Running Diagonally

Instead of a foreword

With me, you can’t quarrel face to face. If you want to quarrel with me, better write to me instead. And hide. Because the louder a person yells at me, the more interesting it is to watch him—like I’m sitting in the hall, and he—this one yelling—on stage. And yelling. And my breath catches: well done! great! excellent! Oh, eyebrows!.. No, no—when it’s like that, I don’t understand the text. How does he move his eyebrows so angrily! And bows? He’ll curse and then bow—his hand in his trouser pocket. He’ll call out and bow—his hand comes out of his pocket, a swing above his head. Stood up! Sat down! Well done! Oh, but here the entrance is unnecessary, unjustified… And now he’s lying. Bad… And now, altogether, some illogical decline… everything… poorly played, badly.

For many years now there’s lived inside me an impression that life—yes, life—is a theater. And each, as it goes, plays their role—who better, who worse, who brilliantly, who talentlessly…

And everywhere I’m ready to meet my character: from the real, from the past, from the future…