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“Like everyone, I have my own, maybe obsessive futile, maybe in some way authentic, vision: all of a sudden, I will imagine the entire homogenous world as it is revealed to us-the streets, the cities, the rooms, those intelligent beasts of a sad and predatory nature, who have learn to stand on their hind legs, who have built all this but are fated to disappear, who, despite this, still try to cling to something solid and lasting, still try to ward off the inevitability of death, who dreamt up fairy tales and, now that these stories have been disproved, are disconsolate - and for me the only means of defending myself from our terrible fate is love, my love - Lyolya. Without love we fall into a stupor or despair, it covers our naked animal essence; with the fear of death, with deliberate attempts to grab hold of some kind of eternity, one that is at once a mystery to us and yet devised by us, even the remains of love, even its very echo in music, imbues us with a semblance of fearlessness, dignity and the spiritual range to disregard death. Only by loving, by knowing about love, hoping for love, are we inspired and meaningfully engaged in life, able to banish the sovereignty of petty day-to-day cares, to stop waiting for the end to come”

- Yuri Felsen (trans. Bryan Karetnyk)

From ‘Deceit’, first published in 1930 and translated to English in 2022.

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