Sergey Dovlatov: Craft. Sergei Dovlatov - craft Grandfather of Russian literature

“The Craft” is an autobiographical work in which the author talks about his difficult literary path. Almost all the stories of this writer reflect events from his life. A summary of Sergei Dovlatov’s “Craft” is facts from the biography of the prose writer in chronological order: from his early years to emigration.

Platonov: was he there?

Dovlatov, in his book “Craft,” with his characteristic laconicism, talks about events from his life. Moreover, he begins the story with a story that happened before his birth.

Sergei Dovlatov was born in 1941 in Ufa. His father was a theater director, his mother an actress. The future writer was born in evacuation, and three weeks later an incident occurred that may have predetermined his fate.

His mother was walking with a stroller along the boulevard. Suddenly, an unfamiliar, nondescript man in civilian clothes approached her. “I would like to pinch the boy,” said the stranger. Dovlatov’s mother was indignant and said several unkind words to the strange man. He left without pinching the baby, and finally uttered some mysterious phrase.

After 33 years, Dovlatov learned that in 1941 Andrei Platonov lived in Ufa. An unpleasant incident happened to him in this city: his suitcase with a manuscript was stolen. Dovlatov in “The Craft,” a summary of which is presented below, assures: Platonov was that strange stranger. The friends to whom he told this story were quite skeptical about it. Did this really happen? Or is the story with Platonov just the author’s imagination? In the book “Craft” Dovlatov does not answer these questions. Since childhood, he dreamed of literary creativity. And what is retold above is most likely just a joke by the author.

Childhood

The future writer did poorly at school. But even then he was writing poems and stories. The first works were published in 1952. In high school, Dovlatov stopped writing poetry and switched exclusively to prose.

Student years

After receiving a matriculation certificate, he entered the Leningrad University, which was then called Zhdanov University. About the name of this educational institution, the author of the story “The Craft” said, not without sarcasm: “It sounds about the same as Al Capone University.”

During his student years, he continued to write stories. During this period, he met Sergei Wolf and other popular poets and prose writers.

In 1960 there was a new creative upsurge. In the book “The Craft,” Dovlatov talks about meeting Brodsky, who became his literary idol. By that time, the aspiring writer already knew about the existence of unofficial literature. Among his friends were mainly authors of forbidden prose and poetry.

Sergei Dovlatov was expelled from the university in his third year. Later, as the author of the book “The Craft” claimed, he mysteriously remained silent when asked why he dropped out of school. This silence gave rise to rumors about political motives. However, in his autobiographical book “The Craft,” Dovlatov says this: “Everything was actually simpler: I couldn’t pass the exam in German because I didn’t know the language at all.”

He was drafted into the army, and he ended up in the convoy guard. “I was destined to go to hell,” the writer will say many years later,” Dovlatov recalls in “The Craft,” an autobiographical and very frank book.

Zone

In the story “Craft” Dovlatov does not talk in detail about what VOKHRA is. He wrote about this in his series of prison stories, “The Zone.”

Convict literature, Dovlatov claims, comes in two types. In the first case, prisoners are presented as victims, heroes, noble long-suffering figures. In the second, convicts are portrayed as villains and monsters. Dovlatov, thanks to his life experience, discovered something third. Thieves and policemen are alike. They have a lot in common: way of thinking, language, folklore, moral principles, aesthetic canons.

Leningrad

After the army, Sergei Dovlatov's prospects were very unclear. He met fellow students, but it became difficult for him to communicate with them. A certain psychological barrier arose. Dovlatov compared himself to a front-line soldier who finds it difficult to find a place in peacetime.

Journalism

A former prison guard got a job in the editorial office of a factory newspaper. Then he believed that journalism and literature had a lot in common. At the same time, Dovlatov wrote stories, which became more and more numerous. They no longer fit in the thick folder bought for 40 kopecks.

During this period, Dovlatov met a poet, translator and essayist, quite popular in the sixties. Naiman calls the stories of the author of the book “The Craft” bad, but wonderful.

The Citizen and Joseph Brodsky

"Citizens" was the name of a small literary association. Its members were Boris Vakhtin, Vladimir Gubin, Vladimir Maramzin, Igor Efimov. The name of this literary union did not correspond to the content of the works of its participants - they wrote mainly rural prose.

