There Pushkin, and here ... so-so ...

He went to Berlin, he! Son of an aristocratic family, and now a Russian emigre. He earns a living for lessons, and he writes the novel himself.

And there are no examples of future catastrophes, not even the details of the time worked out to the scrupulousness. And they are not needed, because the main thing is the world in which the creator lives.

And he is amazing, rumbling trams, knocks the doors of the open windows, runs somewhere fast-paced lines from the already written.

And in this world of his fantasies, firmly knit together with the oddities of the real world, even he finds his "second self", a sort of "Literary Necessity", as if shading his earthly path, and sometimes even criticizing him.

Here he, disheveled, like a sparrow in the spring, rushes off somewhere, talking to someone "for life."

And here its "critic": the well-fed, with long either Gogol's, or, perhaps, a nose of the Cyrano, a little slack step of Chaplin drags the huge suitcases. And there….

Why is there nothing in the "baggage" of this "Literary Necessity": both books, and records, and everything for what? For inspiration ... To be written better! And also, to entice into the world of creativity and, perhaps, save from earthly upheavals.

But after all the true talent, that "gift" which is incorporated in any present creator, always will help it to survive, even when there is nothing to buy a patty. And still dashed off the horizon after the dream.