I Have My Own Dying Empire To

I Always Think That Good Writers Should Be Growing Up On The Brink Of Death - It Really Lets Them See Mortality Very Clearly.

My Hair Would Continue To Gray, And Then One Day, It Would Fall Out Entirely, And Then, On A Day Meaninglessly Close To The Present One, Meaninglessly Like The Present One, I Would Disappear From The Earth. And All These Emotions, All These Yearnings, All These Data, If That Helps To Clinch The Enormity Of What I'm Talking About, Would Be Gone. And That's What Immortality Means. It Means Selfishness. My Generations Belief That Each One Of Us Matters More Than You Or Anyone Else Would Think.

Every Returning New Yorker Asks The Question: Is This Still My City? I Have A Ready Answer, Cloaked In Obstinate Despair: It Is. And If It's Not, I Will Love It All The More. I Will Love It To The Point Where It Becomes Mine Again.

If I Still Lived In Russia, I'd Be Dead... Or A Really Effective Oligarch.

That's What Tyrants Do, I Guess. They Make You Covet Their Attention; They Make You Confuse Attention For Mercy.