And if I die sometime— I’m going to die very soon — I know I’ll die as I am, without accepting this world, perceiving it up close up and far away, inside and out, perceiving but not accepting it. I’ll die and He will ask me “Was it good there for you? Was it bad there for you?” I will be silent, with lowered eyes. I will be silent with that muteness familiar to everyone who knows the outcome of days of hard boozing. For isn’t the life of man a soul as well? We are all as if drunk, only everybody in his own way: one person has drunk more, the next less. And it works differently on each: the one laughs in the face of this world, while the next cries on its bosom. One has already thrown up and feels better, while the next is only starting to feel like throwing up. But me, what am I? I’ve partaken of much, but nothing works on me. I haven’t laughed properly, even once, and I’ve never thrown up, even once. I, who have partaken of so much in this world that I’ve lost count and the sequence of it all, I am soberer than anyone else in the world; it’s simply that nothing works on me. “Why are you silent?” the Lord, all in blue lightning, asks me. So, what shall I answer him? I’ll just be silent, silent…

- Venichka in Venedikt Erofeev’s Moscow to the End of the Line 

  1. itisnotthesea posted this