "Oh, do they not know I play for Boston?

If nature has taught us anything it is that the impossible is probable

It is more Important to be of pure intention than of perfect action.

Kiss me, Ilya wanted to say. Kiss me and hold me in front of all these people. Pull me onstage and do it. I don’t care anymore. Please. I’m dying. “Nothing,” Ilya said, and stepped away. “Nothing.

We grow in direct proportion to the amount of chaos we can sustain and dissipate

I would spend the rest of my days making her flower crowns if she wanted to be a queen. My queen. Not Kitt's. Not Ilya's. Mine

I give Hunter shit, but what he did was brave. Kissing his boyfriend on TV like that. And the speech at the awards.” “It was. It really…made me hopeful. That things might be changing.” Ilya shot the puck back to Shane. “It made me jealous,” he admitted. Shane laughed. "You wanna kiss me on television?" "Yes. After I win the Stanley cup." Shane spread his arms out. "Oh, so in this scenario, you've just defeated me?" "Yes. Sorry." “I’m not going to be in the mood to kiss you if I’ve just lost the Stanley Cup, Rozanov.” “But you would be so proud of me!

When their eyes had locked, he'd squeezed Ilya's fingers, just a little. That look, and that squeeze, had said so many things to Ilya. I know. We were supposed to stand alone at the top, but we will always be there together.

What did you see?" I asked. "When-" "When I died?" I gave him a gentle shove, and he winced. "I saw Ilya Morozova on the back of a unicorn, playing a balalaika." "Very funny.

You are very beautiful,” Ilya said. Shane smiled without opening his eyes. “Come on.” “Is the truth. Your freckles.” Ilya grazed a fingertip over his own cheek. “I am nuts about them.” “I have no idea why. I hate them.” “Noooo...” Ilya moaned. “Hollander. They are stunning.” “Stunning?” “Yes. Am I not using that word right? Very beautiful. Um...take my breath?” “Wow. Alright” “I told you...” Ilya grinned. “You love praise.” When Shane didn’t reply, Ilya said, “And you like to hog it all for yourself. You asshole.

Do you think we looked like that to them?” “What, sexy? I probably did.” “No, like...in love?” Ilya seemed to consider the question before answering. “We are very good at pretending to not be in love. Maybe we are bad at showing it when we are allowed.

Entropy is the price of structure.

Ilya hadn’t realized how much fun it would be to confuse Hayden with compliments. He would have to do it more often.

Does it...does it feel like agony for you too?' Ilya started to nod, then stopped. He shook his head slowly instead. 'Not anymore.

The main character of any living system is openness.

But in the secret history of anger--one man's silence / lives in the bodies of others.

They had lots of reasons to keep their relationship a secret, but those reasons seemed extremely unimportant now. What if Ilya had died? What if he had fucking died? Shane would have died too. Alone, and secretly, and for the rest of his life.

I would spend the rest of my days making her flower crowns if she wanted to be a queen. My queen. Not Kitt’s. Not Ilya’s. Mine.

I think to think. Not to be thought-full, or to reach a point of wisdom or acquire a grace of knowledge. I think for the sensuality of thought.

As Ilya’s Enforcer and second to the king, she’s my property. Mine. Which means if anyone so much as lays a hand on her, you’ll learn firsthand just how brutal the Elites can be.

You should quit hockey," Ilya murmured. "Send them a text. Say you quit. Stay here with me." "I'm not ending my career via text." "Email, then.

Maybe he should ask Ilya for Shane Hollander’s number. Shane was a fucking babe.

You can fuck anyone—but with whom can you sit in water?

Cindy, have you heard of the second law of thermodynamics?” “Yes. Something about heat energy can never be created or destroyed?” “That’s the first law of thermodynamics. The second one is this…all organized systems tend to slide slowly into chaos and disorder. Energy tends to run down. The universe itself heads inevitably towards darkness and stasis. Our own star system eventually will die, the sun will become a red giant, and the earth will be swallowed by the red giant.” “Cheery thought.” “But mathematics has altered this concept; rather one particular mathematician. His name was Ilya Prigogine, a Belgian mathematician.” “Who and what does that have to do with your being a PI and a great psychologist?” “Are you being sarcastic? Of course you are. Anyway, what I was trying to say was that Prigogine used the analogy of a walled city and open city. The walled city is isolated from its surroundings and will run down, decay, and die. The open city will have an exchange of materials and energy with its surroundings and will become larger and more complex; capable of dissipating energy even as it grows. So my point is, this analogy very much pertains to a certain female. The walled person versus the open person. The walled person will eventually decline, fade, and decay.

