“What is going on here,” Anton Antonovich would say, getting annoyed. “So, who am I then, according to you?” “We don’t know,” the acquaintances would say. “Only you’re not Anton Antonovich”.
WRITER: I am a writer! READER: Аnd I think you’re a piece of shit!
The women, practically all of them veiled, were holding photographs of naively smiling young men and shouting: “Bring back our brother!” or “Bring back our son!” There wasn’t a single policeman in sight, which was especially strange.
So what, Ionesco, did you turn out to be different from everyone else? Or maybe you’re not Ionesco at all, even?
Did you catch it? What does that smell remind you of, in your opinion? This rose smells of lemons, Spain, and death. She turned around and walked off back to her bench, as though to say, what’s the difference what it smells like?
“I’m a murderer and I was going to murder you, too, which is why I fell in love with you. I mean, I really did fall in love, so I could kill you, but then I realized I wouldn’t be able to, and that I should kill myself instead. Can you understand what I mean?
Igor came out of the living room. There was a lipstick smudge on his cheek. “She didn’t get it, still didn’t get it, and then she forgot it,” he said. He put his arm around Natasha’s waist and led her back into his room.
Walking past a pole, out of the blue he punched a solitary lad wandering nearby right in the jaw. Though the blow was hard and the lad sprawled into a ditch, it was delivered with such inward indifference, Sonnov might as well have been poking the emptiness, except that a physical shudder passed through his bulky body.
“Not exactly,” the president answered. “The thing is, here in Africa everyone's black. So at the Center they'll take off your white hides and pull on black ones.” “Oh, how wonderful!” Masha the stewardess was delighted. “That means I'm going to be black!”