Outside, snow solidified itself into graceful forms.
The peace of winter stars seemed permanent.
In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.
I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, “Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again."
What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness?
Russian writers have a way with aphorisms. They probably spend all winter thinking them up.
I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage,
and tangled Christmas tree lights.