The deaf don't believe in silence. Silence is the invention of the hearing.

In the car, Shane told his parents that he had been talking to Ilya Rozanov. “What’s he like?” his mother asked. “Kind of a dick,” Shane said.

Ilya opened Instagram and started typing a new private message to ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer. Shane You are the best thing in my life. I love you. Always. Maybe from the first time I saw you. I am thinking only about you right now. A million memories. Thank you for those. Whatever happens, I am with you. Safe in your heart. I believe it. He did. Ilya only had vague ideas of the afterlife and any gods who may be waiting there, but he believed his soul would stay with Shane, however it could. He believed the people you loved stayed with you until it was your time to go. He often felt his mother with him, and he knew he’d do the same for Shane.

Music burst through him, perfect notes he hear rarely. Fire and ice, wind and calm, sky and earth, water and rock all fused together. Joley seemed as wild and turbulent s the sea, yet beneath her fiery passion, at the very core of her, she was as forceful and strong and as constant as the deepest ocean currents. Ilya seemed as calm as a windless sea, yet beneath the surface smoldered a volcano of such explosive magnitude, his power could easily sweep everything from his path. Together they completed each other, his melody and hers merging together into a single, perfect harmony.

Shane seemed very excited about the burgers. He had followed a recipe online. Ilya took a sip of his beer. "Why the fuck are you making eight burgers?" he asked. "That's how many the recipe was for!" "You can't do math? Cut it in half?" "Leave me alone." Instead, Ilya stood directly behind Shane and draped an arm across his chest. He kissed him behind the ear. "No", he murmured.

The Purpose of Philosophy is to fall in Love. To strip the world of all its clothes, and fall in Love with it as it stand before you completely naked.

One would think of a boy laying syllables with his tongue onto a woman’s skin: those are lines sewn entirely of silence.

To know yourself you must know the transience of your self.

That admission would have been embarrassing enough, but Ilya had also slipped in an “and on top of everything, I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you and I don’t know what to do about it.

But,” Shane said. He had to say this next part. It had been eating away at him for too long. “You want to get married, right? To a woman, I mean. You’re not...like me. You like women. And I’m sure...Svetlana is gorgeous and fun and...all that stuff. Right?” “Yes,” Ilya said. “I do. She is. But.” “But?” Ilya shrugged, and he looked like he was possibly blushing. “I have this problem,” he mumbled. Shane waited. “I like women. I always was thinking that to get married would be nice. Kids. All of that. Someday. But...this problem will not go away.” Shane bit his lip. “Tell me about this problem.” “Is so annoying.” Ilya sighed, and Shane could see him fighting a grin. “Always I am with beautiful women. Wonderful women. Everywhere.” “Sounds rough.” “Yes. Listen. These women, they are so sexy and fun, but is no matter. I cannot stop thinking about this short fucking hockey player with these stupid freckles and a weak backhand.” “A weak backhand?” Shane couldn’t stop smiling. “Yes. And he is just so boring and he drives a terrible car and...that is my problem. All of these beautiful women and I am always wishing they were him.” Ilya bent to take his third shot. “Is terrible problem.” Fuck. Shane was going start crying right here in his games room. He swallowed and steadied himself. “Do you want the problem to go away?” “No,” Ilya said seriously, looking Shane dead in the eye. “I do not want the problem to ever go away.

There is desire in the perfect, beauty in the imperfect. Thus I lust over the flawless, and fall amorously forceless to the flawed.

I love you.” Shane froze. And then Ilya froze. “Holy shit,” Shane whispered. It wasn’t how he had meant to respond. “I...” Ilya’s eyes were so wide and so scared. “I love you too,” Shane said.

There was something a little creepy about sitting in this small pool of light in the middle of total darkness. It was so eerily quiet - just the crackling of the fire, the occasional lap of water from the lake, and - A fucking wolf. That was a fucking wolf howl. "What the fuck was that?" Ilya said. He couldn't conceal the terror in his voice. But who the fuck cared, because they were surrounded by hungry wolves! Shane laughed. "It's a loon." "A what?" "A loon!" Shane was really laughing now. "It's a bird. Like a duck, kind of. Oh my god, you thought it was a wolf!" "What the fuck bird makes a noise like that?" "A loon!" Shane said again. Then he doubled over in hysterics. Ilya wanted to push him into the fire. "Fuck you and your loon!" Ilya said. "Stupid Canadian wolf bird.

