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383 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1956
I talked, too, and recited some poetry, and laughed, in the general confusion. I came to myself only when Lyuba turned out the chandelier, and the room was filled with the blue, hazy light of dawn. Everyone grew quiet. The blue light mixed with the light from the lamp on a table. Faces looked dull and beautiful.
“The nicest time of all is after a muddled night,” the old man in the student’s jacket said. “Now we can drink our wine calmly. And talk about different things. I love the dawn. It rinses the soul.”
The state was falling to pieces like a handful of wet mud. The provinces and districts of Russia were no longer ruled by Petrograd, and no one knew what they lived on or what was seething inside them. The army at the front was melting fast.
Kerensky swept around the country, trying to paste the nation together with his ecstatic eloquence. For the power of an idea, for conviction, he was trying to substitute fancy phrases, an operatic pose, a grandiose but irrelevant gesture. He harangued thousands of soldiers at the front, in the trenches, without ever noticing how funny he was.
It made good sense that the past should be unrecoverable. I became convinced of this later after I had made two or three attempts to relive what had already been lived through. “Nothing in life ever is repeated,” my father used to love to say, “except our mistakes.” And the fact that nothing in life can ever be lived a second time was one of the reasons for the deep satisfaction in being alive.