Christmas Eve 1917: “You don’t know the everyday life - it’s all one big accident!”
A betrayal already means love. You can’t betray an acquaintance.
Some people are selling themselves for money, I’m selling myself for poetry (soul).
A pale dawn.
Word is akin to second flesh for a human. It's a triunity: soul, body, and word. Which is why only poets are perfect.
Lyova! Tomorrow I’ll wire you money. I think that you’ll be able to come back to Moscow soon, just wait a little longer, it will be safer that way. Of course, I know how boring it is - worse, even - but I beg you to do as I say. See more
I don’t want to make light of your current state of mind. I know all about it, but I am so afraid for you, especially as a certain vile creature is living in my house and must be forced to leave beforehand. And I won’t be able to do this before Christmas.
Alya, at the time of the uprising (as far as I've heard, I wasn't there, I was in Feodosia):
-Poor Irina! How late have you been born! And such horrible things are now hanging over your head!
— "Marina! What do I do? I don't want to marry a man!"
Leo! Yesterday I was at S’s. He offered to help with selling the house. To some Pole. Regarding another subject, he says I should write you down as a candidate for some economic society. See more
It’s a good income. In the meantime, he advises you to rest for a month. As for the candidature, I will research and write to you in detail. Kisses.
P.S Dodin’s uncle has a bearded servant that looks like Baba Yaga. Very sweet. Pass it on to Doda. Soon I will send food and sheets.
I infinitely and easily surrender, when it comes to my soul. I fear that I will not get a ticket for the train, and incidentally, I do not fear at all that this train takes me away from humanity, who… human, of whom… See more
My soul is absent from my life. My life passes my soul. My life is not made of my soul.
Therefore, I get used to taking services easily.
My God, it is not to me, not for me! I don’t need anything!
Now I have only one method of gratitude at my disposal: poems. They live on food, lend a cot: I recite poetry, rewrite poetry, write poetry. The soul pays for the body. How I would like to say that poems are uninteresting, and simply, for me to be loved! And to pay for a meal, as a meal!
During the Moscow uprising, cadet officer Moses Halman defended the The Panagia Portaitissa.
If you are alive, if I am fated to see you again, listen: yesterday, on the road towards Kharkov, I went past the southern border. There were 9000 dead. I can’t tell you about tonight because it has not ended. It’s a grey morning now. I’m in the corridor. You have to understand! I'm on the move and writing to you and I don't know now... but there are words here that I cannot write. See more
Perhaps you can stay at home? If everyone were to stay, you’d go alone. Because you’re perfect. Because you can’t, in order to kill others. If God makes this miracle happen, and leaves you alive, I’ll follow after you like a dog.
The news is uncertain, I don’t know what to believe. I’m reading about the Kremlin, Tverskaya, Arbat, Metropol, Vosnesenskaya square, and about the mountains of corpses. In the socialist revolutionary papers “Kurskaya Zhizn” from yesterday, I read that disarmament has begun. Others (from today) talk about the fight. I don’t have the will to write now, but I’ve seen how I enter my home thousands of times. Will we be able to enter the city? It’s about 2PM now. In Moscow it’ll be 2AM. And if I go home, there won’t be a soul there will there? Where do I search for you? Maybe we don’t have a home? I have a constant feeling that this is an awful dream.