Dmitry Fadeyev

The Tyranny of Progress

Sat, 23 Jun 2018 00:00:00 +0000

In “The Origins of Totalitarian Order,” Hannah Arendt presents the idea of ideology as a self-fulfilling process. Suppose that Stalin says that the Moscow metro is the greatest in the world. It would not be a problem if the Bolsheviks were to discover that the Paris metro was greater still because Stalin’s totalitarianism is a process, which means that if whatever is posited is not true right now, it may be true at a later date. All Stalin has to do is destroy the Paris metro for his original assertion to become true.

This may sound ridiculously false, but another example of the same principle can show us that the above applies to political thought at the present time. Both Hitler and Stalin talked about “dying classes.” For the Nazis these were the Jews and other peoples they deemed unworthy, for the Bolsheviks this was the bourgeoisie. Implicit in the term is the direction of some historical process, the idea that nature is taking its course and that the weak are perishing due to their weakness and their inability to survive in the modern world. But this idea is really the same thing as the metro example above, because it is the Nazis and the Bolsheviks who are themselves the driving force behind the processes which are in turn killing off certain classes. The political actors are fulfilling their own assertion through their actions, not stating a truth about the world.

The same insidious idea resides at the core of modern political thought in the form of an invisible, impersonal, one-way movement of “progress.” It is as if the modern man is traveling on a boat without sails or oars, being carried by the stream of history towards its inevitable outcome. And yet, this stream is of his own making. The Enlightenment and the Industrial Revolution, the seeds whose trees are now growing up before our eyes, are products of man’s thought, but we have stopped questioning their validity and their direction, and, more important, if we do question them, we are repulsed by a sense of their inevitability, that is, even if we question the value of certain technologies, we are told that technology has advanced so far that it is impossible to turn back, that technological process cannot be stopped or reversed. The technologies of our making have become like a train without breaks, which can only accelerate—it is pointless to question whether it might derail at some point because we have no ability to stop it and get off, or so we think. In the political sphere, “democracy” has become an end in itself rather than being a means to an end: we look at whether or not a country is democratic, not whether or not it is able to prosper and elevate the condition of its citizens. The word has lost its meaning and has become synonymous with goodness, ossifying any remnants of serious political discourse. Thus again the “dying classes”—dying industries, dying religions, dying traditions, dying arts. All swept away by “progress,” a force of our own making which we have abstracted from ourselves and deemed inevitable, absolving ourselves of the responsibility for its effects.

A Matter of Will

Sat, 23 Jun 2018 00:00:00 +0000

Decius
Most mighty Caesar, let me know some cause,
Lest I be laughed at when I tell them so.

Caesar
The cause is in my will: I will not come;
That is enough to satisfy the senate.

Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

In “Notes from the Underground” Dostoevsky explores the idea of acting against one’s “best interests” simply from a desire to express one’s will, which can be greater than any rational calculation of profit. In fact, being reminded of a rational profit can even spur one further into doing the opposite simply because of the desire to assert oneself, to show the world that one is free.

Political pundits tend to think within a limited sphere of rational self-interest, which is why they are left at a loss when they are confronted by what are to them irrational choices of the people, recently expressed by events like Brexit and the election of Donald Trump. Moreover, they cannot understand the popularity of authoritarian leaders like Putin and Erdogan, or why there is still a living remnant of Stalinism in Russia. To them, politics is an almost scientific matter of making the right choices in order to yield the most material gains. But people’s choices are often irrational and not concerned with material gain. What they want is to express their own will in order to show that they exist, that they are free, which can even be done, somewhat paradoxically, through the support of a dictator. If the Western leaders are attacking a dictator, his people will support him in spite of what they are told—resisting him would make them feel like victims, supporting him makes them feel like free people asserting their sovereignty. Authoritarian propaganda does not appeal to material self-interest—it appeals to pride.

People’s actions are not governed by cold, rational calculation, but by their desire to express their will, which is why, when they feel their dignity under threat, when they feel that they are being treated with contempt as ignoramuses to be instructed and told what to do, the choices they make may appear quite surprising.

The Mystery of Progress

Sat, 16 Jun 2018 00:00:00 +0000

Do you know this tale?

A hunter was lost in a deaf forest; tired, he sat down on a stone above a wide, turbulent stream. He sits there staring into the dark depth, listening to a woodpecker drumming and drumming into the bark of a tree. And the hunter’s soul grew heavy. “I am lonely in my life, like in a forest,” he ponders, “I have strayed from the path a long time ago onto the various little trails, and there is no way out for me from these wanderings. Loneliness, languishment, and death! Why was I born, why did I come to this forest? What do I gain from killing all these animals and birds?” It was then that someone touched his shoulder. He sees a hunchbacked old woman standing before him, the sort that typically appear on such occasions—very, very thin, and of the same color as a stale carob or a dirty boot. Her eyes are sullen, two wisps of gray hair are sticking out of her cleft chin, and yet she is clothed in a rich dress, although one that is very old—only rags. “Listen, good man, there is on the other side a little place—a pure paradise! Get there—you’ll forget any sorrow. Alone by yourself you won’t find it in a lifetime, but I’ll lead you straight there—I myself am from those parts. Only carry me over to the other side, or else where would I be able to cross the stream, I can hardly move my legs as I am, already one foot in the grave, but to die—ah, I really don’t want to!” The young hunter was kindhearted. Although he did not at all believe the old woman’s words about the paradisiacal place, and the idea of fording the swollen stream was not that attractive, not to mention that having to carry an old woman would not be very flattering, he took a look at her—she was taken by a fit of coughing and was all trembling. “The ancient one,” he thinks, “should not have to perish! She is probably over a hundred years old, how many burdens she must have carried in her time—one has to offer her some effort in turn.” “Well, old lady, climb up and pull your bones inward, or else you’ll fall to pieces—and then one won’t be able to gather them in the water.” She clambered up on his shoulders and he felt such a terrible weight that it seemed to him that he lifted up a whole coffin with a deceased inside—he could hardly take a step. “Well,” he thought, “it would be embarrassing to turn back now!” He stepped into the water and all of a sudden the weight felt lighter, and it grew lighter and lighter with every step. And he sees a vision of something unrealized. But he is walking straight ahead, he is looking ahead. And when he reached the other side he glanced back: instead of an old woman he saw pressed to him a woman of untold beauty, a real tsar-maiden. And she led him to her native land, and he no longer complained of loneliness, no longer hurt animals and birds, and no longer searched for a path in the forest.

