If this creepy stone-box-with-holes were to be designated as a landmark, the next would be Ralph Walker's near-senile last-gasp bland boring box of a similarly nondetailed stone-wall-punched-through-with-square-holes office building at 530 Fifth Avenue between 44th and 45th Streets.

For I have done those follies, those mad mischiefs, Would dare a woman.

Fried or roast mice, spitted on sticks like kebabs, are often offered for sale by the roadside.

Doctor Zhivago invokes two kinds of images of space and time: those of the biographical novel, with its inside spaces of family stability, and those of the road, the quest - except that here we find a kind of antibiography and anti-quest.