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422 pages, Paperback
First published January 7, 2016
Tsezar was lolling at his desk, smoking his pipe. He had his back to Shukhov and didn't see him.
Opposite him sat Kh-123, a wiry old man doing twenty years' hard. He was eating gruel.
'You're wrong, old man,' Tsezar was saying, goodnaturedly. 'Objectively, you will have to admit that Eisenstein is a genius. Surely you can't deny that Ivan the Terrible is a work of genius? The dance of the masked oprichniki! The scene in the cathedral!'
Kh-123's spoon stopped short of his mouth.
'Bogus,' he said angrily. 'So much art in it that it ceases to be art. Pepper and poppy seed instead of good honest bread. And the political motive behind it is utterly loathsome — an attempt to justify a tyrannical individual. An insult to the memory of three generations of the Russian intelligentsia!' (He was eating his gruel without savoring it. It wouldn't do him any good.)
'But would it have got past the censor if he'd handled it differently?'
'Oh well, if that's what matters... Only don't call him a genius — call him a toady, a dog carrying out his master's orders. A genius doesn't adjust his treatment of a theme to a tyrant's taste.'