I Find A Great Deal Of Comfort

Gary Shteyngart Has Written A Memoir For The Ages. I Spat Laughter On The First Page And Closed The Last With Wet Eyes. Un-put-down-able In The Day And A Half I Spent Reading It, Little Failure Is A Window Into Immigrant Agony And Ambition, Jewish Angst, And Anybody's Desperate Need For A Tribe. Readers Who've Fallen For Shteyngart's Antics On The Page Will Relish The Trademark Humor. But Here It's Laden And Leavened With A Deep, Consequential, Psychological Journey. Brave And Unflinching, Little Failure Is His Best Book To Date

I Don't Have A Copy Of My Books, And The Degree To Which I Never Read Them Is Profound. I Never Look.

I Kept The Fingers Of My Left Hand Crossed All The Time, While On My Right-hand Fingers I Counted Anything At All—steps To The Refrigerator, Seconds On The Clock, Words In A Sentence—to Keep My Head Occupied. The Counting Felt Like Something To Hang On To, As If Finding The Right Numbers Might Somehow Crack The Code On Whatever System Ran The Slippery Universe We Were Moving Through.

That’s What’s So Gorgeous About Humanity. It Doesn’t Matter How Bleak Our Daily Lives Are, We Still Fight For The Light. I Think That’s Our Divinity. We Lean Into Love, Even In The Most Hideous Circumstances. We Manage To Hope.

I Think We Fall In Love And Become Adults And Become Citizens In A Way By Writing Stories About Ourselves.