Alexander Blok
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17 Calendar
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Age: 36
Occupation: poet
Job: Head of department, The 13th engineering and construction squad of the Union of Zemstvos and Towns
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Non-fiction
Project 1917 is a series of events that took place a hundred years ago as described by those involved. It is composed only of diaries, letters, memoirs, newspapers and other documents
Project 1917 is a series of events that took place a hundred years ago as described by those involved. It is composed only of diaries, letters, memoirs, newspapers and other documents
The intelligentsia’s favourite pastime is to put up protests: they’ll occupy a theatre, close a newspaper, destroy a church – protest. It is the true sign of anemia: it means that they didn’t particularly like their newspaper or their church.
is reading poetry at the Dekabrist Memorial Night
Can the intelligentsia work with the Bolsheviks? It can, and it must. I am not well-informed about politics and do not presume to make judgements about how the intelligentsia and the Bolsheviks may reach an agreement. But the deep impetus driving this agreement will be musical. See more
Condescending demagoguery is a great sin. The more proud and spiteful the intelligentsia is, the more horrible and bloody everything can become around. This elastic, dry, tasteless “adogmatic dogmatism,” spiced up with patronizing soulfulness is terrifying and dangerous. Behind this soulfulness is blood. The soul attracts blood. Only spirit can fight the horror. Why obstruct ways to spirituality by soulfulness? The beautiful is already hard without it. And spirit is music. A demon once ordered Socrates to listen to the spirit of music.
With your whole body, whole heart, whole mind—listen to the Revolution.
With your whole body, whole heart, whole mind—listen to the Revolution.
And the best people say: “We are disappointed in our own nation”; the best people sneer, puff themselves up, vituperate, don’t see anything around them but rudeness and brutality (though the human is here, close by); the best people even say: “there was no revolution at all”; those who could not find their places in the world out of hate for “tsarism” are suddenly ready to launch themselves into the arms of the tsar himself if only they could forget what is happening now; yesterday’s “defeatists” wring their hands over “German domination”; yesterday’s “internationalists” weep about “Holy Rus’”; born atheists are ready to light candles and pray for the defeat of enemies external and internal.
To the question: "what is to be done?" I can only answer for the artist. On the question of food, of filling empty thrones, of parliament, of religious processions in the streets- I do not require an answer, although I don’t have enough bread, just like everyone else.
1) The artist must know that the Russia we knew doesn't exist anymore and will never come back. They must know that there is no Europe that we used to know. The world entered a new era.
2) The artist must burn with anger against everything, that is trying to galvanize the corpse. For that anger not to turn into malice (malice is a great temptation), they need to preserve the fire of knowledge about the great era, of which no base malice is unworthy.
3) The artist must be ready to face even greater events and know how to bow down before them.
1) The artist must know that the Russia we knew doesn't exist anymore and will never come back. They must know that there is no Europe that we used to know. The world entered a new era.
2) The artist must burn with anger against everything, that is trying to galvanize the corpse. For that anger not to turn into malice (malice is a great temptation), they need to preserve the fire of knowledge about the great era, of which no base malice is unworthy.
3) The artist must be ready to face even greater events and know how to bow down before them.
There recently emerged in the Soviet of Workers' and Soldiers' Deputies a large schism among the Bolsheviks. Zinoviev, Trotsky et al considered a public declaration essential, whatever its results might be, and they regarded these results with pessimism. Lenin alone believes that seizing the power of democracy will certainly extirpate war and right all over the country. See more
Two phone calls with Gippius and Merezhkovsky. A phone call with Vengerov (he wants to elect me to the Literature fund. I am so old).
My table is covered with Belyaev's case files (the former Minister of the Military).
My table is covered with Belyaev's case files (the former Minister of the Military).
For a while I have had no desire to make notes. Everything is going to pieces. There is a kind of sickness in people, and a large part of it is dishonesty. I squeak under anxiety and labour. There are no rays of light. It advances hunger and the cold. The war is not ending, although there are many rumours.
Yesterday my mother had a seizure.
Yesterday my mother had a seizure.
