Russian literature, like colonial Canadian literature, comes with a lot of landscape backdrop.

Typography is to literature as musical performance is to composition: an essential act of interpretation, full of endless opportunities for insight or obtuseness.

When you die, your culture takes you in, and then, if you've given enough, your place is near the centre.

In a world rife with unsolicited messages, typography must often draw attention to itself before it will be read. Yet in order to be read, it must relinquish the attention it has drawn. Typography with anything to say therefore aspires to a kind of statuesque transparency. It's other traditional goal is durability: not immunity to change, but a clear superiority to fashion. Typography at its best is a visual form of language linking timelessness and time.

Popularity isn't just something that happens. You have to give something in exchange for it, and that's the dangerous part of the process.

Wings are a constraint that makes it possible to fly.

Poetry, I'm often told, is something made of words. I think it really goes the other way around: words are made of poetry.