Jesteśmy społecznością, która kocha książki

As a very young man, Christopher had read Turgenev and Chekhov and had yearned romantically for the steppe, the immense land- ocean which stretches east, unbounded, to the Ural Mountains and then endlessly on across Siberia. At Mohrin, he was actually on the edge of that ocean. But the ocean seemed less inspiring, here, than it had seemed in London, ten years earlier. God, it was flat.

Christopher wanted to keep Bubi all to himself for ever, to possess him utterly, and he knew that this was impossible and absurd. If he had been a savage, he might have solved the problem by eating Bubi - for magical, not gastronomic reasons.

He knew only one pair of homosexual lovers who declared proudly that they were Nazis. Misled by their own erotic vision of a New Sparta, they fondly supposed that Germany was entering an era of military man-love, with all women excluded. They were aware, of course, that Christopher thought them crazy, but they dismissed him with a shrug. How could he understand? This wasn't his homeland... No, indeed it wasn't. Christopher had realized that for some time, already. But this tragic pair of self-deceivers didn't realize - and wouldn't, until it was too late - that this wasn't their homeland, either.