Today, a powerful hope came over me for the ultimate in finest dining. But  if you live where I live, you know what I mean: it's just too diverse! When you want to shuffle back to America, you go to F'T'APPles ["FUH-tapplz"]; whisked into its antediluvian manifolds, you are simply besides yourself with regard for its many singularly unprepossessing sanguinities, speaking not of its charms: whaling spears hearken back to better times, it is to be at Hayanas Port and inside of a Dairy Queen at seven in the morning, tarrying home from the Governor's; lobstering in Maine is a definite overtone to the mood of fresh-awakened LIFE decanted from smoldering coffeepots, trenchant staff sans money problems, perfectly financially secure, and pie one must take care not to talk about without mentioning its exquisitude. Our server yclept "Corazon" assuaged our several minds with cascading payments of attention, a gentle, collectable woman in blue, at the right height to talk to during being seated. A salad, bechickened with ranchykyoo dressing that exerted as well its persuasive "edge" of tantalizing innovation, was festooned with tajazzles of free-reared red fried onion, pardon, onion, fried, free-reared, née red. It was as if they had, floated there. A vast specimen of white bun was oven-baked in a state of as yet uncontemplatable grace, enclosing (as it assuredly did) (yet at the same time pridefully upholding) myriad inner folds of all-too-mortal beef with an almost dialectical sturdiness of frame whose dome to the touch was bemusingly spongy. It could not be made sodden, nay by the blood of the kine we would consume nor by the sweat of these hands, our bloody burger gloves. The patty hulked, hunched, bedorned with bacon and fiery, as if fire-roasted in cozy savage's caves, green chiles the color of chartreuse moss epi oinopa ponton! Our benevolent back-parsons in whitest vestments betrothed the burger to the bun with Thunderhorn Cheddar, shredded, then melted back into one with itself again. A bier of salt-frosted onions unscalded had bivouac'd a veritable malebolge of sibilant oil under the armor of cornmeal in whose viscous spirit's stead was made known the name of true rings throughout America, our feeble land: endless crusts, golden wealth, dies on piles of onions. Reader, we relished these and other things too glad to tell. The bill was nine and twenty; we paid alacritously all. Hitherfore we endow F'T'APPles with, and may be permitted to hope that it finds its soul emboldened indefatigably by, five stars.

"Wearing a black, shining, satin smock, tied, like a wasp, with a little Caucasian belt, a man tore himself away from the telephone."

"We had just sat down to eat dinner when suddenly a person entered. Surprised that someone would decide to come to the commune at such an hour, we immediately turned toward the doors. But the steam pouring into the room overwhelmed our gazes."

"Most important was the wart. If it was where it should be, it meant there hadn't been a mistake. How I fixed that wart in my mind! It was big, dark, positioned on the cheek, right at his very mouth, and, if he was nervous or speaking, it would move up and down. And, because of its thick hairs, there was foam on it."

"It was less than a kilometer from Geraim Glebovich's private farm "The Well-Off Child-Stealing Demon" to the commune. The farm spread out over a wide, expansive plain sewn with oats, massive untrammeled beautiful clover, and the sort of market-ready winter wheat that his neighbors over at the commune would never be able to brag about."

"Late on the night of the holiday I came to have a rest on the sofa in the chapel -- but there were already a couple of peasant girls there there, praying, along with some old bag going on about her alcoholic nephew...."

"When we lived at the collective farm it seemed to us that we were healthier, smarter, and ten times happier that anyone living in the city. In the spring we filled the pits up with manure and rotten earth that we brought down from the ridges."

"Anyone who comes to Selmashenstroi with a cut-out, pre-formulated impression of a factory that's nothing but a chaos of raw materials, half-finished products scattered amid puddles on the 'lawn,' dust, and dirty buildings blackened with smoke and fumes, will be disappointed."

"Our coachman, a quiet, shy little fellow, a member of the commune, rather second-rate, stopped his horse at a thatched roof under which were the communarians' carts and old, broken down buggies. I get down and have a look around: everything seems like it's still in the old, landowning economy. I search out people with my eyes and ask the coachman: who do I need to talk to about this?"