Any faith served man only as a crutch supporting him. When Artyom was young, his stepfather’s story about how a monkey took up a cane and became a man made him laugh. After that, apparently, the clever macaque no longer let the cane out of his hand because he couldn’t straighten up. He understood why man needs this support. Without it, life would have become empty, like an abandoned tunnel.

Could anyone who had never seen stars possibly imagine what infinity is, when, most likely, the very concept of infinity first appeared among humans inspired, once upon a time, by the nocturnal vault of the heavens?

He was seized by a cheerful sort of desperation. The whole world was against him, everything was going awry. However, the obstacles that the tunnels put in the way of his mission had awoken in Artyom a rage, and this obstinate rage re-lit his weakening vision with a rebellious fire, devouring in him any fear, sense of danger, reason and force.

Any faith served man only as a crutch supporting him.

It was as if, having been driven off course, he nevertheless was able to recover his feet on the shining rails of his fate.

His delight at seeing this creation of human hands was mixed with the bitterness of finally understanding that nothing like it ever would be created again.

Who came up with the idea that telling the truth is easy? That’s already a lie.

Hate is a fine antidote for fear.

It’s so much easier for people to die when they believe in something! For those who believe that death isn’t the end of everything. For those in whose eyes the world is separated into black and white – who know exactly what they need to do and why, who hold the torch of an idea, of beliefs, in their hands, and everything they see is illuminated by it. Those who have nothing to doubt and nothing to regret. They must have an easy time of dying. They die with a smile on their face.

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.