Chapter 22. Confession of an Orator.

March 22, 1997

"Dear Vivien! Today, on a day when I am observing one of the greatest universal events in its uniqueness—the movement, givenness, phenomenon, and trace of the Hale-Bopp comet—my nature reflects with special sadness on the very trace that will remain after us, when we move from a state of dynamics to a state of stasis, having completely flared up and faded away, like that heavenly body moving somewhere into the distance. What will remain after us? What will we leave to our descendants? Only a barely distinguishable trace that time will mercilessly erase... And even though my work, like my phenomenon, is utopian, I still create—I create with the same inspiration with which Ecclesiastes once produced his thoughts, feelings, and actions. In these minutes I inhale freedom with a full chest, in these moments I experience the purest facets and most exquisite settings of happiness—and all because I am alone: there is nothing sweeter in this world than the feeling when you accept and understand yourself in solitude! How wonderful it is to realize that you are not dependent on the influence of female beauty, and accordingly, female nature? — when I am alone, I am able to see the smallest atoms and the most miniature grains of sand of true being: such an ability to see cannot be given by the presence of even the most virtuous, even the most kind and lovely woman on earth. Yes! That's right! It is precisely because of these views that I became despised by society—it is for this reason that I felt like a superman, even though I was simultaneously both more and less than an ordinary, unremarkable person: I am just a part of nature! Ah, dear Vivien! The values of this world, including public opinion—are repulsive to me! Every day, in the evenings, staying in perfection, in a state of solitude, I most sincerely ask our Lord for forgiveness—forgiveness not only for all the acts committed and not committed by my nature, but also for the entire human form: I am ashamed that I am a human—it is for this reason that bitter tears flow down my cheeks every day! The human form is insignificant! My soul, which has recently познала an infinite number of forms, states, and manifestations, suffers tirelessly… Now I am forced to be a human, to be in this form in order to fulfill the destiny preordained for me by the Almighty himself—to create, perhaps, the greatest of all existing and having existed literary concepts! The realization of my own destiny is my cross! I know how many works and lines I need to create—having put a stone on my back, like Sisyphus, I know its weight: in times of sadness and sorrow, this cannot but calm and sometimes cheer me up. One epic novel, whose name is 'The Source of Life,' is the personification of one page of the book of our life—it symbolizes one year. Twelve collections of novellas 'The Rose of the Winds,' each of which describes the corresponding month from the life of humanity, where, in turn, 366 novellas describe one day from the infinite chain of that existence—December 31, the date of the events of the last novella, closes the ouroboros: January 1 begins a new life and it is opened by the deity of all entrances and exits—the two-faced Janus. The cycle ends, creating an infinite work. One collection of novellas, the content of which are twenty-four plots, where each plot will characterize each hour, and also one collection of novellas, which will consist of sixty plots, where each plot characterizes a minute—thus, staying within the facets and shackles of time, I will get out from under the influence of space, like the most ancient god-demiurge… After this, having fulfilled my own destiny, I will not create a single line—everything brilliant must be limited: if all of Italy were dotted with Colosseums, would pilgrims of their glory come to Rome?.. But what awakens the strength in me to create? Do you really want to know this? First of all—the Universe and the Almighty, for which I am, of course, grateful in the highest of all possible ways. Intentionally leaving Robespierrean scars on my face, intentionally covering my gentle and sensitive beauty with a veil of unattractiveness, the Almighty allowed me to pay attention to the very things that are inaccessible to an ordinary gaze, and accordingly made me what I am now: the disgust experienced by women towards me made me brilliant—without any doubt, the nature of women would have ruined my talents, but it was my ugliness that saved me from their, women's, harmful and vicious influence. Thus, having all those 'riches,' due to the possession of which an countless number of people curse their fate, I daily, with special awe, turned to it with sincere gratitude. But still I was a person, I was a man, and therefore I could not, was not able to exist without women—it was then, when I realized the true destiny of the phenomenon of my nature, that I managed to invent, perhaps, one of the greatest processes of a truly sensitive soul: being a creative person, and therefore invariably needing sharp and sincere feelings, but at the same time wanting nothing but to be alone, I created in my being a certain algorithm of actions that allowed me to awaken unique emotions in myself, but at the same time, in turn, which always led to non-reciprocity from the female gender. Dear Vivien! Mocking me, they did not suspect that I myself was looking for these rejections, for only they were able to give the most vivid and sharp emotions, which, in turn, were truly exceptional fuel for my inspiration—thanks to these rejections I approached the fulfillment of my own destiny: only when I