My parents were ordinary people; we lived in a small apartment.

He hangs on now, pressing his hand lightly against the wall, below the window, waiting for the familiar arrow of pain. Only there is none. An oddly pleasant swell of memory, a wave of warmth flooding over him, sliding back, slowly. It is a first

In Russia, or anywhere, people don't like rich people. Yeah, OK, I have money, but the question is how I use it. It's not easy, believe me; it's not easy.

Depending on the reality one must face, one may prefer to opt for illusion.

Rock isn't art, it's the way ordinary people talk.

Never love anyone who treats you like you're ordinary.