Hello, Lyubov Mikhailovna! Could you please check my essay against the criteria? Thanks in advance.

Text:
(1) This letter came miraculously. (2) One heroic Frenchwoman took him out of the Union ... (3) Here is the letter. (4) I'm missing a few personal paragraphs. (5) And then:
“(6) Your emigration is not a private matter. (7) Otherwise, you are not a writer, but a tenant. (8) You broke free to talk about us and your past. (9) Everything else is petty. (10) Everything else degrades the dignity of the writer.
(11) You were not driving for jeans and not for a used car. (12) You were driving - to tell. (13) So remember us ...
(14) They say you have become Americans, free, relaxed, dynamic. (15) Almost as fast as your cars. (16) Almost as meaningful as your refrigerators ... (17) We laugh at these conversations. (18) We laugh and do not believe. (19) What kind of Americans are you?! (20) Don't be an American. (21) And don't get away from your past. (22) It seems that you are surrounded by skyscrapers. (23) You are surrounded by the past. (24) That is, we. (25) I say it again - remember us ... "
(26) I thought a lot about this letter.
(27) There is a property by which one can once and for all distinguish a noble person. (28) A noble person perceives any misfortune as retribution for his own sins. (29) He blames only himself, no matter what grief befalls him.
(30) If a loved one cheated, a noble person says: “I was inattentive and rude. (31) I suppressed her individuality. (32) I did not notice her problems. (33) I insulted her feelings. (34) I myself pushed her to this step.
(35) If a friend turned out to be a traitor, a noble person says: “I annoyed him with my imaginary superiority. (36) I ridiculed his shortcomings. (37) I hurt his ambitions. (38) I myself forced him to betrayal ... "
(39) And what if something wildest and most ridiculous happened? (40) If the motherland rejected our love? (41) Humiliated and tortured us? (42) Betrayed our interests?
(43) Then a noble person says: “Mothers are not chosen. (44) This is my only homeland. (45) I love America, I admire America, I am grateful to America, but my homeland is far away. (46) Having lost, ruined and rejected the best sons! (47) Where can she be kind, cheerful and affectionate ?!
(48) Birches, it turns out, grow everywhere. (49) But does it make it easier? (50) The homeland is ourselves. (51) Our first toys. (52) altered jackets of older brothers. (53) Sandwiches wrapped in newspaper. (54) girls in strict brown skirts. (55) Exams, cheat sheets ... (56) Ridiculous, terrible poems ... (57) Army shag ... (58) Obliquely crossed lines ... (59) Manuscripts, police ...
(60) Everything that happened to us is the homeland! And all that was - remains forever ...
(S.Dovlatov)

The writing:

A person is not always surrounded by honor in his native country, sometimes living and working conditions abroad turn out to be more favorable. Some people, having left their native land, forever forget their roots, their culture, their history. However, is this position correct? How should a truly noble person treat his Motherland? The well-known writer S. Dovlatov reflects on this issue in his text.
In an excerpt from the letter cited by the author, it is doubtful that Dovlatov, who emigrated to America, will ever be able to become a real American. The author of the letter claims that no matter where a person is, he will always be surrounded by the memory of his native land, of his friends, with whom he had to part. Reflecting on this letter, Dovlatov writes that for a noble person, the homeland always remains the homeland, even if it is impossible to achieve recognition and support there. Inside us there is always a particle of a past life, childhood. So the author leads us to the idea that it is impossible to renounce the country where you were born, just as it is impossible to choose your parents. I fully agree with the writer and also believe that love for the motherland is one of the noblest and most beautiful feelings of every person.
Many works of Russian literature are imbued with this feeling. It was love for the motherland that helped writers to create even in the most difficult moments of their lives. Thus, the remarkable Russian poetess Anna Akhmatova wrote:
I had a voice, he called consolingly,
He said, "Come here
Leave your land deaf and sinful,
Leave Russia forever." […]
But indifferent and calm
I covered my ears with my hands...
This poem is imbued with extraordinary patriotism. Even in the years of severe upheavals, in the face of uncertainty, Akhmatova is ready to stay in Russia and experience her troubles with her.
Undoubtedly, it was the feeling of love for the native land that rallied many people during the terrible years of the Great Patriotic War, gave them the strength to commit truly heroic deeds. Let us recall the hero of the work of B. Polevoy "The Tale of a Real Man" pilot Alexei Meresyev. Having experienced immeasurable misfortune, having lost his legs, he was able to save his mental strength and learn to walk, was able to return to duty and again take to the air. It seems to me that it was the desire to protect his native land that helped him to commit such an act.
Thus, for a truly noble person, he can never turn his back on his homeland. It is his love for her that makes him stronger.

