The night is especially dark before dawn. The night is dark before the dawn

The film is creepy, and, at the same time, amazingly beautiful. The spectators in the cinema hall, adults (and it is too early for children to watch such things), applauded when the credits rolled across the screen. Some wiped away tears. Where does this effect come from? Our era is stingy with empathy...

It's all about the emphasized, concentrated emphasis made by the director on the frankness of the film narrative. The film turned out to be not just a documentary, but... some kind of super-documentary, as if its creators set out to create for researchers of the future the most reliable source on the history of our time.

Every people who created high culture, has some secret predilection for one particular virtue work of art. It becomes decisive for most readers. Other virtues may please, delight, attract attention, but in terms of their significance, it is this one, and no other, that dominates in the overwhelming majority of cases. Moreover, no one will ever write in a textbook, much less put it in a manifesto artistic association This is the unspoken priority. Everyone knows everything, but they extremely rarely voice their understanding. What for? Those who need it have already absorbed with their mother’s milk an understanding of the essence of the matter...

In Russian culture, something is placed highly, about which one can say: “This is the truth!” It is the truth, and not anything else, that is valued above all else. Above the liveliness of the mind, above the philosophical properties of the intellect, above technical sophistication, above the wealth of ideas, and beyond anything. There is truth, and much is forgiven. That is why in Russian culture - literature, painting, cinema, theater - realism is so highly valued. That’s why attention to detail and the pursuit of “authenticity” always pays off with the grateful attention of the audience.

But in Sofia Gorlenko’s film there is nothing “gamey”, nothing beyond the realism of everyday life. There isn't even a voiceover. There is no interviewer asking questions of contemporary witnesses. Just residents of the Russian North talking about themselves. Scary - so let it be scary, sad - so let it be sad, witty, clumsy, absurd, deep - everything is presented in the form of the truth of the fact. And the truth of the fact is presented in such a way that there is no gap between it and some high, transcendental truths.

They gathered old village women to sing old songs for the camera. folk songs. The old women got dressed up, and the man playing the accordion told them: “Sorry, I can’t play for you. My friend died today, I can’t, it’s just you.” He trampled and left. Two or three of the most lively grandmothers tried to start a concert without music, and the rest dispersed. Confused. Well, then these too went their separate ways: even though they came from big city filmmakers are in their wilderness, but it’s inconvenient, very inconvenient to sing next to someone else’s grief. How to sing here? Oh, there was no point in dressing up.

What do northerners, old and young, say? And they talk about their sorrows with calm dignity. People live poorly, many have left for the cities, the economy has been ruined everywhere, there are a lot of dead villages. Beautiful wooden churches deteriorate and perish from year to year. And the camera shows: yes, that’s strong an old house, very large: here about eighty years ago there lived a prosperous peasant family, she had plenty of cattle, a river nearby, in the forest there were game animals, mushrooms and berries. Now the forest has been cut down, the animals have been killed, the cattle are long gone, and museum workers are wandering around the empty house in search of antiques. But more often, of course, it’s not museum workers, but simple looters: it’s a very profitable business to pull out antique utensils from abandoned houses, and then take them to antique stores. Tourists pay well...

And all this against the backdrop of wooded hills, flowering meadows, beautiful lakes, whose tin sheets seem to be virgin from the beginning... What beauty!

And what poverty...

Camera: here is a living village... lights, smoke, cows, life... but here is a dead one... toothless gaps in windows... gaps in the walls... collapsed porch... still dead... more, more, more and more...

There are already words about our village as something from the past: “Those who live in the village now are touching the hidden Russian Atlantis, the city of Kitezh.” Where is the voice coming from? Yes, from there, from under dark waters North.

But there are islands of recovery here and there. Or maybe not even restoration, but a completely new life, which does not allow itself to forget about the old life, drowned in time. A stout Russian man, he pulls out even what seems impossible to pull out. He wants help from the state, but it doesn’t hurt that the state helps him, the state is somewhere far away, the state is melting away in a foggy haze, but if at least it doesn’t interfere, then he alone, on himself, is pulling the heavy load.

Young people arrived in the village educated people from the city. They stuck their heads and won't leave. They feel it as “one of their own”. They feel that here it is easier for them to build around themselves the universe they need: in the bustle of a metropolitan city it doesn’t work out, people are reduced to pieces and have no joy. Here it's a different matter. The young musician says to the camera: “How to accustom people to the feeling of being a master in their own land.” He talks about the vile psychological pressure of the media. Every screen demands: “Be a successful person!” And what could it be? successful man in the village, among the forests, with the poor living on cow dung? But life here is good, glorious, and that means you need to calmly say to yourself: “By the standards there, I’m an unsuccessful person... And that’s okay.” And move on with your life and manage your home.

