The Naked Year by Boris Pilnyak Page A

seething–both around me and within me. And then, I remember, I wanted to embrace the world! I thought then that I was the center from which all radii spread out, that I was everything. Later I realized that in life there are no radii or centers, that in general the Revolution and everything are only pawns in the paws of life.”
    Boris is silent for a moment, then says maliciously:
    â€œI just cannot reconcile myself to this. I hate everything and despise everyone. I cannot! I don’t want to! I despise you, too, Gleb, with your purity… Marfusha? There is love. Were Marfa and Yegor in love?–To Hell with you, Devil take you!–Russia, the Revolution, the merchants appropriated mansions in their sleep, but you were born pure (virginal) –to Hell with you!… They called us vultures, but dead bodies are called carcasses when they’re skinned! Furthermore, the lousy merchants have survived the princes!”
    Boris grows silent and breathes heavily. Gleb is silent. The silence lasts a long time.
    â€œThe boomerang. Do you know what the boomerang is?” asks Boris, wearily. “It’s a kind of instrument the Papuans throw into the air, and it comes back to them again. Everything in life is just like the boomerang… Gleb, my strength is all but gone, now, both the physical and that which makes others submit… and everything I have ever done will come back on me. At twenty five I was deputy public prosecutor, secret circulars were sent to me to guard against Pugachev-like peasant uprisings. Can you blame anyone?”
    â€œI cannot blame anyone. I cannot!…”
    â€œBut I do! They’re all villains! All!”
    Prince Boris remains agonizingly silent.
    â€œBrother… If I cannot ?!”
    â€œI don’t know where your path is. I have also lost faith. I don’t know…”
    â€œI don’t know either.”
    â€œRead the Bible.”
    â€œI’ve read it! I don’t like it,” says Boris sluggishly.
    Boris stands up, wearily, walks over to the window, looks at the distant dawn, says, pensively:
    â€œThere were nights a million years ago, today there is night, and in another million years also there will be night. You are called Gleb, I am–Boris. Boris and Gleb. According to popular folklore, on our Saints’ day, the second of May, the nightingales begin their singing. I’ve done some vile things, I’ve raped young girls, extorted money, beaten my father. Do you blame me, Gleb?”
    â€œI cannot. I cannot judge,” answers Gleb, hurriedly. “ ‘Mine is the vengeance, I shall repay.’ You spoke about my purity. Yes, it’s a lie…” he says. He walks over to Boris and stands at his side. The last moonlight before morning is shining down on them.
    â€œBoris, do you remember? ‘Mine is the vengeance, I shall repay’…”
    â€œI remember–the boomerang. I don’t like the Bible,” says Boris gloomily, his face sullen. “The boomerang… The most frightening thing I have left now–is the longing for death. The vultures are dying out. Soon my teeth will fall out and my jaws will rot, my nose will cave in. In one year I, the handsome Prince Boris, a lucky man–will be no more… But–but in May the nightingales will sing! It’s sad, you know!” Boris bends his head low, sullenly, surreptitiously looks at the moon, says wearily:–
    â€œThe dogs howl when the moon is out… Gleb, I have syphilis, you know…”
    â€œBoris? What are you saying!…”
    â€œOnly I don’t know–if it’s the vice of our illustrious fathers or… father won’t say.”
    â€œBoris!…”
    But Boris changes suddenly. Proudly, like a beautiful horse, and as they taught him in the lycée, he throws back his head and says, with a sneer,
    â€œEh?”
    â€œBorya!…”
    â€œIt’s most amusing