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Haven't you ears to hear? I've told you that the Street Directory for St. Petersburg has not got the dramatic possibilities of the same publication for Dublin. How's Ulysses to be found striding down a the avenue leading from Minsk to Pinsk? That's a hopscotch rhyme, not the prose of genius. Or a street named after some purveyor of vodka? An absolut travesty of art, I'm telling you.
All I'm interested in from your country is to settle this suit on the money and the slander. B'jasus, I'd hoped for a little more sympathy from fellow revolutionaries who travel the world to root out bourgeois complacency - I'm on the same quest, without that money how am I to stage my own revolution in literature? The temples are falling, Miss Goldman, all around us. But who's to tell the ruins of the Winter Palace from the wreck of the topless towers of Troy if the artist doesn't lay a hand to it? You and your Russian Revolution will be dust tomorrow, a minor redistribution of broken pots, without the words of a genius like myself.
And you can put that in your hat and blow it up! Top o'the evening to you, Miss I-Don't-Give-a-Coldamn, if you want to part ways - if Kerensky's not in his office to help me, I'll just wait out here until morning, ask that man huddled down in the shadows if he knows when the ministers are coming back. Begob, that's Carr's coat - know the over-priced look of it anywhere. Trying to file your own lawsuit, are you, Carr? A counter-claim, is it? B'jasus, you have your eternal presumption!
Got shorter, didn't you? Inner stature finally caught up.
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