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TWO TALES
Translated from Ukrainian
by Michael M. Naydan
The Demon of Hunger
M
y throat hurts. I can’t
speak much. And to
be honest, I don’t
have anything to say. I think
a lot, but for some reason
don’t have my own opinion.
I don’t know how to gauge
what is happening with me
and with people I know. I
just know one thing – I’m
very sentimental. Don’t be
offended that I cry so much.
That’s normal. I can cry even
more. It’s just when I hear a
sad story, tears gush out on
their own from my eyes. I can
cry all day and another night
– I’ve confirmed that. When I
cry I feel happy. Cleansed.
I love to hear love stories
the most. Sentimental ones.
When two people love
each other, and something
external prevents them from
being together. I love it when
the two lovers live their
entire life separately, and
die separately, but always
remember each other, but
have different husbands and
wives, but never forget that
strongest love of their lives.
And when, for example,
a man dies in the arms of
a different woman (who,
perhaps, also happens to
love him), the other woman
stands at the window, then
at the cemetery, but not
with everyone else, but off
to the side, just to see him
for the last time. O, you see,
I’m already crying, but it’s
normal, don’t stop me.
Other people’s love stories
affect me more than my own.