Self Portrait in White

I never thought I was going to write some kind of book and describe all kinds of joys and griefs, so many books have been written about that.  And so what?  Life goes on, in the same way as always.  Did people become better or worse because so many books have been written?  It’s not to me to judge.  Let smarter people deal with it, like historians, sociologists and philosophers.  Politicians are not invited to discuss these things. 

In the meantime, the gang of clowns from the circus of death, took over power in Russia.  They started to dance their death dance, all over the country and this dance was exuberant because the result was that from the richest and greatest country it was reduced to a huge garbage dumping site. 

All industry perished.  Also perished millions of people;  the peasantry, that was 80% of Russia’s strengths,  was destroyed and the country sank into a deep famine and poverty.  From the richest country it became the poorest in the world and the most enslaved.  Also, the genetic fund of Russia was destroyed.  They just celebrated 7 years anniversary of the accomplishment of the revolution (it was a celebration of a take-over by those artists of death and death arts).  

Somebody, somewhere made a comment of comparison of those accomplishments of the revolution as 100 Years War in Europe, the Black Plague, and the Invasion by Ghengis Khan all put together to only 7 years.  What a gift to the people!  And our “genius of revolution, teacher, leader, philosopher, sufferer for the working class, our greatest comrade“, Lenin, is dead. 7 years of his incredible rule from 1917-1924.  In this year, 1924, little Sacha was born.

He soon started to crawl, then finally walk, and there was no end of joy.  He wanted to jump, to play, all the world seemed to him blue and rosy, his blue, innocent eyes were looking out, “Oh, there will be so much play, so many other children, very tasty food…but then, there appeared a huge strong hand of hunger, cold, and no shelter grabbing his frail chest, and he started coughing, endless coughing fits, and he was suffocating, this little child… of coughs, hunger and cold. 

And his darling Mother rushed about with low-pitched wailing and groaning in this nightmare, with the only thought, “how to save the child?” and this pitiless, huge hand was squeezing his little chest and instead of food, put in his mouth, its bony thumb. 

I just wanted to write these little comments, to show into what kind of world and times, totally small Sacha was born. 

Excerpt from "Journey to the End of the Century"
— by Sachal.

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