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320 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2012
It seems obvious to me that many issues within our national character can be explained by the terrain and climate. For seven months of the year, it's a low leaden sky, which is never even visible in big cities, depressingly bitter cold, unpredictable torrents of rain, poor weather, nightfall, darkness, gloom. And then, we have those endless expanses: fields, meadows, woodlands, steppes. Nothing to rest your eyes on. You shrink internally and curl up, trying to preserve any warmth, exerting yourself until the point of exhaustion, like the children in the painting of the Peredvizhnik painter Perov (one of the Wanderers), dragging their terrible load behind them in the snow. Everything is achieved through heroic effort, labor, and struggle. There comes a point when the Russian soul becomes torn; it aches and is metaphysically fatigued. You just want to sit in a corner, focus on one immovable thought and drink something hot in order to warm up and soften your soul, hardened by trials.
There is an answer to every question in holy Scripture, though there may not be an answer to a concrete question: what should I, someone of no particular importance, do right now, at this time? The human free will is boundless, but simultaneously limited by a desire to always follow God's will, which is often incomprehensible.
An abbot of my acquaintance one said: "If you don't know how to act, just say with all your heart: 'Lord, I love You! Glory to You!'