I Have My Own Dying

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.

I Write Almost Entirely In Bed Or On A Couch With My Feet Up On The Coffee Table. I Feel Most Creative When Im Looking Out The Window, And My Bed And Couch Have Nice Views Of The New York Skyline.

Getting Out Of Russia Was The Best Thing My Parents Did. I Mean, That Country Will Never Amount To Anything.

I Was Very, Very Sick When I Was Growing Up In Russia. The Ambulance Constantly Came To Our House. I Had Horrible Asthma That Is Easily Treated In America, But They Didn't Even Have Inhalers Back In Russia.

Life For Young American College Graduates Is A Festive Affair. Free Of Having To Support Their Families, They Mostly Have Gay Parties On Rooftops Where They Reflect At Length Upon Their Quirky Electronic Childhoods And Sometimes Kiss Each Other On The Lips And Neck.