Some churches perish irrevocably - from rot, from fires, from neglect. And some live. There is no place to place, everywhere it depends on will local residents.

In some places, churches are being restored, and business is being carried on despite the general devastation. The locals do not give up, they are not satisfied with life in a landscape of economic ruins.

Camera: a half-dismantled temple, a former rural club, where dances were held under Leonid Ilyich... People complain: “There is no money, no labor, how can I put it in order”... they are swarming around the temple, slowly doing some small work... here the garbage was removed... something was cut here... And now there is a temple in in perfect order, with a new chapter... Miracle?

One of the carpenters reflects: “Temples are like roadblocks on our land. While they stand, both the earth and we ourselves exist. If they don't exist, we won't exist either. We will be free, nothing will keep us on earth. As they say, free the territory!” The grandson of a priest, an archpriest who was killed during the years of repression against the clergy, says to his mother, who remembered the hardships in the life of a simple rural priest: “We must continue the path of our grandfather.”

Through the darkness, from under the blocks, from below, it seems from the very bottom, voices are heard, alien to despondency: “There is hope: the night is especially dark just before dawn.” And - about the same damned “Atlantis”, but in a completely different tone: “It’s too early to say, the Russian village perished, that this is a sunken Atlantis.”

God bless! There are people who will not go anywhere, but will remain, each in his place, the backbone of his land. This means that the Russian cause is not lost. So, “we’ll still wander!”

One strong northerner says at the very end of the film: “I am sixty years old, and my son is one year old. I'm risking. But don’t think like that: I’ll live or I won’t... If you feel potential in yourself, don’t whine, act!”

One might get the impression that the author of these lines admires the film as a wonderful ethnographic canvas of modern Russian life in the countryside. No, nothing like that. I'm not outside, I'm inside. I don’t live in a village, but in a city, but I am with those about whom “Antlantis of the Russian North” tells. These are my people, my fellow tribesmen and fellow believers. Their pain is my pain, their hope is my hope, their prayers are my prayers. I want them to live better.

Therefore, I will end by saying that my people love me so much, I will say to Sofia Gorlenko and my comrades: “This is the truth.” And for the truth - low bow to you.

Recently, Sofia Gorlenko’s film “Atlantis of the Russian North” was released in wide release. The film is creepy, and, at the same time, amazingly beautiful. The spectators in the cinema hall, adults (and it is too early for children to watch such things), applauded when the credits rolled across the screen. Some wiped away tears. Where does this effect come from? Our era is stingy with empathy...

Every nation that has created a high culture has some secret predilection for one particular merit of a work of art. It becomes decisive for most readers. Other virtues may please, delight, attract attention, but in terms of their significance, it is this one, and no other, that dominates in the overwhelming majority of cases. Moreover, no one will ever write such an unspoken priority in a textbook, much less, in the manifesto of an artistic association. Everyone knows everything, but they extremely rarely voice their understanding. What for? Those who need it have already absorbed with their mother’s milk an understanding of the essence of the matter...

So they gathered the village old women to sing ancient folk songs on camera. The old women got dressed up, and the man playing the accordion told them: “Sorry, I can’t play for you. My friend died today, I can’t, it’s just you.” He trampled and left. Two or three of the most lively grandmothers tried to start a concert without music, and the rest dispersed. Confused. Well, then these too separated: even though filmmakers came from a big city to their wilderness, it was inconvenient, very inconvenient to sing next to someone else’s grief. How to sing here? Oh, there was no point in dressing up.

What do northerners, old and young, say? And they talk about their sorrows with calm dignity. People live poorly, many have left for the cities, the economy has been ruined everywhere, there are a lot of dead villages. Beautiful wooden churches deteriorate and perish from year to year. And the camera shows: yes, here is a strong old house, very large: a wealthy peasant family lived here eighty years ago, they had plenty of cattle, there was a river nearby, there were game animals in the forest, mushrooms and berries. Now the forest has been cut down, the animals have been killed, the cattle are long gone, and museum workers are wandering around the empty house in search of antiques. But more often, of course, it’s not museum workers, but simple looters: it’s a very profitable business to pull out antique utensils from abandoned houses, and then take them to antique stores. Tourists pay well...

