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The mysterious tedium of great works of art — even of their names: the Venus de Milo, the Sistine Madonna, the Coliseum, the Divine Comedy. (Music is the exception. The Ninth Symphony — now that always raises the spirits!)

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It's as though the tedium of all their readers, admirers, patrons, interpreters, fell on them like a ton of bricks.

And the mysterious attraction of world-famous names: Helen, Roland, Caesar (including the creators of the above-mentioned creations, if their names have reached us).

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This applies to the sound of their names, to my aural perception. Regarding essences — the following:

I definitely prefer die Creator to the Creation. Let's take the Joconda and Leonardo. The Joconda is an absolute, Leonardo, who gave us the Joconda — is a great question mark. But perhaps Joconda is in fact the answer to Leonardo? Yes, but not an exhaustive one. Beyond the limits of the creation (of what is manifested!) there is still an entire abyss — the Creator: all the creative Chaos, the whole sky, die whole depths, all die tomorrows, all the stars — everything broken off here by earthly deadi.

Thus the absolute (the creation) transforms itself for me into relativity: landmarks on the way to the Creator.

"But that's the destruction of art!"

"Yes. Art is not die goal: it's a bridge, not the goal."

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The work of art answers, a living fate asks (the longing of he who was born, to be embodied in art!). The work of art, as somediing complete, commands; a living fate, as something incomplete, requests. If you want the absolute, go to the de Milo — Venus, to die Sistine — Madonna, to Leonardo's Smile; if you want to give the absolute (to answer!), go to plain—Aphrodite, plain —Mary, a plain —Smile: skirting interpretation — to the original source, that is, do what die creators of diese creations, known or unknown, have done.

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You won't detract from Goedie, or Leonardo, or Dante that way. Your muteness before diem — is your tribute to them. How can you respond to an exhaustive answer? You keep your mouth shut.

But if you were born in the world to give answers, don't freeze in blissful nonbeing, that's not die way Goethe, Leonardo and Dante created, and in creating, that's not what they wanted. To be overturned — yes, but to know how to get up again as well: falling down to break away, losing the way—to resurrect.

Genuflect —and walk on by: into the unborn, uncreated and yearning world.

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In this repelling force lies the primary strength of great works of art. The absolute repels — to die creation of odier absolutes! In diis lies their efficacy and eternal life.

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But between die Joconda (die absolute interpretation of a Smile) and myself (consciousness of this absoluteness) there is not only my muteness — there are also the billions of interpreters of this interpretation, all the books written on Joconda, the entire five-century-long experience of eyes and heads striving to grasp her.

There's nothing for me to do here.

Absolute, complete, perfect, interpreted, endlessly admired.

The only thing one can do faced with the Joconda — is to stop being.

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"But Joconda's smile asks a question!" To this I would answer: "Her smile's question — is its own answer." The inevitability of the question is in fact the absolute of the answer. The essence of the smile —is a question. The question is given in continuousness, therefore what is given is the essence of a smile, its answer, its absolute.

It's pointless for scholars, artists, poets and tsars to interpret the Smile (Joconda). What has been given is Mystery, mystery as essence and essence as mystery. The gift is Mystery in itself.

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To love — is to see a person as God intended him and his parents failed to make him.

To not love — is to see instead of him: a table, a chair.

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A daughter whose father has been killed —is an orphan. A wife whose husband has been killed is a widow. But a mother whose son has been killed?

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I always cross myself when I cross a river. Without even thinking. I wonder whether there is such a folk superstition. If not, then —there once was.

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Kinship by blood is coarse and strong, kinship by choice — is fine. And what is fine can tear.

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"I won't leave you!" Only God can say this —or a man with milk in Moscow, winter 1918.

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The Theater and I:

I am one of those viewers who tears Judas to pieces when the mystery

play is over.

The whole secret is to have been able to see things a hundred years ago as they are today, and today to see them as they were a hundred years ago.

(The destruction ... I wanted to write: of space. No, of time. But you can't conceive of "time" other than as: distance. And "distance" -immediately gives you versts, mileposts. Therefore: versts are spatial years, just as a year — is a temporal verst.

