Author of quotes: Arkady Babchenko

But in General the war start to read everything. It's some kind of phenomenon. The hunger for information, or something. Each found a piece of paper, every book, every piece of Wallpaper in the course is everything. We have a platoon for hygienic purposes used reference medicine. It was all read from cover to cover several times. All the world's diseases in our unit were identified, from smallpox to Ebola. I once caught myself sitting for half an hour rereading the label from the cans of corned beef. In Argun, I somehow found a little pocket book of Vysotsky. The size of the tape cassette. And it stylized. Opened... And a sense of reality is gone. The war has gone. All this - the deaths, shooting, soldier slavery, rat holes, your chips on the roof of a canning plant, where you have to hang around all night at a glance - no more. I was flying in another Universe. Where there is no war. And is - world. House. Poems. Although poetry I do not love absolutely. I was saving it, she wore only in the inner pocket and gave the other to read only in my presence. It was very personal. And I've seen change people's faces when they opened up this volume of poems on the destroyed cannery town of Argun. This volume -
one of the most important of my wealth.

My platoon, for example, was a well-read alcoholic. One of the most surreal moments of my war - a conversation with him about the novels of Remarque in the Chechen mountains.

Well, Yes. Found. They are almost all stupid, still with smiles: "Oh, hi. Glad to see you! How are you?" Really something, I think that we were friends-brother-soldiers. Probably thought I was with them now in a drunken snot "Batyanya-combat" I will sing and vest on his chest from the memories tear... Hey. Life normally. And remember, you ***Il me in the storeroom in Mozdok, bitch? They somehow every time, I was very surprised at the question.

At the time, I was a good soldier. I have reached this stage. And now I'm a bad soldier. I want to live more than die.

At eighteen, probably still easier. The one who made the draft age to eighteen years - was very smart. In this age one is much easier to manipulate. Even romance and dreams of feats. Still no responsibility. No family. Almost nothing to lose. Easier to dirty the head high slogans about duty, Country, patriotism, valor. For forty years, it no longer works. For forty years, generally be careful.

A good soldier become when life and death begin to be treated equally - equally indifferent. You already don't care whether you live or die. Then people begin to do things people seemingly are not able. What is then called "feat". And it's really scary. What war does to people... Its a life not worth a dime, not that of someone else. Back then very hard. Years. Decades. Some to return and not enough of a lifetime.

When I lost Igor, my friend and compatriot, I wanted to kill everyone indiscriminately, hands - women, children, the elderly... And then die himself. Then I went crazy. In the literal sense. I think I began to see myself from the outside. At such moments, to die is not the same, do not be scared... you Just have so shitty that it becomes still.

In fact, at such moments, I'm afraid not death - well, death, turned off the lights, and all if in your head you won't even know they're dead. Really afraid of the pain. We all saw what an artillery shell can do to the human body. I'm afraid you are wallowing in your own soup with the torn jaw and wheeze for a few hours, collecting guts. And feel like inside you, numb the cold air. To die like this - and really scary.

I've seen as put to the wall, and put up against the wall and myself. No life before my eyes, of course, not runs. It's all bullshit. Personally, I generally only thought about one thing - will he be able to kill me with the first shot, or not. And because, as he hastily pulled the shutter, I realized I can't.

To die, of course, scary. Always. If someone says the opposite - do not believe. And as for me, it only gets worse. Because it can not permanently carry. Limit luck limited. Well, just lucky. Well, two. Well, five. But once needs to fly...

The first Chechen to me it's absolute hopelessness, absolute sadness, absolute dill. She even distorted memory - I was in the war in the summer, when Chechnya was a riot of colors, but remember its only black and white. As the footage depicts. Colors of memory left. At all. Only black in expectation of death.

Eighteen years old is practically still a child. The world is open to you, so inviting, it calls you with all its colors, and you need to die. Without seeing it. Never having lived in it. Not leaving anything behind.