Everybody knows some variant of this tale, I knew it from childhood, but it is only today that I felt in it a meaning that was not at all a fairytale one. The modern man, in his hunt for transient goods and ephemeral fantasies, has lost the right path of life. Before him is the dark, uncontrollable stream of life. Time, like the woodpecker, is mercilessly counting off his lost moments. Loneliness and melancholy, and ahead—darkness and death. But behind him stands sacred old tradition—oh! in what unattractive forms—but what of it? Let him think only about that which he owes her; let him honor her gray hair with an inner movement of his heart, let him pity her feebleness, let him feel ashamed to reject her because of this appearance. Instead of idly looking for spectral fairies beyond the clouds, let him put some effort into carrying this sacred burden of the past across the actual stream of history. For this, after all, is his only way out from his wanderings—the only one, because any other way would be insufficient, unkind, and impious: the ancient one should not have to perish!

The modern man does not believe the tale, he does not believe that the decrepit old woman will turn into a tsar-maiden. He does not believe it—and all the better for it! What good is belief in a future reward when one has to earn it with real effort and a selfless deed? Those who do not believe in the future of the old sacredness must still remember her past. Why should he not carry her from a reverence for her great age, from a pity for her decline, from a shame of being ungrateful. Blessed are the believers: still standing on this side they can already see from beneath the wrinkles of decrepitude the glimmer of eternal beauty. But even those who do not believe in the future transformation also have a something to gain—unexpected joy. For those and for the others the work is the same; to go forward having taken upon oneself the full burden of the past.

If you want to be the man of the future, modern man, do not leave behind in the smoky ruins the father Anchises and the native gods¹. They needed a devout hero to carry them over to Italy, but only they could give him a tribe, and Italy, and dominion over the world. And our sacredness is more powerful than that of Troy, and our path with it leads further than Italy and the whole of the earthly world. The savior will be saved. This is the mystery of progress—there is and will be no other.

Translator’s Note: In Greek Mythology, Anchises is the father of the Trojan hero Aeneas, who, after the fall of Troy, carries him out and takes him with him on his journey to Italy. This journey is immortalized in Virgil’s Aeneid. ↩

Political Systems Through the Lens of Chaos Theory

Thu, 12 Oct 2017 00:00:00 +0000

Society is a dynamical system, its constitution, the interrelationship between all of its members, is always changing, always evolving, which means that a political system of governance can never settle down to a static set of rules. Atop a fluid world of men an ideal state is impossible, for as long as men live old formations must become obsolete.

Almost Intransitive Systems and Strange Attractors

“History never repeats itself, but it rhymes.”

Mark Twain¹

Edward Lorenz, a mathematician meteorologist and pioneer of chaos theory, describes almost intransitive systems as: “systems of equations possessing solutions which behave in one manner for an extended period of time, and then change more or less abruptly to another mode of behavior for an equally long time.” Such systems possess something called strange attractors, points towards which the system is drawn, but never meets. A picture makes this concept instantly graspable. Below is a diagram of the Lorenz attractor, a chaotic system that revolves around two poles, alternating at seemingly random intervals and never following any single path twice:

Image source: Wikipedia

If we think about society as a dynamical system, then political systems of governance must fluctuate between different attractors, just like the loops in the Lorenz diagram above. Furthermore, because the system is chaotic, because it is always changing, the political system will never fully suit its society—in time it will become obsolete, and the system will swing towards a different orientation. History shows this in the shifts between traditional and radical governments, between conservatives and liberals, between the individual and the collective, between atheism and religion. In a milder form, perhaps a sub-fluctuation of the above, Western governments continually shift between more socialist, more liberal parties and the more traditional, more conservative ones. No single orientation lasts because over time its form of governance grows unsatisfactory to a portion of the population. In more extreme cases, the form of governance decays and is thrown off via a revolution.

The Butterfly Effect and the Great Man Theory

Sensitive dependence on initial conditions—colloquially known as the butterfly effect—is a term used to describe systems that can have wildly different outcomes arising from minute changes in their variables. Here are two Lorenz attractors whose initial x-coordinate differs by a mere 10⁻⁵. While the trajectories at first are alike, they soon begin to diverge considerably:

Image source: Wikimedia Commons

The great man theory was a 19th century idea popularized by Thomas Carlyle, who wrote that “the history of the world is but the biography of great men.” The theory holds that through their wisdom and energy great men can shape the destinies of their countries and the world. This was contested by men like Herbert Spencer who considered great historical figures to be the products of their time. It is the problem of agency: do great men shape the world, or are they simply the products of historical movements?

If we consider society as a dynamical system with a sensitive dependence on initial conditions then the impact of great men can resonate and amplify through time, considerably affecting historical trends. While all individuals are undoubtedly shaped by the zeitgeist of the world into which they are born, their actions may have a profound effect on the political system—perhaps not changing its essence, but redirecting it towards another strange attractor, another political orientation—e.g. radical to traditional, conservative to liberal, and so on.

Antifragility and the Remaining Constant

What are the implications of the idea that there can never be a perfect government for the design of political systems? One suggestion can be found in Nassim Nicholas Taleb’s concept of antifragility. Taleb suggests that the antonym of fragile is not resilient, but antifragile. Something that is fragile is harmed or destroyed by change, something that is resilient is able to withstand it without itself changing, but something that is antifragile actually gains and grows stronger from change. An example of antifragility in the body can be demonstrated by weight lifting—straining your bones and muscles (up to a certain point) by lifting something very heavy damages them in the short term, but they respond by growing stronger. In the world of markets antifragility is demonstrated by options—reserving the right to buy or sell shares in the future at a set price. Without market fluctuation, you lose a little by paying for the cost of the options, but with large market jumps you stand to gain a lot.

The implications on political theory are as follows: large, centralized, bureaucratized governments are fragile because they put everyone in danger at times of change. For example, an interconnected global banking system affects most of the globe, so a collapse caused by garbage mortgage bonds in the United States cascades around the world, causing a major international financial crisis. In a decentralized system an individual problem does not drag everyone down. This is how evolution works across a species: those least adapted to their environment die, but the rest survive and pass on their genes to the next generation, in turn better adapting it to the changing environment. Planned economies, like that in the Soviet Union, grind everything to a halt, taking down the whole system when large shocks are introduced (e.g. a fall in the price of a national resource like crude oil).

Another thing to consider: if political systems keep changing, what remains constant? The answer is the indivisible unit from which they are composed: the citizen. Political work, if it is to have a lasting impact, must focus on that constant, must focus on developing, strengthening, and enlightening human minds and souls. Science, philosophy, literature, art—the tools for the expansion of one’s mind and the enlargement of one’s soul, and, furthermore, the tools for the projection of human soul through time—i.e. for the creation of a culture that will nourish those born into it with its ideas and its art, replicating itself in their minds and in turn letting them extend it forward into the future. If the development of man stagnates, or even decays, then the next shift in political orientation will leave the world without the talent to make the most of it, setting back its evolution—the difference between the American Enlightenment and the Dark Ages.