In December, The New Yorker magazine published my story. And I really got paid about four thousand dollars. Lynn Farber seemed excited and happy. I, of course, was pleased too. But still less than expected. Too long, I repeat, I have waited for this moment. Well, money, of course, came in very handy. As always... Everyone congratulated me. The translation was said to be expressive and accurate. Then the editor of The New Yorker called me. He said that he wanted to print my stories in the future. Interested in how I live. I said:

Sorry, my English is bad. It is unlikely that I will be able to express my feelings. I feel like an idiot. I hope you understand me?

The editor replied:

All this is clear even to an American ...

The money we received at the New Yorker we, to our own surprise, spent wisely. My wife bought a typing computer in installments for nine thousand. Made the first deposit. We hoped to receive orders from Russian publishers. For example, Karl Proffer in Ardis. And he, indeed, immediately sent my wife a profitable job. Lynn Farber has taken on the task of translating the following story. On the same day, a literary agent called her. Said he was ready to take care of my business. He asked if I had a finished book. Lynn Farber replied:

At least five pieces...

The agent's name was Charlie. I immediately fell in love with him. Firstly, for the fact that he did not eat too carefully. He even took soft food with his hands. For me it was important. Because in restaurants I experience a painful inferiority complex. I can't eat properly. I'm afraid of waiters. In short, I feel like an uninvited guest. And Charlie was always easy for me. Even though he didn't speak Russian. I don't know. how it works. In addition, Charlie was "pink", left. And we, Russian refugees, are all right as one. To the right of us, as they say, only a wall. So I was right, Charlie was left. But we got along great.

I asked him:

Here you hate capitalism. Why are you rich? Why do you live on Seventy-fourth Street?

Charlie replied:

First of all, unfortunately I am not very rich. Although I'm really against capitalism. But capitalism still exists. And while he is not dead, the rich live better ...

In his youth, Charlie almost became a criminal. It seems that he was even judged. From such, as far as I know, the most decent people grow up ...

I kept saying:

Thank you Charlie! You probably don't make good money on me. So you're an idealist, even though you're an American.

Charlie answered me:

Don't hesitate to say thank you. First reach a level where I start to deceive you...

I kept thinking - it happens! An American who speaks a foreign language, besides pink, leftist, is closer and more understandable to me than old acquaintances. Mysterious case - human communication ...

Letter from there

This letter arrived miraculously. One heroic Frenchwoman took him out of the Union. God bless her, who does not exist... She illegally exports manuscripts from the Union. It delivers finished books. Sometimes twenty or thirty pieces. Once, at the Leningrad airport, she could not get up from the sofa. And we still scold the Western intelligentsia... Here is the letter. I leave in a few paragraphs of a personal nature. And further:

“... Now two words about the newspaper. She looks pretty - lively, bright, talented. There is panache in it, of course - humor and so on. In general, there are many good things.

I want to talk about what is not. And what the newspaper, in my opinion, is decisively lacking.

She misses your past. Yours and our past. Our laughter and horror, patience and hopelessness.

Your emigration is not a private matter. Otherwise, you are not a writer, but a tenant. And it doesn't matter where - in America, in Japan, in Rostov ...

You broke free to talk about us and your past. Everything else is small. Everything else only humiliates the dignity of the writer. Although growing, perhaps, the chances of success.

You didn't go for jeans or a used car. You went to tell. So remember us...

They say you have become Americans, free, uninhibited, dynamic. Almost as fast as your cars. Almost as rich as your refrigerators. They say,

you are solving serious problems. For example: which car consumes less gasoline?

We laugh at these conversations. We laugh and do not believe. All this is just a game, a pretense. What kind of Americans are you?! Brodsky, about whom we are only talking? You, who is remembered at the beer stalls from Razyezzhaya to Tchaikovsky and from Stremyannaya to Headquarters? It's hard to think of anything funnier than this.

Don't be an American. And don't let go of your past. It seems that you are surrounded by skyscrapers. The past surrounds you. That is, we. Crazy poets and artists, alcoholics and docents, soldiers and prisoners.

Once again I say - remember us. We are many and we are alive. They kill us, but we live and write poetry.