The author of the story called his friends extraordinary personalities. According to him, these were rebellious artists, lovers of truth. However, even against their background, Joseph Brodsky stood out sharply. Dovlatov said about him: “He did not fight the regime, he did not notice it. The Soviet government, as Dovlatov put it, was a touchy lady. She did not forgive insults, but those who ignored her became much worse. Brodsky was exiled to the Arkhangelsk province. And soon the community “Citizens” disintegrated.

During the period described above, Sergei Dovlatov did not publish a single work. Moreover, he believed that it was not necessary to publish them. To create something unique, original - that was his goal. But soon romanticism dissipated in everyday problems and lack of money.

First review

In December 1967, Sergei Dovlatov sent his stories to the New World magazine. He was refused. But this event became significant for him. The then famous critic Inna Solovyova wrote a review of his works. The reviews were mostly positive, but unfit for publication. Several years will pass, and Dovlatov will no longer be interested in the opinions of reviewers. He will look straight to the end where the verdict is given. As a rule, it was formulated as follows: “For some reasons, we reject the work.”

Editors more than once advised Dovlatov to write something on a current Soviet topic, for example, about a factory. Finally, tired of constant refusals, he agreed. Dovlatov wrote works dedicated to the factory workers, and they were approved in the magazine “Youth”. In total, the publication of the stories brought the author a profit of a thousand rubles, which at times was a huge amount.

Tallinn

Dovlatov left for Estonia spontaneously, at the invitation of one of his friends. He got a job at a local newspaper and made acquaintances in Tallinn literary circles. Rumors about Dovlatov quickly spread throughout the small Baltic city. Here he almost published his first collection - at the last moment the manuscript ended up in the KGB.

Emigration

Dovlatov stayed in Estonia for only a year. After the book was banned, he was forced to resign and leave Tallinn. In Leningrad they still refused to publish his works. However, he published about ten reviews in Neva. In 1978, Sergei Dovlatov left the USSR. In the USA he published twelve books.

“Craft” by Dovlatov: reviews

The prose writer wrote about things that have lost relevance today: about dissidents, about literary bans, about the Soviet bureaucracy and the omnipresent KGB. But Dovlatov’s books are very popular even now. There is no plot in the story “Craft” by Dovlatov. By the way, he is absent from almost all the works of this author. What seduces modern readers in his prose? Simplicity, accessibility and unique humor.

Dovlatov Sergey

Sergey Dovlatov

In memory of Karl

* Part one. Invisible book. *

PREFACE

It is with an anxious feeling that I take up my pen. Who cares about the confessions of a literary loser?

What is instructive in his confession?

And my life is devoid of external tragedy. I'm absolutely healthy. I have loving family. They are always ready to provide me with a job that will ensure a normal biological existence.

Not only that, I have advantages. I have no trouble winning people over. I have committed dozens of acts that were criminally punishable and remained unpunished.

I've been married twice, happily both times.

Finally, I have a dog. And this is already excess.

Then why do I feel on the verge of physical disaster? Where do I get this feeling of hopeless unfitness for life? What is the reason for my sadness?

I want to figure this out. I think about it all the time. I dream and hope to evoke the ghost of happiness...

I'm sorry that this word was said.

After all, the ideas that it gives rise to are limitless to zero.

I knew a man who seriously claimed that he would be absolutely happy if the housing office replaced his drain pipe...

A vain feeling disturbs me. Yeah, they’ll think, He imagines himself to be an unrecognized genius!

No! That's the point, no! I have listened to hundreds, thousands of responses to my stories. And never, in a single, most wretched, most fantastic St. Petersburg company, have I been declared a genius.

Even when Goretsky and Kharitonenko were declared as such.

The main character of Kharitonenko’s most mature novel is the condom.)

Thirteen years ago I put pen to paper. He wrote a novel, seven stories and four hundred short pieces.

(To the touch - more than Gogol!) I am convinced that Gogol and I have equal copyrights.

(Responsibilities vary.) At least one inalienable right. The right to publish what is written.

