From a Diary, 1919

When five-year-old Mozart, running from the harpsichord, fell flat on the slippery parquet of the palace, and seven-year-old Marie-Antoinette was the only one who flew to him and helped him up, he said, "Celle-la—je 1'epouserai" and when Marie-Therese asked him why —"Par reconnaissance."

And later, as Queen of France, how many others she helped up from the parquet, which was always slippery — for gamblers — for the ambitious — for those who burned the candle at both ends — and did anyone shout to her —par reconnaissance — "Vive la Reine!" — as she rode in her carriage to the block?

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Reconnaissance — recognition. To recognize —despite all the masks and wrinkles — right away, the true face once beheld. (Gratitude)

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I am never grateful to people for deeds—only for essences! The bread given to me could turn out to be an accident; a dream dreamed about me is always essence.

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I take as I give: blindly, as indifferent to the giving hand as to my own, receiving.

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A person gives me bread. What is the first thing to do? Return the gift. Repay the gift so as not to give thanks. Gratitude: a giving of the self for some good, that is: bought love.

I respect people too much to insult them with bought love.

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Insulting to me, therefore insulting to others as well.

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Goodwill directed at me has never predetermined anything. The individuality of a gift (its directedness at me), in my understanding of a gift, does not exist. I am not grateful for myself or for my neighbor, I am merely grateful.

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You can't buy me. That's the essence of it. You can buy me only with essence (that is — buy my essence!). With bread you can buy: hypocrisy, pseudo-enthusiasm, courtesy—you can buy all my froth, though it may be only scum.

To buy—is to pay off. You can't pay me off.

*

I can be bought—but only by all the heaven inside of you! By that heaven in which there may not even be room for me.

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I am impersonally grateful, that is, only when I myself can take something, regardless of the other's goodwill, and without his knowledge.

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A relationship is not a value judgment. I am tired of repeating this. From your giving me bread, I have perhaps become kinder, but you have not become more sublime.

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A deed is not a relationship, a relationship is not a value judgment, a value judgment (on the part of a critic, regarding Blok, for example) is not the essence (Blok).

Essence is intent, audible only to the ear.

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A piece of bread from a despicable person. A bit of luck. Nothing more.

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I eat your bread and I abuse you. Yes. Only selfishness is grateful. Only selfishness measures the whole (essence) by the pieces it is given. Only childish blindness, looking at the hand, affirms, "He gave me sugar, he is good." Sugar is good, yes. But to judge the essence of a person by sugar and tips received from him is forgivable only in children and servants. Instinct can be forgiven. Yes, but that's not right either: we often observe that dogs prefer the master who gives them nothing to the cook who feeds them.

To identify the source of a good with the good (the cook with the meat, uncle with sugar, a guest with tips) is an indication of the complete underdevelopment of soul and mind. A creature that has gone no further than its five senses.

The dog that loves because it is looked at is above the cat that loves because it is petted, and the cat, loving because it is petted, is above the child who loves because it is fed. It's all a matter of degree.

Thus, from the simplest love because of sugar — to love because of caresses — to love upon sight — to unseeing love (at a distance)* — to love, in spite (of nonlove), from a little love because of— to the great love outside (of me)— from receiving love (by another's will) to love that takes (regardless of that will, unbeknownst, against that will ! ) — to love itself.

CD

*All of me — comes from this. (M. TS.)

The less we value superficial goods, the more easily we give and take them, and the less grateful we are for them.

(Practically speaking: I allow only silent gratitude for bread (a donation). In obvious gratitude — there is something that shames the giver, a sort of reproach.)

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To find joy in the bread —that is the best gratitude! Gratitude that ends when the last bite has been swallowed.

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Can it really be that this detail, this trifle, this implication (for me) — to give — must inevitably grow into some sort of mountain, all due to the words: to me?

After all, I know how it's given — blindly! And could I actually stand being thanked for bread? (I can't stand being thanked for poetry—so there you have it!) Bread—is it really me?! Verse (the accidental gift of song) — is it really me?

