Chapter 7

Another week passed… Evening. Kostya walks alone once more. "Beautiful," he thought, and indeed, the snowflakes glistened near the evening streetlamps like tiny shards of glass. Rapture and serenity of soul—that was what he felt. Walking his usual route, Kostya reflected: "Solitude is truly a beautiful phenomenon; it allows one to feel independent and powerful. Nothing hinders contemplation of the meaninglessness and transience of life, of the illusory values imposed by society. All these thoughts are so pure and clear that humanity scarcely deserves them, myself included."

Kostya had long since resolved to surrender his soul to this demon for the eternal, tormentingly sweet rending of his heart. For this was the path to what he loved most in this life—the path to philosophy. His second book was progressing well, though not as quickly as he would have liked. Some sacrifice their lives for love, others for posterity, still others for the fatherland. Kostya, however, found no appeal in such sacrifices. He preferred to sacrifice his life for philosophy. When asked: "Why? What for? Is that not also a meaningless sacrifice?" he would reply: "O gods, show me a sacrifice that is NOT meaningless! This sacrifice is no more meaningless than all the rest."

"Tomorrow I shall finally submit my documents for admission to the philosophy faculty," Kostya thought as he passed his former University. With each passing day, he regretted more deeply that he had not chosen it from the start. He had lost so many years without advancing a single step toward his dream. "Perhaps it is for the best—I would never have known this burning necessity to become what I wish to become." Thus Kostya mentally justified himself. He could not afford to lose another year. Someday, perhaps, he would walk alone just as now, observing the light of evening streetlamps along the road, but as a recognized thinker, a doctor of sciences! And then, intoxicated by his vanity, he would remember, remember that he had sacrificed his life to precisely that demon to whom he had wished.

"And Elizabeth? Have I truly sacrificed her as well…?" Kostya thought sadly. He remembered her in her white jacket, which merged with the snow that had wrapped everything around in its white shroud. Sometimes memories are stronger than he himself.

Of late, there was no room in his soul for love of others, no sympathy, no compassion. This insensibility frightened Kostya. Once he had wanted to sell his soul to the devil and had performed a ritual in a synagogue. Recalling that story, he thought guiltily: "Has it not happened now? Have I not truly sold my soul, only just now? It turns out no rituals are needed for this—one need only live a little in this world, and it all happens of its own accord." Konstantin truly felt himself dead.

Everyone around cries out: "Do not let your youth slip away, savor it while you can—these are the sweetest moments of life." This collective idée fixe saddened Kostya as well. For he knew that despite his young age… his youth and the sweetest moments of life had already passed. He would experience nothing better than what he had already experienced; nothing would surprise him anymore, entice him, touch him. In three years of being with Elizabeth, he had experienced everything. He even recalled how he had summoned a demon with her in the synagogue. "I cut my hand back then. Deeply, too—a blood sacrifice, if you please," Kostya thought with sarcasm. "Ah… in the grand scheme of things, there is no more reason to live. But nevertheless, something still raises me from bed each morning."

The following morning of the previous day. "Well, here we go again," Kostya thought irritably. His brother Illarion was, as usual, noisily getting ready for school. Sleeping late on weekdays was not Kostya's destiny. "School—carefree days," thought Kostya, listening to his brother getting ready. Kostya's school, now also his brother's, was the most ordinary school—not one for "the clever" or "the stupid," as they say. Everything from his school years held no value whatsoever, neither for Kostya nor for those around him. Perhaps one might recall that he always gathered children around him through some shared secret. He also happened to have a very humane and intelligent class supervisor. She taught mathematics, and that was the only subject Kostya studied. Later, somewhere after the ninth grade, he became interested in philosophy.

"He who waits in idleness for inspiration will wait until the end of his days," Kostya quoted aloud a line from Faust. Today he would go to register for the entrance examinations to the philosophy faculty.