From Rules to Processes

“I teach you the overman. Man is something that shall be overcome. What have you done to overcome him?”

Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

Chaos theory analogies need not be taken further. The point here is to recognize the chaotic nature of political forms of government atop a dynamical system—i.e. the instability of political systems and the impossibility of ever achieving equilibrium. The implication of this idea is to rethink how we think about governments: from sets of rules and static constitutions that aim to create a perfect utopia, to processes: fluid constructions that shift and evolve over time—constructions that incorporate change into their design. One such construction is the free market, which divides risk across a myriad of businesses, each of which succeeds or fails individually, providing an optimal system of satisfying consumer demand. On the other hand, large, centralized, bureaucratized systems—systems that try to resist change—will inevitably collapse, and the damage caused by the collapse will be dictated by their size. By creating such monoliths we are fragilizing ourselves and setting ourselves up for costly recessions, depressions, and revolutions.

Lastly, in a world of constant change, lasting change can only be gained through the development of ourselves—our minds, through science and philosophy, and our soul, through literature and art. Today this task is relegated to the level of the individual, who does not and will not seize it in the world of perpetual consumerist distraction. If this is raised to the level of society², considerable gains may be achieved, and must be achieved if we are not to expand our species into space while simultaneously contracting our minds into oblivion. As Nietzsche wrote, man must be overcome.

The original source of the quote is uncertain, however, it is generally attributed to Mark Twain. ↩
This was done in the Soviet Union, albeit within the constraints of ideological censorship, not to mention a futile economic model and a barbaric totalitarian regime. However, state sponsored sciences and humanities did yield their fruits. ↩

Ephemeral, Timeless, Eternal

Wed, 27 Sep 2017 00:00:00 +0000

Three types of creative work: ephemeral, timeless, eternal.

Ephemeral work is all around us: it’s the stuff that doesn’t last, breaking or going out of fashion within years, months, or even less—the product of the consumption age.

Timeless work is a reaction to the former, an attempt to strip away any elements of transient style in order to make the work impervious to changes in fashion—minimalist, modern design.

Eternal work is an embodiment of an immortal form, or an attempt to immortalize that form—all monuments are eternal; so are cathedrals, so are traditional crafts, classical art, myths, and everything else that immortalizes traditions, peoples, histories, and ideas.

Where a modern designer tries to achieve timelessness through an illusion of objectivity—using systems, patterns, and tests in place of fancy and whim, often producing work composed of bare, minimalist, abstract geometric forms, whose mathematical purity the designer believes will make the work invulnerable to changing trends—an eternal designer simply creates something for posterity, creates something to outlast him, and he does it not by means of systematic reduction, but by making the work durable (if it is a physical good), and by imbuing it with an immortal idea (myths, religion, history, beauty—something to remember)—the end goal of which is cultural memory, our memory.

Consumerism makes eternal work impossible because it shifts the goal from memory to money. That’s not to say that the creator of the former cannot be rewarded for it, just that money cannot be the objective because the work is created for posterity, for a time when financial gains become irrelevant. This shift is the cause of the death of traditional crafts, and in general the death of beauty in art. A writer becomes a journalist, focusing on the ephemeral events of the present, condemning their work to the dustbin by day’s end. A craftsman becomes a graphical designer, chaining their work to the merciless cycle of obsolescence—whatever they create is trashed every time a product is updated. An artist becomes an activist, their work an ugly, screeching reaction to the world, not an embodiment of eternal truth. There is even a shift now from “products” to “experiences,” which is not only a recognition of ephemerality of modern work, but an embracement of it. The most talented creators try to distance themselves from the cycle by creating systems and processes (coders, for example, transition to creating open-source libraries instead of commercial apps) in an attempt to create something more durable, which prolongs the death of their work. But this is a reaction to consumerism, not a separate path, and while it will dull the pain it will not cure the disease—and it is a disease, for what we lose is not merely quality, but memory, for it is not an arbitrary style that is embedded in the physical artifacts around us, but our civilization, which day by day grows colder to us, becoming stranger and less known, until a time may come when it fades away completely, and with its passing, like the flame of a pitiful little candle, the last light of our ancestors’ souls is extinguished.

How We Pay People to Become Idiots

Wed, 20 Sep 2017 00:00:00 +0000

A feedback loop: when consuming media people follow the path of least resistance (i.e. the least amount of effort needed to get the most perceived gains), which is why a short, sensationalist article will get more views than a long essay—the former satisfies the reader’s curiosity in a few seconds (though never satiating it) while the latter requires considerable effort and time for an unknown gain. And so, in order to meet this “demand,” those who could have been journalists turn into hacks, churning out vast quantities of junk, which in turn dilutes the reader’s average attention span and creates more “demand” for this low effort content.

But the reader isn’t the only one who suffers (who, after all, is free to read whatever he likes¹). The “journalist,” or the blogger, who is paid to produce this nonsense, has to actually fill their head with even more nonsense than the reader. The hack is being paid to pollute his own brain, to cripple his own mind—he is, in essence, being paid to become an idiot.

The effects of dangerous manual labor are obvious in the permanent injuries caused to the body as a result of accidents. The effects of sedentary work are likewise obvious in the gradual damage sustained by the body: weakened muscles, frail bones, a feeble heart, corpulence. The effects of ceaseless idiotic “knowledge work” on the mind are largely ignored. A mind devoid of silence, filled with the ceaseless, incessant clatter of daily informational ephemera, covered with a thick haze of trivialities, scandals, and scoops, making contemplation impossible, fragmenting its thoughts, and shutting out any possibility of it constructing the rational and beautiful forms that are the zenith of our civilization—its literature, its art, its philosophy, its religion. Fragmented, atomized, and confused, the mind ceases to be a carrier of civilization, transforming into a little cell that is part of a massive, blind, merciless process. We worry about the potential consequences of artificial intelligence becoming sentient, but what about the danger of our own intelligence becoming artificial?

Free at the level of an individual. At a collective level—that of a culture—there is no choice since popularized works are assimilated into a whole, becoming an inseparable part of it. Works are popularized either through a free market, in which the crowd decides what it wants, or by an authority, which decides what should be taught and distributed, e.g. USSR central planning. Because a familiarity with a subject changes one’s understanding of it, developing one’s taste, the authoritative approach will not necessarily produce results that the public will reject, as long as the selection is sincere (and this is a big ask). Changes in culture in turn affect and mould the individuals born into it, shaping their future choices. Thus, a free market—with its perceived absence of choice—is actually also a choice, the consequences of which are reflected on the culture as a whole. ↩

Life Is Wonderful for the Resurrected

Sun, 02 Apr 2017 00:00:00 +0000

Have you ever happened to take a walk in a graveyard?

