Once several Russian men were sitting at dinner and talk turned to the definition of joy. The usual family, romantic, and worldly pursuits were offered as examples, until finally the eldest member of the group spoke.
"It is night," said he. "I am alone in my flat.
"There is a knock at the door.
"There are several men there. "Black cloaks conceal guns and soft hats are pulled to cover their features."
"It is the secret police."
"They say the name they are looking for. "Let us see the man," they demand.
"And I," he concluded, "I am able to say ...
"That fellow moved from this flat months ago."
---------------A Final Thought ...
"Oh, where is the poet or bard who will compose an ode to Russian rumors? Thanks to the chronic shortage of truthful (or even false) information, our people live on rumors."
- Boris Yeltsin (b. 1931), Russian politician and president. Against the Grain Ch. 9 (1990)