If people are rude in Moscow, at least it's in Russian.

There's a reason every book, even one that isn't very serious, is shaped like a suitcase

Sales were lukewarm. Back home there was no freedom, but there were readers. Here there was freedom enough, but readers were missing.

If people are rude in Moscow, at least it's in Russian.

We are not better than native born Americans, and of course not smarter. We’ve just been to the last stop of this bus.

Our life is but a grain of sand in the indifferent ocean of infinity.

Let's assume there really is no such thing as happiness, no such thing as peace, and no freedom either. But there are kind of attacks of senseless ecstasy. Can this be me?