Cicero is still considered the undisputed master of the periodic sentence — a form so precisely engineered that rhetorician William Minto described its effect as keeping the mind in a state of uniform or increasing tension until the dénouement. That sentence structure, where every subordinate clause delays the main idea until the very end, was codified in oratory's grand style and rooted in the techniques of Isocrates, who believed natural speech should model written form. Pitol inherited that entire tradition — and bent it into something unmistakably his own. Pitol's sentence structure isn't just stylistic; it's a deliberate choice to reflect the complexity of thought and memory. That same refusal operates at the sentence level. The periodic sentence, a hallmark of Pitol's style, places its main clause last, creating suspense and engagement through strategic delay. Pitol uses the periodic sentence to arouse curiosity and hold ideas in suspense, mirroring the complexity of memory retrieval. A single sentence in The Art of Flight might pass through a memory of Warsaw, a digression on Chekhov, and a self-interrupting doubt before the subject and verb finally arrive. The reader is held in suspension — not confused, but actively waiting. The periodic sentence relies on hypotaxis, reflecting the layered and intricate nature of thought processes. Its opposite, the loose or running sentence, puts the subject and verb first and lets meaning accumulate afterward. Pitol uses both, but his signature move is hypotactic delay. The thought only emerges at the sentence's conclusion, which means the reader cannot skim. Every clause must be inhabited. That is not accidental difficulty, Peter — it is a structural demand that you stay present, the way a long diplomatic negotiation demands full attention before the terms are finally named. This matters for The Art of Flight because the sentence structure embodies the book's exploration of consciousness and memory. Memory does not arrive in subject-verb-object order. It arrives in fragments, qualifications, and sudden clarifications — exactly the architecture of the periodic sentence. When Pitol's syntax winds through four subordinate clauses before landing, he is not showing off. He is accurately modeling how a mind actually retrieves experience: circling, hedging, then committing. The rhythm and pacing of his sentences are not decorative. They are the argument. The Pitolian sentence, Peter, is itself a form of flight — a sustained suspension above the ground of conclusion, moving through accumulated detail before the landing. That delay is not evasion. It is precision. The long, winding, subordinate-clause-heavy sentence is designed to do exactly what memory does: make you wait for the truth until you have earned it.