CHAPTER 16. THE SNOW-WHITE VEIL.

February 16, 2021.

“…Twenty-six! That is how many years my soul has dragged this ephemeral shell across the expanse of this land, which is no less ephemeral than the shell itself! What have I achieved? What deeds, whether good or bad, have burst forth from the soul's pen of my very unique nature? How have I existed throughout all this time? Having consciously renounced the very life that the vast majority of representatives of the human race call “adequate,” “sane,” “reasonable,” “decent,” I, without the slightest sign of doubt, immediately accepted the extraordinarily majestic rank of an unremarkable philosopher, and therefore, in an instant, truly with special zeal, I began to fiercely scribble—no, by no means on the genuine, virginal purity of this world!—on the subtle whiteness of cheap parchment.

Having become a philosopher in an instant, I never betrayed the dogmas of faith—it was for this reason that I, who had repeatedly grasped the permanent freshness and relevance of the Bible, was extremely despised by those who had never had the good fortune to mentally or spiritually touch its sacred beginnings: I never observed biblical traditions, but I always tried to observe biblical commandments—isn't this what the unseen Almighty calls us to do every minute? Jesus, while in Jerusalem, did not wander there with a censer, did not sing church songs in Latin, did not sprinkle people with holy water, and certainly did not draw any signs on their bodies, including crosses—He, the great philosopher and dreamer, spent time in the desert, ascended mountains and descended from them, like the sun, taught in gardens, and preached in villages: every one of His actions proved the existence of God, and did not convince otherwise…

So, like Jesus, I reflected endlessly deeply and continuously on the structure of this world, involuntarily contemplating in my mind everything that had already existed, now exists, and has never existed—I created images, I created places, I created situations. Being a blood descendant of our Creator, I myself became a creator—I began to call myself a writer: from that time on, the lives of all my existing, present, and non-existent images and heroes belonged entirely to my mind and my pen—I was all-powerful over life and death, over strength and weakness, over wealth and poverty, over health and sickness. I was above them and at the same time I was in them themselves—I was their God: it was then that I was able to realize that being God is not so simple, but it is even more difficult to be God. Image after image, hero after hero, I created evil and good, being a receptacle of both at the same time: I created story after story, but my nature was by no means one of those who sold their books even before they were written—I was one of those whose books were admired by everyone, but no one bought them. And did I need that? Creating for everyone, I didn't think about myself—if I had thought about myself, I would not have been able to create for everyone.

Instantly donning relatively warm clothes, I immediately plunged into the gentle whiteness of snowy Athens—into the gentle whiteness of the very places that were direct participants in the truly majestic birth of true democracy—which this year was especially magical: in their special magic, they could be compared only to the truly exceptional landscapes of my only friend, the artist, Vivien Bomstone—yes, that's right, because in his paintings he did not seek to imitate the charm of nature, but nature imitated the charm of his paintings. It was to him that I now rushed. Vivien Bomstone invited me to witness a truly brilliant event—his soul wanted to portray a wonderful fountain on a canvas as white as present-day Athens: this work of art was to be filled not only with a countless number of latent meanings, but also with no less a number of mysterious, sacred, secret symbolism… and even musical works! The concept of this painting was special for Vivien Bomstone—one who was not a Sadducean sage, for he did not deny the immortality of the soul, but who at the same time was not the well-known Phineas. The external personification of this idea, which was gradually being brought to light, seemed to Vivien to be significantly less than that idea, the key leitmotif of which was to his soul what ancient Aquileia was to the trade of Northern Italy…

Vivien Bomstone! He was the same as me! In the dim flickering of a candle, the price of which did not exceed 1 dollar, his nature was capable of creating truly priceless works of art—in the twilight he was able to generate bright ideas. Once, during the process of creating one of his most brilliant paintings, Vivien said the following words to me: “Thoughts are an endless stream of information, and therefore, at times, in order to overcome that stream, it is necessary to stop its flow, of course, of course, if your being is not able to build a bridge over this stream.” This was the genius of Mr. Bomstone. Painting with the same paints as everyone else—and I'm not just talking about paintings right now!—he saw this world in completely different tones. Being a person without definitions, forms, and boundaries, he, nevertheless, perfectly understood that one cannot build majestic structures of civilization on Pacific islands, because they are out of place there, just as palms are out of place among the venerable squares of London, and therefore in his works, an objective, subjectivism-filled harmony completely reigned… He valued loneliness, but he valued his uniqueness even more: he had to come to this particular world out of all the infinity of existing worlds—to a world where there are not only his friends, but also his offenders. Life in this world is multifaceted, there is no truly correct position in it—he himself decides what is truth and what is delusion and evil for him.