A jolly, eerie winter, when everything shifted and took off into obscurity.
When a bomb falls in a Tolstoy novel, it will, invariably, spin around without exploding for a few seconds in front of the hero, and those seconds, for the hero, as in a dream, last months, years - an entire life. See more
The bomb of the revolution fell in February 1917, but spun around unexploded, and for the long months that followed, we were living in a dream and waiting for the explosion. Now that the smoke is beginning to clear, we see that everything has been turned on its head - history, literature, man, and glory.
Nobody knows anything. Cut off from the world. There is no battle. Silence, once in a while one can see the blue sky. Telephones for private conversations are off. There is rumour of a railway strike. See more
An incident with E.'s brother Ya.: he came home drunk, with someone’s rifle, and aimed it at his brother. He built in the room a barricade of cupboards, armchairs and sat down. He fell, crushed by a cupboard.
On an ancient English steamboat (which we wouldn’t miss if it were drowned by Germans), I returned to Russia. We reached Bergen after a long fifteen hours, with dimmed lights, in life vests, boats at the ready.