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416 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2005
Actually, it was dating from this episode that Krylov remembered himself. His attraction to the transparent, to the mystery of the gem, which subsequently inserted Krylov into the true Riphean mentality, must originally have been an emanation of the dry, flat Asiatic world, where water was especially valued and everything earthly under the red-hot sky was divided into what seemed fit for being ground into pigment, on one hand, and tintless monotony, on the other. Young Krylov perceived transparency as a substance’s highest, most enlightened state. Transparency was magic. All simple objects belonged to the ordinary world, this world; no matter how cleverly they were arranged or how tightly sealed, you could open them up and see what they had inside. Transparency belonged to a world of a different order, and you couldn’t open it up and get inside. Once young Krylov attempted to extract the orange glass-juice trapped in the thick walls of his aunt’s vase and that was much better than the colorless water poured into the vase. One afternoon, on the balcony, on a carefully spread out newspaper, young Krylov struck the vase with a hammer, exploding its emptiness like a grenade in a war movie. The shards, though — some of them flew into the sneering sycamore or under his aunt’s old tubs — were just as self-contained as the intact object. Choosing the very best bottom piece, with the densest color, young Krylov continued to smash it on the scraps of the now slivered and silvered newspaper until he ended up with a hard, completely white powder. The only color in the powder came from his, Krylov’s, unanticipated blood, which looked like a chewed up raisin. Not a drop remained in the powder of the transparency for whose sake the experiment had been performed.