(no subject)
One of Anthony's worst kept secrets (and he was a man who never kept a secret badly that he could have kept well) was that he hated Russian art. From the baroque monstrosities of their palaces and churches, to the stale, lifeless regulation of Soviet estate art, it only left him disdainful that such creation could even be called artistic enterprise. The Russians, as far as he could tell, lacked both style and taste. Perhaps it was the cold that did it.
And now the Compound had temporarily gone from Soviet concrete to Imperial Russian absurdity. The irony was not lost on him - if anything, it hit him anew each time he approached the building. Now he paused in his walk up to the Compound steps and stopped to finish his cigarette. Siberian cold surrounded him and Russia rose in front of him.
The cigarette hissed quietly as he threw it into the snow.
And now the Compound had temporarily gone from Soviet concrete to Imperial Russian absurdity. The irony was not lost on him - if anything, it hit him anew each time he approached the building. Now he paused in his walk up to the Compound steps and stopped to finish his cigarette. Siberian cold surrounded him and Russia rose in front of him.
The cigarette hissed quietly as he threw it into the snow.