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oblivion
don’t have the strength to
take apart the houses. Chop
down the trees for us—you
are a stranger, they don’t
mean anything to you; you
will leave, and we will have
fire and warmth.
The old man handed me the
axe with its long handle;
an old tub with iron hoops
was placed under the roof
gutter, and since I didn’t
know what to do, I moved
toward it and leaned on it;
a memory appeared in the
tub and apples, prompting
the answer.
One autumn night I was
walking to the stop on the
narrow gauge line used to
carry peat from the Bryansk
swamps; the work train
passed the stop early in the
morning and I could take it
to the big railroad.
Night in the swamp is
different from night in the
woods or fields; in swamps
the darkness resembles mud
splashing into your face,
permeating your clothes;
it seems that if you spit, it
won’t be saliva but a gob
of the darkness filling your
mouth. It had been pouring
for two days, the swamp soil
could not absorb any more
liquid, everything around
me slurped, bubbled, and
dripped, the yellow spot
of light from my flashlight,
which I turned on from time
to time, caught toadstools
bloated by the rain, and
I felt I was trapped in an
endless witches’ circle; the
rain washed everything that
had accumulated over the
long September dry spell,
and the trees, earth, and
water gave off a rank swamp
smell, rotting and unclean,
and even the rain smelled of
it. On an ordinary night you
feel the movement of time—