There's Nothing As Dear As The Sight

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

It Would Be Enough For Me To Have The System Of A Jury Of Twelve Versus The System Of One Judge As A Basis For Preferring The U.s. To The Soviet Union. I Would Prefer The Country You Can Leave To The Country You Cannot.

There's Nothing As Dear As The Sight Of Ruins.

If There Is Anything Good About Exile, It Is That It Teaches One Humility. It Accelerates One’s Drift Into Isolation, An Absolute Perspective. Into The Condition At Which All One Is Left With Is Oneself And One’s Language, With Nobody Or Nothing In Between. Exile Brings You Overnight Where It Would Normally Take A Lifetime To Go.

...boredom Speaks The Language Of Time, And It Is To Teach You The Most Valuable Lesson In Your Life--...the Lesson Of Your Utter Insignificance. It Is Valuable To You, As Well As To Those You Are To Rub Shoulders With. 'you Are Finite,' Time Tells You In A Voice Of Boredom, 'and Whatever You Do Is, From My Point Of View, Futile.' As Music To Your Ears, This, Of Course, May Not Count; Yet The Sense Of Futility, Of Limited Significance Even Of Your Best, Most Ardent Actions Is Better Than The Illusion Of Their Consequence And The Attendant Self-satisfaction.