Omon Ra

There's obviously some strange correspondence between the general outline of a life and that stream of petty events in which a person is constantly involved and regards as insignificant.

...what are they but the voice of history multiplied by millions of televisions?

I think the first glimpse of my true personality was the moment when I realised I could aspire beyond the thin blue film of the sky into the black abyss of space.

I and this entire world are nothing but a thought someone is thinking,” the bear said in a quiet voice.

That means, I thought, I can look out from inside myself like looking out of a plane, it doesn't really matter at all where you look out from, what matters is what you see . . .

how could I know that you only ever see the best things in life out of the corner of your eye?

You should know, my son, that that’s what heroism is all about. No one’s ever ready to be a hero—there’s no way to prepare for it. Of course, you can practise till you’re really good at running up to the gunport and have the knack of falling neatly across it on your chest—we teach all of that. But you can’t teach anyone the actual inner act of heroism, it can only be performed. The more you wanted to live before, the better for the act of heroic sacrifice.

I was aware that I was on the moon, but the immense distance separating me from the earth was a pure abstraction for me. I felt as though the people I spoke with on the phone were somewhere close by—not because I could hear their voices clearly in the receiver, but because I couldn’t imagine how the entirely immaterial official relationships and personal feelings that linked us together could be stretched so far. But the strangest thing was that the memories connecting me with childhood could extend over such an incomprehensible distance too.

My youthful dreams of the future were born from the gentle sadness of those evenings, far removed from the rest of life, when you lie in the grass beside the remains of someone else’s campfire, with your bicycle beside you, watching the purple stripes left in the western sky by the sun that has just set, and you can see the first stars in the east. I hadn’t seen or experienced very much, but I liked lots of things, and I thought that a flight to the moon would take in and make up for all the things I had passed by, in hopes of catching up with them later; how could I know that you only ever see the best things in life out of the corner of your eye?

...but since I realised that peace and freedom were unattainable on earth, my spirit aspired aloft, and everything that my chosen path required ceased to conflict with my conscience, because my conscience was calling me out into space, and was not much interested in what was happening on earth.

Make a mistake and you’re fucked.” “And if you don’t make a mistake?

four grim five-storey houses which looked just like the ones built in the Moscow suburbs in Khrushchev’s time.

Right in the centre was a tall bell tower of white stone, from which long ago some princess had leapt onto the stones below, and despite all the centuries that had passed, this incident was vaguely remembered by the townspeople.

Are you going soon?' 'In seven minutes,' he said. 'Do you know what I'm thinking about now?' 'What?' 'I suddenly remembered how I used to catch pigeons as a kid. You know, we took this big wooden crate and sprinkled breadcrumbs under it and stood it on edge, and we propped up the opposite edge with a stick with about ten metres of string tied to it. Then we hid in the bushes or behind a bench, and when a pigeon wandered under the crate, we pulled the string. Then the crate fell on it.' 'That's right,' I said. 'We did the same.' 'And you remember, when the crate comes down, the pigeon starts trying to fly off and beats its wings against the sides, so the crate even jumps about?' 'I remember,' I said. Ivan didn't say anything else. In the meantime, it had turned quite cold. And it was harder to breathe--after every movement I wanted to catch my breath, as if I'd just run up a long flight of stairs. I began lifting the oxygen mask to my face to take a breath. 'And I remember how we used to make bombs with cartridge cases and the sulphur from matches. You stuff it in real tight, and there has to be a little hole in the side, and you put several matches in a row beside it . . .' 'Cosmonaut Grechka.' The bass voice in the receiver was the one that had woken me with abuse before the start of the flight. 'Make ready.' 'Yes, sir,' Ivan answered without enthusiasm. 'And then you tie them on with thread--insulating tape's better, because sometimes the thread comes loose. If you want to throw it out of the window, say from the seventh floor, so it explodes in midair, then you need four matches. And . . .' 'Stop that talking,' said the bass voice. ' Put on your oxygen mask.' 'Yes, sir. You don't strike the last one with the box, though, the best thing is to light it with a dog-end. Or else you might shift them away from the hole.' I heard nothing after that except the usual crackle of interference.

No one’s ever ready to be a hero—there’s no way to prepare for it. Of course, you can practise till you’re really good at running up to the gunport and have the knack of falling neatly across it on your chest—we teach all of that. But you can’t teach anyone the actual inner act of heroism, it can only be performed. The more you wanted to live before, the better for the act of heroic sacrifice.

In early childhood (as, perhaps, after death) a person extends in all directions at the same time, so we can say he still doesn't exist yet- the personality comes into being later, when an attachment to some particular direction appears.