These enclosed, quiet corners, overgrown with succulent greenery, so small and so greedy, have a peculiar and eerie poetry of their own.

Day after day the newly dead are brought into them, and already the whole of the living, huge, noisy city is carried there, and already a new city is born and is awaiting its turn—and they stand, just as small, quiet and greedy. They have a peculiar air in them, a peculiar silence, and the murmur of trees is different there—elegiac, thoughtful, soft. It’s as if these white birches cannot forget all those teary eyes that sought the sky between their greening branches, and it’s as if it is not the wind but deep sighs that continue to sway the air and the fresh foliage.

Quietly, thoughtfully, you too wander across the graveyard. Your ear perceives soft echoes of deep moans and tears, and your eyes come to rest on rich gravestones, on humble wooden crosses, and on mute, nameless graves that cover those who were mute all their lives, invisible and unknown. And you read the inscriptions on the gravestones, and all these people that disappeared from the world arise in your imagination. You see them young, laughing, loving; you see them vigorous, talkative, believing boldly in the immortality of life.

But, these people, they have died.

But, do you really need to leave the house in order to visit a graveyard? Is it not enough for the night’s gloom to envelop you and extinguish the sounds of the day?

How many gravestones, rich and lavish! How many mute, nameless graves!

But, do you really need the night to visit a graveyard? Is the day not enough—that restless, noisy day, with enough evils of its own?

Take a look into your own soul, and, whether it be day or night, there you will find a graveyard. Small, greedy, it has consumed so much. And you will hear a soft, sad whisper—the reflection of those old heavy wails, when the dead one who was lowered into a grave was very dear to you, whom you had no time to fall out of love with, nor forget; and you will see gravestones, and inscriptions, half washed away by tears, and quiet, mute little graves—small, sinister little bumps under which that which once lived lies hidden, even though you did not know its life nor notice its death. But, maybe, it was the very best thing in your soul…

But why am I talking: take a look. Do you not already look into your graveyard every day, however many days there are in the long, arduous year? Maybe it was only yesterday that you have recalled the departed dear to you and have wept over them; maybe it was only yesterday that you have laid someone to rest, someone who had experienced a long and arduous illness and who was forgotten even in life.

Here, under the heavy marble, encircled by dense iron rails, rests the love of mankind, and her sister, the faith in them. How beautiful and marvelously good they were, these sisters! With what bright flame burned their eyes, what wonderful power did their white hands possess!

With what tenderness did these white hands bring cold drinks to lips inflamed of thirst and nourished the hungry; with what loving care did they touch the ulcers of the sick and healed them.

And they died, these sisters, they died from the cold, so the gravestone says. They could not stand the freezing wind that enveloped their life.

And here, further on, we have a rickety cross marking the place where a talent has been buried in the earth. Oh how vigorous, loud and cheerful he was; he took on everything, he wanted to do everything, and he was certain that he would conquer the world.

And he died—in some imperceptible and quiet way. He went out into people one day, disappearing there for a long time, and returned broken and sad. For a long time he wept, for a long time he yearned to say something—and, without having said it, he died.

Here is a long row of little bumps. Who lies there?

Ah, yes. These are children. Little, frisky, playful hopes. There were so many of them, and they filled one’s soul with bustle and cheer—but, one after another, they died.

There were so many of them, and they made one’s soul so cheerful!

The graveyard is quiet and the birches are rustling their leaves mournfully.

Let the dead rise! Open yourselves you gloomy graves, fall apart you heavy tombstones, and step aside you iron rails!

If only for one day, if only for a moment, set free those whom you are suffocating with your weight and darkness!

You think they are dead? Oh no, they are alive. They were silent, but they are alive.

Alive!

Let them see the radiance of the cloudless blue sky, let them breathe in the pure spring air, let them drink their fill of warmth and love.

Come to me, my sleeping talent. Why are you rubbing your eyes in that amusing manner—are you blinded by the sun? It’s true, isn’t it, just how bright it shines? You’re laughing? Ah, laugh, laugh—people have so little laughter. I too will be laughing with you. Look, there’s a swallow flying—let’s fly after it! The grave has made you heavy? And what is that strange horror I see in your eyes—as if a reflection of the grave’s darkness? No, no, there’s no need. Don’t cry. I’m telling you, don’t cry!

After all, life is so wonderful for the resurrected!

And you, my little hopes! Your faces are so funny and cute. Amusing chubby tot, who are you? I do not remember you. And what is making you laugh? Or has the very grave failed to frighten you? Quieten down, my children, quieten down. Why are you picking on her—see how small, pale and weak she is? Live in peace—and don’t spin me. Don’t you know that I too was in the grave, and now my head is spinning from the sun, from the air and from joy.

Ah, how wonderful is life for the resurrected!

You came too, you majestic, wonderful sisters. Let me kiss your delicate white hands. What is that I see? You brought bread? The gloom of the grave has not terrified you, and there, under that heavy mass you were thinking about bread for the hungry? Let me kiss your feet. I know where they will walk now, your light, quick feet, and I know that flowers will spring from the ground upon which they tread—marvelous, fragrant flowers. You are calling me with you? Let’s go.

This way, my resurrected talent—what, have the little floating clouds lulled you into reverie? This way, my little, frisky hopes.

Wait!..

I hear music. Oh, chubby tot, don’t shout like that! Where are these marvelous sounds coming from? Soft, harmonious, wildly-cheerful and sad. They speak of immortal life…

…No, don’t be afraid. It will pass now. After all, it is from joy that I weep.

Ah, how wonderful is life for the resurrected!

The Present

Sat, 11 Mar 2017 00:00:00 +0000

I

“Do come round to see me,” asked Senista for a third time, and for a third time Sazonka hastily answered:

“I’ll come, I’ll come, don’t worry. How could I not, of course I’ll come.”

And once again they fell silent. Senista, covered up to his chin with a gray hospital blanket, lay on his back and stared fixedly at Sazonka; he wanted for Sazonka to stay a while longer at the hospital and to confirm once more with his reciprocating gaze his promise not to leave him a sacrifice to loneliness, sickness and fear. Sazonka, however, wanted to leave, but he did not know how to do this without offending the boy; he sniffed his nose, and, almost sliding off his chair he again sat down, firmly and resolutely, as if forever. He would sit a while longer if only there was something to talk about; but there was nothing to talk about, and the thoughts that entered his mind were stupid, the kind that made one amused and ashamed. And all this time he was drawn to call Senista by his name and patronymic—Semyon Yerofeyevich—which was desperately inane: Senista was a boy-apprentice, and Sazonka was a respectable master, and a drunk, and it was only by habit that he was called Sazonka. And two weeks have not yet passed since he gave Senista his last cuff on the nape, and that was very bad, but this too one could not talk about.