He had not walked during the early day in a long time. The daylight cut his eyes uncomfortably. "How many people there are," Kostya noted mentally, nearly reaching his destination. He turned off the road into a courtyard. The small courtyard reminded him of the yard of an old dormitory. "Such a serious institution, yet in such a courtyard. This is how modern people honor contemporary education. Most welcoming," Konstantin reflected with irony. He ascended an old staircase, opened the door to the entryway, and before him stood yet another staircase. "Hmm… how educational—one immediately understands: without effort, you won't even catch a fish from a pond." He climbed up. Entered the door on the left. Several young people, no older than school age, stood near the office marked number two.

"Good day," Kostya greeted courteously. "Is this where one may register for the examinations?"

"Yes, but you will be after me," a young, pretty girl answered quickly.

In the corner of the narrow corridor, our hero waited his turn.

"Good day, I wish to register for…" Kostya began, entering the office.

"Sit down," interrupted a thin woman of about fifty. "Do you have your passport, identification code, two envelopes, and four photographs three by four?"

"Yes, I have everything," the applicant replied, handing over everything the woman had named.

"Very well, where do you intend to apply?" asked the woman, on whose chest Kostya could now make out a name badge reading Svetlana.

Kostya named the coveted faculty. The woman made the necessary entries and handed Konstantin a photocopy of one of the documents.

"You will need to pass three examinations; the time and place will be indicated in the envelope you will receive later by mail. Any questions?" To this question, Kostya shook his head negatively. "Then goodbye."

Kostya left the office with a copy of the document confirming his registration and the fact that, even if only slightly, he had moved closer to his goal. At least that was what he thought.

After all this, he wanted to smoke. Kostya lit a cigarette, but he had not even smoked half of it when, out of nowhere, two men in epaulettes appeared.

"Good day, Junior Lieutenant Ivan Kolotun. Please present a document confirming your identity," the taller policeman addressed Kostya. Not yet fully understanding what the policeman had asked of him, Kostya mechanically began to raise his hand holding the copy of the document, but catching himself, he handed his passport to the junior lieutenant.

"So then, Gusev, Konstantin Avgustinovich," the policeman drawled. "Are you aware that smoking is prohibited?"

"Yes, but that's in a public place, and I'm here… in a courtyard… not bothering anyone with the smoke," Kostya replied.

"No, it is no longer just in public places—smoking is prohibited entirely. So then, shall we draw up a report?" the lieutenant asked.

"What is this nonsense?" thought Kostya, but then he recalled something his father had recently told him about this. He did not resist. "Perhaps Father will sort it out later—after all, he is a major in the internal affairs." Kostya signed his name, and finally asked in a cheerful tone: "Will they prohibit us from breathing soon?"

"Well, there you have it… is it really not all the same to politicians whether people destroy themselves or not? What right do they have to meddle in people's private lives?" In a hostile mood, Kostya entered his home, sat down at the table, and, driven by emotion, began to write:

"Prohibition only inflames desire. Have centuries of Christian moral dominance taught us nothing? Was it not during those times when sexual relations were placed under the taboo of sin and depravity that perversions of every kind most flourished?"

"Not a bad beginning," thought Konstantin, and continued:

What are they trying to achieve? To cultivate in people a desire for a healthy way of life and an appreciation of the world's beauty? But how is it possible to admire the beauty of the world without comparing that beauty to its other side? How can one desire good without seeing real examples of the consequences of evil? Is it even possible to achieve any positive results through prohibition? I do not want a society in which I could not do evil; I want one in which I could do any evil, but would have no desire to do it. These are not my words, but those of the great Dostoevsky. How can one desire something imposed by the whip or at gunpoint? The road to perdition is paved with good intentions.

Konstantin stopped, reread the last sentence. "That will be the title."