And all this against the backdrop of wooded hills, flowering meadows, beautiful lakes, whose tin sheets seem to be virgin from the beginning... What beauty!

And what poverty...

Young educated people from the city came to the village. They stuck their heads and won't leave. They feel it as “one of their own”. They feel that here it is easier for them to build around themselves the universe they need: in the bustle of a metropolitan city it doesn’t work out, people are reduced to pieces and have no joy. Here it’s a different matter. The young musician says to the camera: “How to accustom people to the feeling of being a master in their own land.” He talks about the vile psychological pressure of the media. Every screen demands: “Be a successful person!” And what kind of successful person can there be in a village, among forests, living in poverty on cow dung? But life here is good, glorious, and that means you need to calmly say to yourself: “By the standards there, I’m an unsuccessful person... And that’s okay.” And move on with your life and manage your home.

Some churches perish irrevocably - from rot, from fires, from neglect. And some live. There is no place to place; everywhere it depends on the will of local residents.

Camera: a half-dismantled temple, a former rural club, where dances were held under Leonid Ilyich... People complain: “There is no money, no labor, how can I put it in order”... they are swarming around the temple, slowly doing some small work... here the garbage was removed... something was trimmed here... And now the temple stands in perfect order, with a new dome... A miracle?

God bless! There are people who will not go anywhere, but will remain, each in his place, the backbone of his land. This means that the Russian cause is not lost. So, “we’ll still wander!”

Therefore, I will end by saying that my people love me so much, I will say to Sofia Gorlenko and my comrades: “This is the truth.” And for the truth - low bow to you.

Dmitry Volodikhin

Nabokov Vladimir

Letter to Russia

Vladimir Nabokov

Letter to Russia

My distant and charming friend, it follows that you have not forgotten anything during these eight-plus years of separation, if you remember even the gray-haired watchmen in azure liveries, who did not bother us at all when, on a frosty St. Petersburg morning, we met in a dusty, small, in the Suvorov Museum, which looks like a snuffbox, How gloriously we kissed behind the back of the wax grenadier! And then, when we emerged from this ancient twilight, how silver fires burned us Tauride Garden and the cheerful, greedy hooting of a soldier, rushing forward on command, sliding on the ice, plunging a bayonet into the straw belly of a scarecrow in the middle of the street.

It’s strange: I myself decided, in a previous letter to you, not to remember, not to talk about the past, especially about the little things of the past; After all, we, writers, should be characterized by sublime modesty of speech, and yet I immediately, from the very first lines, neglect the right of beautiful imperfection, deafening with epithets the memory that you touched so easily. It’s not about the past, my friend, that I want to tell you.

It's night now. At night you especially feel the immobility of objects - lamps, furniture, portraits on the table. Occasionally, behind the wall, the water sobs and overflows in the water supply, as if approaching the throat of the house. At night I go out for a walk. In the damp Berlin asphalt, smeared with black grease, the reflections of street lamps flow; in the folds of black asphalt there are puddles; here and there a pomegranate light is burning above the fire signal box, the houses are like fog, at the tram stop there is a glass pillar filled with yellow light - and for some reason it makes me feel so good and sad when at a late hour it flies by, screeching at turning, the tram car is empty: the illuminated brown benches are clearly visible through the windows, between which a lone, as if slightly drunk, conductor with a black wallet on his side walks against the traffic, staggering.

While wandering along a quiet, dark street, I love to listen to a person returning home. The person himself is not visible in the dark, and you can never know in advance which front door will come to life, accept the key with a grinding sound, swing open, freeze on the block, slam shut; key with inside It will grind again, and in the depths, behind the door glass, a soft light will shine for one amazing minute.

The car rolls on pillars of wet shine, itself black, with yellow stripe under the windows, the night trumpets damply in my ear, and its shadow passes under my feet. Now the street is completely empty. Only the old dog, knocking his claws on the panel, reluctantly takes a listless, pretty girl, without a hat, for a walk under an umbrella. When she passes under the red light that hangs to the left, above the fire signal, one tight black lobe of the umbrella turns damply purple.

And behind the collar, above the damp panel - so unexpected! - the cinema wall ripples with diamonds. There you will see on a rectangular canvas, as light as the moon, more or less skillfully trained people; and now from the canvas a huge thing approaches, grows, looks into the dark hall woman's face with lips, black, with shiny cracks, with gray shimmering eyes, and a wonderful glycerin tear, glowing elongatedly, flows down the cheek. And sometimes - and this, of course, is divine - life itself, which does not know that it is being filmed - a random crowd, shining waters, a silently but visibly rustling tree.

