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Unfiled August 23, 2002
The Moscow River
By Edward Limonov Browse author
Page 2 of 2
My despondent colleagues from the literary set -- even the best of them -- obtusely didn't understand and do not understand how much my invasion into war, and therefore into politics, has widened my potential. The new aesthetic consists of that, which is to speed through a burning city in an armored personnel carrier surrounded by young beasts with machine guns. The new aesthetic consists of that, which is to march on a bridge across the Moscow River, approaching the Kremlin, to stamp and rhythmically outrage, "Re-vo-lution!Re-vo-lution!" The most passionate collisions of the '90's in Russia were political. I was part of the street clashes with the OMON in Moscow on February 23 1992, I crawled away from the rain of bullets at Ostankino in 1993, I placed my skin in the planet's hotspots, and my dull colleagues don't understand:for what?They went to the buffet at TsDL, and the most active of them attended vulgar festivals and TV shows. I instinctively, with my dog's nostrils, understood that of all the topics in the world, War and Women (sluts and soldiers)are the most important. And I also understand that the most modern genre is biography. So that is the path I have walked. My books are my biography:a series of ZhZL.

My banal colleagues never were able to understand that I have a heroic temperament. For a long time they called me "scandalous, " wrote of my certain sharp calculation, suspected me of the sins of self-promotion and vanity. There are tens of books written about me, one stupider and more envious than the next. The last one that I flipped through was a book by some Dashkova, and I've forgotten the title.

I passionately enjoyed going over the bridge to the Kremlin over the Moscow River in front of a column, under our amazing, ardent, bloodied signs. I was happy to the point of dizziness to lie under fire on the Vereschagin hill and to feel the taste of a tangerine section in my mouth -- a freshly picked tangerine -- that could be my last in life. This is the way I always wanted to live: relishing, risking, vivid. Now jail and the status of a political prisoner make me incontro- vertible, they've cast me in bronze. Who can turn my honesty and tragedy against me now?

It seems like there is that type. But even death would not convince them.

Where in all of that is the Moscow River? On the Seventh of November she was normally, palely steaming, her awful, freezing water under the bridge rising into the sky. Crammed with shit and pierced with tributary streams of hot sewage. Glancing along her, it was possible to see the merchant donated Church of Christ the Savior, the idiotic Nutcracker-Peter of Tsereteli's, the vile, unnatural water. The Moscow River will not get aroused for anything, it will not winnow any feelings. It is a strange cemetery of dead water in the middle of the city, lying along the sloppy gray shores. Like dangerous mercury.

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