IGOR POMERANZEV
59
And it was books, only books that never betrayed me.
One can translate the language of art into the language of soci–
ology, of philosophy, religion, psychoanalysis, ethics . But I think
that the element of sensing is the original and most authentic one in
art. No matter how intelligent a person may be, each person, never–
theless, begins to experience life through sight, sound, touch, smell.
In 1976, being over ten years late, Soviet viewers saw Bertolucci's
antifascist film,
The Conformist.
In a country where conformism is the
norm of existence, few understood the meaning of this word. On one
film poster in the center of Kiev were written the words, "The Con–
sormist."
If
someone had asked me what this film was about, I would
have answered spontaneously that it was about the viscous, dis–
quieting, deathly air of prewar Paris. I could grasp the meaning of
this film sensuously, knowing that KGB agents were trailing me and
my friends, that my phone was tapped and my room was bugged,
that the KGB were spreading rumors of my arrest in a most weari–
some manner, that somewhere in another city my mother was afraid
for her son, hanging up the phone whenever she heard peculiar
clickings, and not being able to control her trembling while opening
letters. It was particularly frightening for me to return home at
night. I walked through the empty, echoing streets with my coat
collar raised. When any solitary car went by, I had only one thought
in mind : that it only not stop, that it only not screech its brakes. The
rustle of rotting leaves pierced me with a chill, although I pretended
that I was chilled by the cool October breeze . I had to gather all my
willpower to walk through the gate to my home. At times, when the
lights on the gates burned out, I stood a long time before the gaping
black hole of the entrance, not daring to take the first step. How did
Bertolucci find out about me and about my Kiev autumn in 1977?
But where do films fit in here? I was talking about books. Yes,
about books that did not betray me in all those years of betrayal. I
was talking about you, poems of Pasternak. The only thing that was
ever important for me in poetry was the poetry itself. But how
extraordinary that Pasternak not only wrote ingenious poetry, but
lived such a dignified, honest, and courageous life during the most
terrifying decades in Russia, when it seemed there were only two
roads open to people : either the way of the victim or else the way of
the executioner, who was aided by countless silent attendants .
I was speaking about you, prose of J .D. Salinger, about your
hero Seymour Glass, who taught me spirituality and a refinement of
