Novak examined his decanter idly, stroking it with the left hand, the right one like a glove-shaped set of rubber forceps. "Well, it’s very old. A little shape from culture’s attic. Oh attic shape!" He began to recite aloud, in Czestina. "‘[Designed with marble men and marble women, and forest branches, and weeds crushed by the feet. You silent formation. You twist our minds as if you were eternity. You poem of ice! When old age kills this generation, you will remain in the thick of other people’s troubles. A friend to humanity. You say to us, "Beauty is truth and truth is beauty." We know nothing else and we need to know no more.]’"