QUOTE : Someday we’ll take a train from Moscow to Novosibirsk, reading Chekhov aloud and eating cold potatoes with chugs of vodka. For now, shuttling through Alabama, we discuss what we want on our tombstones. Anne decides on lines from Swinburne’s “The Garden of Proserpine”: From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives forever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.