Chernobyl is a portal to infinity.
You can't understand anything without the shadow of death. And only on the basis of Russian culture could you begin to make sense of the catastrophe.
They appeared on this earth, fell in love, raised bread with the sweat of their brow, continued their line. Waited for their grandchildren. And then, having lived this life, they left the land by going into the land, by becoming the land.
~
In a few decades, in a hundred years, these will be mythic years. Then who will remember what. Already I hear your voice from a distance. Was it always there, just under the surface. Already our story is in a book and I look upon my life from the corner of my eye. Already, the dust on our grey faces...already a dark sea, and nothing to say.
It's impossible to suffer like this without any meaning. Without any of the old words.
Where is the word that is found in nobody's heart?
(Words mostly from Alexievich's remarkable book. Some are my own)
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