One theme of the mix is the international play of loans, snatches, repurposings, retroengineerings and recirculations of beats, motifs, techniques, and melodies between musicians in the diaspora and beyond.

But if a reviewer making the rounds during such a fatal epidemic as has lately afflicted the theatre accurately reports that his patients are deathly ill and doomed, the same people will argue that he must be a chronic fault-picker and cynical old sourhead who should himself be attended by horses, to the accompaniment of a certain composition by Wagner.

On the breakfast table I can see the remains of: sturgeon, caviare (pink and black), blinies, cottage cheese and two other cheeses, buckwheat, hatchapuri—a bread cheese—and sour cream, hashi (stew), radishes and spring onions […]

Lech, slut, cunt, child-fucker, piece of shit. . . . Whatever he could think of he called me.