Man Is What He Reads.

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.

Love Itself Is The Most Elitist Of Passions. It Acquires Its Stereoscopic Substance And Perspective Only In The Context Of Culture, For It Takes Up More Place In The Mind Than It Does In Bed. Outside Of That Setting It Falls Flat Into One-dimensional Fiction.

In Russia, The Moment A Person Opens His Mouth You Know Where He's From. There's The Uniformity Of Experience Of An Individual In Russia. When You're About 7 Years Old You Get Into School And You Get Put In This Factory Or This Bureaucracy Or Whatever. The Options Are Computable. Here It's Tremendously Diverse.

In America, A Metrical Poem Is Likely To Conjure Up The Idea Of The Sort Of Poet Who Wears Ties And Lunches At The Faculty Club. In Russia It Suggests The Moral Force Of An Art Practiced Against The Greatest Personal Odds, As A Discipline, Solitary And Intense.

The Real History Of Consciousness Starts With One's First Lie.