One way or the other, you have to transpose years and versts.

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A verst: leading away! How much better this is than "outgoing" (I won't say anything about "entering": I came in — and I stayed!)

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Love — as a conspiracy:

Zur rechten Zeit,

Am rechten Ort,

Der rechte Mann —

Das rechte Wort.

And the main thing — Wort! Zeit, Ort, Mann — I yield.

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When I leave a city, it always seems to me that the city ends, ceases to be. Thus about Freiburg, for example, where I was a girl. Someone is talking: "In 1912, when I was traveling through Freiburg ..." My first thought: "Really?" (That is, does Freiburg really continue to exist?) This isn't self-importance; I know that I am nothing in the life of cities. This isn't: without me? but: on its own?! (That is: it really exists, outside of my vision, I didn't invent it all?)

When I leave a person, it always seems to me that he ends, ceases to be. Thus about Z, for example. Someone is talking: "In 1917, when I ran into Z" . . . My first thought: "Really?" (That is: Z really continues to exist?) This isn't self-importance; I know that in the lives of people I am nothing . . .

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"Ends, ceases to be." Here one should distinguish two situations.

The first:

People and cities that have been strongly inhabited (enlivened? exploited?) by me disappear irrevocably: as if they'd plunged into the abyss. Not sonorous Kitezhes — but sunken Herculaneums.

Cities and people who have only served as fleeting playthings for me —freeze: in the same place, with the same face. Stereoscope.

When I hear about the former, I'm surprised: Is it really still standing? When I hear about the latter, I'm surprised: is he really growing?

I repeat, this isn't self-importance; this is a profound, innocent, sometimes joyous amazement. I listen, I ask questions, I participate, sympathize . . . and, secretly: "It's not really Freiburg. Not the same Freiburg. A mask of Freiburg. A deception. An impersonation."

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You have to lock many things with a key in the Revolution: everything except your trunks! And, locking up, throw the key. . . . but there's no sea deep enough!

No, locking up, silently and bravely present the key — to God.

I pronounce God like a drowning man: with a sigh. A murky feeling: God shouldn't be bothered (know) when you can do it yourself. And the "can do it yourself" grows every day . . .

Mandelstam has a wonderful (adolescent) poem about this:

. . . Lord Almighty! — I said by mistake,

Without thinking to say it at all...

and, further:

God's name, like a great bird,

Flew out of my chest. . .

Inadvertently. But I would never dare to call myself a believer, and this — a prayer.

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What in life have I not promulgated at the expense of what! Photography at the expense of the portrait, serfdom at the expense of the law in general, cabbage at the expense of the rose, Martha at the expense of Mary, Old Believers at the expense of Peter . . . The very opposite of myself— at my own expense!

And not from a sense of sport (I don't have one!), not for argument's sake (I suffer!) — from pure justice: the underdog is always right.

And another thing: from the complete incapacity for co-mmisera-tion (co-thought, co-love) with hypocrites who in secret indisputably prefer: photography to the portrait, serfdom to just the law, the cabbage to the rose, Martha to Mary, and long-beards to Peter!

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But there is another mystery: when a thing has been hurt it begins to be right. It gathers all its strength — and rights itself, gathers all its rights to exist—and stands.

(NB! The effectiveness of persecuted ideas and people!)

After all, there is no completely definitive lie, every lie does have at least one ray directed — at the truth. And the whole truth goes along this ray. Guilt detected and punished becomes misfortune; responsibility falls on the judges' heads. The criminal, convicted here, is pure before God. But there is another mystery, and the most frightening one, perhaps: the infectiousness of punished ailments, the heredity of guilt. The criminal whom we forcibly rid of a disease gives the disease to us. Every judge and executioner — is an heir.

In this there is also a certain blood will. Earthly blood must flow. The criminal doesn't exist, the nearest relative is the executioner (or the judge, it doesn't matter!) Blood the criminal has not yet spilt cries out to the executioner: spill me! The moment of the execution— is a moment of union. The first splattered drop of the criminal's blood is an initiation into ownership — and obligation.