That is, the right of immortality or failure.

Why is my ordinary, honest, only inclination being suppressed by countless bodies, persons, institutions of a great state??

I have to understand this.

I won't bother myself with the composition. I will try to present my “creative” biography in a chaotic, long and indistinct manner. These will be the adventures of my manuscripts. Portraits of friends. Documentation...

How should I call all this - “Dossier”? "Notes of a Writer"? “Essay on a free topic”?

Is it important? The book is invisible...

Outside the window are Leningrad roofs, antennas, and a pale sky.

Katya is preparing her homework, the fox terrier Glafira, looking like a birch tree, sits at her feet and thinks about me.

And in front of me is a sheet of paper. And I cross this white snow-covered plain - - alone.

A sheet of paper is a blessing and a curse! A piece of paper is my punishment...

The preface, however, dragged on. Let's begin. Let's start with this at least.

FIRST CRITIC

Before the revolution, Agnia Frantsevna Mau was a court venereologist. Sixty years have passed. Agnia Frantsevna forever preserved the proud palace aplomb and directness of the clinician. This is what Mau said to our quarterly police colonel Tikhomirov, who squeezed her lapdog’s paw:

You are terrible shit, mon colonel, don’t blame me!..

Tikhomirov lived opposite, driven into a disgusting communal apartment by his party selflessness.

He sought power and hated Mau for her aristocratic origins. (Tikhomirov himself had no origin at all. Directives gave birth to him.)

Witch! - he roared. - fascist! I won’t sit in one field to poop!..

The old woman raised her head so sharply that her tiny gold medallion flew up:

Is it really such a great honor to poop next to you?!

The dull feathers on her hat trembled angrily...

For Tikhomirov I was too refined. For Mau - hopelessly vulgar. But against Agnia Frantsevna I had a strong weapon - politeness.

But Tikhomirov’s politeness was alarming.

He knew that politeness masks vices.

And then one day I was talking on a communal telephone. This conversation terribly irritated Tikhomirov with its excessive mental exuberance. Ten times Tikhomirov followed the narrow communal route.

I went to the restroom three times. I made tea. I polished my boots, which were devoid of individuality, until the aurora. For some reason, he even took his moped to the kitchen and back.

And I kept saying. I said that Leo Tolstoy is essentially a philistine. That Dostoevsky is akin to post-impressionism. That Balzac's apperception is inorganic. That Lyuda Fedoseenko had an abortion.

That American prose lacks a cosmopolitan ferment...

And Tikhomirov could not stand it.

Deliberately hitting me with his flat belly, he barked:

Writer! Look - a writer! Yes, this is a writer!.. Such writers should be shot!..

If only I had known then that this cry of the quarterly commissioner, weakened by mental overload, would determine my life for many years.

"... Such writers should be shot!.."

It seems I'm making a mistake. Some kind of consistency is needed. For example, chronological.

The first literary impulse is where I start.

This was in October 1941. Bashkiria, Ufa, evacuation, I have three weeks.

I once recorded this incident...

My father was a drama theater director.

Mother was an actress in this theater. The war did not separate them.

They broke up much later, when everything was fine...

I was born in evacuation, on the fourth of October. Three weeks have passed. Mother was walking with a stroller along the boulevard. And then a stranger stopped her.

His mother said that his face was ugly and sad.

And most importantly - very simple, like a village peasant.

I think it was also significant. No wonder my mother remembered him all her life.

The civilian stranger seemed quite healthy.

Sorry,” he said decisively and embarrassedly, “but I would like to pinch this boy.”

Mom was indignant.

“News,” she said, “you’ll want to pinch me too.”

“Hardly,” the stranger reassured her.

Although just a minute ago I would have thought about it before answering...

There is a war going on,” my mother remarked less sharply, “a holy war!” Real men die on the front lines.

And some people walk along the boulevard and ask strange questions.

Yes,” the stranger sadly agreed, “there is a war going on.” It goes in the soul of each of us. Farewell.

You hurt my heart...

Thirty-two years have passed. And now I’m reading an article about Andrei Platonov. It turns out that Platonov lived in Ufa. True, not for long. All October of '41. And yet - he had trouble there. The suitcase with all the manuscripts disappeared.