Labour days. This evening we are meeting for the first time- the literary commission. Batyushkov explained our situation, then we three remained (Morozov, myself and Piksanov). Morozov recited the contents of eight plays. We conversed then parted ways, having received four plays and a stack of tickets to the Alexandrinsky and Makhailovsky theatre for the whole season.
It's an important day at the Palace: interrogation of Rodzianko is taking place.
There is agitation in the streets (people are huddled on street corners, ladies are inciting panic in trams, everywhere it is said that Germans will come here, everywhere one can hear: “Anyways there will be death from starvation”). See more
Barely my bride became my wife, purple worlds of the first revolution got us into whirlpool. Me, long ago secretly desiring for death, got into grey purple, silver stars, pearls and amethyst of the snowstorm. My wife followed me, and for her this transition (from ease to difficulties, from permissible to not permissible) was more painful, more difficult than it was for me. See more
There is so much to do that I have lost motivation and haven’t been working with particular efficiency. I am preparing a report, however, and Lyuba has been helping me with the stenography along with a few other hired hands. Our chairman and the others have left for the Conference, and I have been taking advantage of it—I swim ever more intensively and only work for half the day.
The crucial task of Russian culture is in making sure its fire is directed at that which needs to be burned; to turn the rebellions of Stenka Razin and Pugachev into a powerful wave of music; to bound this fire in such a way as not to weaken it but to shape its flow; to organise its rebellious will; See more
I am (like all Russians, it seems), caught between two stools. I’ve become tired of my current work, but I cannot seem to move on. My service is degenerating into repeatedly getting angry at meetings… See more
In Russia everything is black once again and shall be blacker than before?
Когда так долго не видишься с тобой, часто нужно многое сказать, обо многом советоваться, потом это заслоняется другим, входишь в другую колею. Что со мной будет (в смысле войны), я еще совершенно не знаю; пока — дела много, из-за этого многое забываешь. Так много с тобой не сказано, что даже, когда пишу, одолевает торопливость. Как хорошо, что тебе надоело быть «провинциальной актрисой», у меня к этому много бывает разных чувств. Ну, до свиданья, выезжай, как только можешь скорей.
The right (Constitutional Democrats and nonpartisan) predict Napoleon (some talk about the First, some about the Third). However, I see more signs of Russian laziness in the city (which I am very happy about) and only a few Parisian scenes. See more
I will never take power, I will never join a party, I will never make a choice, I have nothing to be proud of, I don’t understand anything. See more
Again I see no future because this accursed war is dragging out, again the air is heavy with it. Much confuses me, that is to say, I am unable to comprehend it.
The rebellion is "suppressed", and today there were shootings at the Neva river, at Vasilyevskiy island, at many other places - from guns, rifles, separately and all at once. I find it very difficult to fall between two stools politically, but everything that is happening sometimes can't reach the level of politics, and sometimes supercedes it. See more
When it comes to ‘food’ everything is ‘worse’. I find this, for the time being, quite healthy; sometimes I eat just once a day and feel like I could soar because of it.
Do we have the right to fear our great, clever and kind people?
What right do we (the brains of the country) have, with our lousy bourgeois distrust, to insult the intelligent, calm and knowledgeable revolutionaries? Nerves are highly strung. Again, I would not be surprised if they slaughter us in the name of the order.
