A TALE OF DISEASE
Fedya said there are many superb modern authors. Dozens of masterpieces. She said that in all the proceeding centuries, only a few dozen masterpieces had been written. So why should there be such an incredible peak in our lifetime? I can prove it, he says. Bring them. Vasily Aksyonov, for example. “Well, all right, bring it, I’ll read.” “Well,” Fedya hesitates, “You’ve already decided it’s no good.” “Surely you don’t really think I am capable of rejecting a masterpiece just to win an argument with you?” “Ah,” Fedya lightens up, now he’s sure she will read honestly. “I’ll bring you loads of really great books.” “How many is ‘loads’? Five, ten, a cartload, a wagonload?” He thinks: a cartload. We listen attentively, without laughing. He counts them out: Belov, Voznesensky,