In this nightmare, in this hell, we do not recognize each other by their names. How - this is our business! .. "

I thought a lot about this letter.

There is a property by which you can once and for all distinguish a noble person. A noble person perceives any misfortune as retribution for his own sins. He blames only himself, no matter what grief befell him.

If a loved one has cheated, a noble person says:

I was careless and rude. Suppressed her personality. Didn't see her problems. Hurt her feelings. I myself pushed her to this step.

If the Friend turned out to be a traitor, the noble person says:

I annoyed him with my imaginary superiority. Ridiculed his shortcomings. Hit his ambitions. I myself forced him to betray ...

What if something wild and ridiculous happened? If the motherland rejected our love? Humiliated and tortured us? Betrayed our interests?

Then the noble man says:

Mothers are not chosen. This is my only home. I love America, I admire America, I am grateful to America, but my homeland is far away. Poor, hungry, mad and drunk! Lost, ruined and rejected the best sons! Where can she be kind, cheerful and affectionate?! ..

Birches seem to grow everywhere. But does that make it easier?

Homeland is ourselves. Our first toys. Altered jackets of older brothers. Sandwiches wrapped in newspaper. Girls in strict brown skirts. A trifle from my father's pocket. Exams, cribs... Ridiculous, horrifying poems... Thoughts of suicide... A glass of "Agdam" in the doorway... Army shag... Daughter, mittens, breeches, the back of a tiny boot turned up... Obliquely crossed lines. .. Manuscripts, police, OVIR... Everything that happened to us was our homeland. And all that was - will remain forever ...

Before the storm

Clouds were gathering in the editorial office. Larry Schweitzer became more and more boring and picky. Now he wanted to look through newspaper materials in advance. Apparently, Larry got some kind of censors who read Russian. Any of the authors rejected by us could be suspected of this. Later we found out that Drozdov was doing this.

Underwood solo

One day, Larry Schweitzer showed up at the office disgruntled and angry. He asked:
“Why are you guys mentioning pork? Jewish readers find this unpleasant.”
I didn't understand.
Larry unfolded the latest issue of the newspaper. He pointed his finger at the economic review written by Zaretsky. It was about economic problems in the Union. In particular, about reducing the production of pork ...
“Larry,” I say, “this is an article on an economic topic!”
Schweitzer got angry:
“It is forbidden to mention pork. Replace it with stuffed fish ... "

The newspaper didn't make any money. Losses kept growing. The situation became more and more tense.

We learned that Drozdov went to see Bogolyubov. He repented and asked for a job. He said that Dovlatov and Baskin dragged him into the maelstrom of liberalism. As a result, Drozdov was promised something...

Baskin told him:

What are you doing, scoundrel?

And what? - Drozdov was amazed. - Nothing special! We are all anti-communists. Our common goals...

I'm talking:

You are not an anti-communist. You are a fitter. Think you've changed your mind? Nothing like this! You have changed owners. And lackeys are needed everywhere. They will always find work.

Baskin waved his hand.

Why talk to him!

Moker sat without interfering. He knew that Baskin wanted to get rid of him. I seemed to be in a neutral position. And Moker needed allies. He could only count on Drozdov. Here our typist intervened. Apparently, Drozdov did not please her with something. She said:

It's useless to talk to this guy. He still won't understand. Such people need rods.

This is a thought, - Baskin said thoughtfully.

Then he swung and hit Drozdov hard in the face.

Me and Moker grabbed his arms. Drozdov's reaction was completely unexpected. He suddenly brightened up. And he spoke, addressing Eric, penetratingly, with feeling:

You're right, old man! You're absolutely right! That was my fault. An unforgivable mistake. I did something stupid...

Well, what did I tell you? the typist rejoiced.

Everyone was silent. The mood in the editorial office was gloomy and depressed. And only Drozdov's left cheek was the only bright spot against this background ... And I kept thinking - what is happening? By God, I am embarrassed by the ebullient anti-communism that has taken possession of the minds of party comrades. Where were you before, fearless publicists? Where did you hide your accusatory concepts? Sinyavsky and Ginzburg went to prison. Where were you? Criticizing Andropov across the ocean is not a feat. You criticize Bogolyubov. And then I don’t envy you ... Suddenly the door opened, and Gurevich shouted from the threshold:

There was just an assassination attempt on Reagan! ..

In short, we needed a business manager. Simply put, a good administrator. Business man. Because Moker only dealt with general matters.