Further, on the corner of the square, a tall, plump prostitute in black furs walks slowly back and forth, stopping sometimes in front of a crudely lit shop window, where a ruddy, waxen lady shows the night onlookers her emerald flowing dress, the shiny silk of peach stockings. I love to see how this elderly, calm harlot is approached, having previously overtaken her and turned around twice, by a middle-aged, mustachioed gentleman, who arrived in the morning on business from Papenburg. She will slowly lead him to furnished rooms, to one of the nearby houses, which during the day you will not find among the rest, just as ordinary. Behind front door an indifferent, polite gatekeeper watches all night in the unlit hallway. And upstairs, on the fifth floor, the same indifferent old woman will wisely unlock a free room and calmly accept payment.

Do you know with what a magnificent roar the train, illuminated and laughing through all its windows, passes over the bridge, over the street? He probably doesn’t go further than the suburbs, but the darkness under the black arch of the bridge is full at this moment of such powerful cast-iron music that I involuntarily imagine warm countries where I’ll go as soon as I get those extra hundred marks that I dream about - so complacently, so carefree.

I am so carefree that sometimes I even like to watch people dance in the local taverns. Many here shout with indignation (and there is pleasure in such indignation) about fashionable outrages, in particular about modern dancing - but fashion is the creativity of human mediocrity, a certain level, the vulgarity of equality - and shout about it, scold it , means recognizing that mediocrity can create something (be it an image government or the new kind hairstyles) that would be worth making some noise about. And, of course, these supposedly fashionable dances of ours are in fact not new at all: they were carried away in the days of the Directory, fortunately even those of that time women's dresses There were also body-worn ones, and black orchestras too. Fashion breathes through the centuries: the dome of the crinoline in the middle of the last century is a complete sigh of fashion, then it exhales again - tapering skirts, tight dances. After all, our dancing is very natural and rather innocent, and sometimes, in London ballrooms, quite graceful in its monotony. Do you remember how Pushkin wrote about the waltz: “monotonous and crazy,” After all, it’s all the same. As for the decline of morals... Do you know what I found in the notes of M. d'Agricourt? "I have not seen anything more depraved than the minuet that we deign to dance."

And so, in the local taverns, I love to watch how “couple flashes by couple”, how amusingly lined eyes play with simple human joy, how black and light legs step over each other, touching each other - and behind the door - my faithful, my lonely night, damp reflections, car horns, gusts of high wind.

On such a night, in an Orthodox cemetery, far outside the city, a seventy-year-old old woman committed suicide at the grave of her recently deceased husband. In the morning I happened to be there, and the watchman, a severe cripple on crutches that creaked with every swing of his body, showed me a low white cross on which the old woman had hanged herself, and yellow threads stuck where the rope had rubbed (“new,” he said softly ). But most mysterious and most charming of all were the crescent-shaped marks left by her small, child-like heels. damp earth at the foot. “It trampled a little, but it’s clean,” the watchman remarked calmly, “and, looking at the threads, at the holes, I suddenly realized that there is a child’s smile in death.

Are you afraid that you will burst into tears right in front of random passers-by? Don't want to torment yourself with hopes anymore? Are you tired of everything and want to quickly put an end to the documentary film called “Life”?

Does this sound familiar to you? Is it possible to escape from hopeless melancholy when you no longer want to fight it? The RD correspondent managed to undergo a 10-day course of treatment for depression from an FSB military medical psychologist and learned the secrets of recovery.

They put me at the computer and let me fill out psychological tests. From several answer options, in some cases you need to choose what you feel right now, in others - as usual. The questions are different: about mood swings, thoughts of suicide, about sympathy for people, about the desire to stand out from the crowd... The next day I find out the results: “severe depressive moods” and “emotional exhaustion.”

My thoughts before contacting a psychologist: why not try? Concerns: there are too many “healers of souls” - I know enough without them.

“It’s a shame to think that I’m suffering so much, but the reason may be the usual lack of some substance in the body,” I complain. The doctor asks about parents and grandparents - whether anyone in the family was prone to the blues. And he notes: “Both genes and physiology (anemia) make themselves felt. The next week our classes will be limited to special training.” Also, I have to make changes to my lifestyle. Be sure to walk outside for half an hour every day. And only in company, only in a sportive rhythm. Do not read or watch anything that would lead to sad thoughts.

