--------------------

On May 19, 2008, Viktor Likhachev, the author of this book, passed away. Anna Likhacheva, the writer's widow, kindly allowed us to place the writer's works in our library. As a thank you and at the personal request of Anna Alexandrovna, please leave a review of the book on the website in memory of Viktor Likhachev at the link http://www.liha.ru/memory.html

Preface

Lord, I never thought that the most difficult thing is to write about yourself: you write, and you are thrown like a ship into a storm - from stupid pathos to sanctimonious humility, and back. And it seems that it is impossible not to write - it is supposed to. Although if you think carefully, what better than a loaf of freshly baked bread will tell us about the baker? The same is true of the writer, his books will tell you best. Let's assume that the one you are holding in your hands now is the story about me. And I would also like to add that I, Viktor Likhachev, am a very happy person. Judge for yourself: I was born in Russia, the best country in the world, God gave me the opportunity to do what I love, gave me a happy opportunity to live, to love, to suffer and rejoice, to grieve and think, to believe and hope on this sacred land, to walk along its roads, meeting amazing people. When my first book, the novel "Who Will Hear the Linnet?", came out, I also realized that Russia is the best reader in the world. Here is another happiness for you - the writer's. Meetings with readers, their letters gave me a lot not only professionally, but also in a purely human way. During one of these meetings, the idea came up: to collect everything written before "Konoplyanka" and published in various literary magazines and almanacs, and bring it together. The exception is the play "... And their mother Sophia", written in the summer of 2002. To be honest, I thought for a long time before I decided to publish "Sophia": after all, the play is a very special genre, it is better to watch it in the theater, and not to read it. But for me, Russia is, first of all, small towns and villages. Do residents of Belev and Bely, Kireevsk and Kimovsk, Myshkin and Kotov always have the opportunity to attend a performance of a professional theater? "Diary of a Traveler". This is a documentary story written in the autumn of 1991 under the impression of a walking journey that took place in the same year from the Optina Hermitage to the city of Gus-Khrustalny in northern Meshchera. I confess that when preparing the diary for publication, I decided to make some changes - after all, more than ten years have passed. I also decided to find out about the fate of some of the heroes of the story, but when it turned out that one or the other was not alive, I decided to leave everything as it was. For me, they remain alive, met once on the endless Russian country roads. I hope you will also accept these simple, but very sincere people in your heart. The earliest of the stories - "Rosehip" was written in 1984. A number of others - in the mid and late nineties. And finally, such stories as "Requiem for Rain" and "Pashka" are the latest. I am writing about this to emphasize: stories are not something unified, whole. They differ both in time and in theme. For myself, I conditionally divide them into cycles: "Origins" ("Thekla", "Rosehip", "Old Photography"), "On the Road" ("Unexpected Conversation", "Pashka"), "Innermost" ("Live with God", "Boot", "Pray for Me"), "Shadows" ("Requiem for Rain"), etc. Well, it seems that all the necessary words have been spoken. However, I would like to give you a poem by my favorite poet Arseny Tarkovsky as a farewell. Surprisingly, after re-reading it, I realized that no one has said and will not say better about me (this is the property of real poetry and literature in general):

I learned grass by opening a notebook,

And the grass began to sound like a flute.

I caught the correspondence of sound and color,

And when the dragonfly sang her hymn,

Passing between green frets like a comet,

I knew that any dewdrop is a tear.

He knew that in every facet there was a huge eye,

In every rainbow of brightly chirping wings

The burning word of the prophet dwells,

And I miraculously revealed Adam's secret.