A Corner Draft Fluttered The

It Is No Longer Possible For Lyric Poetry To Express The Immensity Of Our Experience. Life Has Grown Too Cumbersome, Too Complicated. We Have Acquired Values Which Are Best Expressed In Prose.

I Have Been Writing In Spurts, Bit By Bit. It Is Incredibly Difficult. Everything Is Corroded, Broken, Dismantled; Everything Is Covered With Hardened Layers Of Accumulated Insensitivity, Deafness, Entrenched Routine. It Is Disgusting.

Art Is Unthinkable Without Risk And Spiritual Self-sacrifice.

Mother Russia Is On The Move, She Can't Stand Still, She's Restless And Can't Find Rest, She's Talking And She Can't Stop.

And So It Turned Out That Only A Life Similar To The Life Of Those Around Us, Merging With It Without A Ripple, Is Genuine Life, And That An Unshared Happiness Is Not Happiness.