About the book: 1935 / These lines were written by the light of a fire at night halts, under a mighty spruce tree that shielded us from the rain, in the semi-darkness of a tent, near a bright lamps in the collective farm hut and just in the boat, when the oars were put aside to pick up a pencil. At home, at the desk, the author only slightly corrected these lines. I didn’t want to introduce dry bookishness and literary far-fetchedness into them. The author would like to convey to the reader in these lines the sonorous splash of Chusovsky streams, the green noise of the coastal taiga, the crackling of branches burning in a fire and the leisurely talk of Chusovsky collective farmers, rafters and lumberjacks... Photo by B. Ryabinin