“Here you have ... one more experiment. Experiments, facts, truth is the highest instance. But facts do not exist at all, especially here – in a long time. Here everything is fabricated by somebody. Everything’s somebody’s stupid fib. Don’t you feel that?.. And you, certainly, desperately want to know whose. But why? Is your knowledge worth anything? Who is going to get pangs of conscience? Me? I do not have conscience. I have only nerves. Some scoundrel scolds me – a wound. Another scoundrel praises me – one more wound. You put your soul in it, you put your heart in it – they will devour both the soul and the heart. You extract the baseness out of the soul – they devour the baseness. All to the last of them are literate; every one of them has a sensory hunger. And all of them flock around: journalists, editors, critics, some uninterruptible women. And everyone demands: “Give! Give!..” What, hell with it, am I for a writer, if I hate to write? If for me it is a torture, an illness-like, shameful occupation, something like hemorrhoids. And I did think earlier that somebody becomes better because of my books. But nobody needs me! I will croak, and in two days they will forget me and begin devouring somebody else. For I wanted to remake them, but I myself was remade! In their own image. Earlier the future was only a continuation of the present, and all the changes loomed somewhere behind the horizons. And now the future became one with the present. Are they ready for that? They do not wish to know anything! They only devour!
- сталкер
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