Daughter from the Dark

by Marina Dyachenko

The modern world was insane, that much was obvious; in this world truth could turn into delirious nonsense, and delirious nonsense into truth, and everyone sensed it on some level.

“Imperfect world. That’s right. Creativity is only possible in an imperfect world. In a perfect, complete world it is not possible at all.”

“A musician, especially a composer, he takes a piece of himself, a bloody piece, with the taste of life, love, and the fear of death. And he preserves it . . . no, that’s not right, he translates the best—or the most terrifying—moments of his life into another semiotic system. Another code. And then he sends it into space. Or writes it down on paper using symbols. And he doesn’t care whether the bar has sold enough alcohol, whether the people sitting down are tapping their feet in time with the music, or whether the dance floor is vibrating.”

“What if it is his right? If a person decides to make a sacrifice for something he considers important, it is his choice, isn’t it? And here I show up and tell him, no, let’s go home, let’s do it all differently . . . I came to save him, but he never asked to be saved, did he?”

“Every now and then I feel sorry for you, Aspirin. And every now and then I don’t.” He felt the same way about himself.

same

To be alive—that was what it meant. To fear death. To experience joy. To live. Death is when the music stops.

“Because he . . . he is a creator. He needs to live in an imperfect world.”