I am unique under this heaven. Walk away and give thanks.

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I don't want to think basely of people. When I give bread to a person, I give to a hungry person, that is, to the stomach, not to him. His soul doesn't have anything to do with it. I can give to anyone — and it isn't me who gives: anyone would. Bread gives itself away. And I don't want to believe that anyone, in giving to my stomach, would demand something in return from my soul.

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But it isn't the stomach that gives —it's the soul! No —the hand. These gifts are not personal. It would be strange to prefer one stomach to another, and if a preference is to be made — then the hungrier one. Today mine (yours) is the hungrier. I am not responsible for this.

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Thus, having established the giver (the hand) and the receiver (the stomach), it is strange to expect one piece of meat to be grateful to another piece of meat.

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Souls are grateful, but souls are grateful exclusively for souls. Thank you — for being. Everything else, whether from me to another person or vice versa, is an insult.

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To give — this is not our sphere of activity! Not our personality! Not passion! Not choice! It is something that belongs to everyone (bread): therefore (I don't have any) it has been taken from me, and returns (through you) to me (through me to you).

To give bread to a poor man is a reinstatement of rights.

If we give to whom we want, we would be the most thorough scoundrels. We give to the one who wants. His hunger (will!) elicits our gesture (bread). Given and forgotten. Taken and forgotten. No strings, no kinship. Having given, I refuse to acknowledge. Having taken, I refuse to acknowledge.

Without consequences.

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"So why should I give you anything?" "So as not to be a bastard."

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I remember when I was in high school — in the church courtyard — a beggar. "Give a little something, for the sake of Christ!" I walk by. "Please give, for the sake of Christ!" I keep on walking. Running up to me, he said, "If not for God's sake — then for the Devil's if you like!"

Why did I give to him? He was indignant.

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Bread. A gesture. Give. Take. There won't be any of this there. Therefore, everything arising from giving and taking is a lie. Bread itself is a lie. Nothing built on bread will survive (what is mixed with yeast— won't rise).

The leaven of our bread-senses will inevitably fall in the cold of immortality. It's not worth kneading it.

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To take is shameful, no, to give is shameful. If the taker takes, it means he doesn't have anything: since the giver gives, he clearly has. And so this is a confrontation of have and have not.

One should give on one's knees, the way beggars beg.

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Fortunately, only beggars are awarded with the shame of donation. (The delicacy of their gift!) The rich limit themselves to a brief delay in paying a doctor's fee.

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Gratitude: from admiration to being bowled over.

I can admire only the hand that gives away its last; therefore I could never be grateful to the rich.

And if I could be, dien only for their timidity, their guiltiness, which immediately makes them innocent.

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When a poor man gives, he says, "Forgive me for giving so little." The embarrassment of the poor — "I can't do any more." When a rich man gives, he doesn't say anything. The embarrassment of the rich — "I don't want to give more."

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To give is so much easier than to receive — and so much easier than to be.

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The rich buy off. Oh, the rich are terribly afraid — if not of the Revolution, then of the Last Judgment. I know a mother who buys milk for another child (a sick child) only to ensure that her own (healthy) child won't die. A rich mother, saving another's child from death (actual death), buys off her own from a possible death. ("To entreat Fate!")

I look into the source of the act —its intent. The rich mother's milk will flow with tar at the Last Judgment.

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Charity: Polycrates' ring.

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The beggar's gift (the life's blood, the last gift!) is impersonal. "God gives." The rich man's gift (surplus, almost refuse) has a name, patronymic, surname, position, calling, family, day, hour, date. And—a memory. The right hand gives, but both hands remember.

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The beggar, giving from hand to hand, forgets. The rich man, sending the gift out with a servant, remembers. If you think about it carefully, it's understandable: some self-justifying evidence for the Last Judgment.

— Problematic evidence.
Moscow, July 1919 "O blagodarnosti (Iz dnevnika 1919)" was first published in the Brussels journal Blagonamerennyi, no. i (1926). This translation first appeared in Formations (Winter 1988).