In another letter, sent in the fall of 1913, she tried to make sense of her past, to sort out important moments in her life, and again reminded him of Venice. “My love, I cannot describe to you the state I’m in. I’m the most wretched person on earth. I never thought that one could be that wretched. The only thing I had was you, our love, that gift which I received and spurned. Then, in Venice it was all still possible. I committed an error. Everything I chose over life with my beloved turned out a lie. Everything is a lie. Lofty ideas are a lie. The revolution is a lie. The people are a lie. All the beautiful words are a lie, a lie, a lie. Yet I blame no one. Only I am responsible for my wasted life. Then, in Venice, it was still possible to change everything. Or was it already impossible? I don’t know. I don’t know anything more. I no longer exist. The sooner I die, the better. My body still drags around from inertia, but the soul’s gone. It’s long dead. Do you know what my ideal is now? To disappear quietly, unnoticed, so that I leave nothing, not even my corpse.”
She continued writing to him for some time, but he rarely answered. Most likely these letters are all that is left of her.
Their correspondence broke off during the First World War.
Nothing is known of Lydia Petrovna Kochetkova’s death.
This is from the last available letter.
“My darling! Do you know what I regret most of all? I could have given you all the fullness of my love, but I gave you nothing but pain. Forgive me, if you can. And my heart cries out at the thought that my highest calling was just that—to give you my affection and tenderness, but instead I squandered my worthless life on phantoms.”
Translated by Sylvia Maizell
In a Boat Scratched on a Wall
Language, as it creates reality, judges: it punishes and pardons. Language is its own verdict. There is nowhere to appeal. All higher courts are nonverbal. Even before writing anything, the writer, like Laocoön, has been pinioned by the language snake. If he is to explain anything, the writer must be freed from language.
It took quite a while after my move from Pushka to the canton of Zurich for the bizarre sensation of irreality, the carnival quality of what was happening to me, to be replaced, little by little, by the tentative and amazed confidence that, indeed, there was no deception here. The trains were not toy trains, the landscape not painted, the people not planted there.
Immediately following the change of scenery, I tried to finish writing the novel I’d begun in Moscow, but I got nowhere. The letters I’d traced out there had a totally different density here. The novel ended up being about something else. Every word is a high step you trip over.
Borders, distance, and air do wonders for words. A combination of Russian sounds that was so obvious and natural on Malaya Dmitrovka, with the Chekhov Casino raging outside, can’t get through customs here. Words stripped of any independent existence there seem to take up residency here and become not a means but a subject of verbal law. Here, any Russian word sounds all wrong and means something completely different. There, in the theater, the meaning of any spoken phrase changes with the sets.
On the banks of the Limmat, it’s as if there’s a different center of gravity, and any word out of a Russian inkwell weighs much more than in Russian’s country of origin. What in Russia suffuses, litters the atmosphere, the sediments and snouts, Grushnitsky the cadet, the war in Chechnya, and “Christ has risen from the dead,” here is all concentrated in every word written in Cyrillic—crammed, rammed into every last .
With each passing day, as it slips from reality, the fatherland seeks out new bearers and finds them in the squiggles of an exotic alphabet. Russia has gathered all its goods and chattel and taken up residence in a font. Letters have been consolidated just as apartments once were to accommodate new residents.
My departure from the language, my loss of Russian murmuring in my ears, forced me to stop, to be silent. On the rare occasions we meet, writers from Russia are amazed. “How can you write in this boring Switzerland? Without the language, without the tension?”
They’re right. Russian letters do have high pressure. And the language there is changing quickly.
My departure from Russian speech forced me to turn around and face it. Work on my text came to a halt. Just as the pause is a part of music, so silence is a part of the text. The most important part, maybe.
What language did I leave behind? What did I take with me? Where can words go from here? The work of silence.
If I was to go further, I had to understand where the essence of writing in Russian actually lay.
Being at once creator and creature of the nation’s reality, the Russian language is the form of existence, the body, of the totalitarian consciousness.
Daily life has always muddled through without words: with bellowing, interjections, jokes, and quotes from film comedies. It’s the state and literature that require coherent words.
Russian literature is not the language’s form of existence but the non-totalitarian consciousness’s form of existence in Russia. The totalitarian consciousness is amply served by decrees and prayers. Decrees from above, prayers from below. The latter are usually more original than the former. Swearing is the vital prayer of a prison country.
Edicts and cursing are the nation’s yin and yang, rain and field, phallus and vagina; they conceive Russian civilization verbally.
Over the generations, the prison reality developed a prison consciousness whose main principle was “the strongest get the best bunks.” This consciousness was expressed in a language called up to serve Russian life, maintaining it in a state of continuous, unending civil war. When everyone lives by prison camp laws, language’s mission is everyone’s cold war with everyone else. If the strong must inevitably beat the feeble, the language’s mission is to do this verbally. Humiliate him, insult him, and steal his ration. Language as a form of disrespect for the individual.
