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The Paris Assessment – Somebody Else’s Diary

Illustration: Elisabeth Boehm. Public area, through Wikimedia Commons.

Aunt Galya, my father’s sister, died. She was simply over eighty. We hadn’t been shut—there was an uneasiness between the households and a historical past of perceived snubs. My mother and father had what you may name troubled dealings with Aunt Galya, and we virtually by no means noticed her. In consequence I had little probability to kind my very own relationship along with her. We met occasionally, we had the odd cellphone name, however towards the top she unplugged her cellphone, saying, “I don’t need to speak to anybody.” Then she disappeared totally into the world she had constructed for herself: layered strata of possessions, objects, and trinkets within the cave of her tiny condo.

Galya lived her life within the pursuit of magnificence: the dream of rearranging her possessions right into a definitive order, of portray the partitions and hanging the curtains. Sooner or later, years in the past, she started the method of decluttering her condo, and this progressively consumed her. She was completely shaking issues out, checking anew what objects have been important. The contents of the condo continually wanted sorting and systematizing, every cup required cautious consideration, books and papers stopped current for themselves and have become mere usurpers of house, forming barricades that crossed the condo in little heaps. The condo consisted of two rooms, and as one room was overcome by extra objects, Galya would transfer to the opposite, taking solely absolutely the necessities along with her—however then the tidying and reevaluating would start once more. The house wore its personal viscera on the skin, unable to attract all of it again into itself once more. There was not any deciding whether or not a specific factor was necessary or not, as a result of every thing had significance indirectly, particularly the yellowing newspapers collected over a long time, tottering piles of clippings that propped up the partitions and the mattress. At a later level the one spare dwelling house was a divan, worn concave, and I keep in mind we have been sitting there on one event, the 2 of us, in the midst of a raging sea of postcards and TV guides. She was making an attempt to feed me the candies she stored reserved for particular events, and I used to be making an attempt to show down these valuable choices with anxious politeness. A newspaper clipping on the prime of a pile bore the headline: “Which saint guidelines your signal of the Zodiac?” and the title of the paper and the publication date have been written fastidiously on the prime in her superbly neat handwriting, blue ink throughout the lifeless paper.


We received there about an hour after her caretaker rang. The stairwell was in half darkness and there was a hum within the air. Individuals we didn’t know stood round on the touchdown and sat on the steps, that they had heard about her demise by some means and had rushed spherical to supply their undertaker providers, to assist with registering the demise, coping with the paperwork. How on earth did they know? Had the physician instructed them? The police? One in all them got here into the condo with us, and stood there with out taking off his coat.

Aunt Galya died within the early night on March 8, Ladies’s Day, that Soviet pageant of mimosa and greeting playing cards festooned with сhicks. Ladies’s Day had been a type of celebration days in our household, when everybody gathered round a single huge desk and the minerals splashed liberally into ruby-colored wine glasses. On Ladies’s Day there have been all the time no less than 4 several types of salad on the desk: carrot and walnut; cheese; beetroot and garlic; and, after all, the widespread denominator of all Russian salads, olivye. However all that had ceased thirty years in the past, lengthy earlier than my mother and father had emigrated to Germany. Galya was left behind, fuming, and within the new post-Soviet world her newspapers started publishing unprecedented and titillating issues: horoscopes, recipes, home made natural cures.

She desperately didn’t need to finish her life in a hospital, and she or he had her causes. She’d seen her personal mother and father, my grandparents, die in a single, and she or he’d already had some sobering experiences of state medical care. However nonetheless the second got here for summoning an ambulance, and we’d properly have achieved so if it hadn’t been a vacation weekend. It was determined to attend for Monday and the working week, and on this method Galya was given her probability to show onto her facet and die in her sleep.

Within the different room, the place her caretaker slept, pictures and sketches by my father Misha hung like squares on a chessboard, overlaying the entire wall. By the door was a black-and-white {photograph} taken within the sixties, one from my favourite collection of “photos taken on the vets,” a stupendous image: a boy and his canine ready their flip, sitting in opposition to a wall, the boy a sullen fourteen-year-old, and the canine, a boxer, leaning into him with its shoulder.