With determination Sazonka began to slide off his chair, but without having accomplished half the business he slid back down with equal determination, and, either in a manner of reproach or as a form of consolation, he said:

“That’s how things are. It hurts, huh?”

Senista nodded his head affirmatively and quietly answered:

“Well, go. Or else he’ll scold you.”

“That’s true,” Sazonka was happy with the excuse. “He even ordered so: you, he said, make it quick. Bring him—and back that very minute. And as for vodka: no-no. Well, heck!”

But with the knowledge that he could now leave at any minute, a sharp pity towards the large-headed Senista entered Sazonka’s heart. Everything about the unnatural environment called him to pity: the crowded row of beds with pale, gloomy people; the air, to the last particle spoiled by the smell of medicines and the exhalations of sick human bodies; the feeling of one’s own strength and health. And, without trying at this point to avoid the pleading gaze, Sazonka leaned down towards Senista and repeated firmly:

“You, Semyo…Senya, don’t worry. I’ll come. When I get a break, then at once to you. Are we not human? Oh God! We too have our understanding. My dear! You trust me or not?”

And with a smile on his blackened, parched lips Senista answered:

“I trust you.”

“There!” exulted Sazonka. He felt light and contented, and now he could could talk about the cuff on the nape, accidentally dished out two weeks ago. And, with his finger touching Senista’s shoulder, he carefully hinted: “And if someone hit you on the head, was that really from malice? Oh God! Your head is just so convenient: large and cropped.”

Senista smiled again, and Sazonka got up from his chair. In terms of height he was very tall, his hair, all made up of small curls, brushed with a fine-tooth comb, rose up lavishly in the form of a merry hat, and his grey, slightly puffy eyes sparkled and smiled unconsciously.

“Well, fare thee well!” he said, but he did not move from his spot. He said “fare thee well!” and not “farewell!” on purpose, it was more heartfelt this way, but now he felt that this was not enough. He needed to do something even more heartfelt and good after which Senista’s time in bed at the hospital would become cheerful, and he would feel easy to depart. And he lingered in his place uncomfortably, amusing in his juvenile embarrassment, when Senista once again brought him out of his difficulty:

“Farewell!” he said in his high-pitched adolescent voice for which he was teased “gusli”¹, and in a plain manner, like an adult, he freed his hand from under the blanket and, like an equal, stretched it out for Sazonka. And Sazonka, feeling that this was exactly that which was lacking to make him feel completely at ease, respectfully grasped the thin fingers with his hefty paw, held them a while, and with a sigh released them. There was something sad and mysterious in the touch of the thin hot fingers: it was as if Senista was not only equal to all the people in the world, but higher and freer than all, and this was because he now belonged to the unknown but dread and mighty master. It was now that he could be called Semyon Yerofeyevich.

“So do come,” for a fourth time asked Senista, and this request banished that frightening and dread something which for a moment overshadowed him with its silent wings. Once more he became a boy, sick and in suffering, and once more one felt sorry for him—very sorry. When Sazonka left the hospital, the smell of medicines and the pleading voice chased after him for a long time:

“Do come!”

And, spreading his arms, Sazonka answered:

“My dear! Are we not human?”

II

Easter was approaching and there was so much sartorial work that only once on Saturday did Sazonka manage to get drunk, though even then not dead drunk. He spent whole days, long and bright in the springtime, sitting on the window bench in the Turkish manner with his legs tucked under him from one rooster’s call till next, squinting and whistling disapprovingly. In the morning the window was located in the shade, and cool air flowed through the opening in the shutters, but at midday the sun cut a thin yellow band across which played illuminated spots of lifted dust. And after half an hour the whole of the windowsill, upon which cuts of fabric and scissors were scattered, was illuminated with blinding light, and it became so hot that one had to throw open the windows like in the summer. And together with the wave of strong fresh air, saturated with the smell of decomposing manure, drying dirt and blossoming buds, a frenzied fly, still feeble in strength, flew into the window, and discordant street noise was sweeping past. Chickens rummaged down below by the log bench and blissfully clucked, basking in round pits; on the opposite side, which was already dried out, kids were playing babki², and their colorful, ringing shouts and the pounding of cast iron discs against bones sounded of fervor and vitality. There was very little traffic along the street, located at the outskirts of Oryol, and only occasionally a suburban fellow would ride past at walking gait; the cart bounced in the deep ruts, still filled with liquid dirt, and all of its parts pounded with wooden clatter, recalling the summer and the expanse of open fields.

When Sazonka’s lower back began to ache and his stiffened fingers could no longer hold the needle he jumped onto the street, just as he was, barefoot and without his belt, with giant leaps he flew over puddles and joined the playing kids.

“Come on, let me strike it,” he asked, and a dozen dirty hands stretched out the discs towards him, and a dozen voices pleaded:

“For me! Sazonka, for me!”

Sazonka picked out a disc that was heavier, pulled up his sleeve, and, assuming the pose of a discus throwing athlete, measured the distance by squinting his eyes. The disc flew out of his hand with a light whistle, and, bouncing in a wavelike manner, it ripped into the middle of the long cone with a sliding strike, and the babki crumbled like a colorful rain, and the lads reacted to the strike with cries that were just as colorful. After several strikes Sazonka rested and spoke to the lads:

“Senista’s still at the hospital lads.”

But the lads, occupied by their interesting task, took the news coldly and indifferently.

“Need to bring him a present. I’ll bring it any day now,” continued Sazonka.

The word “present” attracted many responses. Mishka the Piggy pulled at his trousers with one hand—the other held the babki in the hem of his shirt—and in all seriousness gave his advice:

“You should give him a dime.”

A dime was that sum of money which Mishka’s grandfather promised him, and his conception of man’s happiness did not go beyond it. But there was no time to speak at length about the present, and with the same giant leaps Sazonka made his way back and again sat down to work. His eyes were a little swollen, his face grew pale-yellow, like in one who is sick, and the freckles around his eyes and nose appeared especially frequent and dark. Only his thoroughly combed hair rose up in that same form of the merry hat, and, when his master Gavriil Ivanovich looked at it, without fail he would imagine a cozy red tavern and vodka, and he would fiercely spit and swear.

Inside Sazonka’s head things were heavy and confused, and he would spend whole hours turning some single thought: about new boots or harmonica. But more often he would think about Senista and about the present, which he will bring him. The machine pounded monotonously, inducing sleep, the master called out orders—and the same one picture presented itself to Sazonka’s tired brain: how he arrives to see Senista and gives him the present, wrapped in a fringed chintz kerchief. Oftentimes in heavy reverie he would forget who Senista was, and could not recall his face; but the hammed kerchief, which he still needed to buy, appeared vivid and clear, and it even seemed that the knots on it were not tied up securely. And Sazonka told everyone, the master, the mistress, the clients and the kids, that he will go to see the boy immediately on the first day of Easter.