Russian reality developed a language of unbridled power and abasement. The language of the Kremlin and the prison camp slang of the street share one and the same nature. In a country that lives by an unwritten but distinct law—the weakest’s place is by the slop bucket—the dialect suits the reality. Words rape. Words abuse.
Had the borders been under lock and key, there wouldn’t be any Russian literature.
Literary language arrived in the eighteenth century along with the idea of human dignity. We had no words for that language. The first century of the nation’s literature was essentially translations and imitations. We had no verbal instrument to express the individual consciousness. It first had to be created. Russian was taught like a foreign language, and the missing concepts were introduced: “the public,” “being in love,” “being humane,” “literature.”
The Russian literary language, which in Russia is human dignity’s form of existence, its body, squeezed through the crack between the shout and the moan. Russian literature wedged into an alien embrace. It used words to construct the great Russian wall between the state and the people.
It was a foreign body, a colony of European culture on the Russian plain, if by European colonization we mean the mitigation of mores and the defense of the rights of the weak before the mighty and not the importation of German gunners.
As has happened on other continents as well, the colony outstripped the mother country in its development. Turgenev, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky—these are all colonists whose texts moved literature’s capital from the Old World to Russia. They took all the best from the thousand-year legacy and said, Go east!
But something is rotten in the Russian realm, and periodically, the state and the people make a rush toward each other, and then foreigners need to watch out. Writers’ bones crack in these embraces as well; they either die or slip away.
The twentieth century saw certain well-known events. The indigenous population returned once again to its usual “literary process:” decrees from above, prayers from below. Some “colonists” returned to their spiritual homeland; those who st
ayed had their tongues ripped out by the barbarians.
The invented language of the Soviet utopia was also the body of its existence. Socialism’s lifeless, invented reality existed only in the suitably dead language of the newspapers, television, and political meetings. In the 1990s, when the regime disappeared along with the language that served it, prison camp slang rose to the top and filled the vacuum.
Once again, the state and the nation are speaking the same dialect and whacking Chechens in the toilet, as Putin so famously put it.
Today the totalitarian consciousness lives on in the language of television, where the main principle of dialog is to outshout the other guy. It is the language of newspapers turned sickeningly yellow. It is the language of the street, where swearing is the norm.
The language of Russian literature is an ark. A rescue attempt. A hedgehog defense. An island of words where human dignity is supposed to be preserved.
When I left Russia, I lost the language I wanted to lose. The changes in modern Russian are a molting. The fur seems different, but the colouration is the same, and painfully recognizable at that. This language, which is meant to debase, reproduces itself with each generation of Russian boys and girls. In and of itself, the literary language does not exist; it has to be created anew each time, and in solitude.
Finding myself in Switzerland, I first had to understand who and where I was. For me, understanding something means writing a book about it. The result was Russian Switzerland. Through this book, through Switzerland, I tried to understand something about myself and my country of origin.
I wanted to read this book, not write it. Strange though it may seem, the book arose out of the very fact of its absence, born from my sense of the tremendous number of holes in the Swiss landscape. There were the mountains and banks, but something more substantive was lacking. A foreign country remains foreign until you find people near and dear to you there. I began searching for Gogol and Bunin the way a poor provincial seeks out rich relatives in the big city. I simply collected, crumb by crumb, what there was here of Tolstoy, and Scriabin, and the terrorists, and the men who fled here from Germany as Russian prisoners of war. And I ended up with the history of my country, my Russia, a country not on any map. In this country of mine, my dead parents settled between the lines, as did all my nameless Tambov ancestors, who hacked and were hacked, executed and were executed. I simply wanted to compile a “literary and historical guidebook,” but it ended up being a novel about the Russian world, except that, unlike a traditional novel, uninvented characters in it live uninvented lives, or rather, lives not invented by me.
The book contains little of the real Switzerland. Switzerland is instead a strange entity by that name that exists within the Russian cultural consciousness.
Of all the Wests invented in Russia, the most invented is Karamzin’s paradise West, which was invented in the eighteenth century by German and French teachers on Russian estates, surrounded by slaves. And Karamzin, a conscientious pupil, made Switzerland the symbol of that West. In his Swiss letters, which he wrote in Russia, he falls down on his knees on the banks of the Rhine outside Basel and exclaims, “Happy Swiss! Do you—every day, every hour—do you thank the heavens for your happiness, for the fact that you live in the embrace of a most splendid nature, under the beneficent laws of a most brotherly union, in the simplicity of your customs and serving one God?”
This “enlightened” version of the West was invented from its opposite. If Russia lives by the principle, “If you’re the boss, I’m the fool; if I’m the boss, you’re the fool,” then there they have a republic, equality, elections, and so on. If in the fatherland, “righteous labor does not build man a house of stone,” then there righteous labor does lead to a house of one’s own “with a stork on the roof,” Dostoevsky’s famous expression, in The Gambler, for Europe’s narrow burgher mentality. If in our homeland something belongs to you only until someone stronger decides to take it away, then there private property is sacred, and a peasant can be confident that his lawn will belong to his descendants ten generations hence, and so forth.
