A Dictator Calls

Art, unlike a tyrant, receives no mercy, but only gives it.

The conversation was beyond improbable, beyond impossible, an evil omen come from another world. The poet and the tyrant should never have been put together. But an authoritative voice ensured that it happened. Whether they wished it or not, they were together, two manifestations of the same thing: power. Slaves of each other in the same circle of Dante. Torturing each other, each the other’s downfall, whether for three minutes or for as many centuries or millennia was of no importance.

The only remaining route to Moscow, which even the most terrifying tanks couldn’t reach, was the novel.

Writer’s importance is hardly diminished if he appears to be a difficult character, cynical, dark and despairing. On the contrary he has everything to lose from being cheerful, confident, pure in heart and, above all, close to the people.

In my mind, my novel was perfect, finished, which meant both beautiful and at the same time dead.