myself, consciously put my own freedom at stake, only then the invisible facets of the existing being opened before me. Ah! How sweet and pleasant it was to taste this freedom, permanently tormented by temporary love, after a rejection! All this reminded me of playing with my palm near a bonfire—here you bring your palm closer to the bonfire, but at the very hour when that flame begins to burn its flesh, you swiftly return it to its original position: that's how I lived—that's how I live! Without freedom in this world it is impossible to create truly brilliant works—and when brilliant works are created, why does a person need freedom? It is then that I will cover the gently green meadows of my own soul with the concrete of family life… A series of non-reciprocal responses gave rise to brilliant thoughts in me—thanks to the rejection of Angelina, my first beloved, I created the greatest sculpture, which in its deep and physical volume will not be understood and accepted by our descendants for many more decades! In the name of Kira, Victoria, Anastasia, and Alexandra, I produced dozens of truly imperishable stories into this world—later, after some time, returning to me, they said that due to a misunderstanding of my strength, they made, perhaps, the stupidest mistake in their lives. But why do I need Kira, Victoria, Anastasia, and Alexandra when I was a captive slave, a gladiator in the ancient Colosseum, when I was the discoverer of Australia, when I was a brilliant artist, when I was a distant star of space, a small stone, and even a spider?! When they realized the price of my riches, when they frantically wanted to see Rome, Paris, and Madrid, they did not guess that I, without leaving my own home, had already been to all these places in all historical epochs—inspired by their images, I created my most sensual works: seeing their beauty live, I, most likely, would not have experienced sweet feelings, for I had already seen all this, being both a Roman pope and a small ant. Once their architecture was endowed with a soul by me, once—they were just a pile of stones: they always remained as they were—only I myself endowed them with life and death… Dear Vivien! Do you want to see what your paintings look like in poems?! I will transform them into poems and they will be great poems! But first I need a rejection from a lovely girl! In these moments your sincere and pure smile appears before my face—you understand and accept me in a way that no one else in this life does! You know that they refuse me, not at all realizing that at the moment of their refusal I have everything that can in a single moment make me the richest person on the planet—but do I need this?! Am I ready to exchange my destiny, my freedom, and my soul for a knapsack that is completely filled with gold? Refusing me, who had no vehicles, no fame, no wealth, they did not assume that they were refusing someone who had significantly more—a brilliant concept and brilliant ideas! Being ordinary people, they looked at me as an ordinary person—at the moment of their gaze I differed from all others just as a pearl differs from grains of sand on the seashore. Mocking my way of life, my loneliness, and my diet, which consisted of bread and water, although I could afford much more, they did not imagine what kind of carnivals I organized in my works, and what kind of feelings I experienced, how much I suffered, how happy I was, how poor I was, and how rich I was—in my heroes I experienced all possible states: I was a primitive person and a person from the future—I was everyone and no one at the same time. Having a face, I had no face—not having a name, I had one. Refusing me because of my physical flaws, they were refusing, perhaps, the most beautiful person, of course, in soul, on earth, who contained in his nature such a number of worlds that the entire totality of existing galaxies is not able to contain—their rejections fed my heart, like fuel: I was better than them—they fed on others' emotions, while I absorbed my own, like a true ouroboros. Refusing me, they did not assume that they were giving me exactly what I frantically desire—placing themselves above me, calling me a reptile, they did not guess that thanks to them the greatest and most virtuous concept is embodied: thanks to evil, good was born—I converted these emotions from one channel to another. I admired their non-reciprocity and wanted to hear nothing so much as these very words: their consent would forever destroy in me the one who strived to fulfill his own destiny—not a line more, not a line less. The ouroboros must close, but it will not be able to close when it is incomplete: its lips will not reach its tail, it will not be able to feed itself, and therefore it will die. Having found reciprocity, I will become the most unhappy person on earth, for having loved and being loved, I will be forced in the name of my calling and destiny to give up this happiness—true happiness is possible for me only after the creation of all my works or never… Dear Vivien… I also noticed that my works turn out to be especially brilliant when they are created on the coals of rejection—then a fire reigns in my heart, and my mind becomes cold-blooded: a deadly duumvirate… Only after all my works are created, only then will I be able to proceed to the second half of the life preordained for me—the creation of my own family, which will be the second conceptual beginning in my fate. I intend to connect my path only with the one who will be able to understand my creativity, and accordingly myself—true love in my life is possible only after I put the last period in my last work…".