We lived, to a certain extent, in harmony with nature. In winter we froze, in summer we roasted in the sun, in autumn we kneaded the mud with our feet, while in spring we were inundated by the flood. He who has not experienced all this does not know what joy and real living is. (...) We can only pity the man whose imagination is dull and dries up"whose recollection of childhood and adolescence yields nothing dear and unusual, and whom nothing can warm or make sad or happy, such a man is nondescript, whatever his status, and his work, denied the warm rays of time, is doomed to be nondescript.
Alexander Dovzhenko in "The Enchanted Desna" (1948)