man vienmeer ir taa sajuuta, ka es sheit esmu atnaakusi tikai uz briitinju, taapeec es neko nevaru par sevi pastaastiit, mazliet skumji, mazliet bezjeedziigi, arlabunkati.

`Have you ever read Proust?' he asked her.
`I've tried, but he bores me.'
`He's really very extraordinary.'
`Possibly! But he bores me: all that sophistication! He doesn't have feelings, he only has streams of words  about feelings. I'm tired of self−important mentalities.'
`Would you prefer self−important animalities?'
`Perhaps! But one might possibly get something that wasn't self−important.'
`Well, I like Proust's subtlety and his well−bred anarchy.'
`It makes you very dead, really.'

man shkjiet, ka kas bezgaliigi laipns man puush siltu elpu pakausii un garaamejot noglaasta rokas, un klusi bez vaardiem man saka, lai es izbeidzu un nemeloju kaa beerns, jo es zinu kas ir iists un skaists, un ja es buutu stipraaka tad man nebuutu bail vai dusmas uz saapeem.

nezinu no kuras puses mani sauc, no labaas vai sliktaas.