. And I could bring forward a hundred
such small but staggering trifles ... Even, say, about what people
experienced in the war ... But I want to lead my thought up to one
thing. We all pass by these characteristic trifles indifferently,
like the blind, as though not seeing them scattered about under
our feet. But an artist will come, and he will look over them
carefully, and he will pick them up. And suddenly he will so
skillfully turn in the sun a minute bit of life that we shall all
cry out: 'Oh, my God! But I myself--myself--have seen this with my
own eyes. Only it simply did not enter my head to turn my close
attention upon it.' But our Russian artists of the word--the most
conscientious and sincere artists in the whole world--for some
reason have up to this time passed over prostitution and the
brothel. Why? Really, it is difficult for me to answer that.
Perhaps because of squeamishness, perhaps because of
pusillanimity, out of fear of being signalized as a pornographic
writer; finally, from the apprehension that our gossiping
criticism will identify the artistic work of the writer with his
personal life and will start rummaging in his dirty linen.
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