There are marriages more mysterious than that of husband and wife.

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(The mysterious correspondence: altar, execution block; ax, cross; the people, the chorus; the judge, the priest; the executioner and the victim —all betrothed: instead of an unseen God —an unseen Devil. A Devil's wedding the other way around, with the same immutability of the unspoken vow.

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Not a single truth (from the kingdom Over There) can help but become a lie in the kingdom of Here. Not a single lie (from the kingdom Here) can help but become the truth in the kingdom Over There.

Truth — is a turncoat.

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In the Commissariat:

I, innocently: "Is it difficult — to be an instructor?" My comradess at the Commissariat, an Estonian woman, a communist: "Oh, it's not hard at all! You just stand up on the trash can —and you scream, scream, scream ..."

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The bourgeoisie was forbidden to use horsepower for removing snow from the streets. So the bourgeoisie, without a second thought, hired itself a camel, and the camel hauled the snow. And the soldiers laughed in sympathy: "Good for them! They got around that decree!"

(I saw it with my own eyes on the Arbat.)

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O thee, sole dish

Of the Communist nation!

(A poem about dried fish in the newspaper Always Onward!)

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Theater people hate the way I read my poems: "You ruin them!" They don't understand, these peddlers of stanzas and emotions, that the job of the poet and the actor is different. The poet's job: having opened — to hide. The voice for him is armor, a mask. Unsheltered by the voice — he is naked. The poet always covers his tracks. The poet's voice — like water — puts out the fire (the line). The poet cannot declaim: it's shameful and insulting. The poet —is solitary, the stage boards for him — are a pillory. To present your poems with the voice (the most perfect of conductors!), to use Psyche for success?! The great negotiation of writing them down and publishing them is enough for me!

"I am not the impresario of my own shame!"

An actor is something else. An actor — is secondary. As much as the poet — is etre, so is the actor —paraitre. The actor is a vampire, the actor is ivy, the actor is a polyp. Say what you like: I will never believe that Ivan Ivanovich (and they are all —Ivan Ivanoviches!) can summon the will to feel himself Hamlet each evening. The poet is imprisoned by Psyche; the actor wants to imprison Psyche. Finally, the poet —is a goal unto himself, rests in himself (in Psyche). If you put him on an island — will he stop being? But what a pitiful spectacle: an island — and an actor! An actor—is for others, unthinkable without others, an actor —is because of others. The last applause — is the last beat of his heart.

The actor's job — lasts merely an hour. He must hurry. And primarily, he must use: his own, another's — it doesn't matter! Shakespeare's verse, his own powerful thigh —everything goes into the pot! And you propose that I, a poet, drink my fill of this dubious swill? (I'm not talking about myself nor for myself: for Psyche!)

No, gentlemen of the stage, our domains — are different. We want— an island without beasts, you — beasts without the island. And it's no accident that in former times you were buried beyond the churchyard gates!

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(An exception for: singers enslaved by the element of voice, who dissolve into it, for actresses, that is: for women: that is for those who naturally play themselves, and for all those who, on reading me, have understood and arrived.)

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All of this, and undoubtedly this and nothing else, was already said by the Jew for whom I would give away and betray all Russians, specifically: Heinrich Heine — in the following restrained note:

"The theater is not salutary for the poet, and the Poet is not salutary for the Theater."

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The mastery of conversation is in being able to hide from your partner his poverty. Genius — is to force him, at this very moment, to be Croesus.

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Moscow now looks on trams with distrust, like some resurrected Lazarus. (And, instantly forgetting both Moscow and the tram: but Lazarus's distrust of the world — is more frightening!)

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Lazarus: eyes glazed forever. Lazarus — glassy eyes — Glas...1 And also glas des marts . . . (Could it really be from this?)

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"Otryvki iz knigi Zemnye primely'" was first published in the Prague journal Volia Rossii, nos. 1—2 (1924).

1: Lazarus—glassy eyes—Glas. The Russian for "eyes" is glaza.