The person who wanted to pinch me was Andrei Platonov.

I told my friends about this meeting. Sad people said that it might not have been Andrei Platonov. Are there a lot of mysterious types hanging around the boulevards?..

What nonsense! In the story described, even I am an undoubted figure! So what can we say about Platonov?!., I often think about the thief who stole a suitcase with manuscripts.

The thief was probably delighted when he saw Platonov’s suitcase. He thought there was a flask of alcohol, a Cheviot mantel and a large piece of beef.

What was then discovered was stronger than alcohol, more valuable than a Cheviot mantel and more expensive than all the beef on our planet. The thief just didn't know it. Apparently he was born a chronic loser. I wanted to get rich, but became the owner of an empty suitcase. What could be more deplorable?

Mazurik must have thrown the manuscript into a ditch, where it disappeared. A manuscript lying in a ditch or in a desk drawer is indistinguishable from last year's newspapers.

I don’t think that Andrei Platonov immensely regretted the lost manuscript. In these cases, real writers reason like this; “It’s even good that my old manuscripts disappeared, because they were so imperfect. Now I’m forced to rewrite the stories again, and they will become better...”

Was it really like that? Is this really important?! I think we can do without a notary. My soul requires this meeting. It’s not for nothing that I dreamed of literature since childhood. And now I'm trying to find the words...

I am forced to provide some details of my biography, otherwise much will remain unclear. I'll make it short, dotted line.

A fat, shy boy... Poverty... His mother self-critically quit the theater and works as a proofreader...

School... Friendship with Alyosha Lavrentyev, for whom the Ford comes to pick him up... Alyosha is playing pranks, I am entrusted with raising him... Then they will take me to the dacha...

I'm becoming a little tutor... I'm smarter and read more... I know how to please adults...

Black courts... The emerging craving for the plebs...

Dreams of strength and fearlessness... The funeral of a dead cat behind the barns... My funeral speech, which brought tears to Zhanna, the daughter of an electrician... I can speak, tell...

Annotation

Sergei Dovlatov is one of the most popular and widely read Russian writers of the late 20th – early 21st centuries. His stories, short stories and notebooks have been translated into many languages, filmed, and studied in schools and universities. “Reserve”, “Zone”, “Foreigner”, “Ours”, “Suitcase” - these and other amazingly funny and piercingly sad Dovlatov’s works have long become classics. “I froze my toes and the ears of my head”, “I drank the day before - it feels like I swallowed a hare’s hat with ears”, “alcoholism can be cured - drunkenness will not” - you remember Dovlatov’s jokes immediately and for the rest of your life, and you re-read the books dozens of times. They never get boring.

Sergey Dovlatov

Part one The invisible book

Sergey Dovlatov

Craft

Part one The invisible book

Preface

It is with an anxious feeling that I take up my pen. Who cares about the confessions of a literary loser? What is instructive in his confession?

And my life is devoid of external tragedy. I'm absolutely healthy. I have loving family. They are always ready to provide me with a job that will ensure a normal biological existence.

Not only that, I have advantages. I have no trouble winning people over. I have committed dozens of acts that were criminally punishable and remained unpunished.

I've been married twice, happily both times.

Finally, I have a dog. And this is already excess.

Then why do I feel on the verge of physical disaster? Where do I get this feeling of hopeless unfitness for life? What is the reason for my sadness?

I want to figure this out. I think about it all the time. I dream and hope to evoke the ghost of happiness...

I'm sorry that this word was said. After all, the ideas that it gives rise to are limitless to zero.

I knew a man who seriously claimed that he would be absolutely happy if the housing office replaced his drain pipe...

A vain feeling disturbs me. Yeah, they’ll think, he imagines himself to be an unrecognized genius!

Thirteen years ago I put pen to paper. He wrote a novel, seven stories and four hundred short pieces. (To the touch - more than Gogol!) I am convinced that Gogol and I have equal copyrights. (Responsibilities vary.) At least one inalienable right. The right to publish what is written. That is, the right of immortality or failure.

Why is my ordinary, honest, only inclination suppressed by countless bodies, persons, institutions of the great state?!