Um, and this is….Ilya. Rozanov. You probably know that.” “Hi,” Ilya said. “And he’s been…visiting. He’s…we’re, um…” What were they, exactly? It occurred to Shane that he and Ilya hadn’t even figured out what label they were comfortable with. “Lovers,” Ilya offered. Fuck, way to choose the grossest possible word, Ilya. Well, there was no going back from that word. Shane could only wait for the aftermath. “But…you hate him,” Mom said. “No, I…don’t. I mean. Sometimes I do, kinda. But mostly I..love him. Actually.” “You..what?

We think to dance, and dance in thought. But to hibernate in the mind, is to bring upon us an apocalypse of the Soul.

To want to tackle everything rationally is irrational.

I would spend the rest of my days making her flower crowns if she wanted to be a queen. My queen. Not Kitt's. Not Ilya's. Mine.

Unfortunately, the move also caused him to smash Ilya in the face with his ass.

Fuck you and your loon!” Ilya said. “Stupid Canadian wolf bird.

we are finite, in that we are a product and source of the infinite.

Lord, such fire from a match you never lit.

Question What is a child? A quiet between two bombardments.

Yes, well, there’s not a price on my head.” “You’re the prince of Ilya. There will always be a price on your head.” And with that, she rips the bandanna from my face.

And...like I said. We’re an hour away from each other. All year.” He wanted Ilya to see this vision as clearly as he could. It seemed tantalizingly possible. Easy, even. “And you’d be in Canada. And you could apply for citizenship eventually.” “Yes. I understand that part.” “And maybe...someday. When we both retire. We can...be together. For real.” Ilya looked stunned by that part. “You really think that far ahead, Hollander?” “I do about this.” “You want that? To be together?” “I do. So much it terrifies me.” Ilya turned his face away from Shane, and was silent. Cold dread flooded Shane’s stomach; he had admitted too much." “But Ilya turned back and quickly rolled on top of Shane and was kissing him and kissing him and kept murmuring the same thing in Russian over and over again until he pulled back and translated: “I love you.” Shane froze. And then Ilya froze. “Holy shit,” Shane whispered. It wasn’t how he had meant to respond. “I...” Ilya’s eyes were so wide and so scared. “I love you too,” Shane said. Ilya gave a shaky smile and exhaled. “Thank Christ.” “Does it...does it feel like agony for you too?” Ilya started to nod, then stopped. He shook his head slowly instead. “Not anymore.

Остап со вчерашнего дня еще ничего не ел. Поэтому красноречие его было необыкновенно.

Order arise from chaos.

What is silence? Something of the sky in us.

I do not hear gunshots, but watch birds splash over the backyards of the suburbs. How bright is the sky as the avenue spins on its axis. How bright is the sky (forgive me) how bright.

If you cannot find an element of Humour in something, your not taking it seriously enough.

To seek contentment is to release the novelty that lies within monotony

The way people used to kiss before the age of historical materialism.

I could not say any of the things I wanted to say. I said you were a great hockey player. A nice guy. Very competitive. All of the shit that any of your teammates could have said.” Ilya sighed loudly, then continued in a quieter tone. “When you watch it, this is what you will see. Me saying nothing. I wanted to say you were fucking everything to me. Everything, okay?

The body of the boy lies on the asphalt like a paperclip. The body of the boy lies on the asphalt like the body of a boy.

The only kind of universe that I can even begin to conceive is an inconceivable one.

A truly free man is not free 'from' anything, nor free 'to' anything, he is just free. Free within himself.

Humanity must forgive 'Humanity', for only then can we be Humane.

Ilya nodded to the ring. "Yes," Ilya said again. "I am saying yes, Hollander." "Oh." Then Shane’s lips spread into a wide grin. "Yeah?" He scrambled to his feet and into Ilya’s arms. They kissed, and Ilya said, "Yes." They kissed again, and Ilya said, "Of course." They kissed some more, and Shane said, "I love you." By the time they finished kissing they both had tears streaming down their cheeks. "Is this because I almost died?" Ilya teased. "No. It’s because I almost died." Ilya brushed the tears on Shane’s face with his thumb. What could he even say to that?

He laughs, and it’s a biting sound I forgot him capable of. “Of course I know. But don’t you see? That doesn’t matter.” He lifts a hand toward my face before thinking better of it. “I’m selfish, Paedyn. I burned your home to the ground just to have you and now it is all of Ilya standing in my way, tempting me to light a match.

Ilya smiled to himself. He actually loved this. He loved being on the road, and disappointing home crowds across North America. He loved the insults, the booing, and, most of all, the sound of a crowd so gutted by his team's performance that they couldn't even bother to boo. A winded, humiliated crowd. That was Ilya's favorite sound.

I will praise your madness, and in a language not mine, speak of music that wakes us, music in which we move. For whatever I say is a kind of petition, and the darkest days must I praise.