I am told to forget about rubbing myself with a cold towel in the morning, which I tried to use to revive myself, but only made me feel even more depressed. “Your health type needs a hot shower to stay alert - and only at the end can you switch to cool water!”

In the psychologist’s office, we moved from conversations to exercises. On my head - on my forehead, behind my ear, on the back of my head - several sensors with wires were attached to me, which picked up the rhythms of the brain; I put a special ring with a wire on my finger. All this was connected to the computer. And then it began in literally brainwork. I had to... try with all my might to imagine something good, pleasant - I pictured mountains and the sea in my imagination, cloudless childhood memories surfaced in my memory... The more I thought about good things, the higher the alpha rhythms became (responsible for tone) . In total, three types of rhythms were measured for me - alpha, beta and gamma. I realized that the worst ones are those that talk about muscle tension and fatigue; others talk about the activity of the mental process, others - about positive emotions. The doctor measured the pulse readings before, during and at the end of the exercise. After a week of training, my ability to relax and “think positive” improved, and my tension and fatigue decreased. This way you can train without a computer - about 20 minutes every day: sit comfortably, close your eyes, think about good things.

In addition, I was sent to training in the relaxation room, that is, relaxation. Here patients sat in comfortable leather chairs with armrests and footrests, leaned back, the lights in the room went out, and on the ceiling, on a huge blue lampshade, small silver bulbs lit up, creating the illusion of a starry sky. In the corner, water gurgled quietly in an artificial fountain. We were played a video cassette with a relaxing course. The lesson took about an hour - main meaning: learn to relax physically, emotionally, mentally. This can also be done at home: sit comfortably in a chair, place your hands comfortably with your palms up, as if facing the sun, close your eyes and open your mouth slightly so that all the muscles on your face relax. And then begin to sequentially “travel” through your body, starting with your feet and ending with your head. Tighten the muscles of your feet and inhale, hold the air, then begin to relax the muscles and exhale lightly, then also move to the shins, knees, abdominal area, hands, shoulders, neck. At the same time, always when under load, that is, tensing your muscles, inhale and relax as you exhale. Having made a circle of physical tension and relaxation, walk through the body again, only now mentally focus on one or another part of the body and imagine as if you are tensing it, relaxing it, and inhaling and exhaling air through it. Also try to imagine that one or another hand becomes warm. These exercises will help you better control your condition, including stressful situation relax and, conversely, concentrate when needed. This is the so-called psychotraining on self-regulation. Biofeedback.

The main thing in treatment is complexity: more communication, excursions, new experiences, vitamin nutrition. Buy CDs with nature sounds, look through travel magazines. Be sure to make plans for the day.

Hydromassage baths and Charcot showers are useful, but for example, they did not suit me. Very good massage session. Walking - 5 km per day, physical therapy.

Read useful literature. For example, from the printouts from various psychologists that my doctor gave me, I learned the following:

“Failure is not defeat unless you want to think so. Let's take an example from the life of plants. Their growth depends on the ebb and flow processes that occur cyclically as a result of the attraction of the Moon and the Earth. On the growing Moon (in the phase of the influx of the vital juices of the Earth to the surface, i.e., the most favorable conditions for plants), their visible part located above the surface (“tops”) grows, on the waning Moon (the conditions are the most unfavorable, the earth’s juices are removed from the surface ) plants are forced to develop a root system, otherwise they will not survive. And, interestingly, the quality and quantity of flowers, fruits, leaves, i.e. tops, depends on the degree of development of the root system. The same pattern is also true for a person: during a period of success, his “tops” grow, that is, achievements visible to others, while in a period of failures - that is, seemingly unfavorable conditions for a person - his roots grow, that is, invisible to others. others inner work by accumulation vital energy, strength, self-confidence, stress resistance and balance, in knowing one’s own resources.”

Letter to Russia
Vladimir Nabokov

Nabokov Vladimir

Letter to Russia

Vladimir Nabokov

Letter to Russia

My distant and charming friend, it follows that you have not forgotten anything during these eight-plus years of separation, if you remember even the gray-haired watchmen in azure liveries, who did not bother us at all when, on a frosty St. Petersburg morning, we met in a dusty, small, in the Suvorov Museum, which looks like a snuffbox, How gloriously we kissed behind the back of the wax grenadier! And then, when we emerged from this ancient twilight, how the silver fires of the Tauride Garden burned us and the cheerful, greedy hooting of a soldier, rushing forward on command, sliding on the black ice, thrusting a bayonet with a swing into the straw belly of a scarecrow in the middle of the street.