"Perhaps they will consider me somewhat mad, or perhaps foolish, and even the vast quantity of literature—unprecedented for some—that I have managed to read in my lifetime will not save me from such reproaches. But a man who feels the unbearable weight of contemplating naked existence cannot suppress within himself a storm of oppressive indignation. I too am unable to restrain myself from such commentary. When people say that the great men of this world loved to drink, they do not exaggerate in the slightest. In the words of Cesare Lombroso and his book 'The Man of Genius':

Here Kostya stopped, approached the bookcase and retrieved the aforementioned book. When he found the necessary passage, he began to copy it out:

"Haller consumed enormous quantities of wine; Tasso was a notorious drunkard, as were the writers Kleist, Murger, the poets Gérard de Nerval, Musset, Mailáth, Praga, Rovani, and the most original Chinese poet Li Tai Po, who even received the nickname 'the drunken poet,' since he drew his inspiration solely from alcohol and died from its abuse. Asnyk never wrote except with a glass of wine before him, and drank himself into delirium tremens, which brought him to the grave. Lenau in the last years of his life also consumed too much wine, coffee, and tobacco. Baudelaire resorted to intoxication with opium, wine, and tobacco. Cardano himself confessed to the abuse of alcoholic beverages, and Swift was a zealous frequenter of London taverns."

He decided not to copy further and began to write in his own words—precisely what had prompted him to begin all this:

Among those who smoked pipes are such names as Albert Einstein, Ernest Rutherford, Joseph Kipling, Knut Hamsun, Bertrand Russell, Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Camus, Sigmund Freud. "Take away my cigar, and I shall declare war on you," said Winston Churchill. What is the scale of these personalities? Although this is far from everyone who smoked, let alone everyone who consumed alcoholic beverages, to say nothing of narcotics. And it is clear that all of them would not have become any less great had they not smoked or drunk, but they would certainly have been somewhat different, not quite the same. The thoughts that came to them while smoking would not have come; they would not have compelled them to write other words. Pipe smoking would not have served as an occasion for conversation with a guest who was in a hurry but, upon the offer merely to smoke a pipe, would stay. These conversations would have been lost forever, and with them the sensations they brought. For these people, the world would have become far more unbearable, for their great awareness and extreme sensitivity to the world would have caused them only "discomfort," which simply had to be smoothed over somehow.

Some people know nothing of the lives of the great and err endlessly, attempting to stretch some framework of the ideal societal person, or even their own, onto that which they can never comprehend. Wretched plebeians!

Kostya reread everything from the beginning and crossed out the last two words. "They are unworthy of my mentioning them," he thought. "And what am I to do with all this? No one will read it anyway, and who needs it?" Kostya crumpled the written sheet of paper and threw it away. But he felt better for it—he had rid himself of his indignation.

Kostya could not fall asleep lying in bed. He recalled a piece of advice from the little-known philosopher Denis Romaniuk: Life is a change of scenery. On a dark night, lying down to sleep, sensing only one's consciousness, let us imagine: everything that happened during the day is simply another set of scheduled decorations. All of it is merely the necessary ornamentation for a completely meaningless performance. Only our consciousness and the couch on which we lie are real; everything beyond it—work, education, our feelings, experiences, and even the loved ones who compel us to display the accompanying acting skills of suffering and joy—are meaningless decorations at this moment. But now none of that matters; the act has been played—we go behind the curtain. Everything that was on stage no longer concerns us. A deep, carefree sleep with such an attitude is assured.

The author of these words calls himself the only nihilist. "Bah… the only nihilist. I am the nihilist, and he is merely… almost a nihilist, a half-nihilist," Kostya thought haughtily. "I shall write a book, 'The Nihilism of Philosophy,' in which I shall annihilate all the hypotheses of two thousand years of philosophical history. And that will be the end of it—philosophy will cease to exist. Complete annihilation. Humanity in the future will divide the history of philosophy into only two periods: before me and after me. Philosophy will be but a dark shadow of culturology."

Whether the advice of the author unacknowledged by Konstantin helped, or whether Konstantin was satisfied by his own vainglorious dreams, something worked, and he fell asleep.