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114 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1929
He felt like writing. He grabbed a book and began reading. Svistonov did not create systematically, a world did not suddenly take shape in front of him, everything did not suddenly become clear, and he did not write then. On the contrary, his creations emerged from vague notations in the margins of books, from stolen similes, from adroitly rewritten pages, from overheard conversations, from recast gossip.
“There aren’t many real catchers of souls in the world. Nothing is more formidable than a real catcher. They are quiet, real catchers, and they are polite, for only politeness connects them with the outside world. Of course they don’t have snouts or hooves. They pretend to love life, but they love art alone.
“Understand,” Svistonov continued, knowing that the deaf girl was not understanding a thing, “art is not pure fanfare, not pure work. It’s a fight for the population of another world in order to ensure that that world is fully populated, that it has variety, that it’s full of life. Literature might be compared to life beyond the grave. Actually, literature is life beyond the grave.”