Author's Prayer If I speak for the dead, I must leave this animal of my body, I must write the same poem over and over for the empty page is a white flag of their surrender. If I speak of them, I must walk on the edge of myself, I must live as a blind man who runs through the rooms without touching the furniture. Yes, I live. I can cross the streets asking "What year is it?" I can dance in my sleep and laugh in front of the mirror. Even sleep is a prayer, Lord, I will praise your madness, and in a language not mine, speak of music that wakes us, music in which we move. For whatever I say is a kind of petition and the darkest days must I praise.

Even from this distance, I can make out Ilya’s symbol of strength etched into their skin.

Let's put it to a vote. Shall the ballots be open or secret?" "We don't need Soviet-style voting," Charushnikov said, offended. "Let's vote the honest way, the European way: secret ballots.

And when they bombed other people's houses, we protested but not enough, we opposed them but not enough. I was in my bed, around my bed America was falling: invisible house by invisble house by invisble house -- I tooka a chair outside and watched the sun. In the sixth month of a disastrous reignin the house of money in the street of money in the city of money in the country of money, our great country of money, we (forgive us) lived happily during the war.

Your inability to see the wisdom in someone else is not a reflection on their lack of perspicacity, it is a reflection on yours.

An over examination of life can deter you from life itself

To neglect ones own ability to laugh is the greatest form of Blasphemy, for to laugh is to pray.

Everyone drank to popular education and to the irrigation of Uzbekistan.

At the trial of God, we will ask: why did you allow all this? And the answer will be an echo: why did you allow all this?

The world is in an eternal struggle against good and evil,” he would say to me. “But the most important war is fought here.” Ilyas would tap his chest. “It is not the barbarians, nor even the Druj, that we must fear the most, Nazafareen. It is the enemy within.” I

Do not count the days, do not count the miles. Count only the Germans you have killed. Kill the German - this is your old mother's prayer. Kill the German - this is what your children beseech you to do. Kill the German - this is the cry of your Russian earth. Do not waver. Do not let up. Kill.

I have been thinking...” Ilya said. He’d never said any of this out loud before. He maybe hadn’t even formed it altogether in his head before. “I am a free agent, after next season.” He definitely had Shane’s full attention now. “You’d leave Boston?” “I have just been thinking. Maybe...a Canadian team.” “Holy shit, really?” “Yes.” “Like where?” Ilya could see the thoughts play out on Shane’s face like a movie: What if we played together in Montreal? No. Montreal couldn’t afford both of us. “Not Montreal,” Ilya said gently. “No. I know.” But good god, now Ilya was imagining that. Playing together, living together, being together. It was never going to happen. But it was a nice thought.

The path towards peace is not for the righteous, the ethical, the active and the compassionate to shit on the malicious, the complacent, the violent and the ignorant. The path towards peace is to be peaceful.

She was, after all, a mattress owner and understood the subtleties of life.

Logic in all its infinite potential, is the most dangerous of vices. For one can always find some form of logic to justify his action, and rest comfortably in the assurance, that what he did abides by reason. That is why, for us brittle beings, Intention is the only true weapon of peace.

one measure of a book is the degree to which it generates good questions,

заграница — это миф о загробной жизни. Кто туда попадает, тот не возвращается.

Финансовая пропасть-самая глубокая из всех пропастей, в нее можно падать всю жизнь.

An intelligent man is one who acknowledges his intelligence as that of those who surround him.

All that is musical in us is memory.

Heart eyes. Hayden said I look at you with heart eyes.” Shane squirmed against his bedsheets. “When did he say that?” “At camp. I was staring at you and he said—” “Oh god.” Shane palmed his face. “He did not say that.” “Yes. Was probably true. I look at you and I am just...” Ilya opened and closed his fist several times in front of his chest. “My heart goes crazy

He was only thirty-eight. His body was clean, well-fed, and benign. He had all his teeth. A fresh Armenian joke stirred in his head like a child in its mother's womb. He thought life was wonderful.

He enjoyed a brief fantasy as he sat on the bench of pressing Shane against the glass after scoring a goal and kissing him breathless. That would shut this fucking crowd up. “Man,” Bood said as they skated to the bench, “this town hates you.” “Nah. They wish I played for them.” Bood laughed. “Hollander would hate that.” “My good friend Shane Hollander, you mean?” “There’s no way he likes you that much.” “He loves me,” Ilya said plainly. Honestly. Bood, of course, thought he was kidding. “Now you’re really dreaming.” Ilya chomped on his mouthguard to avoid smiling.

