... But Food Eaten Quickly Isn't Food.

History Is Too Slow For Our Life, For Our Hearts.

It Is The Artist Who Realizes That There Is A Supreme Force Above Him And Works Gladly Away As A Small Apprentice Under God's Heaven.

The One Who Doesn't Pull His Weight Is Not Asked To Pull, While The One Who Does, Pulls For Two.

When I Returned To Russia In 1994, The Western World And Its States Were Practically Being Worshipped. Admittedly, This Was Caused Not So Much By Real Knowledge Or A Conscious Choice, But By The Natural Disgust With The Bolshevik Regime And Its Anti-western Propaganda.

In The Camp, This Meant Committing My Verse-many Thousands Of Lines-to Memory. To Help Me With This I Improvised Decimal Counting Beads And, In Transit Prisons, Broke Up Matchsticks And Used The Fragments As Tallies. As I Approached The End Of My Sentences I Grew More Confident Of My Powers Of Memory, And Began Writing Down And Memorizing Prose-dialogue At First, But Then, Bit By Bit, Whole Densely Written Passages. My Memory Found Room For Them! It Worked. But More And More Of My Time-in The End As Much As One Week Every Month-went Into The Regular Repetition Of All I Had Memorized.