I have to understand this.

How should I call all this – “Dossier”? “Notes of a Writer”? “Essay on a free topic”?

Is it important? The book is invisible...

Outside the window are Leningrad roofs, antennas, and a pale sky. Katya is preparing her homework. Fox terrier Glafira, looking like a birch tree, sits at her feet and thinks about me.

And in front of me is a sheet of paper. And I cross this white snow-covered plain - alone.

A sheet of paper is a blessing and a curse! A sheet of paper is my punishment...

The preface, however, dragged on. Let's begin. Let's start with this at least.

First critic

Before the revolution, Agnia Frantsevna Mau was a court venereologist. Sixty years have passed. Agnia Frantsevna forever preserved the proud palace aplomb and directness of the clinician. This is what Mau said to our quarter plenipotentiary, Colonel Tikhomirov, who squeezed her lapdog’s paw:

– You are terrible shit, mon colonel, don’t blame me!..

Tikhomirov lived opposite, driven into a disgusting communal apartment by his party selflessness. He sought power and hated Mau for her aristocratic origins. (Tikhomirov himself had no origin at all. Directives gave birth to him.)

- Witch! - he roared. - Fascist! I won’t sit in one field to poop!..

The old woman raised her head so sharply that her tiny gold medallion flew up:

– Is it really such a great honor to poop next to you?!

The dull feathers on her hat trembled angrily...

For Tikhomirov I was too refined. For Mau it is hopelessly vulgar. But against Agnia Frantsevna I had a strong weapon - politeness. But Tikhomirov’s politeness was alarming. He knew that politeness masks vices.

And then one day I was talking on a communal telephone. This conversation terribly irritated Tikhomirov with its excessive mental exuberance. Ten times Tikhomirov followed the narrow communal route. I went to the restroom three times. I made tea. I polished my boots, which were devoid of individuality, until the aurora. For some reason, he even took his moped to the kitchen and back.

And I kept saying. I said that Leo Tolstoy, in essence, is a philistine. That Dostoevsky is akin to post-impressionism. That Balzac's apperception is inorganic. That Lyuda Fedoseenko had an abortion. That American prose lacks a cosmopolitan ferment...

And Tikhomirov could not stand it.

Deliberately hitting me with his flat belly, he barked:

- Writer! Look - a writer! Yes, this is a writer!.. Such writers should be shot!..

If only I had known then that this cry of the quarterly commissioner, weakened by mental overload, would determine my life for many years.

“...Such writers should be shot!..”

It seems I'm making a mistake. Some kind of consistency is needed. For example, chronological.

The first literary impulse is where I start.

This was in October 1941. Bashkiria, Ufa, evacuation, three weeks for me.

I once wrote down this incident...

Fate

My father was a drama theater director. Mother was an actress in this theater. The war did not separate them. They broke up much later, when everything was fine...

I was born in evacuation, on the fourth of October. Three weeks have passed. Mother was walking with a stroller along the boulevard. And then a stranger stopped her.

His mother said that his face was ugly and sad. And most importantly - very simple, like a village peasant. I think it was also significant. No wonder my mother remembered him all her life.

The civilian stranger seemed quite healthy.

“Excuse me,” he said decisively and embarrassedly, “but I would like to pinch this boy.”

Mom was indignant.

“News,” she said, “you’ll want to pinch me too.”

“Hardly,” the stranger reassured her.

– Although just a minute ago I would have thought about it before answering...

“There is a war going on,” my mother remarked less sharply, “a holy war!” Real men die on the front lines. And some people walk along the boulevard and ask strange questions.

“Yes,” the stranger agreed sadly, “there is a war going on.” It goes in the soul of each of us. Farewell.

-You hurt my heart...

Thirty-two years have passed. And now I’m reading an article about Andrei Platonov. It turns out that Platonov lived in Ufa. True, not for long. All October of '41. And one more thing - he had trouble there. The suitcase with all the manuscripts disappeared.

The person who wanted to pinch me was Andrei Platonov.

I told my friends about this meeting. Sad people said that it might not have been Andrei Platonov. Are there a lot of mysterious types hanging around the boulevards?..

