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Childhood
Generation of Mammoths
My address is not a house or street (a USSR song)
Supreme justice
Faith in God
Ekaterinburg
A bit about the theater
Dormitory
Michelle
Communist castles
Julia
Queen of rock-n-roll
Seduce the Taurus
Another life
Giant Peter
Artamonov Konstantin Valentinovich
Prison
Short-stories of long-distance trains and big cities
Prison again
Girls
Meeting with Kasymbay
Arkasha
Pyrlik
Stay human
Uncle Kostya, again
A pen
The Ending
In the very centre of Russia, in the Southern Urals, there is a small but very picturesque place called Kasli, famous for its iron castings, elaborately cast gates and elegant figurines. Dead place. Perhaps that is why the Soviet government, together with the atheism imposed by it, was not wholly rooted there; and the deceased were buried in the church, according to the old Russian tradition.
Life covered in a grey, dull sky. Large raindrops beat deafly through the window, nervously flowing down, leaving a wet mark, reminiscent of a human life full of fuss and nonsense. A large window, over the wall, from floor to ceiling, a spacious, cold room, smelling of printing ink and glue, here and there numerous stacks of books neatly folded on the floor. The window overlooked the church square, endless, like Russia. Rebecca sat at the window, buried in cold glass and silently watched the world through wet grey drops. She loved to sit by the window and watch. There was a church in the square. Every day, coffins were carried across the square, bells rang. Rebecca sat at the window and looked at these endless strings of coffins. These were the earliest memories of her childhood, she was not even three years old, but she remembered these coffins, the bell ringing and the old white church for her whole life. Life began with a death. And she still loves large windows. Reminiscent of childhood and mom, who is no longer alive.
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So her childhood and youth passed.
I liked “Woe from the wit”, although I didn’t understand anything there either, in my eight years. But there were many expressions that mother often used in her speech: “is it possible to choose back streets for walks”, “when you wander, you return home, and the smoke of the fatherland is sweet and pleasant to us.” Ah, that is where it all came from, I thought. I considered Griboedov to be a member of our family, and Nina Chavchavadze – the ideal of a woman to strive.
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