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334 pages, Kindle Edition
First published September 2, 2020


Anyone who could afford special vodka glasses probably had less sorrow to drink for, anyway.
“I can still do ‘Paul Revere’s Ride,’ though not as well as you do Pushkin.”
“Let’s hear it, then.”
So Daniel stood and recited, and Gennady lay down again and listened with his head on his crossed arms. “There’s a galloping rhythm to it,” he said, enchanted. “That’s very American, isn’t it? A poetry of movement.”
“Yes,” said Daniel.
But he looked at Gennady so strangely that Gennady said, “What?”
“I don’t know. Most people aren’t interested in poetry, I guess,” Daniel said, and then clarified, “Most men, at least.”
“Poetry isn’t manly?” Gennady scoffed. “Like wearing a coat that is actually warm enough isn’t manly? Poetry is…” How to explain? “When there is nothing else, when all the world has gone mad, you recite poetry to hold things together, to give life order and meaning. The world is shaking, but poetry is steady.”
“You think that if you are afraid it should be possible to do something, to fight back or get away. But sometimes it isn’t, sometimes there is nothing to do but endure, and then people fall in love with the thing that they fear because there is no other way to protect themselves. They hope that if they love perhaps they will be loved in return. Do you see?”
“Oh, how silly,” Gennady said impatiently. “Everything in this world alters. If love is not love if it changes, then love can’t exist.”