I Have Always Tried To Write In

Trotsky Rises To Give Me His Hand, Then Sits At His Desk, Gently Allowing His Regard To Light On My Person.

The Place Smelled Of Fairgrounds, Of Lazy Crowds, Of Nights When You Stayed Out Because You Couldn't Go To Bed, And It Smelled Like New York, Of Its Calm And Brutal Indifference.

The Fact That We Are I Don't Know How Many Millions Of People, Yet Communication, Complete Communication, Is Completely Impossible Between Two Of Those People, Is To Me One Of The Biggest Tragic Themes In The World

And Boucard Desisted, Probably Because Like Everyone Else He Was Deeply Impressed By This Man Who Had Laid All Ghosts, Who Had Lost All Shadows, And Who Stared You In The Eyes With Cold Serenity.

I Am At Home Everywhere, And Nowhere. I Am Never A Stranger And I Never Quite Belong.