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On that kind of night, at the Russian Orthodox cemetery far outside the city, an old lady of seventy committed suicide on the grave of her recently deceased husband. I happened to go there the next morning, and the watchman, a badly crippled veteran of the Denikin campaign, moving on crutches that …

for we authors in exile are supposed to possess a lofty pudicity of expression

It was a glorious evening, I recall. I was not alone. Yes, a woman—but that’s a different libretto.

Her face remained within a somewhat swarthy shadow, and only her forehead was bathed by the levigate light.

[...] He never spoke about art, was ever ready to sing and swig and carouse, yet suddenly a strange gloom would come over him and he would not leave his room or let anyone in, and only his roommate, lowly Simpson, would see what he was up to. What Frank created during these two or three days of ill…