Journalistic experience was enough. Things were much worse for administrative personnel. Smart will go to a reputable American company. Silly like would not be required. And without a good manager it is impossible to work.

Moreover, we learned so many new things! First, it finally became clear that our newspaper is a commodity. It was hard to come to terms with this idea.

Just think! Favorite, dear, wonderful newspaper! Fruit of sleepless nights! The result of a joint heroic effort! Our adored child, idolized child! Imperishable cry of the soul! And suddenly - the goods! Like sausage or herring...

Alas, all this is true. You can write the Fourteenth Symphony, Guernica, Anna Karenina. Create an artificial liver, laser or hydrogen bomb. You can be a genius and a visionary. Great heretic and hero of labor. It does not matter. The material fruits of human efforts inevitably become the object of market trade.

In the realm of the spirit, Modigliani is a genius. And the artist Gerasimov is a vulgar and nonentity. But in the sphere of the market, Modigliani is a good commodity, and Gerasimov is a bad one. Modigliani is profitable, but Gerasimov is not.

Everything created by people is subject to the laws of the market. And these laws are general. For Zaretsky and Michelangelo. For goose stomachs and weekly "Mirror" ...

I kept saying:

Without a good administrator, things will not work ...

Baskin agreed:

So, we need to kick out this loafer Moker ...

Easy money

Lynn Farber seemed excited and happy. I, of course, was pleased too. But still less than expected. Too long, I repeat, I have waited for this moment. Well, money, of course, came in very handy. As always…

Everyone congratulated me. The translation was said to be expressive and accurate.

Then the editor of The New Yorker called me. He said that he wanted to print my stories in the future. Interested in how I live.

I said:

Sorry, my English is bad. It is unlikely that I will be able to express my feelings. I feel like an idiot. I hope you understand me?

The editor replied:

All this is clear even to an American ...

The money we received at the New Yorker we, to our own surprise, spent wisely. My wife bought a typing computer in installments for nine thousand. Made the first deposit.

We hoped to receive orders from Russian publishers. For example, Karl Proffer in Ardis. And he, indeed, immediately sent my wife a profitable job.

Lynn Farber has taken on the task of translating the following story. On the same day, a literary agent called her. Said he was ready to take care of my business. He asked if I had a finished book. Lynn Farber replied:

At least five pieces...

The agent's name was Charlie. I immediately fell in love with him. Firstly, for the fact that he did not eat too carefully. He even took soft food with his hands.

For me it was important. Because in restaurants I experience a painful inferiority complex. I can't eat properly. I'm afraid of waiters. In short, I feel like an uninvited guest.

And Charlie was always easy for me. Even though he didn't speak Russian. I don't know how it works.

In addition, Charlie was "pink", left. And we, Russian refugees, are all right as one. To the right of us, as they say, only a wall.

So I was right, Charlie was left. But we got along great.

I asked him:

Here you hate capitalism. Why are you rich? Why do you live on Seventy-fourth Street?

Charlie replied:

First of all, unfortunately I am not very rich. Although I'm really against capitalism. But capitalism still exists, and until it is dead, the rich live better ...

In his youth, Charlie almost became a criminal. It seems that he was even judged. From such, as far as I know, the most decent people grow up ...

I kept saying:

Thank you Charlie! You probably don't make good money on me. So you're an idealist, even though you're an American.

Charlie answered me:

Don't hesitate to say thank you. First reach a level where I start to deceive you...

I kept thinking - it happens! An American who speaks a foreign language, besides pink, leftist, is closer and more understandable to me than old acquaintances. Mysterious business - human communication ...

Letter from there

This letter arrived miraculously. One heroic Frenchwoman took him out of the Union. God bless her, who does not exist ...

She illegally exports manuscripts from the Union. It delivers finished books. Sometimes twenty or thirty pieces. Once, at the Leningrad airport, she could not get up from the sofa.

And we still scold the Western intelligentsia ...

Here is the letter. I skip a few paragraphs of a personal nature. And further:

“... Now two words about the newspaper. She looks pretty - lively, bright, talented. There is panache in it, of course - humor and so on. In general, there are many good things.

I want to talk about what is not. And what the newspaper, in my opinion, is decisively lacking.

She misses your past. Yours and our past. Our laughter and horror, patience and hopelessness.

Your emigration is not a private matter. Otherwise, you are not a writer, but a tenant. And it doesn’t matter where - in America, in Japan, in Rostov ...