While wandering along a quiet, dark street, I love to listen to a person returning home. The person himself is not visible in the dark, and you can never know in advance which front door will come to life, accept the key with a grinding sound, swing open, freeze on the block, slam shut; the key on the inside will grind again, and in the depths, behind the door glass, a soft light will shine for one amazing minute.

A car rolls along on pillars of wet shine - it is black, with a yellow stripe under the windows - it blows damply into the ear of the night, and its shadow passes under my feet. Now the street is completely empty. Only the old dog, knocking his claws on the panel, reluctantly takes a listless, pretty girl, without a hat, for a walk under an umbrella. When she passes under the red light that hangs to the left, above the fire signal, one tight black lobe of the umbrella turns damply purple.

And behind the collar, above the damp panel - so unexpected! - the cinema wall ripples with diamonds. There you will see on a rectangular canvas, as light as the moon, more or less skillfully trained people; and now, from the canvas, a huge female face with black lips, in shiny cracks, with gray flickering eyes approaches, grows, looks into the dark hall, and a wonderful glycerin tear, glowing elongated, flows down her cheek. And sometimes - and this, of course, is divine - life itself, which does not know that it is being filmed - a random crowd, shining waters, a silently but visibly rustling tree.

Further, on the corner of the square, a tall, plump prostitute in black furs walks slowly back and forth, stopping sometimes in front of a crudely lit shop window, where a ruddy, waxen lady shows the night onlookers her emerald flowing dress, the shiny silk of peach stockings. I love to see how this elderly, calm harlot is approached, having previously overtaken her and turned around twice, by a middle-aged, mustachioed gentleman, who arrived in the morning on business from Papenburg. She will slowly lead him to furnished rooms, to one of the nearby houses, which during the day you will not find among the rest, just as ordinary. Behind the front door, an indifferent, polite gatekeeper stands guard all night in the unlit hallway. And upstairs, on the fifth floor, the same indifferent old woman will wisely unlock a free room and calmly accept payment.

I am so carefree that sometimes I even like to watch people dance in the local taverns. Many here shout with indignation (and there is pleasure in such indignation) about fashionable outrages, in particular about modern dancing - but fashion is the creativity of human mediocrity, a certain level, the vulgarity of equality - and shout about it, scold it , means recognizing that mediocrity can create something (whether it's a new form of government or a new hairstyle) that's worth making a fuss about. And, of course, these supposedly fashionable dances of ours are in fact not new at all: they were carried away during the days of the Directory, fortunately, women’s dresses of that time were also wearable, and the orchestras were also Negro. Fashion breathes through the centuries: the dome of the crinoline in the middle of the last century is a complete sigh of fashion, then it exhales again - tapering skirts, tight dances. After all, our dancing is very natural and rather innocent, and sometimes, in London ballrooms, quite graceful in its monotony. Do you remember how Pushkin wrote about the waltz: “monotonous and crazy,” After all, it’s all the same. As for the decline of morals... Do you know what I found in the notes of M. d'Agricourt? "I have not seen anything more depraved than the minuet that we deign to dance."

On such a night, in an Orthodox cemetery, far outside the city, a seventy-year-old old woman committed suicide at the grave of her recently deceased husband. In the morning I happened to be there, and the watchman, a severe cripple on crutches that creaked with every swing of his body, showed me a low white cross on which the old woman had hanged herself, and yellow threads stuck where the rope had rubbed (“new,” he said softly ). But most mysterious and most charming of all were the crescent-shaped footprints left by her small, child-like heels in the damp earth at the foot. “It trampled a little, but it’s clean,” the watchman remarked calmly, “and, looking at the threads, at the holes, I suddenly realized that there is a child’s smile in death.

Perhaps, my friend, I am writing this entire letter only to tell you about this easy and gentle death. Thus the Berlin night ended,

Look, I'm completely happy. My happiness is a challenge. Wandering through the streets, through the squares, along the embankments along the canal, absentmindedly feeling the lips of dampness through the holey soles, I proudly carry my inexplicable happiness. Centuries will roll by, schoolchildren will be bored by the history of our upheavals, everything will pass, everything will pass, but my happiness, dear friend, my happiness will remain, in the wet reflection of the lantern, in the careful turn of the stone steps descending into the black waters of the canal, in the smile of the dancing couple, in everything with which God so generously surrounds human loneliness.