Now tell me the truth, Lapsus, why do you write about things you've never seen before in your life? Things you don't have the slightest idea about? Why is 'peignoir' a ball gown in your poem 'Canton'? Why?

كان يعتقد انك إذا قلت إن كل شئ علي مايرام فإن هذا في حد ذاته يصلح الامور إن اهم شئ ألا تتدهور المعنويات

Americans don't like to waste time on stupid things, for example, on the torturous process of coming up with names for their towns. And really, why strain yourself when so many wonderful names already exist in the world? The entrance to the town of Moscow is shown in the photograph. That's right, an absolutely authentic Moscow, just in the state of Ohio, not in the USSR in Moscow province. There's another Moscow in some other state, and yet another Moscow in a third state. On the whole, every state has the absolute right to have its very own Moscow.

I am no Elite. And that is all you see when looking at me-everything I am not. So let me tell you what I am." She takes a deep breath, the scar above her heart rising and falling. "I am power earned, not gifted. I became one of you. Observant enough to pose as a Psychic, strong enough to survive your Trials. Over and over, I have proved myself worthy of your loyalty. "But I have faced far worse things than my own powerlessness." She lifts an arm, running fingers over the scar beneath her collarbone. "I once wore this carving with shame, but now it is proof of my survival. No ability could have withstood what I alone have." A smile touches her lips. "A king left his mark upon my heart, and now, I will leave mine across his kingdom." I've never seen something so beautiful, so bold, so blatantly right for me, for this kingdom, this hope of a united Ilya. And I fear I may forever be in awe of her. Looking at Paedyn Gray, I see a reckless sort of fearlessness, a power that swells from her vibrant soul. "The Plague runs through my blood, same as yours." Paedyn's voice is clear, carrying over the silent throne room. "But it did not bless me with strength, I took it." Stepping to the edge of the dais, she lets her gaze wander over the crowd. "I am Ordinary. Elite. A power of my choosing. And I will be your queen-all that I am and fiercely what I am not.

Жизнь страны менялась с каждым столетием. Менялась одежда, совершенствовалось оружие, были усмирены картофельные бунты. Люди научились брить бороды. Полетел первый воздушный шар. Были изобретены железные близнецы пароход и паровоз. Затрубили автомашины. А дорога осталась такой же, какой была при Соловье разбойнике.

The most recent post was from yesterday —Christmas— and it was of the foosball table Shane had given him. No caption. He scrolled and found a photo of the exercise ball Shane had been balancing on in Ilya's gym. One of the latest puzzle Ilya had completed with Shane's dad. One of Ilya's loon tattoo. One of the two plastic heart rings, together on Shane's dresser. Shane realized that most or Ilya's posts were, in weird cryptic ways, about Shane. His entire account was like a secret diary of their relationship, full of inside jokes and little references that only Shane would understand. And Shane hadn't even bothered to look at it before. Not really. He looked now. He scrolled until his eyes were so blurry that he had to give up and sob into his hands instead. How could Shane have doubted for a second how fiercely Ilya loved him?

So what was in this building before historical materialism?' 'Before what?' 'You know, back then, under the old regime?' 'Oh. Under the old regime my master lived here.' 'A bourgeois?' 'You're a bourgeois yourself! He wasn't a bourgeois. He was a marshal of the nobility.' 'So he was a proletarian, then?' 'You're a proletarian yourself! I told you loud and clear, a marshal.' The conversation with the clever dvornik with a vague understanding of the class structure of society would have lasted god knows how long if the young man hadn't made a decisive move.

right.” He drags his fingers through damp hair. “I can’t let that be right because I’ve justified everything. Everything I’ve done as the Enforcer. It was all to protect the Elites and Ilya from this disease, but if Ordinaries aren’t weakening our powers…” He trails off, running a hand over his face. I reach a hesitant hand toward him, unsure what to say. “Kai…” “That would mean that he’s been killing Ordinaries to prevent them from reproducing with Elites. He’s been killing healthy, innocent people.” He finally looks over at me, gray eyes icy. “I’ve been killing healthy, innocent people.

I believe that no great lyric poet ever speaks in the so-called “proper” language of his or her time. Emily Dickinson didn’t write in “proper” English grammar but in slant music of fragmentary perception. Half a world and half a century away, Cesar Vallejo placed three dots in the middle of the line, as if language itself were not enough, as if the poet’s voice needed to leap from one image to another, to make—to use Eliot’s phrase—a raid on the inarticulate. Paul Celan wrote to his wife from Germany, where he briefly visited from his voluntary exile in France: “The language with which I make my poems has nothing to do with one spoken here, or anywhere.