About the book: 1981 / “... Under the howl of a snowstorm, under the roar of an iron sheet, Ilya shouted: “Buza, you know, all these Cezannes of yours are crap!” I understand - the reception, the texture, all sorts of things... (Dream!) But listen, Sonya, let's be honest: who needs them? Who do they work for? No, you tell me, tell me... Ah! That's it. Are you a communist? No? Why? Well, it doesn't matter if you're an honest person. - you will be a communist. Believe me. Necessarily! Who is your father? Ahh! Musician. Violinist. Whoa... (Dream! Dream!) Well, music is a dark matter... They play, but what do they play - how can you understand? The song, of course, is another matter. “We will fill the cartridges ourselves, we will screw bayonets to the guns”... Or, let’s say, “We will boldly go into battle.” I recently heard (Dram!) at the station in Bolotov, they were also playing violins... Oh, sons of bitches! It tears your soul, you want to cry - what is this? This, you know, well... is even harmful. Relaxes. Demobilizes... by God! - Stop! - they suddenly yelled hoarsely from somewhere, out of the snowstorm. - Stop... mother of God! Three black blurry figures, suddenly separated from the entrance with an iron canopy, rushed around confusedly in the snowy breakers. Someone’s tenacious hands dug into the casing and tore the fasteners. “Ahh... bastards!” Ilyushka Ryabov?! Ilyushka?! One - with a foot in the belly, the other - with the butt of a pistol on the head, on the shaggy hat with long dangling ears. The shot slammed, muffled by the whistle of the wind, the roar of an iron sheet…»