Her condo now stood silent, surprised and cowering, crammed with abruptly devalued objects. Within the greater room tv stands squatted grimly in every nook. An enormous new fridge was stuffed to the gills with icy cauliflower and frozen loaves of bread (“Misha loves his bread, get me a few loaves in case he comes over”). The identical books stood in strains, those I used to greet like relations every time I went round. To Kill a Mockingbird, the black Salinger with the boy on the quilt, the blue binding of the Library of Poets collection, a gray-bound Chekhov set, the inexperienced Full Works of Dickens. My outdated acquaintances on the cabinets: a picket canine, a yellow plastic canine, and a carved bear with a flag on a thread. All of them crouched, as if getting ready themselves for a journey, their very own stolid usefulness in sudden doubt.

A number of days later once I sat all the way down to kind by way of papers, I seen that within the piles of pictures and postcards there was hardly something written. There have been hoards of thermal vests and leggings; new and delightful jackets and skirts, put aside for some nice sallying forth and so by no means worn and nonetheless smelling of Soviet emporia; an embroidered males’s shirt from earlier than the struggle; and tiny ivory brooches, delicate and girlish: a rose, one other rose, a crane with wings outstretched. These had belonged to Galya’s mom, my grandmother, and nobody had worn them for no less than forty years. All these objects have been inextricably sure collectively, every thing had its that means solely in the entire, within the accumulation, throughout the body of a unbroken life, and now it was all turning to mud earlier than me.

In a e book concerning the working of the thoughts, I as soon as learn that the necessary think about discerning the human face was not the mix of options, however the oval form. Life itself, whereas it continues, might be that very same oval, or after demise, the thread of life working by way of the story of what has been. The meek contents of her condo, feeling themselves to be redundant, instantly started to lose their human qualities and, in doing so, ceased to recollect or to imply something.

I stood earlier than the remnants of her dwelling, doing the mandatory duties. Bemused at how little had been written down on this home of readers, I started to tease out a melody from the few phrases and scrappy phrases I may keep in mind her saying: a narrative she had instructed me; infinite questions on how the boy, my rising son, was doing; and anecdotes from the far-off previous—nation rambles within the thirties. The woven cloth of language decomposes immediately, by no means once more to be felt between the fingers: “I might by no means say ‘beautiful,’ it sounds so terribly widespread,” Galya admonished me as soon as. And there have been different prohibited phrases I can’t recall, her speak of 1’s folks, gossip about outdated buddies, the neighbors, little reviews from a lonely and self-consuming life.

I quickly discovered that there was in truth a lot proof of the written phrase within the condo. Among the many possessions she stored until her dying day, the possessions she typically requested for, typically simply to the touch along with her hand, have been numerous used notebooks and diaries. She’d stored a diary for years, not a day handed with out her scribbling a word, as a lot part of her routine as getting away from bed or washing. These diaries have been saved in a picket field by her headboard and there have been a number of them, two full bag masses, which I carried dwelling to Banny Pereulok. There I sat down directly to learn them, searching for tales, explanations: the oval form of her life.


For the reader, diaries and notebooks might be positioned in two classes: within the first the textual content is meant to be official, manifest, aimed toward a readership. The pocket book turns into a coaching floor for the outward self, and, as within the case of the nineteenth-century artist and diarist Marie Bashkirtseff, an open declaration, an endless monologue, addressed to an invisible however sympathetic ear.

Nonetheless I’m fascinated by the opposite kind of diary, the working instrument, the type the writer-as-craftsperson retains shut at hand, of little obvious use to the outsider. Susan Sontag, who practiced this artwork kind for many years, stated of her diary that it was “an instrument, a instrument”—I’m undecided that is totally apt. Sontag’s notebooks (and the notebooks of different writers) will not be only for the storage of concepts, like nuts in squirrels’ cheeks, to be consumed later. Nor are they crammed with fast outlines of occasions, to be recollected when wanted. Notebooks are a necessary every day exercise for a sure sort of individual, loose-woven mesh on which they grasp their clinging religion in actuality and its persevering with nature. Such texts have just one reader in thoughts, however this reader is completely implicated. Break open a pocket book at any level and be reminded of your personal actuality, as a result of a pocket book is a collection of proofs that life has continuity and historical past, and (that is most necessary) that any level in your personal previous remains to be inside your attain.