“Have to do it,” he repeated. “Give my hair a comb and that same minute off to see him. Here, dear, take this!”

But as he was saying this he was seeing a different picture: the wide open doors of the red tavern and in its dark depths the counter, showered with cheap liquor. And he was embraced by the bitter awareness of his weakness which he could not fight, and he wanted to shout, loudly and firmly: “I’ll go to Senista! To Senista!”

But his head was filling up with gray, wavering haze, and through it only the fringed kerchief remained visible. But there was no joy in it, only a stern reproach and a terrible warning.

III

And on the first day of Easter, and on the second, Sazonka was drunk, got into fights, was beaten up, and spent the night at the precinct. And only on the fourth day he managed to get out to see Senista.

The street, filled with sunlight, was colored by the bright spots of scarlet shirts and white cheerfully grinning teeth, gnawing sunflower seeds; harmonicas played in all directions, bones and cast iron discs pounded, and a rooster crowed passionately, calling to battle the neighbor’s rooster. But Sazonka did not look around. His face, with a wounded eye and a split lip, was grim and concentrated, and even his hair did not rise up in a rich mane, but instead stuck out disorderly in separate clumps. He felt ashamed for the drunkenness and his unkept word, he felt sorry that he would have to appear before Senista not in his best—in a red woolen shirt and vest—but drunk, foul, stinking of cheap vodka. But the closer he got to the hospital, the lighter he felt, and his eyes would look down more frequently, to the right, where the bundle with the present carefully hung in his hand. And Senista’s face now appeared vividly and clearly, with his parched lips and pleading gaze.

“Dear, really? Oh God!” said Sazonka and greatly picked up the pace.

Here is the hospital—a large, yellow building, with black window frames, which made the windows look like dark, sullen eyes. Here is the long corridor, and the smell of medicines, and the amorphous feeling of nausea and anguish. Here is Senista’s ward and his bed…But where is Senista himself?

“Who are you looking for?” asked the nurse who followed him in.

“There was a boy here. Semyon. Semyon Yerofeyev. Here, in this place.” Sazonka pointed at an empty bed.

“You should ask beforehand, otherwise you barge in in vain,” said the nurse impolitely. “And it’s not Semyon Yerofeyev, but Semyon Pustoshkin.”

“Yerofeyev—that’s by his patronymic. Parent’s name is Yerofey, so he is Yerofeyev,” explained Sazonka, slowly and terribly growing pale.

“Your Yeroveyev is dead. Only we don’t know that by the patronymic. By ours—Semyon Pustoshkin. Dead, I say.”

“Oh, that’s how it is!” Sazonka replied with polite surprise, so pale that his freckles stood out like ink splatter.

“When?”

“Yesterday, after evening.”

“And may I!…” Sazonka asked, stammering.

“Why not?” indifferently answered the nurse. “Ask, at the morgue, they’ll show you. But you, don’t worry yourself sick over this! He was feeble, don’t feel sorry.”

Sazonka’s tongue asked thoroughly and politely for the way, his legs steadily carried him in the specified direction, but his eyes did not see a thing. And it was only when they were fixed, straight and motionless, onto the dead body of Senista that they began to see. That was when he began to feel the frightening chill permeating the morgue, and everything around him became visible: the walls covered with gray spots, the window, coated by cobwebs; however much the sun would shine, through that window the sky would always appear gray and cold, like in autumn. Somewhere, restlessly and intermittently, a fly was buzzing; drops of water were falling from somewhere; one falls—tap!—and for a long time a ringing, pitiful sound would race around the air. Sazonka took a step back and loudly said:

“Fare thee well, Semyon Yerofeyev.”

Then he got down on his knees, touched the damp floor with his forehead and got up. “Forgive me, Semyon Yerofeyev,” again he spoke slowly and loudly, and again fell on his knees, and he pressed down his forehead for long time, until his head started to numb. The fly stopped buzzing, and it grew silent, the sort of silence that only occurs where the dead lie. And drops of water fell at even intervals into a tin basin, fell and wept—quietly, softly.

IV

Immediately after the hospital the town ended and a field began, and Sazonka wandered onto the field. It was flat, uninterrupted either by trees or construction, it spread outwards freely, and the very breeze felt like it was its free, warm breath. At first Sazonka walked along a parched road, then he turned left and walking across the lea and the reaped field went straight to the river. The earth was still damp in places, and in those places where he passed remained the footprints of his feet with dark depressions left by the heels.

On the shore Sazonka lay down in a small, grass covered hollow, in which the air was still and warm, like in a steam room, and he closed his eyes. The sun’s rays went through his sealed eyelids as a warm, red wave; high up in the aerial azure a skylark chimed, and it was pleasant to breathe and not to think. The floodwater already came down, and the river flowed as a narrow brook; far away on the low opposite bank, having left marks of their rampage lay huge, holey floes. The stumps lay one upon another in clusters and rose upwards as white triangles towards the ruthless fiery rays which step by step sharpened and drilled into them. Half awake Sazonka threw back his arm—something hard was under it, wrapped in cloth.

The present.

Quickly rising, Sazonka cried out:

“Oh God! What is that?”

He completely forgot about the bundle and stared at it with frightened eyes: he imagined that the bundle came here and lay down of its own volition, and he was afraid to touch it. Sazonka stared—stared—stared without breaking off,—and a turbulent, seething remorse and frantic anger was rising up within him. He stared at the fringed kerchief—and he saw, how on the first day, and on the second, and on the third, Senista waited for him and turned towards the door, and he did not come. He died alone, forgotten—like a puppy thrown away at the rubbish heap. If only a day earlier—and with his fading eyes he would see the present, and he would rejoice with his youthful heart, and his soul would ascend to the high heavens without pain, without the terrible anguish of loneliness.

Sazonka wept, he dug into his lush hair with his hands and rolled on the ground. He wept, and, raising his arms to the heavens, pitifully defended himself:

“Oh God! Are we not human?”

And he fell right down to the earth with his split lip—and fell silent in a rush of mute grief. Young grass tickled his face softly and gently; a thick, calming smell was rising from the damp earth, in which resided a powerful force and a dread call to life. Like an everlasting mother, the earth accepted the sinful son into its embrace, and with warmth, love and hope it nourished his suffering heart.

And, far away in the town, merry festive bells were booming in discord.

Gusli (Russian: гусли): the oldest Russian multi-string plucked instrument.
Babki (Russian: бабки): an an old game peasant children played which involved throwing a heavy object at a collection of animal bones, which were called babki.

