Ideas. Synthesis. Disharmony.

The door between the two rooms had been removed to economise on space. Mayakovsky stood leaning against the door-frame. He took a small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket, looked at it and stuck it back in the same pocket. He became pensive. Then he surveyed the room as if it were an enormous auditorium, read the prologue, and asked — not in verse, in prose, in a quiet voice which I have never forgotten: ‘Do you think that it’s the ravings of malaria? It happened. It happened in Odessa.’
We raised our heads, and gazed upon this unprecedented miracle until the very end.
Mayakovsky did not change his pose once. He did not look at anyone. He complained, raged, mocked, demanded, became hysterical, pausing between the sections.