Sontag’s notebooks are crammed with such proofs: lists of movies she has seen, books she has learn, phrases which have charmed her, the dried husks of accomplished endeavors—and these are largely restricted to the notebooks; they virtually by no means feed into her books or movies or articles, they’re neither the start line, nor the underpinning for her public work. They aren’t supposed as explanations for one more reader (maybe for the self, though they’re scribbled down at such a tempo that typically it’s exhausting to make out what is supposed). Like a fridge, or because it was as soon as known as, an icehouse, a spot the place the fast-corrupting memory-product might be saved, an area for witness accounts and affirmations, or the fabric and outward indicators of immaterial and elusive relations, to paraphrase Goncharov.

There’s something faintly displeasing, if solely within the extra of fabric, and I say this exactly as a result of I’m of the identical disposition, and much too typically my working notes appear to me to be heaped deadweight: ballast I might dearly like to be rid of, however what could be left of me then? In The Silent Girl, Janet Malcolm describes an inside that’s, in some methods, the picture of my very own pocket book (and this was a horrible realization). It’s suffering from newspapers, books, overflowing ashtrays, dusty Peruvian tat, unwashed dishes, empty pizza containers, cans, flyers, books alongside the strains of Who’s Who, making an attempt to cross as actual information, and different objects passing as nothing in any respect, as a result of they misplaced all resemblance to something years in the past. For Malcolm this dwelling house is Borges’s Aleph, a “monstrous allegory of reality,” a gristly mass of crude reality and variations that by no means attained the clear order of historical past.


My Aunt Galya’s diaries have been utterly peculiar, and their surprisingly woven texture, which jogged my memory above all of chain-link fencing, intrigued me increasingly more as I learn them.

At any of the massive artwork exhibitions I visited as a toddler, there have been all the time a number of viewers who stood out to me, and so they have been normally, and inexplicably, girls. These girls went from one image to a different, bending over the captions and making notes on items of paper or in train books. It dawned on me in some unspecified time in the future that they have been merely copying down the names of all the images, making for themselves a kind of home made catalog—a shadow copy of what they’d seen. And I puzzled why they have been doing it, and hadn’t but realized {that a} listing creates the phantasm of possession: the exhibition would cross and dissolve within the air, however the piece of paper held the order of sculptures and photos, as freshly as once they first noticed them, lengthy after the precise photos had light.

Galya’s diaries have been simply such lists, however of every day occurrences, recorded with astonishing exactness, and with astonishing opacity. The diaries documented the time she received up and when she went to sleep, the tv applications she’d watched, the variety of cellphone conversations she’d had, who they’d been with, what she’d eaten, no matter else she’d achieved. There was a minute and virtuosic avoidance of content material—how she’d truly crammed her hours. It’d say “learn,” for instance, however with no point out of what the studying materials had been or what it had meant to her—in truth every thing in her lengthy and exhaustively documented life was the identical. Nothing indicated what this life had been for, there was nothing about herself, nothing about different folks, solely the fastidious particulars, the fixing of the passing of time with the exactitude of a medieval chronicler.

I stored considering that absolutely life would rear its head, if solely as soon as, and reveal itself in all its colour. Hadn’t she spent her life studying—wouldn’t that alone have provoked intense reflection? There have been additionally the fixed slights and grievances that my aunt clung to, and solely reluctantly relinquished. Certainly one thing of this might be preserved and specified by a ultimate livid paragraph, by which Galya would inform the world, and us, its representatives, what she considered us—the unexpurgated reality.

However there was nothing of the type within the diaries. There have been hints and semitones of that means, folds within the weave that denoted emotion, “hurray” written within the margin in opposition to the word of a cellphone name with my father or with me, a number of opaquely bitter feedback on her mother and father’ anniversaries. And that was it. It was as if the principle job of every word, every accomplished 12 months’s diary, was a devoted witnessing of the outside, and a concealment of the genuine and inside. Present every thing. Conceal every thing. Protect it without end.

What was it she held to be of such worth in these diaries? Why did she preserve them by her bedside till her dying day, frightened they’d be misplaced, typically asking for them to be moved nearer to her? Maybe the written textual content because it stood—and it was the story of a lifetime of loneliness and the imperceptible slide towards nonexistence—nonetheless had the pressure of an indictment. The world wanted to learn all this, to appreciate simply how shoddily we had dealt along with her.

Or, unusual because it appears, for her these pinched information may need contained the substance of pleasure, which she wanted to immortalize, so as to add to the pile of manuscripts that, as Bulgakov wrote, don’t burn, and which converse with none intention towards the long run. If that’s the case then she succeeded.

