The ashes of Chernobyl beat like a drum in my heart. For three years now I have been living with it and suffering from it—I am striving to understand the causes of the accident and its consequences, constantly thinking about the heroes and thugs of Chernobyl, about its victims—past and future. I correspond, meet, and listen, writing down ever-new stories.
Sometimes, with a presumptuous confidence, I think I know everything—or almost everything—about the accident. But no: in the account of an unknown person or in a letter that arrives from far away, an unexpected, piercing detail suddenly flares up; another new drama appears; the Chernobyl plot, which seemed at least somehow familiar, makes yet another sharp turn. And then I realize: no, I won’t get out of this Chernobyl whirlpool anytime soon.