I am terribly worried about all the Cadet and many Jewish, worried about the welfare, ineptness and unwillingness to radically reorganize the structure of the soul and head. Here, at the heart of the Revolution, this, of course, is especially noticeable: eternal rumors and eternal panic (in the Cadets it is expressed in clever irony, and among the homeowners and petty bourgeois like servants, officials, etc., in departures to the dacha, Entrances, etc., but, in fact, there is no difference). See more
It is the Congress of Soviets of Soldiers’ and Workers’ Deputies. In the “Mandatory Bureau” I was very kindly given a correspondent ticket after they learnt that I was the editor of the Extraordinary Commission of Inquiry. Having walked long hallways, past guards with guns, I entered into a huge hall with two tiers of windows. I took a seat right near the stage. In the beginning the ambassador of the American Confederation of Labor held a long speech. See more
Yesterday was a big day: Muravyov, Manukhin and I made the rounds of our clients in the fortress. We witnessed some “heart-rending” scenes. Protopopov gave me his notes. Someday I'll tell you who this talented and contemptible person really reminds me of. Among them are unfaltering individuals whom I respect (Makarov, Klimovich), but for the most part they’re utter rabble! Whenever they’re spluttering with tears or saying something they regard as very important, I look on at them while experiencing a particular sensation: a revolutionary one…
A few days ago, I went around the cells in the morning…I was struck by one monster, whom I had encountered many times on the street, For several years, that face has had various associations for me. It turned out that it was Sobeshchansky, an officer in the gendarmes who used to attend executions. Now, in his cell, he is like a pitiful, sick monkey. See more
I have been left with a great many indelible impressions from all these days. In particular, the memory of Protopopov (in a cell)...Some day people will no longer be judged, no matter what they have been like. When people experience pain and humiliation, their childlike traits return.
No, there’s no need to fantasize about a golden age, to clench one’s teeth and descend anew into one’s demonic dreams.
Now I see and hear things that practically no one sees and hears, that few can observe once in a hundred years.
I miss you terribly and ever more often – this despite the fact that my life is filled to the brim (and I’m still writing to you about this – for the fifth or sixth time, it would seem). Sometimes I yearn so much for you that it’s hard to put into words – right now, for example; I’ve a quiet hour, if only I could spend it with you.
In the evening I wandered and wandered. White Nights and women. I’m right at home in this dark and lonely abyss we call St Petersburg 1917, Russia 1917. Where are you carrying me, life? The day, the white nights, arouse me like a heavy draught of wine.
The times are such, the situation is such, that you don’t know what will happen tomorrow; everything is charged with electricity, and so am I.
Today is Ascension, and I got up early at 7 o' clock and went to Detinets; there are birch trees and lilacs there, green grass, on the remains of the wall, far under the legs of Great Pskov, from all sides the white Church and the blue sky merged, and all was well with me. I only desperately wished that you were there and saw it.
I am one of the three editors working for the Extraordinary Investigation Commission. I go to the Winter Palace and read the letters of Nikolai Romanov, then work at home. I need to keep my work secret. I hope to be present at the interrogations. My salary is 600 roubles. If I have time, I would like to come to see you, little Boo. But I would very much like you to live here, and if it’s money that’s bothering you, as you see, there’s nothing to worry about – here, you would be able to get better settled in, or prepare better for the winter.
Today I was twice in the Winter Palace and became an editor. My salary will be 600 rubles a month. I have just read Nicholas’ handwritten note to Voeikov, in which he demands that the newspapers stop writing “about the deceased R.”. The handwriting is pretty feminine - weak; written in December. Boring gentleman.
As you left, you told me of the threat of Lenin’s followers. Can it really be that you do not understand, that the worst thing is not Lenin’s followers, but the dreadful profanities which persist in the hearth of every Russian home?
We (the whole world) have become scarily cut off. We need something completely new.
A careful reading of my books and poems yesterday and today convinces me that I am a worthy writer.
Forgive me for disturbing you, but I don't know, how we are going to live further. We would live a little bit togetger. Maybe that's a weakness, but if this war continues, I will be able to take revenge on them. I know that I'm calling you into a terrible life, but I can not help calling out, only because of you I'm holding on. I need you as air, without you there is nothing to breathe.
I have already managed to succumb to sadness and apathy—I don't know why I exist and what will happen to me in the future. I am only silent days on end. How long have I not seen you, how boring and uncomfortable it is without you, and soon it will be old age. That’s how it is—you live with whom you don't want to live, and don't live with whom you want to live. It is very hard and bitter without you. What is this for? God be with you.
Everything will be fine, Russia will be great. But how long to wait and how hard it is to wait.
I don’t have a clear-eyed view of what is going on, while I have, by the will of fate, been made witness to a great epoch. By the will of fate (and not my own feeble will) I am an artist, that is to say, a witness. Do artists need democracy?