October 11, 2002

Working backward once more. It’s 1:45 p.m. Simply put the towels, nightgown and many others. besides darkish colours in to soak. Will do the bedlinen later. Earlier than that I introduced every thing in from balcony. 3 levels, the greens may need frozen. Peeled and chopped pumpkin and put in a field prepared for freezer. Very gradual work! Watched tv and did it in two hours and slightly extra. Earlier than that I had tea with milk.

Slept from 4:00–6:00 p.m., couldn’t resist slightly nap. Earlier than that T. V. rang concerning the phone. And he rang earlier than 12 as properly to examine whether or not the tv was working. This morning not a single channel labored. Obtained up at 8 when Seryozha was washing within the lavatory. Left after 9, took my time to prepare. Bus No. 3 didn’t come until 9:45. We waited an age. Ought to have taken the 171. There have been crowds in every single place and it took far longer than regular. Bus station. Newspapers. However I did handle to purchase the pumpkin, first I’ve seen this 12 months. And carrots. Obtained dwelling round 12. Wished to observe Columbo. Took my hypertension drugs final evening simply after 1:45 after measuring B. P. Waited for it to come back down so I may take extra drugs. Spent 20 minutes attempting. Couldn’t measure B. P. Obtained to mattress at 3 a.m.

July 8, 2004

Pretty sunny morning, not the rain promised. Had espresso with condensed milk and went out round 11. Crowds in every single place. Sat for a very long time, till 1:00 p.m., by the pond, seemed on the grass, the timber and the sky, sang, felt very properly in myself.

Individuals have been out strolling their canine alongside the paths, and pushing infants in strollers, and plenty of events of children of their swimsuits, stress-free and having enjoyable.

Managed to pay with out standing in line, purchased cream cheese. Strolled dwelling. New college has a stupendous border. Tall plumes of bedstraw and wild rose. Simply excellent! On the best way dwelling noticed some boys enjoying in an deserted outdated automobile. They’d a plastic bottle stuffed stuffed with seed pods. Apparently they’re edible.

October 11, 2005

Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t a lot need to stand up or get going or do something. 10:40 mail was delivered and I went again to mattress after that. Sveta got here simply after that. She’s such a superb lady, she will get the most effective of every thing for me. Had tea and spent the day in mattress. Thanked V. V. for mentioning mail.

Bobrova rang after 12. She got here on Thursday.

I rang the clinic. Ira from Social Providers, and Yura within the night. Watched tv and tidied all of the washing on the chair. Went to mattress at 11:30 p.m.

Sizzling day. I wore the skirt Tonya received me. “Dreary kind of life, of no use to anybody,” as you may say. Tea within the afternoon, espresso within the night. No urge for food in any way.

However there was one word, fairly completely different from the remaining. On July 17, 2005 she wrote:

Sima rang this morning. I received down the picture album afterward. Shook all of the photographs out and spent a protracted whereas them. I didn’t need to eat, and searching on the photographs gave me such a sense of melancholy, tears, actual unhappiness for the occasions handed, and for individuals who aren’t with us anymore. This pointless lifetime of mine, a life lived for nothing, the vacancy in my soul … I needed to lose myself, neglect all of it.

I went again to mattress and slept for the remainder of the day, unusual, can’t suppose how I may have slept so lengthy, didn’t stand up until the night, until 8:00 p.m. Drank some milk, closed the curtains and lay down, and once more this sleep to move me away from actuality. Sleep is my salvation.


Months handed, possibly years. Galya’s diaries lay across the place, caught up in piles of different papers, the kind of papers you allow out, considering they’ll come in useful, and as an alternative they discolor and age like outdated kitchenware. I abruptly and involuntarily remembered them once I arrived within the city of Pochinky.

Pochinky had a doubtful declare to fame in our family. This one horse, dead-end little city, over 200 kilometers from Nizhny Novgorod, was the place we’d all come from and nobody had ever returned to. Nobody had even made an try to return there within the final seventy-odd years. Nabokov writes about existence as “however a quick crack of sunshine between two eternities of darkness”—properly, this quiet little provincial city, of little curiosity to anybody, grew to become through the years that first darkish eternity within the collective reminiscence of our household.

