It’s all the same. It’s disgusting to write. The newspapers are utter lies. Moscow is gunned down and submitted to the Bolsheviks. The capitals have been seized by the enemy - and barbaric - troops. There’s nowhere to run. There is no homeland.
Our commissar Vershinin and Zhorzheliani returned from Sevastopol and told us a few things, including the fact that the Winter Palace has been half destroyed and looted, with the chambers of my beloved Nicky and Alika particularly afflicted by the latter – what infamy! See more
Rodin is dead. He was one of my oldest and most respected friends. I ferried him from London to Paris just eight days before the war. “Goodbye, and I shall see you on Wednesday at the countess’” – these were his last words at the Gare du Nord. See more
The situation is now hopeless, as the Bolsheviks are masters in the north and at Moscow; and though Kaledin holds the south, there is no chance of his making headway in the north.
The cavalry left today, tomorrow one hundred infantry soldiers will leave. Life is all the more terrible in the countryside, and there is nowhere else to go.
We’re receiving no books from Russia. But literature is the most nation-specific of the arts. Music, painting, scientific discoveries – all this represents an Esperanto of sorts for the whole world. See more
In front of Smolny, one day, I saw a ragged regiment just come from the trenches. The soldiers were drawn up before the great gates, thin and grey-faced, looking up at the building as if God were in it. Some pointed out the Imperial eagles over the door, laughing…. See more
For the bourgeoisie, freedom of the press meant freedom for the rich to publish and for the capitalists to control the newspapers, a practice which in all countries, including even the freest, produced a corrupt press. See more