I'd obviously never heard of the group, but my ignorance in literary matters is to blame for that (every book in the world is out there waiting to be read by me).

That's a pretty story,' said Afanasievna as she let go of Ansky's genitals. 'A pity I'm too old and have seen to much to believe it.' It has nothing to do with belief,' said Ansky, 'it has to do with understanding, and then changing.

We all have to die a bit every now and then and usually it's so gradual that we end up more alive than ever. Infinitely old and infinitely alive.

Only in chaos are we conceivable.

Dreams fade with morning light, Never a morn for thee, Dreamer of dreams, goodnight.

Bright colours in the west, giant butterflies dancing as night crept like a cripple toward the east.

In the current socio-political climate, he said to himself, committing suicide is absurd and redundant. Better to become an undercover poet.