Best 18 quotes of Dmitry Glukhovsky on MyQuotes

And what if there’s nothing in there?’ You die and there’s nothing beyond that. Nothing. Nothing remains. Someone might remember you for a little while after but not for long.

There's only one thing that can save a man from madness and that's uncertainty.

Actuala lui relație cu Elena era plină de tandrețea specifică bătrâneții, dar se întâlniseră prea târziu...La vârsta lor oamenii se străduiesc să-și aline singurătatea, nu să-și potolească pasiunile.

Christ’s painted blood seeps out of the wounds for which he himself is to blame, which he didn’t try to avoid, the great self-harmer. He himself inflicted them with others’ hands, to drive us all into debt. He paid in advance for our sins, the ones we hadn’t committed. He forced a thousand generations of people to be born guilty and pay him back with interest all their lives for this enforced loan. Thank you.

Die Rettung des Volkes liegt im Wodka.

El tiempo es como el mercurio: aunque intentes dividirlo en partes más pequeñas, se reconstituye al instante, de nuevo entero sin forma. Los hombres lo han domesticado, lo han encadenado a sus relojes y cronómetros, y fluye igual para todos los que lo han encadenado. Pero déjalo libre, y verás.

Father André turns cherry-red, I’ve socked him below the belt, but he handles it and holds up, speaking in a quiet, confident voice. “I didn’t choose this. He created me this way. He made me as a homosexual.” “What for? Was he feeling bored?” “So that I would come to Him. So that I would serve Him.” “Why, you don’t even have any right to serve! You’re a sinner! Your god created you a sinner! What for?” “So that I would always be guilty. Always guilty, no matter what I did.” “Wonderful!

Getting a new version of the answer every day, Artyom was unable to compel himself to believe what was true, because the next day another, no less precise and comprehensive one, might arise. Whom should he believe? And in what? ... Any faith served man only as a crutch supporting him. ... He understood why man needs this support. Without it, life would have become empty, like an abandoned tunnel.

In Russia they have a strange disease. It makes membrane grow across the sick person's throat, and they start to choke. there's less and less air until they eventually die. They treat it with a strange gizmo, A little silver tube. the membrane can't tolerate silver. The healer inserts the little silver tube in the patient's throat and he breaths through it until it gets over the illness. You're my little silver tube. With you, I have started breathing.

I too should have been born a carefree idler in this garden of paradise and taken the bright sunshine for granted, I should never have seen walls or been afraid of them, but lived at liberty, breathing deeply and freely! But instead… I made just one solitary mistake – I came out of the wrong mother: and now I’ve got to pay for that for the rest of my endless life.

Men retreated from the heavens – but not for long. Before God could even blink, He had to squeeze up, and then He was evicted. Now Europe’s covered right across with Towers of Babel, and these days it’s not a matter of pride – it’s just that there’s no more living space left.

No era un monstruo. Era un ser humano normal y corriente. Cruel, imbécil y rencoroso. Igual que todos los demás.

Our bodies are eternal, friction doesn’t wear them out, and we don’t need to make careful decisions about the people on whom we ought to spend our limited resources of youth and beauty. It’s the natural order of things. Ordinary people are created to enjoy pleasure. To take pleasure in the world, food, each other – and for what else? To be happy. And people like me are created to protect their happiness.

Stalker. Dokładnie tak ich sobie wyobrażał – z opowiadań ojczyma i historyjek straganiarzy. Poplamiony i miejscami osmalony skafander ochronny, długa ciężka kamizelka kuloodporna, potężne bary, na prawym ramieniu niedbale zarzucona potężna bryła erkaemu, z lewej, na podobieństwo bandoletu, zwisa pobłyskująca smarem taśma z nabojami. Masywne sznurowane buty, wpuszczone do środka spodnie, na plecach przepastny płócienny plecak. Stalker zdjął okrągły hełm specnazu, ściągnął gumową maskę przeciwgazową i, zaczerwieniony, mokry, rozmawiał o czymś z dowódcą posterunku.

