I told you the words to it oriole.
Now when an ear come

say it right.

 

Those photographs
of Brezhnev’s death, of Brezhnev’s corpse in state: the
forced
lilies stuffing his coffin, the million mourners in their

threadbare Kremlin.

“In childhood, a given book’s particular smell—though it might actually smell, like snow, of absolutely nothing—emits a kind of hovering mysterious message.”

“This dance (so I imagined) is what formed reality itself—Reagan’s America, Gorbachev’s Soviet Union—and the dancers’ mutually blind position was like an engine, driving the world on.”

“The film doesn’t proceed so much as weave itself in front of us, in a dazzling ivy pattern of zones and occurrences.”