I've promised to write a short report about my trip to Russia, a trip I was so afraid to take, for the memories of my first trip to my used-to-be-home-country have been keeping me from repeating the experience for almost five years. To worry there was no reason – this pilgrimage was far less traumatic than the previous one, or, rather, it wasn’t traumatic at all. There is no report at all either. I postponed writing down my impressions, waiting for some breeze of inspiration, some feeling, for something that would touch a string in my soul, if not to make it sing, then to make it squeak.

But no, the muses keep avoiding me – probably have a drinking party on the Pacific coast, near the Zoo.

Last week I went through my old papers, and found a J. Brodsky’s poem (to be precise, a part of it), which I copied this spring, before going to Russia. I forgot what attracted me then, but now it so perfectly describes my feelings about Russia, that I abandoned my travel writing attempts.

Joseph Brodsky. Brise Marine

Dear, I ventured out of the house late this evening, merely
for a breath of fresh air from the ocean not far away.
The sun was smoldering low like a Chinese fan in a gallery
And a cloud reared up its huge lid like a Steinway.

Understand me correctly, though: your body, your warble, your middle name
Now stir practically nothing. Not that they’ve ceased to burgeon;
But to forget one life, a man needs at minimum
one more life. And I’ve done that portion.

1989