We are all children, and I am of course no exception. The war is at fault for the four year stagnation in the history of humanity, and that it was seen as the calm before the storm. Special are the military children, for there is a perfect harmony between the righteousness of their actions, and the sin that resides within them. See more
I think that the production of age and the limits of an individual’s life is a matter of history, or a matter of culture, or however you see it - but it is not the work of a cell, which is not in a position to develop age (mental maturity).
It cannot be denied that here, in the Urals, the workers are more ready to take control of their enterprises that they are in any other place. Even last year I was delighted by the extent to which their intellectual abilities have developed, and the particular character of those craftsmen whose ancestors had not experienced the yoke of serfdom.
I've come back to Moscow. Mayakovsky arrived from Pertrograd and was staying in Stoleshnikov lane. In the morning, I went to visit him at the hotel. He was getting up, and while dressing, read me the new “War and Peace.” I did not share my opinion on it. See more
He read it in my eyes. Besides, he was aware of the effect he had on me. I started talking about futurism and said that it would have been great if he openly sent it all to hell. Laughing, he almost agreed with me.
Had some difficulties, and a terrible period of melancholy. On finally sitting down to get on with my previously started “prose”, I was struck by something I would now struggle to clearly describe, and driven by this strange mood I began to feverishly churn out something of real significance in verse. I say something, because I cannot for the life of me make out how exactly this new “Poem on One Dear” will work out.
Dear, dear Mama, I received your card, dearest! Why are you sad? Don’t be! These two months will fly by, and we will see each other in May. I’m feeling sad too. For some reason, for a week now, my work has not been going well. I thought I would have something to bring by spring, to make you happy. But it seems not. I am afraid of such blocks, for which only I myself am to blame. Something inside seizes up and I get stuck. I hug you tight and send kisses to Pappa, Shura and the girls.
I sprang to my feet in the middle of night, having seen the whole thing from beginning to end. Unable to sleep any further, I got up and began to write; I wrote for two days straight, sleeping no more than a couple of hours each night and reprising my work immediately on awaking. But, the holidays being over, I needed to go into the office, and had to put the thing aside. I stopped work on the 20th and spent three days reworking the thing. I haven’t yet given it a name.