Freedom Is Anathema To Dreams Nurtured In

Then I Celebrated My Wall Of Books. I Counted The Volumes On My Twenty-foot-long Modernist Bookshelf To Make Sure None Had Been Misplaced Or Used As Kindling By My Subtenant. “you’re My Sacred Ones,” I Told The Books. “no One But Me Still Cares About You. But I’m Going To Keep You With Me Forever. And One Day I’ll Make You Important Again.” I Thought About That Terrible Calumny Of The New Generation: That Books Smell.

Freedom Is Anathema To Dreams Nurtured In Captivity.

I Have A Great Memory. And Actually, I Remember Russia In Some Ways Better Than I Remember Queens.

Michigan, With Its Delicious American Name. How Lucky One Must Be To Live There.

You Want To Read A Book? That Requires Introspection. It Requires Time Away From People And Time Away From The Constant Need To Communicate And To Connect.