Vita Nostra (Vita Nostra, #1)

by Marina Dyachenko

Sasha decided it was going to be called just that—the Street That Leads to the Sea. The street sign bore the real name, but it was plain and insignificant. It happened so often—beautiful things had stupid names, and the other way around.

“The same principle can be applied to this class. You are struggling, I know. Because your efforts are connected to—or, rather, limited by—what is internally permissible. You have a very clear notion of what is acceptable and what is not. I’m not talking about everyday things, the so-called principles, I am talking about the inner configuration of your personality, and of your ability to overcome stereotypes. You are a stubborn girl: at this point, it is an obstacle, because we cannot proceed until you learn to work with the CD tracks to your full potential. Instinctively, you realize what is required of you, and just as instinctively you resist. I am not entertaining the

There are concepts that cannot be imagined but can be named. Having received a name, they change, flow into a different entity, and cease to correspond to the name, and then they can be given another, different name, and this process—the spellbinding process of creation—is infinite: this is the word that names it, and this is the word that signifies. A concept as an organism, and text as the universe.

By twelve o’clock the lines would merge in front of Sasha’s eyes; sheets of paper covered with dense writing refused to fold, and when she leaned over, she could smell the gentle scent of the ink that filled her ballpoint pen. Sasha would inhale the scent and smile, thinking about the magnificent harmony of world order, about the beauty of logical constructs, and about the golden sparks of chances that appear without warning out of nowhere to highlight, set off, and emphasize the infinite precision and exactitude of the informational depiction of the universe.

Enlightenment surged over her like a tide and departed again.

August. A sea of stars. A dull, dusty city below. One of the many shadows of the Eternal City that perishes and is reborn every second.

There are words that are simply trash, refuse, they turn into nothing immediately after they are spoken. Others throw shadows, hideous and pathetic, and sometimes gorgeous and powerful, capable of saving a dying soul. But only a few of these words become human beings and pronounce other words. And everyone in the world has a chance of encountering

“Will we be using Speech in practice? Are we going to use Speech?” “No.” Portnov stared at Lisa over his lenses. “Speech will be using you. Any more questions?”

In moments like these a magnificently curved fragment of a sphere that enveloped the planet appeared in front of her eyes, so very close; the sphere was pearly-gray, the color of smoke, and it teemed with ideas and meanings, images, bits and whole impressions. All was accidental and all was interdependent, and it seemed that all she needed to do was to reach for a fresh meaning, grab it, process it, comprehend it—and everything would change. The world would change. This is where geniuses scoop up their ideas, Sasha thought, almost without envy. They don’t understand how it works, they rely on intuition: reach out with your hand—and here it is, your idea. What a depressing way to go through life, hoping for ideas.

Sasha stepped inside with Mom. For one minute she dove into the smell, the life, the temporary nature of the train—but this time the train was somebody else’s. It was transitory, this ghostly, dreamlike way of life was about to take off, and Sasha would remain here.

The language of creation knows no grammatical tense. It has only one mood—the imperative. The first derivative from creation uses the subjunctive mood. The second derivative uses the narrative.”

Animals don’t understand what is happening around them, they are controlled by animal fear. And then, when they are let go and allowed to roam free, they express their joy just like that.

“But there are other stimuli. Love. Ambition . . .” “There are none equal to fear,” he said, almost with regret. “It is the consequence of objective, unyielding laws. To live is to be vulnerable. To love is to fear. And the one who is not afraid—that person is calm like a boa constrictor and cannot love.”

Silence can be unbearable—a moment before the Word finally wrenches itself free.