Ben-Tobit

Thu, 09 Feb 2017 00:00:00 +0000

On that terrible day when a universal injustice was committed and Jesus Christ was crucified among bandits at Golgotha—from the very early morning of that day a Jerusalem trader Ben-Tobit was afflicted by an intolerable toothache. It began on the eve of the previous day: the right side of his jaw began to ache slightly, and one tooth, the one at the end before the wisdom tooth, seemed to have been slightly raised, and, when the tongue touched it, produced a mild sensation of pain. However, after having eaten the pain completely subsided and Ben-Tobit forgot all about it and relaxed—that day he profitably traded his old donkey for one young and strong, was very cheerful and did not place any significance in ominous signs.

And he slept deeply and very well, but just before sunrise something began to trouble him, it was as if someone was calling him on some very important business, and, when Ben-Tobit sulkily woke up, his teeth were in pain, openly and malevolently, with the full strength of a sharp, drilling pain. It was no longer possible to tell whether it was yesterday’s tooth that was in pain, or whether others have joined it: the whole of the mouth and head were full of the terrible sensation of pain, it was as if Ben-Tobit was forced to chew a thousand red-hot nails. He took some water into his mouth from an earthenware jug—for a minute the raging pain ceased, the teeth began to twitch and sway in waves, and this sensation was even pleasant compared with the previous one. Ben-Tobit once again lay down, remembered his new donkey and thought about how happy he would be if not for these teeth, and he wanted to get back to sleep. But the water was warm, and after five minutes the pain returned with even greater fury than before, and Ben-Tobit sat on the bed and rocked like a pendulum. His whole face became wrinkled and gathered up at his large nose, and on the nose, which has grown pale from his suffering, lay frozen a drop of cold sweat. Thus, rocking and wailing from pain, he met the first rays of that sun which was destined to see Golgotha and the three crosses and grow dim from horror and grief.

Ben-Tobit was a good and kind man, he did not like injustice, but when his wife woke up, he, hardly opening his mouth, showered her with many unpleasantries and complained that he was left alone like a jackal to howl and squirm from his sufferings. His wife patiently accepted the undeserved reproaches as she knew that it was not an evil heart that said them, and she brought him many good medicines: purified rat droppings, which was meant to be applied to the cheek, sharp scorpion elixir, and an authentic stone fragment from one of Moses’ shattered tablets. The rat dropping improved things a little, but not for long, and the same with the elixir and the little stone, but every time after a brief improvement the pain returned with renewed strength. And in the short minutes of respite Ben-Tobit comforted himself with the thought of his donkey and daydreamed of it, and when he felt worse he groaned, became cross with his wife and threatened to break his head against a rock if the pain did not subside. And all this time he would walk from corner to corner of the flat roof of his house, ashamed to come near to the outside edge since his head was all wrapped in a headscarf, like that of a woman. A few times children ran up to him and in hasty voiced told him something about Jesus of Nazareth. Ben-Tobit would stop, listen to them for a minute, his face wrinkled, but would then grumpily stamp his foot and shoo them away; he was a kind man and loved children, but now he was angry at them for bothering him with all sorts of trifles.

There was one other thing that was irritating, and this was that people gathered along his street and atop neighboring roofs who did not do anything other than curiously stare at Ben-Tobit, wrapped in a headscarf, like a woman. And he was just about going to lose his mind when his wife told him:

“Look, they’re leading the bandits. Maybe it will entertain you.”

“Leave me, please. Can’t you see how much I’m suffering?” grumpily answered Ben-Tobit.

But in the words of his wife sounded a vague promise that his teeth might get better, and he reluctantly moved closer to the parapet. Leaning his head to the side, closing one eye and propping his cheek with his hand, he made a squeamishly-sad face and looked down.

Along the narrow street, which went up a hill, a large disorderly crowd was making its way, clouded in dust and incessant shouter. At its center, bowed from the weight of the crosses, moved the bandits, and curled round them, like black snakes, were the whips of Roman soldiers. One of them—the one with long, fair hair in a torn, bloodied chiton—tripped on a stone which was thrown under his feet and fell. The shouts became louder and the crowd, like multicolored seawater, closed in on the fallen. Suddenly, Ben-Tobit was startled from pain—it was just as if someone thrust a red-hot spike into his tooth and turned it—he wailed: “Oo-oo-oo”, and moved away from the parapet, fastidiously-indifferent and angry.

“How they shout!” he said begrudgingly, imagining wide open mouths with strong, pain free teeth, and he himself was about to shout, if only he was well.

And this spectacle enraged the pain, and he shook his head many times and bellowed: “Mm-oo-oo…”

“They say that He has healed the blind,” said his wife, not moving away from the parapet, and she threw a little stone at the place where Jesus, held up by whips, was slowly making way. “Oh sure! If only He would cure my toothache,” replied Ben-Tobit sarcastically and being annoyed he added bitterly: “How much dust they raise! Just like a herd! They should all be driven away with a stick! Sarah, take me downstairs!”

It turned out the wife was right: the spectacle did somewhat entertain Ben-Tobit, but perhaps the rat droppings did help in the end, and he managed to fall asleep. And when he woke up the pain has almost disappeared, and there was only a small gumboil on the right side of the jaw, so small that it was hardly noticeable. His wife said that it was completely unnoticeable, but Ben-Tobit smiled slyly: he knew how kind his wife was and how much she liked to say things to please. A neighbor came over, Samuel the skinner, and Ben-Tobit led him to see his donkey and with pride listened to the warm praises directed at him and the animal.

Afterwards, at the request of the curious Sarah, the three of them went to Golgotha to look at the crucified. Along the road Ben-Tobit related to Samuel from the very beginning how yesterday he felt an ache in the right side of his jaw and how afterwards at night he woke up from a terrible pain. For effect he put on a suffering face, closed his eyes, shook his head and groaned, and the gray-bearded Samuel shook his head in sympathy and said: “Ay-ay-ay! How painful!”

Ben-Tobit enjoyed the recognition, and he repeated the tale and then returned to that remote time when only his first tooth has gone bad, on the lower left side. Thus in a lively conversation they arrived at Golgotha. The Sun, sentenced to light the world on this terrible day, already rolled over the distant hills, and in the west, like a bloody trail, there burned a crimson-red band. In its foreground dark crosses were hazily fading away, and at the foot of the central cross there were some vague white kneeling figures.

The people dispersed a long time ago; it was starting to become cold, and, having caught a glimpse of the crucified, Ben-Tobit took Samuel by the arm and carefully turned him homeward. He felt himself especially eloquent, and he wanted to finish talking about toothache. Thus they walked, and Ben-Tobit, encouraged by Samuel’s sympathetic nods and exclamations put on a suffering face, shook his head and groaned skillfully—and from the deep ravines, from remote sun-baked plains, the black night was rising. It was as if it wanted to conceal from the sight of the heavens the great atrocity of the Earth.

