Or
perhaps they can find neither the time, nor the self-denial, nor
the self-possession to plunge in head first into this life and to
watch it right up close, without prejudice, without sonorous
phrases, without a sheepish pity, in all its monstrous simplicity
and every-day activity. Oh, what a tremendous, staggering and
truthful book would result!"
"But they do write!" unwillingly remarked Ramses.
"They do write," wearily repeated Platonov in the same tone as he.
"But it is all either a lie, or theatrical effects for children of
tender years, or else a cunning symbolism, comprehensible only to
the sages of the future. But the life itself no one as yet has
touched. One big writer--a man with a crystal-pure soul and a
remarkable talent for delineation--once approached this theme,
[Footnote: The reference here is most probably to Chekhov.--
TRANS.] and then all that could catch the eye of an outsider was
reflected in his soul, as in a wondrous mirror. But he could not
decide to lie to and to frighten people. He only looked upon the
coarse hair of the porter, like that of a dog, and reflected:
'But, surely, even he had a mother.
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