The Fact That We Are Living Does

Twentieth-century Russian Literature Has Produced Nothing Special Except Perhaps One Novel And Two Stories By Andrei Platonov, Who Ended His Days Sweeping Streets.

After Having Exhausted All The Arguments On Behalf Of Evil, One Utters The Creed's Dictums With Nostalgia Rather Than With Fervor.

There Are Worse Crimes Than Burning Books. One Of Them Is Not Reading Them.

Boredom Is Your Window On The Properties Of Time That One Tends To Ignore To The Likely Peril Of One's Mental Equilibrium. It Is Your Window On Time's Infinity. Once This Window Opens, Don't Try To Shut It; On The Contrary, Throw It Wide Open.

I Grew Up In The Sort Of Cultural Milieu That Always Regarded Conversations About The Political Discourse As Tremendously Low-brow.