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They wanted to kick me out of the Young Pioneers. The Pioneers, the Komsomol—it was a huge deal. I even cried . . . Even though I’d never had any rhymes in my head, only formulas . . . never rhymes. When I was left home alone, I would put on my mother’s dress and heels and sit on the couch reading Anna Karenina. Society balls, servants, aiguillettes . . . romantic trysts . . . I liked everything up to the part when Anna throws herself under the train: What did she do that for? She was beautiful and rich . . . for love? Not even Tolstoy could convince me . . . I liked Western novels better because of the bitches in them, the beautiful bitches that men would shoot themselves over and suffer for. Fall at their feet. The last time I cried over unrequited love was when I was seventeen—I spent the whole night in the bathroom with the tap running. My mother consoled me with poems by Pasternak . . . I still remember, “Being a woman is a mighty feat, / To drive men mad— heroic.” I didn’t like my childhood or adolescence, I was always waiting for it to finally end. I pored over my textbooks and worked out at the gym. I was faster, taller, and stronger than everyone else! At home, they kept playing the same Okudzhava tapes: “Let’s take each other’s hands, friends . . .” Not me! That’s
Article source: https://newrepublic.com/article/133684/loneliness-resembles-happiness
