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267 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1956
Everything was jumbled in my mind – the ancient community, the mournful singing, the wind in the forest outside, the skulls on the monks’ robes, Moscow, the cross on Lyolya’s grave, the soldiers crawling with lice in the trenches, the synagogue in Kobrin, the lighthouse in Taganrog, revolution, meetings, Marseillaise, Kerensky, ‘Peace to the poor, war on the rich’. My whole life seemed a patchwork, a vivid dream, my only settled habit – the expectation of change.
By then I was convinced that genuine literature was the truest expression of the mind and heart of a free man, that only there could the human spirit reveal itself in all its power, richness and complexity, redeeming as it were, the many failings of our commonplace lives. It seemed to me a gift from the future. It reflected man’s perpetual longing for perfect harmony and undying love, cherished in spite of love’s daily birth and death. As the droning of a seashell makes us wish for the quiet expanse of the sea at dawn, or the smoke of rising clouds, or the freshness of a forest, or a child’s voice, or deep, all-embracing silence, so literature draws us to the golden age of our desires.