You broke free to talk about us and your past. Everything else is small. Everything else only humiliates the dignity of the writer. Although growing, perhaps, the chances of success.

You didn't go for jeans or a used car. You went to tell. So remember us...

They say you have become Americans, free, uninhibited, dynamic. Almost as fast as your cars. Almost as rich as your refrigerators. They say you solve serious problems. For example: which car consumes less gasoline?

We laugh at these conversations. We laugh and do not believe. All this is just a game, a pretense. What kind of Americans are you?! Brodsky, about whom we are only talking? You, who is remembered at the beer stalls from Razyezzhaya to Tchaikovsky and from Stremyannaya to Headquarters? It's hard to think of anything funnier than this.

Don't be an American. And don't let go of your past. It seems that you are surrounded by skyscrapers. The past surrounds you. That is, we. Crazy poets and artists, alcoholics and docents, soldiers and prisoners.

Once again I say - remember us. We are many and we are alive. They kill us, but we live and write poetry.

In this nightmare, in this hell, we do not recognize each other by their names. How - this is our business! .. "

I thought a lot about this letter.

There is a property by which you can once and for all distinguish a noble person. A noble person perceives any misfortune as retribution for his own sins. He blames only himself, no matter what grief befell him.

If a loved one has cheated, a noble person says:

I was careless and rude. Suppressed her personality. Didn't see her problems. Hurt her feelings. I myself pushed her to this step.

If a friend turned out to be a traitor, a noble person says:

I annoyed him with my imaginary superiority. Ridiculed his shortcomings. Hit his ambitions. I myself forced him to betray ...

What if something wild and ridiculous happened? If the motherland rejected our love? Humiliated and tortured us? Betrayed our interests?

Then the noble man says:

Mothers are not chosen. This is my only home. I love America, I admire America, I am grateful to America, but my homeland is far away. Poor, hungry, mad and drunk! Lost, ruined and rejected the best sons! Where can she be kind, cheerful and affectionate?!

Birches, it turns out, grow everywhere. But does that make it easier?

Homeland is ourselves. Our first toys. Altered jackets of older brothers. Sandwiches wrapped in newspaper. Girls in strict brown skirts. A trifle from my father's pocket. Exams, cribs… Ridiculous, terrifying verses… Thoughts of suicide… A glass of “Agdam” in the doorway… Army shag… Daughter, mittens, breeches, the back of a tiny boot turned up… Obliquely crossed lines… Manuscripts, police, OVIR… Everything that happened to us , - homeland. And all that was, will remain forever ...

Three periods were noted in Dovlatov's life: Leningrad, Tallinn and New York.

Life in Leningrad, in my opinion, can hardly even be called a period. This is the city in which he not only grew up, lived, but should have been born. Due to the outbreak of war in 1941 it physically happened in Ufa.

It was also by chance that the first year of military service took place on the meridian where he was born. If we attribute biographical properties to the story “Voice”, then it was this year of service, when a young man from an intelligent family found himself in the special conditions of army life, complicated by the specifics of the service itself and the most difficult climate, helped to understand the main thing for him, to understand that his vocation is to be a writer .

While in the army, in the second year, when he was already transferred to serve near Leningrad, Dovlatov wrote the first "serious" work: a short story "Captains on Land". In a revised form, her episodes were later included in the "Zone". The story has never been published. The handwritten version in a thick "general" notebook was read by a small number of acquaintances. Then the notebook disappeared. Upon returning from the army, new stories were written, and the biography of the writer began with them.

Dovlatov Sergey

Letters on my desk

Sergey Dovlatov

Letters on my desk

When I was little, I was terribly jealous of adults who had reason to look into the mailbox and from time to time take out letters decorated with colorful stamps and mysterious stamps. The lofty right to write and receive letters seemed to me an unattainable privilege of maturity. Until the age of ten, I did not receive letters at all, and then I visited the Artek pioneer camp in the summer of 1952, met boys of different nationalities there, and after that, two or three times a year, I received letters from Central Asia, then from the Baltic states , then from Ukraine something like this: "I study for fives and fours, I am actively engaged in physical education, I take care of green spaces, I read the book "The Boy from Urzhum" twice, there are many sights in our city, with pioneer greetings - such and such. Sometimes these letters ended with an informal phrase; "I'm waiting for an answer, like the nightingale of summer."

In the end, this correspondence died out, and again for several years I received almost no letters, except for two or three messages from my classmates, which said: "Let's listen to Rashid Behbudov's records together", or "Who do you think is higher, Pushkin or Mayakovsky?", and one of them ended with the words:

"If you love Earring Tyulenin, let's be friends."

