I love Russian classics quietly, almost on tiptoe. For me, these books aren't big events, but long inner conversations. I read Dostoevsky slowly because his characters are too vivid; they look straight into the soul, and that makes me a little scared. Tolstoy is like a large window: through it, you can see life in its entirety, with its light, pain, mistakes, and rare moments of happiness. I especially love Chekhov—for his pauses, for the way the most important things happen between the lines. His characters are often silent, hesitant, hesitant—and I recognize myself in them. Russian classics are fragile and heavy at the same time: they can hurt, but they never lie. When I read, the world becomes quieter. It seems to me that these books teach you not to be outwardly brave, but to be honest within. And perhaps that's why I return to them again and again—as to a place where I am understood without words.

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