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He'd been a remittance man too, back in the thirties, and the most maniacal, systemless chess player in Central Asia. His tastes ran low enough to include even blindfold chess, which Russian sensibilities find unutterably gross. Tchitcherine sat down at the board each time more upset than the last,…

pissing on some long-ago third rail and fulminated to charcoal

wondered then how eyes of men could grow so lambent, sinister, so educated among the halls of dread and the invisible

the poor spherical soul against the solenoid thrashing, clonic, horrible

Whatever it was the real visionaries were picking up out of the hard tessitura of those days and city streets