3
Who knows what will remain of each of us? Of thoughts – poplar fluff. Of deeds – wind in the birch leaves. Memory is short and capricious, the eternal fades into eternity, the transient transits into the vanished. Eternity belongs to the actors’ guild, and it mocks the audience who are not even given the chance to watch so much as the first act. But eternity needs no applause; it performs for itself alone.
“What remains…” Having traced his thoughts full circle, N. returned to yesterday’s reflections. “One thing for sure – the manuscript of The Flying Dutchman. My book’s finished, and, good or bad, I don’t want it to fall into unfriendly hands. What shall I do with it? Post it to the publishers in Moscow? Will it make it, or will it live out its days in some Lubyanka cellar? I can but t