Sergey Dovlatov

In memory of Karl

* Part one. Invisible book. *

PREFACE

It is with an anxious feeling that I take up my pen. Who cares about the confessions of a literary loser?

What is instructive in his confession?

And my life is devoid of external tragedy. I'm absolutely healthy. I have loving family. They are always ready to provide me with a job that will ensure a normal biological existence.

Not only that, I have advantages. I have no trouble winning people over. I have committed dozens of acts that were criminally punishable and remained unpunished.

I've been married twice, happily both times.

Finally, I have a dog. And this is already excess.

Then why do I feel on the verge of physical disaster? Where do I get this feeling of hopeless unfitness for life? What is the reason for my sadness?

I want to figure this out. I think about it all the time. I dream and hope to evoke the ghost of happiness...

I'm sorry that this word was said.

After all, the ideas that it gives rise to are limitless to zero.

I knew a man who seriously claimed that he would be absolutely happy if the housing office replaced his drain pipe...

A vain feeling disturbs me. Yeah, they’ll think, He imagines himself to be an unrecognized genius!

Even when Goretsky and Kharitonenko were declared as such.

The main character of Kharitonenko’s most mature novel is the condom.)

Thirteen years ago I put pen to paper. He wrote a novel, seven stories and four hundred short pieces.

(To the touch - more than Gogol!) I am convinced that Gogol and I have equal copyrights.

(Responsibilities vary.) At least one inalienable right. The right to publish what is written.

That is, the right of immortality or failure.

Why is my ordinary, honest, only inclination being suppressed by countless bodies, persons, institutions of a great state??

I have to understand this.

How should I call all this - “Dossier”? “Notes of a Writer”? “Essay on a free topic”?

Is it important? The book is invisible...

Outside the window are Leningrad roofs, antennas, and a pale sky.

Katya is preparing her homework, the fox terrier Glafira, looking like a birch tree, sits at her feet and thinks about me.

And in front of me is a sheet of paper. And I cross this white snow-covered plain - - alone.

A sheet of paper is a blessing and a curse! A sheet of paper is my punishment...

The preface, however, dragged on. Let's begin. Let's start with this at least.

FIRST CRITIC

- You are terrible shit, mon colonel, don’t blame me!..

Tikhomirov lived opposite, driven into a disgusting communal apartment by his party selflessness.

He sought power and hated Mau for her aristocratic origins. (Tikhomirov himself had no origin at all. Directives gave birth to him.)

- Witch! - he roared. - fascist! I won’t sit in one field to poop!..

The old woman raised her head so sharply that her tiny gold medallion flew up:

“Is it really such a great honor to poop next to you?!”

The dull feathers on her hat trembled angrily...

For Tikhomirov I was too refined. For Mau it is hopelessly vulgar. But against Agnia Frantsevna I had a strong weapon - politeness.

But Tikhomirov’s politeness was alarming.

He knew that politeness masks vices.

And then one day I was talking on a communal telephone. This conversation terribly irritated Tikhomirov with its excessive mental exuberance. Ten times Tikhomirov followed the narrow communal route.

I went to the restroom three times. I made tea. I polished my boots, which were devoid of individuality, until the aurora. For some reason, he even took his moped to the kitchen and back.

And I kept saying. I said that Leo Tolstoy is essentially a philistine. That Dostoevsky is akin to post-impressionism. That Balzac's apperception is inorganic. That Lyuda Fedoseenko had an abortion.

That American prose lacks a cosmopolitan ferment...

And Tikhomirov could not stand it.

Deliberately hitting me with his flat belly, he barked:

- Writer! Look - a writer! Yes, this is a writer!.. Such writers should be shot!..

If only I had known then that this cry of the quarterly commissioner, weakened by mental overload, would determine my life for many years.

“... Such writers should be shot!..”

It seems I'm making a mistake. Some kind of consistency is needed. For example, chronological.

The first literary impulse is where I start.

This was in October 1941. Bashkiria, Ufa, evacuation, I have three weeks.

Publishing house AZBUKA®

Published with the kind permission of Elena and Ekaterina Dovlatov

All rights reserved. No part of the electronic version of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including posting on the Internet or corporate networks, for private or public use without the written permission of the copyright owner.

