NOVEMBER 8. Here’s what happened.
One wise and honest friend said, “It’s boring and a little draggy. Your childhood reminiscences are important for you, but will anyone else care?” And really, writing about a Russian childhood after Bunin and Nabokov . . .
Another said that I wasn’t frank enough. “Write with your guts, not your head.” I don’t have strength in my guts. I’m both patient and analyst here. If I just turn myself inside out and
don’t look at it dispassionately, I won’t be far from going mad. After all, it’s only my rationalism that has saved me living in this country.
But my girl friend liked it. She said I had talent but not enough mastery yet.
I console myself; even famous writers had mediocre first books. I’ll practice on this diary. If it falls into someone’s hands, that’s his business.
NOVEMBER 9. They say that when a society is falling apart, mysticism thrives. Moscow is infected with it. Everyone is seeking miracles. Thousands sit by the TV and listen to the hypnotic speeches of Dr. Kashpirovsky. “Everything is fine, good, good. Your problems and pains are leaving; you feel lighter and more radiant.” He is an honest man. “Some people may feel worse, but do not despair.” After one of his shows a famous Moscow liberal said during a political talk, “Let’s see, maybe some people really will feel better and some will be worse off. However, I doubt that anyone could be worse; we’re at bottom now.”
There was a funny parody on Radio Liberty. “Calm down, relax, dear comrades. Soviet power is gone, gone, gone. ...”
In the early eighties, such a difficult period, I spent a lot of leisure time with my parapsychologist friends. They had an answer for everything: how to charm a man; how to overcome disease; how to withstand the dark forces around us. They really did try to help. Despite the semiofficial ban, they regularly went to their lab, an ancient, dilapidated building in the middle of Moscow. Patients in despair came there, and some were helped
by the kind healers. The parapsychologists themselves were often strange and miserable.
It was white magic against the background of the black magic that traveled around Moscow in black Volgas and stuffed itself with black caviar. I realized that a devout person should not go near even white magic. Maybe my faith wasn’t strong enough. However, I saw devout Christians there, too.
We often met at home. Famous scientists, doctors, and actors came. There was something Masonic about it. No, no, no, not a “kike-Masonic conspiracy” against the Russians. Actually there often were mysterious Asians at these evenings.
On holidays we succumbed to very earthly fun with lots of food and wine. But strangely we drank quite a bit and didn’t get drunk. There was a special energy at the table. It could change the taste of vodka, so instead of being disgustingly bitter, it was almost sweet. What was that, hypnosis?
Women’s charms were appreciated then. The men yielded to the magic power of the female force. Sometimes funny things happened. One highly respected doctor fell in love with me in the middle of the party (the influence of the sweet vodka?). He sat down next to me and started making passes. His wife didn’t like it, of course, and she went home. The doctor was sent home after her. He reached his apartment and then suddenly ran back downstairs. He sat down on the steps and said, “No, I’m not going back to that bitch.” It took his not very sober friend a lot of effort to bring him to “that bitch.” Luckily everyone was in a good mood, and no one was angry or hurt.
My friend asked me, “Why are you wasting time on that mystical nonsense? Why don’t you get real?” Actually it opened up a new dimension in my life. I learned the basics of Eastern
religions and learned to control myself better and to understand others. When I went to India a few years later, I could see the power and spiritual beauty of that marvelous land beyond the poverty and filth. Besides, I was prepared for a mysterious revelation on the island of Crete, where fate brought me by accident. I’ll write about it sometime.
NOVEMBER 10. The past pursues me. A crazy thought: Sometimes I want to die in order to return to the past. Is it weakness, helplessness in the face of real life? Everything that is bad or sad in the past now seems magical to me. I think that if I made just a small effort, I could return to those scents, sounds, and feelings. Suddenly everything comes at once: the smells of the old buffet in our Kaluga apartment; the aromatic tobacco plants in the city park; the sound of the old clock in our living room; the creak of the front door; the crackle of logs in the stove. If we do exist after death, maybe we can look back into the past from the other world? Can my father see me not just at this moment but also in my childhood? I think I believe that he can. It would be good if you could combine things from the past the way you wanted, say, invite all the people who are dear and interesting to you, even if they have lived at various times. What if you had the opportunity to invite twenty people now gone. Anyone at all—children, parents, Alexander the Great, Pushkin, Mozart. “Come, ghosts, to my party.”I wonder if anyone will invite me when I die.
Who Are the Real Feminists?
NOVEMBER 11. My best friend, Lena, married an American. She’s not a friend anymore because she has stopped seeing everyone, including me. She’s leaving for New York in a few days. I wonder if she’ll call to say good-bye. Of course, it hurts that she’s behaving this way. We have many years of real friendship behind us. But she was always a complicated person, and now, apparently, she is confused by her own emotions. Lena often went to extremes—she grieved to despair and loved to the exclusion of the rest of the world—and she understands that her friends may be envious that she’s going to the land so many dream of and can’t have, America.
NOVEMBER 12. “We’ll do fine without America,” my friend Dasha says. It’s easy for her, she’s almost always in love. Each time he’s the best, most talented, and most beloved, and the next one is even better and even smarter. If men could change in accordance with her opinions, there would be no limit to their perfection.
Dasha is a sweetie—gentle, feminine, and charming. Men melt in her presence; she enchants them. Maybe it’s a good thing
that she’s not going to America. She’d drive the poor men crazy there.
She has so much energy. She can party all night, go to work the next day, and go to another party that night. Sometimes I feel like an old wreck next to her.
We were in the kitchen having tea, and she was telling me about her new lover. He is an artist, a genius, of course. She met him at someone’s house a few days ago, and the affair is just starting. He is having a big show, and she rushes over after work to help set up. I imagine that she won’t be reachable for the next few days. They’ll be devoted to him alone. I ask her at least to phone and let me know how things are going.
NOVEMBER 14. Dasha called and told me a fabulous story. Her more or less steady boyfriend was on a business trip. She invited the artist to her house. Everything was ready for her new love, the bell rang, and . . . there was her steady, Viktor, who was supposed to be in another city. He was all smiles, happy to have surprised her. She was in shock. The bell would ring again, Viktor would answer, and she’d be lost.
She began kissing Viktor and pulling him toward the bedroom. He wanted to take a shower, having just returned from a long trip. “Later, later,” Dasha whispered passionately. “I missed you so much.” They were in bed, the lights were out, and the doorbell rang, but no one would answer! “I’m sick of that neighbor,” Dasha said. The artist saw that there was no light, and she planned to tell him that she had had to leave on an emergency.
Men, if this diary should fall into your hands, do not read the next lines. The next day Viktor told that “persistent neighbor/’ “You can’t imagine how much Dasha loves me. She was trembling with passion when I showed up unexpectedly. She pulled me into bed, wouldn’t even let me shower first.”