as to why I love Russia (other than the fact that I haven't met an un-stylishly turned out Russian woman yet - yes, Dr. Freud, it's all about sex!) and Russian writers, this extract from John Crowfoot's introduction to "Moscow Memoirs" by Emma Gerstein, published by Harvill Press:

A scene from that later period provides a fitting conclusion. In early 1974, not long before Gerstein began to write her memoirs, a second printing of the long-awaited Leningrad edition of (Osip) Mandelstam's poetry suddenly came on sale. Moscow writer Alexander Gladkov made the following entry in his diary:

"15 January. This morning they sold (Osip) Mandelstam at the Bookstall. After the previous disappointments a list was drawn up of over 200 people. Lev put me down as # 65. At 9.30 am and even earlier there was a crowd waiting outside... The temperature was 19 below zero. We went off, once in a while, to warm up in some neighboring financial institution. Sometimes, as always happens in queues, amazing rumors began (they wouldn't bring any, they'd only have 50 copies, only people who brought their Writers' Union card would get one). At about 11 the books arrived. The shop's director announced that 200 copies would be put on sale. People lined up."

The diarist, a member of the union queuing up outside the Writers' Bookstall in the center of Moscow, was lucky. He'd left his card at home but was able to buy a copy for one ruble 45 kopecks ("They say it's already selling on the black market for 50-80 rubles"). Pleased with his good fortune, he forgot to mention an odd coincidence: January 15 1974 would have been Osip Mandelstam's 83rd birthday."

From an overpass in Jersey tonight, Whitman’s Manhattan to the eye Is a galaxy of neon, glittering and Beckoning low on the horizon.

The solitary heart, ignored all week In the bath of work, starts up its Broadcast, its barely audible beep beep, As its cynical friend, the hard mind,

Given to hard living and hard drinking, Mutters in irritation, “Bloody idiot, doesn’t He know that to be heard in that city Of twelve million, one needs to signal As loud as a shrieking plane entering glass?!”

What happens when you finally stow about the two laggardly-arriving boxes of books in a 9ft x 9 ft garret of a room[1] that already has four other boxes of books, stacked double high, along with a bed and a dresser/table?

You run out of free floor space, and and soon begin to master the flying-squirrely art of leaping into bed right from the door, and crash landing, of course head first, into a pile of books bought in the last two weeks[2] sitting on the bed. Then in the process of displacing them, you pick one of these new arrivals to read (Michael Ondaatje's memoir "Running In The Family"), and end up in this state of insomnia. And you do know that you have a 12 hour work day awaiting you tomorrow.

[1] You miserly wretch, you figured why get a bigger room when you will be spending 60% of your life in hotel rooms and airplanes, and so you didn't consider the times you may be spending at home base - you figured you were strange enough for anyone to dare pay you a visit anyway - or the fact that you have a severe mental disorder whose symptoms require both wall and floor space?!