Venedikt Erofeev

Moscow to the End of the Line

"throwing back my head like a pianist" used to describe drinking straight from the bottle, twice so far--wonderful.

"There, every Friday, exactly at eleven o'clock, I'm met on the platform by that girl of the white eyes, white to off-white, that most beloved of trollops, that red-haired she-devil. And today is Friday. In less than two hours from now--exactly at eleven o'clock--she'll be there, with that whitish gaze in which there is no conscience and no shame. Come with me, oh, what things you will see..."

"Why are the angels troubled? Why have they fallen silent? My tomorrow is bright. Our tomorrow is brighter than our yesterday and our today. But who'll see to it that our day after tomorrow won't be worse than our day before yesterday?"

"And I look, and I see, and for that reason, I'm sorrowful"

"Gracious God, make it so that nothing has happened to him and so that nothing ever will"

"What was I to do next? Be tender in an insinuating way or crude in a captivating way? The devil knows, I never really understood how or when to approach a drunken girl. Up to this point--should I tell you?--up to this point I knew little about them, drunken or sober. Of course, I rushed after them in my thoughts, but the moment I would catch up, my heart would stop in fright. I had designs but not intentions. Whenever any intentions appeared my designs disappeared and, though I rushed after them in my heart, my thought stopped in fright. I was contradictory. On the one hand, I liked it that they had waists, while we haven't any waists at all. This awoke in me--how should I put it?--"bliss." Yes, it awoke a feeling of bliss in me. But, on the other hand, they stabbed Marat with a penknife, though Marat was incorruptible abd shouldn't have been stabbed. This thought killed all feelings of bliss. On the other hand, like Karl Marx I liked the weakness in them, that is, for example, how they are compelled to squat down when urinating. This pleased me, this filled me with, well, with what? A feeling of bliss, really? Well, yes, this filled me with a feeling of bliss. But on the other hand, didn't one of them shoot at Lenin? This killed the bliss again--squat away, but why shoot at Ilich? ... She herself made the choice for me, leaning back and stroking my cheek with her ankle. There was something like encouragement in this, something like the blowing of a kiss. And, then, that turbid, bitchy whiteness of her pupils, whiter than delirium, whiter than seventh heaven. And her stomach that was like the sky and the earth. As soon as I saw it I all but started to weep from inspiration, to tremble and steam all over. And everything got mixed together--roses and lilies and, in little tangles, the whole damp shuddering entrance to Eden and oblivion. Oh, the moist sobbing of those depths. Oh, the shamelessness of those eyes. Oh, harlot with eyes like clouds. Oh, sweet navel."