458
MIKHAIL ZOSHCHENKO
Sitting in front of me is one of the editor&--the poet
M.
Kuzmin. He is affectedly polite. Much too much so. But I see
from his face he's about to tell me something unpleasant.
He hesitates.
I
come to his rescue.
"My stories probably aren't what you need for the maga–
zine," I
say.
He says: "Ours is a big magazine, you see . . . and your
stories ... no ... they're very funny and amusing ... but they're
written ... well, its ..."
"Rubbish, do you mean?" I ask him. And the comment
written on a school essay-'rubbish'- lights up in my mind.
Kuzmin spreads his hands.
"For heaven's sake. I don't mean that at all. On the con–
trary. Your stories show great talent ... but you must agree
they're rather exaggerated."
"They're not exaggerated," I say.
"Well, just take the language...."
'The language isn't overdone. It's the syntax of the street
... of the people.... I may have exaggerated a little to make
it more satirical, to make it critical...."
"Don't let's argue," he says softly. "Give us an ordinary
novel or story of yours . . . and believe me, we rate your work
very highly."
I leave the editorial office. I no longer have the same feel–
ings I had at school. I'm not even annoyed.
"To hell with them," I think. "I'll do without big maga–
zines. They want something 'ordinary.' They want something
like a classic. That impresses them. That's very easy to do. But
I don't intend writing for readers who don't exist. The people
have a different idea of literature."
I'm not bitter. I know I'm right.
In A Beerhall
Daytime. Sunshine. I go along the Nevsky Prospect. Esenin's
coming towards me.