It’s the third day since Nemirovich-Danchenko invited me and Dobuzhinsky to a lunch at DononPopular among Moscow's bohemians restaurant on the Moika Embankment, 24.’s. At this lunch he had been unexpectedly called away, so that Dobuzhinsky and I were left at Donon’s to lunch alone. By a lucky coincidence, Benois and Grabar, who had been nearby at the Winter Palace, came in at just that moment, and we all had a very nice lunch together. See more
This year, Easter is running its course more smoothly than ever. Only now is it becoming clear that the coerciveness of autocracy had been ubiquitously palpable – even in the most unexpected areas of life. Last night I was in the vicinity of St. Isaac’s Cathedral. See more
For three days I have sat in the bath, seen no one, and been aware of little more than my cleanliness. Wandering the streets I have been both observer and participant in a unique historical spectacle. The people, running around our unclean streets without the slightest superintendence, are in such high spirits that they are half-crazed. See more
What is war?
Swamps, swamps, swamp- overgrown with grass or blanketed by snow. In the west, a dull German spotlight sweeps the skies night after night. On sunny days a German Fokker plane appears, stubbornly flying the same route; you can guess and trace its exact path in the sky. White, grey and reddish smoke blooms all around it (that’s us shooting at it, almost never on target, just like Germans with our planes). The Fokker wavers and falters, but tries to hold fast on its wretched path, methodically dropping the occasional bomb, which means the place upon which it takes aim has been jabbed by dozens of executive, German hands. Bombs sometimes fall in the cemetery, sometimes on a herd of cattle, sometimes on a herd of people but more often than not, they fall in the swamp. That’s thousands roubles from the public purse in the swamp.
People stare at all this, languishing in boredom, going to waste from inertia. They’ve already managed to drag all the depravity of pre-war life here: infidelity, cards , insobriety, altercations and rumour.
Swamps, swamps, swamp- overgrown with grass or blanketed by snow. In the west, a dull German spotlight sweeps the skies night after night. On sunny days a German Fokker plane appears, stubbornly flying the same route; you can guess and trace its exact path in the sky. White, grey and reddish smoke blooms all around it (that’s us shooting at it, almost never on target, just like Germans with our planes). The Fokker wavers and falters, but tries to hold fast on its wretched path, methodically dropping the occasional bomb, which means the place upon which it takes aim has been jabbed by dozens of executive, German hands. Bombs sometimes fall in the cemetery, sometimes on a herd of cattle, sometimes on a herd of people but more often than not, they fall in the swamp. That’s thousands roubles from the public purse in the swamp.
People stare at all this, languishing in boredom, going to waste from inertia. They’ve already managed to drag all the depravity of pre-war life here: infidelity, cards , insobriety, altercations and rumour.
I arrived to Petersburg today in the afternoon, only found my aunt here, we had breakfast and lunch together, shared our impressions with each other. I am rather dumb, and comprehend everything poorly, because I have lived a senseless life for a long time, without any thoughts, as a plant. See more
Nothing has changed here - everyone is bored witless. Despite the fact that this swamp has been forgotten by both God and the Germans, the air here is surprisingly fresh, the wind often changes its direction, the snow is deep and at night the village is charmingly lit. It all feels very real. Tonight, for example, we heard rapid fire coming from the front, the floodlights and flares got to work, lighting up the horizon, and we got on our horses and rode over the hills to the front. While we were riding, of course, the commotion stopped, but the ride itself was pleasant enough.
This wretched feeling I have comes first and foremost from the apathy I’ve fallen into. I want to finally get around to living, not just existing. I want to do something worthwhile…. Writing is difficult, because everyone around me is screaming in my ear, 20 people are hammering in nails, playing chess, speaking over the telephone, chopping wood, playing on the mandolin – and all at the same time!
The scent of spring is with us for two days already. We saw off the final festivities of Maslenitsa with military precision – while exercising remarkable restraint from drink, we ate more than would feed an entire division, rode on our horses for miles and miles around snow-covered forests and plains, and billeted ourselves wherever we chose.
I do not know whether it will be possible to leave soon, for thousands of reasons, but I really want to and I want to see you. I'm quite through with stupidity, which here abounds.
All day I’ve sat at work, almost completely alone.
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