"The pages waded by unheard, and for me, when the Russian scenery fades in my eyes, the snow refuses to stop falling from the ceiling. The kettle is covered, as is the table. The humans, too, are wearing patches of snow on their heads and shoulders."
"And yet the afternoon is stranger still,
shadows prepare the sunlight's funeral,
an ancient country piano begins to trill
the Pathétique (another dying fall),
or soul-sick Schumann, desolate and sweet,
stumbling over the keyboard, dumb with grief,
a melancholy yielding no relief
but schizophrenic laughter through clenched teeth."