It became a book about the protracted struggle among Russian ideas, the unending national showdown, the barricades that never come down on the streets of the notorious Russian soul.
When the question arose of translating Russian Switzerland into German, I suddenly discovered that this book truly exists only along with my Russian reader. Any sentence spoken in Russian places you on one side of the barricades or the other. And in translation, it’s not just that the associations and allusions disappear—half the names require notes—you can’t even tell where the barricades are. You can translate the words, but not the reader.
Not only can no novel really be translated, neither can any word. The experience of a language and the life lived through it and any specific word make languages with different pasts noncommunicating vessels. A past alive in words defies translation, especially that Russian past which was never a fact but always an argument in the neverending war the nation has waged with itself.
If you are to build your own Russian literary ark, you have to become a hermit. Go somewhere. Anywhere—to the Alps or inward. And take along only your lived experience of love and loss and ten centuries of Cyrillic.
To know which way words are going, you need two points through which you can draw the line of motion. One point is everything written before you in Russian, beginning with the Slavonic translation of the Scriptures. The second point is you yourself, lock, stock, and barrel, and all the people you love.
If you are going to say something new, you need to feel the centuries of tradition inside you. If a button is pushed at some power plant, the light flickers in the city’s windows. So, too, in literature, if a word is written, it reverberates in all the existing books, regardless of whether you’ve read them or not.
Literary tradition is a living being. A plant.
Sap runs through the trunk to the branches. The nineteenth century is the trunk of Russian literature. Then comes the branching. There are perfectly brilliant branches, like Platonov, but this is a severed limb that cannot keep growing. You have to find the branch that reaches up, the main branch along which the tree grows skyward.
Chekhov. Bunin. Nabokov. Sasha Sokolov.
In my texts I mean to connect Western literature and its achievements in verbal technique with the humanity of the Russian pen. Joyce doesn’t love his heroes, but Russian writers do. The Russian hero is Akaky Akakievich, from Gogol’s “Overcoat.” Though there is no good reason to love him.
To know which way to go, you need to turn around and see where you’re coming from. What is genuinely new is always a development of the tradition. In order to understand the tradition, you need to discover the word’s genetic code, seek out the living DNA spiral along which you can trace where all this came from. And if you do untwist that spiral, you will arrive at He Who loves and waits for us all. You simply need to put the words in the one and only orader (which is unknown) that makes the chain of words lock on God, so that life can run down it. The writer must find the precise order that makes real blood course under the skin of the words.
Words are the material for the road. The longest and most important road. The road to the “historical homeland”—to the ultimate beginning. “In the beginning there was love. This cluster of love. Or rather, not even love yet, but the need for it, because there wasn’t anyone to love. God was lonely and cold. And this love here demanded an outlet, an object, it wanted warmth, to hold someone dear close, to sniff the delicious nape of a child, its own, flesh of its flesh, so God created himself a child to love. Nineveh” (Maidenhair). A novel is an opportunity to find the road to that original love. For his heroes, the author is God. The reader identifies with the hero. If the author loves his Akaky Akakievich, whom there is no good reason to love, then the reader, too, feels, knows, that God exists and loves him, though there is no good reason to. He just does. As he would his own child. This is what words
are for, to pave the road to that feeling.
In time, though, any road wears out and forms ruts and potholes. Language gets played out. The road the generations have gone down becomes impassable. It grows up in clichés. You have to lay a new one. “One more novel” is written in a worn language that leads nowhere. In order to reach your goal, you need a new road, a new way of putting words together.
For me, the only way to create my own language is to write incorrectly. I sniff each sentence, and if I get a whiff of a textbook on “How To Speak and Write Correctly,” I cross it out. Saying something correctly means saying nothing. Because ever since the Tower of Babel, language has been a means of misunderstanding. Correct words, having given up the ghost, can mean anything at all except what you want to say, and they evoke a sense of disdain, like someone else’s scruffy toothbrush or a woman who has been passed around.
In the beginning there was love, not the word. The child has yet to be conceived, but the mother already loves him. And then, body inside body, love doesn’t need words. After the birth, mother and child still love each other nonverbally. Only with words, when verbal barriers arise between people who love each other, does alienation begin.
Thus, language creates barriers. Once they lost their sacral nature, words turned into a means of misunderstanding. Words don’t mean anything anymore. So you have to do something with these words to restore their original, Divine meaning.
Words are guards that keep out emotion and meaning, sentries at the boundary between people. Either you need to learn to grope your way toward understanding each other, or else be able to escape over the verbal barbed wire.
Calligraphy Lesson Page 15