Ours was a big household again then. I dimly keep in mind accounts of dozens of brothers and sisters, pictures of carts and horses and picket buildings. However these accounts have been eclipsed by the tales of the wild adventures of my great-grandmother, Sarra Ginzburg, a local of Pochinky. She had been in jail in Tsarist occasions and had even lived in Paris, and educated as a physician after which handled Soviet youngsters, together with my mom and me, and every thing I used to be instructed about her had the laurel-leaf style of legend. There was nobody left to confirm all these unbelievable tales and nobody would have needed to.

We had a relative, Leonid, who was continually on the point of visiting the shrunken husk of this nineteenth-century city. He talked about it as one may an imaginary polar expedition. He spent his days making an attempt to instill this enthusiasm in others, his close to and distant relations (I used to be certainly one of his final converts). He had putting pale eyes, virtually clear, and his enthusiasm was a continually working motor. On the uncommon events when he discovered himself in Moscow he would go to to debate his plans with my mother and father. Then at some point he arrived unexpectedly and located my mother and father gone, they’d emigrated to Germany. I used to be the household’s sole remaining consultant in Moscow. I’d by no means thought of a sentimental journey like this, and I used to be intoxicated: for the primary time it appeared as if our household’s native dwelling was inside attain, and subsequently an actual place. The extra Leonid insisted on the hardships we might face, the distances we might journey, and the frilly preparations that will must be made, the extra the journey appeared fairly in opposition to the percentages—and the extra promise it held for me. Ultimately this Leonid, who spent so a few years planning a visit with the entire prolonged household, a kind of return of the Tribes of Israel, died with out ever realizing his dream. Pochinky remained as fantastical and unknown to us all because the fairy-tale metropolis of Kitezh.

And right here I used to be, simply that little bit nearer to Pochinky. Why I went I can’t say, and I can’t keep in mind what I hoped to find there, however earlier than I left I spent a very long time on-line, turning up info. Pochinky was on the outer limits of the identified world, I discovered it on an historical map: past Arzamas, tucked within the wilds past Pushkin’s property at Boldino, surrounded by villages with doomsday names. There have been no railway strains in these components, the closest station was three hours’ drive. I made a decision to chop my losses and employed a driver in Nizhny Novgorod.

We left Nizhny Novgorod early within the morning alongside broad, pink, nonetheless wintery streets. The city slipped into valleys after which reappeared within the automobile home windows with its peculiar, not-quite-heedless litter of commercial websites and picket-fenced picket homes, conceding nothing to the trendy world. After we reached the street out of city the automobile appeared to maneuver by itself, racing together with pointless velocity: the motive force, father of a three-month-old child, stored his fingers on the wheel and was disdainfully silent. The street flexed up and down in tight little waves, frail stays of snow clung to the bottom underneath the fir timber. The world grew poorer with each kilometer. Within the blackened villages new church buildings gleamed like china, white as new crowns on outdated tooth. I had a guidebook extolling the fantastic thing about Arzamas, now lengthy behind us, and slightly e book on Pochinky, printed twenty years earlier than: it talked about a store owned by the Jew Ginzburg, who traded in stitching machines, and that was all. There was no point out of the legendary Sarra.

We traveled for lengthy hours. Finally the hills started, a dusky ridge of them, Umbrian hills, the colour of darkish copper, rising and falling as evenly as breath. Typically a quick flash of water. After we handed the exit for Pushkin’s Boldino property there was a collection of Pushkin memorials alongside the street. In keeping with legend his native mistress had lived within the village of Lukoyanov. Little teams of timber like herds of animals.

Pochinky was constructed alongside a protracted principal avenue: little facet streets departed from the excessive avenue at tidy proper angles. A sexy church in a classical fashion stood on the far facet of the street. I discovered from the guidebook that this was the Cathedral of the Nativity, the place a sure Orfanov had as soon as been priest. I knew the title, Valya Orfanova typically despatched us greetings once I was a toddler, and as soon as she had requested my mom to purchase me a e book from her, so Masha may have one thing to recollect me by. Mom picked out a poetry assortment by the Symbolist poet Fyodor Sologub on the secondhand bookshop, however sadly it turned out to be a late work, The Nice Good Information Herald, a e book of Communist poems printed in 1923, crammed with proletarians with flaming beliefs. Ineffective to me, as I judged it then, not but in a position to admire the beautiful soundplay underlying the hackneyed sentiments:

The officer’s horse
The enemy pressure
Treads in its dance
Treads on my coronary heart

I had a robust need to desert the abandoned principal sq. searching for a spot the place there was one thing I may see and contact, however Maria Fufayeva, an area historian, was ready for us there. It was a Sunday however they’d opened up the city library only for us. An exhibition of watercolors of Pochinky’s streets hung within the library; painted 100 years earlier than, they’d been despatched from Germany for the exhibition. A German household had lived in Pochinky towards the top of the nineteenth century, and I had a sudden reminiscence of the painter’s title, Gethling, being talked about once I was a toddler.