Part one

Invisible book

Preface

It is with an anxious feeling that I take up my pen. Who cares about the confessions of a literary loser? What is instructive in his confession?

And my life is devoid of external tragedy. I'm absolutely healthy. I have loving family. They are always ready to provide me with a job that will ensure a normal biological existence.

Not only that, I have advantages. I have no trouble winning people over. I have committed dozens of acts that were criminally punishable and remained unpunished.

I've been married twice, happily both times.

Finally, I have a dog. And this is already excess.

Then why do I feel on the verge of physical disaster? Where do I get this feeling of hopeless unfitness for life? What is the reason for my sadness?

I want to figure this out. I think about it all the time. I dream and hope to evoke the ghost of happiness...

I'm sorry that this word was said. After all, the ideas that it gives rise to are limitless to zero.

I knew a man who seriously claimed that he would be absolutely happy if the housing office replaced his drain pipe...

A vain feeling disturbs me. Yeah, they’ll think, he imagines himself to be an unrecognized genius!

Why is my ordinary, honest, only inclination suppressed by countless bodies, persons, institutions of the great state?!

I have to understand this.

How should I call all this – “Dossier”? “Notes of a Writer”? “Essay on a free topic”?

Is it important? The book is invisible...

Outside the window are Leningrad roofs, antennas, and a pale sky. Katya is preparing her homework. Fox terrier Glafira, looking like a birch tree, sits at her feet and thinks about me.

And in front of me is a sheet of paper. And I cross this white snow-covered plain - alone.

A sheet of paper is a blessing and a curse! A sheet of paper is my punishment...

The preface, however, dragged on. Let's begin. Let's start with this at least.

First critic

Before the revolution, Agnia Frantsevna Mau was a court venereologist. Sixty years have passed. Agnia Frantsevna forever preserved the proud palace aplomb and directness of the clinician. This is what Mau said to our quarter plenipotentiary, Colonel Tikhomirov, who squeezed her lapdog’s paw:

– You are terrible shit, mon colonel, don’t blame me!..

- Witch! - he roared. - Fascist! I won’t sit in one field to poop!..

The old woman raised her head so sharply that her tiny gold medallion flew up:

– Is it really such a great honor to poop next to you?!

The dull feathers on her hat trembled angrily...

And Tikhomirov could not stand it.

Deliberately hitting me with his flat belly, he barked:

- Writer! Look - a writer! Yes, this is a writer!.. Such writers should be shot!..

If only I had known then that this cry of the quarterly commissioner, weakened by mental overload, would determine my life for many years.

“...Such writers should be shot!..”

It seems I'm making a mistake. Some kind of consistency is needed. For example, chronological.

The first literary impulse is where I start.

This was in October 1941. Bashkiria, Ufa, evacuation, three weeks for me.

I once wrote down this incident...

My father was a drama theater director. Mother was an actress in this theater. The war did not separate them. They broke up much later, when everything was fine...

I was born in evacuation, on the fourth of October. Three weeks have passed. Mother was walking with a stroller along the boulevard. And then a stranger stopped her.

His mother said that his face was ugly and sad. And most importantly - very simple, like a village peasant. I think it was also significant. No wonder my mother remembered him all her life.

The civilian stranger seemed quite healthy.

“Excuse me,” he said decisively and embarrassedly, “but I would like to pinch this boy.”

Mom was indignant.

“News,” she said, “you’ll want to pinch me too.”

“Hardly,” the stranger reassured her.

– Although just a minute ago I would have thought about it before answering...

“There is a war going on,” my mother remarked less sharply, “a holy war!” Real men die on the front lines. And some people walk along the boulevard and ask strange questions.

“Yes,” the stranger agreed sadly, “there is a war going on.” It goes in the soul of each of us. Farewell.

-You hurt my heart...

The person who wanted to pinch me was Andrei Platonov.

I told my friends about this meeting. Sad people said that it might not have been Andrei Platonov. Are there a lot of mysterious types hanging around the boulevards?..

What nonsense! In the story described, even I am an undoubted figure! So what can we say about Platonov?!.