1. |
Wife
04:02
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You know, my mother was against it. You've probably noticed already that he's not of this world. All our neighborhood laughed at him. He was such a bungler, he looked so pitiful. His mother used to say: "He's a stalker, he's doomed, he's an eternal prisoner! Don't you know what kind of children the stalkers have?" And I... I didn't even argue with her, I knew it myself, that he was doomed. That he was an eternal prisoner, and about the children. Only what could I do? I was sure I would be happy with him. Of course, I knew I'd have a lot of sorrow, too. But it's better to have a bitter happiness than.. A grey, dull life. Perhaps, I thought it all up later. Then he approached me and said: "Come with me." And I did, and never regretted it. Never. We had a lot of sorrow, a lot of fear and a lot of shame. But I never regretted it, I never envied anyone. It's just our fate, our life, that's how we are. And if we hadn't of had our misfortunes, we wouldn't have been better off. It would have been worse. Because in that case there wouldn't have been any happiness. And there wouldn't have been any hope.
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2. |
Writer
05:37
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One more experiment. Experiments, facts, truth is the highest instance. But facts do not exist at all, especially here – in a long time. Here everything is fabricated by somebody. Everything’s somebody’s stupid fib. Don’t you feel that?.. And you, certainly, desperately want to know whose. But why? Is your knowledge worth anything? Who is going to get pangs of conscience? Me? I do not have conscience. I have only nerves. Some scoundrel scolds me – a wound. Another scoundrel praises me – one more wound. You put your soul in it, you put your heart in it – they will devour both the soul and the heart. You extract the baseness out of the soul – they devour the baseness. All to the last of them are literate; every one of them has a sensory hunger. And all of them flock around: journalists, editors, critics, some uninterruptible women. And everyone demands: “Give! Give!..” What, hell with it, am I for a writer, if I hate to write? If for me it is a torture, an illness-like, shameful occupation, something like haemorrhoids. And I did think earlier that somebody becomes better because of my books. But nobody needs me! I will croak, and in two days they will forget me and begin devouring somebody else. For I wanted to remake them, but I myself was remade! In their own image. Earlier the future was only a continuation of the present, and all the changes loomed somewhere behind the horizons. And now the future became one with the present. Are they ready for that? They do not wish to know anything! They only devour
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3. |
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4. |
Stalker
05:08
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Let everything that's been planned come true. Let them believe. And let them have a laugh at their passions. Because what they call passion actually is not some emotional energy, but just the friction between their souls and the outside world. And most important, let them believe in themselves. Let them be helpless like children, because weakness is a great thing, and strength is nothing. When a man is just born, he is weak and flexible. When he dies, he is hard and insensitive. When a tree is growing, it's tender and pliant. But when it's dry and hard, it dies. Hardness and strength are death's companions. Pliancy and weakness are expressions of the freshness of being. Because what has hardened will never win.
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5. |
Professor
02:21
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Slowpulse Torun, Poland
Auditory exorcisms.
Find safety.
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