Love is both happiness and pain...

A bench. Tatiana is sitting on the bench. Then Onegin arrives, but he doesn't sit down; instead, she stands up. They both stand. And only he speaks, all the time, for a long time, while she doesn't say a word. And then I realize that the ginger cat, Augusta Ivanovna, the dolls – these are not love; this is love: when there's a bench, she's sitting on it, then he arrives, and he keeps talking, while she doesn't say a word.
(...)

My mother was wrong. I didn't fall in love with Onegin; I fell in love with Onegin and Tatiana (and maybe a little more with Tatiana), with them both together, with their love. And after that, I didn't write any of my works without simultaneously falling in love with two people (with her – a little more), not with them two, but with their love. With love.
The bench on which they didn't sit turned out to be decisive. Neither then, nor even a little bit, have I ever loved when they kissed; I always loved when they parted. Never when they sat down, always when they walked away. My first love scene was a non-love scene: he didn't love (I realized that), so he didn't sit down; she loved, so she stood up; they weren't together for a minute, they didn't do anything together; they did the opposite: he spoke, she was silent, he didn't love, she loved, he left, she stayed, so if you lift the curtain, she's standing alone, or maybe she's sitting again, because she only stood up because he stood up. And then she collapsed and will sit there forever. Tatiana sits on that bench forever.

This first love scene of mine determined all my subsequent ones, all the passion in me, the unhappy, unrequited, impossible love. From that moment on, I didn't want to be happy, and in doing so, I doomed myself to not-love.