Then I became a student, my personal life began, so to speak, but, in general, no one wrote letters to me, because all my friends lived in Leningrad, and we solved our problems during long telephone conversations. If at that time I received letters, then from libraries with a demand to urgently return the books taken there or pay a fine in the amount of five times their value, as well as election agendas, which in the strict sense of the word cannot be called letters.

In the autumn of 1962, I was drafted into the army, I ended up in the Komi Republic, served in the taiga, and even in the protection of special regime camps, but on the other hand, I received letters almost every day from my parents, from my older brother and several close friends , and these letters supported me very much in those nightmarish conditions in which I found myself, especially since in almost every one of them I found - a ruble, three, or even five, which is true wealth for a Soviet soldier. I, like all my colleagues, spent this money, of course, on wine and cigarettes, and as a result, during the three years in the army, I thoroughly accustomed myself to both.

Then I was demobilized and, being under the impression of what I saw in the special regime camps, I began to write stories and send them to the editors. The norm for me in those years was to write one story a day, and, accordingly, I sent seven packets a week to newspapers and magazines. In response, I received countless letters that were so similar that if it happened today in America, I would be quite sure that they were created by computers with the same program. These letters invariably ended with these words:

"We are interested in your story, but for reasons you understand, it cannot be published. Yours faithfully, such and such."

I remember that I was very annoyed by this “respectfully”, because it would be much more natural in such a context to write: “with contempt” or “with disgust”. What respect can there be for a person who sends his story to the editor, which, for reasons understandable to the author himself, cannot be published?!

All these letters were similar, except for one from the Literary Gazette, which completely puzzled me and the meaning of which I still cannot get to the bottom of, after more than twenty years have passed. The letter ended with the following words: "We liked your story, and we will publish it in June of this year. Although there is little hope. Sincerely, Tsitrinyak." The surname "Tsitrinyak" comes across to me from time to time in the Soviet press, so I do not give up hope - to find out what he meant then.

In the early 70s, my most determined and desperate friends rushed to the West, and from time to time letters came from them in thin light blue envelopes with blue and red stripes, and these rare letters became public domain, we wore them from the same company to another, reading aloud and discussing the smallest details, starting with the stamps on the envelope. I remember how Igor Yefimov, holding in his hands a letter just received from the West, said excitedly: “Well, why, why, why is the American stamp so distinct, but on ours it is impossible to read either the date or the destination?! Why even in such trifles Are we in last place? Any information in these letters seemed sensational to us, the fact that Brodsky had grown long hair, and that Slavinsky quarreled in a bar, and that Maramzin bought a car, and even the color of this new car was the subject of our long and lively discussions.

In 1978, I finally became convinced that they would not print me in my homeland, and began to think about leaving, especially since my stories by that time had ended up in the West, and on this occasion I received letters from my friends written in the mysterious Aesopian language :

"The gifts were received from you and have already been handed over to their intended destination - Volodya Maksimov and Vita Perelman," and this meant that my stories were received and transferred to the editors of the magazines "Continent" and "Time and Us."

In fact, we were not very good conspirators, and I remember very well one joking resolution adopted at some of our noisy parties: "In order to strengthen the conspiracy, it is recommended that henceforth the Continent magazine be referred to in letters and conversations as the Contingent magazine." The joke was not without meaning, because I remember well how one of my acquaintances shouted to me on the phone: "Old man, congratulations, you were seen in the Continental, did you understand?! You were seen in the Continental!" This meant that someone had seen my story published in "Continent" with their own eyes.

In 1978 I left, ended up in New York, and for about a year I lay on the couch thinking about the fate of the intelligentsia, while my wife went to hard work every morning. Letters from the Soviet Union were rare and not very informative, because, firstly, it was believed that they did not reach, and if they did, they were carefully read by the censors, and in general, I then believed that the past life was over .

Some time later, a group of friends and I formed the New American newspaper, and soon I became its editor-in-chief, and since then for two years received from thirty to fifty letters a week, containing newspaper articles and notes of varying value, but mainly reproaches from offended, rejected authors who tortured me with messages like this:

"For many years I could not publish my novel in verse "The Fate of Raisa" in the newspaper "Karaganda Pioneer", and now I have broken free, and again you, a servant of the newspaper mafia, stand in my way to the hearts of readers."