Book: Enchanted by Death

She rushed, she spent her whole life rushing between reality and fictional. I wanted someone to love her, to need her, "like bread, like water." I wanted love so much, passionately, that I invented it, rushed to people like jumping from a height, spread out. In each of us there is a vessel of love, if it is not filled in childhood, then all your life you will suffer from thirst and unquenchment. And not to be saved, not to be protected. In her vessel was only on the bottom ...

The party is a conscience, an honor... And doubts did not come to mind ... Each injustice was seen as a special case, where there was a specific culprit. Tell me anyone at that time about the guilt of the idea, about the responsibility of the idea? Mad! I wouldn't run to denounce him, but I would call him a madman, a traitor. Whatever evil was being done before my eyes, I was looking for the culprit: is it him or not... And the fact that he is part of the idea, the atom of the evil idea, the molecule, and in other circumstances would be a different person, we did not understand, no one. That's where now not only me, but many people have the feeling that we lived not our own, but someone's life. Could be other people, another country... If it wasn't for this idea... I don't blame people (even my recent executioners), I blame the idea... It is proved to me that an idea is born in the human head. But I still hate the idea, and people, their behavior can explain to themselves. What can a soldier choose in the ranks? No problem! Keep up!

Man is the abyss and the sky at the same time.

We think little about the nature of our ideals, and it is not completely clear to us. What's in the depths of the subconscious? Tyutchev said: "Russia cannot be understood with the mind..." it is beyond reason, consciousness... In other boundaries... Until now, no one can explain what happened to everyone in the seventeenth year? Revolution? An outbreak of mass banditry? Collective insanity? But at that time, many people (intellectuals!) experienced it as happiness ... Holiday! Communism lives in our subconscious... We are closer to romantic, heroic, and boring where reality, pragmatism. What does the favorite hero of Russian fairy tales Ivanushka-fool do? Crafts, builds? Nothing like that. He sits on the stove and waits for a miracle: a goldfish, or a beautiful princess to marry her... We are all waiting for a miracle or a just king...

Have you ever thought that the idea devoured, corrupted and disfigured the best? It opened up to you, you saw her bloody face, and we looked, loved something else - touching, poetic ... What a painful release ... Torture ... Monolith, block! My God! You are not able to escape there, like a butterfly in cement ... You cannot tear yourself off. Who are you? You are only a monolith, without "I", with everyone. When did I realize this? At fifty ... In a madhouse ... This is a crazy story, Soviet detective ...

Death is like love. And the last moment - terrible and ugly convulsions. We are not able to return from death, but out of love we return. And we can remember how it was... Have you ever drowned, have you been dragged by the vir? I was drowning... The more you resist, the less strength. Humble yourself and get to the bottom. There is already your choice: either you want to die, or you want to live. If you want to live - break through the sky of water, come back. But first, get to the bottom...

The devil needs to show a mirror. So that he doesn't think he's invisible...

We are together. We are all witnesses. Witnesses and participants, executioners and victims in one person - on the wreckage of what until recently was known as a gigantic socialist empire, was called socialism, a socialist choice. And it was also just the life we lived. This was also our time. And let's be sincere. Let's try. Although this is given to us the most difficult. We want to seem now either better than we are, or worse than we really are. We are afraid to be ourselves. Or we don't know how. For some reason, we are scared, now ashamed, sometimes embarrassed. Everyone screams about their own, and no one hears each other. We do not even recognize the past as an inviolable, unchanging reality. We encroach on it too. Now it seems to us that we have been deceived by the future, then it seems to us that we have been deceived by the past. Lost and never find ourselves, naively sharim in the darkness of history.