The Earth

Sat, 04 Feb 2017 00:00:00 +0000

I

The Almighty summoned an angel in white robes and said to him:

“Turn your ear towards the Earth and listen. And when you hear something, tell me.”

The angel listened for a long time and answered:

“I hear something weeping. The Earth is weeping. I heard something crying out, screams and groans, children’s voices. The Earth is suffering. And I heard mocking laughter, squeals of lust and killer’s grunts. The Earth is sinning. And he who lives on the Earth is afraid.”

The Almighty said:

“I have sent many from my white flock to the Earth and hitherto no one has returned. I wait for them in vain and weep from grief, but they do not come, and the Earth still weeps, and my starry nights have faded. I feel sorry for you, but your turn has come: fly to the Earth, turn into man, and, walking among men learn what it is that they need. Run away from windbags but do not abandon the quiet ones, not until they speak; and keep their words with care, as if they were pearls. Play with the merry children, but there are sad children whose faces are small and pale, and their eyes large and dark; who do not laugh and do not play, who do not know of amusements typical of their age; whose sorrow is terrible even to a god; and to those children give your love and angelic mercy. I will anxiously wait for you, I will halt the darkening of the stars and will multiply their light with the light of my hope.

The angel took his blessing and, his white robes gleaming, obediently leapt headlong onto the terrible and alien earth. That night on the Earth there was thunder and tempest and many people perished under collapsed houses, perished in the marine abyss. And lighting flashed…

II

And now the angel has returned, his white robes gleaming, and obediently stood awaiting questions. The Almighty rejoiced and in celebration bid for many new comets to flare up: let them form a semicircular glow. And the Almighty was also happy to see how white and bright were the angel’s robes. That was where he began his questions:

“I am pleased with your appearance, truly worthy of the heavens; but tell me, my dear—is there no filth at all on the Earth? I cannot see a single little spot on your robes.”

The angel answered:

“No, Father, there is a great deal of filth on Earth, but I avoided making contact with it and that is why I was not stained.”

The Almighty frowned and asked doubtfully:

“But did they really stop spilling red blood on the Earth? There is not a single little spot on your robes, and they are as white as snow.”

The angel answered:

“No, Father, the red blood flows on the Earth, but I avoided making contact with it, and that is why I am clean. And since it is impossible to walk among men and avoid their filth and blood and keep one’s robes unstained, I did not come down to the Earth itself, but flew at a low altitude, and from there I sent my smiles, reproaches and blessings…”

The Almighty said:

“It is difficult in this manner to find out what it is that men need. But, perhaps, you have discovered it after all?”

The angel answered:

“No, Father. The main thing I did was to tell them how to live so there would be no suffering, no tears and no filth; but they listen badly, Father, they are as filthy as ever, like animals, and in my opinion they should all be exterminated.”

“That is what you think?”

“Yes, Father. But that is not the worst of it, that day and night, cursing and crying, bowing in equal measure to you and the devil, they knead the bloody filth, what is really terrible, outrageous and unacceptable, is that your angels, sent by you, clean angels of your white herd, have been stained to the point of becoming unrecognizable, they have been splattered with filth and drenched in blood, have been drawn into their sins and crimes.”

“You have seen them?”

“Alas!—I have seen them, Father. But I did not bow to them, and even made it look as if I did not recognize them, for many of them were not even sober and gave unruly, seductive speeches, committed inappropriate and even shameful acts.”

“Where have you seen them, my dear?”

“It is even embarrassing to say, Father. I have seen them in taverns and prisons, where they eat from a kettle shared with thieves and murderers; I have seen them among adulterers, journalists, and sinners of all kinds. It is impossible to tell what happened to their robes: not only did they lose their angelic style, but the material has been torn into tatters and the color has become almost indiscernible: striving for smartness they cover themselves with patches of other colors, even those that are red. I have heard it said that many of them yearn for the heavens and even have something to share, but they fear to return in their current state. One night, on the roadside, I saw a sleeping tramp; he was drunk and delirious, and I recognized in him that renegade, one sent by you with trust; and this is what I overheard amid his incoherent and blasphemous exclamations: ‘bitter it is for me without the heavens, of which I am deprived, but I don’t want to be an angel among men, I don’t want white robes, I don’t want wings!’ This is literally what he said, Father: ‘I don’t want wings!’”

III

Thus, straightening his snow white feathers, the angel gave his account and waited for high praises for his cleanliness and wise cautiousness. But instead a terrible fury came over the Father and he sentenced the unsullied to inviolable, eternal damnation. When the thunderous speech ceased and the terrible gleam of lightning in his eyes gradually softened, the Almighty assumed a soft tone and said:

“Depart from here and do not return until you become one with a suffering man with both your body and soul. Understand and remember, my dear, that white robes are necessary for those who have never left the heavens: but for those who were on the Earth, such clean robes, like yours—shame and disgrace! I can see that you have kept yourself safe, and for that you repulse me. Depart quickly, or else thunder once more stirs in my breast. And when you see on the Earth those former envoys of mine, those who fear to return, tell them briefly and graciously, for you will be speaking for me: ‘return to the heavens, do not be afraid, your father loves you and waits for you.’”

The aggrieved angel sneered bitterly, with venom even, but he put on a humble appearance and, lowering his eyes, answered:

“I already told them. They don’t want to.”

“What don’t they want?”

“To return to the heavens.”

“Frightened? Tell them that I will give them new robes.”

“No. They don’t want to. That’s what they say, Father: ‘So we will go to the heavens and once again put on white robes, but what about those who are left? If we are to go, then all together, but alone we will not go.’”

The Almighty was lost in thought for a long time. Finally he said:

“So that’s how the Earth is. I can see the powerlessness of my angels and am beginning to think: should I myself not go to the Earth?”

The angel said:

“They have all been calling for you and waiting for you for a long while now. But, pardon my insolence, Father: if you yourself go to the Earth then you yourself will not return here.”

The Almighty exclaimed:

“Then what about my heavens?! They will become empty.”

“They say: then your heavens will be on the Earth, and then neither they, nor you, nor the suffering men will need another heavens. So they say, and now I see that they are right. Farewell, Father, forever!”

With those words the angel once again leapt headlong onto the Earth and was lost forevermore among its tears and blood. And the heavens were frozen in heavy contemplation, searchingly peering at the tiny and sorrowful Earth—so tiny and so terrible and unconquerable in its sorrow. The ceremonial comets were quietly fading, and in the light of their red trails the throne already looked empty and dead.