Character: Timothy Cavendish

Like Solzhenitsyn, who had been in Vermont, I will work in exile, but, unlike Solzhenitsyn, I'm not alone.

But we are brothers! You have a conscience?
- A couple of pills and a gin and tonic will help me forget it.

Critic - and a critic to read books quickly, arrogant and not especially getting a grasp.

Take a look at your future, Cavendish, those who Follow him. You're not going to submit any applications for membership, but the tribe's elderly and already enrolled you in the ranks. Your time will cease to keep up the rest of the world. Because of this slipping your skin is stretched and thins, so it will be hardly visible twitching bodies and veins similar to blue veins in Roquefort; the skeleton of your SAG, the hair thinned and the memory faded. To leave the house do you dare now only in daylight, avoiding weekends and school holidays. The language of others, too, run forward, and yours, when you hadn't opened your mouth, will give your tribal affiliation. Elegant women will not see you. Dealers, unless they sell lifts for stairs or counterfeit insurance policies, you will not notice. Your existence will only accept babies, cats and drug addicts. So don't waste their days in vain. Faster than you imagine you stand before a mirror in a nursing home, look at your body and think old vacuum cleaner for a couple of weeks locked in a damn closet.

Our country is poor. Too much history per unit area.

Those who love sulking, having played in the lonely fantasies.

We once again cross their own old tracks like figure skaters.

"Freedom!" is meaningless trinket of our civilization, but only those deprived of it have the slightest idea about what actually this thing.

Only three or four times in my youth I had a chance to catch a glimpse of the island of Happiness before they got lost in the fog, bouts of depression, cold fronts, ill winds, and contrary currents... I mistook them for adulthood. Believing that they have been fixed destination in my life journey, I neglected to record their latitude, longitude, and method of approaching them. Damned young fool! What would I not give now for a never changing map of the eternal ineffable? To have, in fact, an Atlas of clouds?

Books do not give truly escape from reality, but they may not give the mind to tear itself to bloody shreds.