The images have been gemütlich, cheery: a reasonably home with a chemist’s signal and a few flowering mallow, the home of Augusta Gethling, the painter’s sister, who had tutored my great-grandmother for her college entrance examination. The home was nonetheless standing, however its little porch was gone, the facade had been concreted over and the mallow and the carved window frames had disappeared. Nobody may inform me something about the home with the massive yard and the horse and cart, the house of Sarra and her household originally of the 20th century.

And that was all. Very similar to the diaries of Aunt Galya, the reader needed to content material herself with purchasing lists, notes of tv applications, descriptions of the climate. No matter stood behind this, swaying and rustling, was in no hurry to point out itself, and maybe didn’t intend to point out itself in any respect. We have been provided tea; we have been taken for a guided tour of the city. I searched the bottom beneath my toes continually as if hoping to discover a dropped kopeck.

The village had the shrunken really feel of a vanished city, a as soon as bustling heart which had sprung up across the largest horse honest in the entire area. We crossed an unlimited market sq., a vacant house now overgrown with timber, someplace in its heart a lead-gray statue of Lenin, however in any other case a spot deserted by folks, too giant to be helpful in any new reincarnation. It was fringed by fairly little picket homes, like those within the watercolors, some exhibiting the indicators of hasty, ugly renovation. And we have been proven one other sq., slightly asphalted house the place Solomon Ginzburg, Sarra’s brother, had owned a store within the twenties. Right here we stood some time and took photographs, a bunch of us, surly girls in coats and hats. The wind was too icy for smiles. On a curb by the principle street one other monument glittered within the grass, devoted to Kapral, a mighty stallion and a stud horse for a full twenty years.

Just a little drive past the bridge over the river Rudnya was a derelict advanced of buildings, the scale of a small city, used for horse breeding. They’d been constructed originally of the nineteenth century and had as soon as belonged to the cavalry regiment of the Imperial Guard. However even earlier than this, horses had been bred right here: kabarda and Nogay, stallions, horses, geldings and Nogay mares, and Russian colts and herding horses.

Catherine the Nice constructed up the enterprise to an industrial scale. The ensuing large sq. constructing with its classical strains and peeling whitewashed partitions, its subsiding central tower and the arched entrance, symmetrically matched on the far facet of the sq., was supposed to be an outpost of civilization, slightly island of Petersburgian refinement. It had fallen into complete disrepair comparatively not too long ago, within the nineties, and it now stood surrounded by naked earth, blasted by the lengthy winter. The final horses moved concerning the open paddocks: heavyset chestnut horses with pale and tufty manes. They lifted their heads and pushed their muzzles into our palms. By now the sky was dazzling, the clouds shaped a mountain ridge throughout the horizon, and a skin-pink mild glowed underneath the crazed white facade of the buildings.

We’d already traveled midway again once I realized I’d forgotten a very powerful factor: there should have been a cemetery of some kind, Jewish or in any other case, the place my ancestors have been buried. The motive force had his foot on the accelerator, the names of villages have been flashing previous: surreal, earthy names. I known as Maria Fufayeva on my cellular. There was no cemetery, simply as there have been not any Jews left in Pochinky. Truly, no, in truth there was one Jew left in Pochinky, she even knew his title: Gurevich. Unusually sufficient it was my mom’s maiden title.

—Translated from the Russian by Sasha Dugdale


Maria Stepanova, born in Moscow in 1972, is a poet, essayist, journalist, and editor in chief of the web newspaper Colta. In 2018, she was awarded the Bolshaya Kniga Award for In Reminiscence of Reminiscence.

Sasha Dugdale is a British poet, playwright, and translator.

By Maria Stepanova, from In Reminiscence of Reminiscence, copyright © 2018 by Maria Stepanova, translation copyright © 2021 by Sasha Dugdale. Initially printed in Russian by Novoe Izdatelstvo as Памяти памяти. Revealed in association with Suhrkamp Verlag.

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