What remains of the dead? What remains of every one of us? Tombstones sink in, moss covers them, and after a few centuries the name can no longer be read. Every forgotten grave is designated a new corpse. As the generations passed, remembrance of the dead diminished until it was forgotten. What was called everlasting peace only lasted half a century. The bones were disturbed as the graveyards were mulched in to suburbs. The earth had become too small, for the living and the dead. In half a century a funeral had become a luxury that only few could afford who had died before judgment day. But who cares about a single body when the whole planet is dying. [...] Earlier the remains of humanity had only had the right to be there as long as the living remembered them. A human being remembers their relatives, their friends and colleagues. But his conscience only reached back three generations before it faded away. Just more then fifty years. With the same ease, you let the picture of our grandfather or your friend from school out of our conscience into absolute nothingness. The memories of a human can last longer than the bones, but as soon as the last one who remembered us has passed we dissolve with time. [...] Back then there was almost no more space in the thick family album for old and brown turned pictures, but almost nobody that looked through it could say for sure who was on the photos. The photographs of the passed can be interpreted as some kind of mask, but not as a print of their soul when they were living. And the photographs only decay as slow as the people that live inside them What remains? Our children? They can look like us. In their reflection we mirror ourselves in a mysterious way. United with those we had loved. In their gestures, in their mimics we happily find ourselves or with sorrow. Friends confirm that our sons and daughters are just like us. Maybe that gives us a certain extension of ourselves when we are no more. We ourselves weren’t the first. We have been made from countless copies that have been before us, just another chimera, always half from our fathers and mothers who are again the half of their parents. So is there nothing unique in us but are we just an endless mixture of small mosaic parts that never endingly exist in us? Have we been formed out of millions of small parts to a complete picture that has no own worth and has to fall into its parts again? Does it even matter to be happy if we found ourselves in our children, a certain line that has been traveling through our bodies for millions of years? What remains of me? [...] What kind of immortality was left for mankind?

What remains? Our children? Homer touched the flame of the candle with his fingers. The answer wasn’t easy to find for him, Achmed’s words still hurt him. He himself had been damned to be without children, unable for this kind of immortality, so he couldn’t do anything but choose another path to immortatlity. Again he reached for his pen. They can look like us. In their reflection we mirror ourselves in a mysterious way. United with those we had loved. In their gestures, in their mimics we happily find ourselves or with sorrow. Friends confirm that our sons and daughters are just like us. Maybe that gives us a certain extension of ourselves when we are no more. We ourselves weren’t the first. We have been made from countless copies that have been before us, just another chimera, always half from our fathers and mothers who are again the half of their parents. So is there nothing unique in us but are we just an endless mixture of small mosaic parts that never endingly exist in us? Have we been formed out of millions of small parts to a complete picture that has no own worth and has to fall into its parts again? Does it even matter to be happy if we found ourselves in our children, a certain line that has been traveling through our bodies for millions of years? What remains of me?

Wszystkie oczy były skierowane na żelazne drzwi na zasuwę. Teraz były otwarte, a w prześwicie stał wysoki człowiek, widząc którego Artem też zapomniał po co tu przyszedł. Stalker. Dokładnie tak ich sobie wyobrażał – z opowiadań ojczyma i historyjek straganiarzy. Poplamiony i miejscami osmalony skafander ochronny, długa ciężka kamizelka kuloodporna, potężne bary, na prawym ramieniu niedbale zarzucona potężna bryła erkaemu, z lewej, na podobieństwo bandoletu, zwisa pobłyskująca smarem taśma z nabojami. Masywne sznurowane buty, wpuszczone do środka spodnie, na plecach przepastny płócienny plecak. Stalker zdjął okrągły hełm specnazu, ściągnął gumową maskę przeciwgazową i, zaczerwieniony, mokry, rozmawiał o czymś z dowódcą posterunku. Był już niemłody, Artem widział siwy zarost na jego policzkach i brodzie i srebrne nitki wśród krótkich, czarnych włosów. Ale biło od niego siłą, pewnością siebie, cały był spięty, czujny, jakby nawet tu, na cichej, jasnej stacji był gotów w każdej chwili stawić czoła niebezpieczeństwu i nie dać mu się zaskoczyć.

You know,” says Mr. Schreier, handing me the glass. “Eternal life and immortality are different things, aren’t they? Eternal life here…” – he touches his chest – “… and immortality here…” – he touches his finger to his temple. “Eternal life,” he chuckles, “is included in the basic social benefits package. But immortality is only accessible to the chosen few. And I think… I think you could attain it.” “Attain it? But aren’t I already one of the Immortals?” I joke. “The difference is the same as between a man and an animal.” He suddenly shows me his empty face again. “Obvious to the man and not obvious to the animal.” “You mean I still need to evolve.