GORKI SATURN DEVOURS HIS CHILDREN

Orthodox Christian, his sinful and anguished characters cross themselves every so often and genuflect, sigh, hurt by their sinful nature, yearning for a better world. Gorki is the novelist of compassion, rebellion and disappointment. He was pained by the atmosphere of misery and poverty in which he grew up in the feverish city of Nizhny Nogorod ad Volgam, the Gordian knot of medieval industry and commerce. He was rebellious in his youth until he became a successful writer. He was Stalin's favorite novelist. He is soon aware that the revolution only helped Russia to sink into a sewer of misery, political corruption, cruelty and violence, prostitution of women, and revulsion over all of that. He still has his CPSU card and emigrates to the Côte d'Azur. Saturn devours his children. Its not this. Its not this. Mysteries of the Russian soul. The gyrfalcons of the revolution, possessed by a demonic fury of destruction, everything had to be changed, were Jews. With a small mouth, he had praised the Hebrews but added "they are not one of ours, they were expelled from their promised land two thousand years ago and our homeland is a place of passage for them, they steal and fleece what they can" this phrase It earned him to be accused of anti-Soviet activities. His credit began to fall. The revolution entered into crisis. The Kremlin was a nest of vipers. Stalin felt cornered by the internationalists who were already preparing the doctors' conspiracy against him. Gorky was too famous a writer against him the polyyburo did not dare, but against his aide-de-camp the Georgian Hebrew Beria did. Some say that he died as a result of tuberculosis, he was missing a lung and others that he was poisoned by the NKVD.

In his novels, in his books and in his diaries he was a great memorialist, the Volga rower he was is discovered. He has that ease of language (bodlovat) of the Russian people; he is a breed of great conversationalists, monologues that are lost ad infinitum, for example, that sublime philistine of Chekhov's dramas. One always hears in his books the rumor of the waves, the chirping of the birds or the blow of the whip, the knut and the nagaika with which the galley captains of the longest river in the world incited the mob. He portrays exploitative capitalists exploiting a harem of young girls in his service, drunken deacons, gluttonous bishops, and smug police chiefs who demand to be treated “Gosudar! (excellence). Mystics appear who make pilgrimages to the distant monasteries of Siberia in the belief that Tsar Alexander III lives there incarnated in the soul of a gyrational and licentious monk named Rasputin. He treats the face of the characters of the time. Tsar Nicholas II? A good family man who loves horses and photography. His wife deceives him with a priest who believes he is sent by God and hypnotizes the ladies of the great world. Tolstoy? The best writer but as a lazy person, ruthless and a bad beast Anton Chekhov? The sweetest, funniest man I've ever met. He lived terrified by a frightening and prophetic vision that he had: the Black monk. block? Elegant and aristocratic. All the prostitutes in St. Petersburg loved him. He was so merciful… the tsar had the eyes of a woman and what Russia needs is a whiplash. Let him vibrate the "knut" whip in the air and let the "nagaika" or rod fall on the backs of the convicts. Only an iron fist is capable of governing an immense nation, one fifth of the terrestrial sphere.

I read Gorky in New York. I bought all his books in a bookshop on Fifth Avenue. After more than forty years I reopen them. I discover new things. Russia is the mold of an enigma, an incomprehensible puzzle. There are many overlapping dolls. You never get to the bottom. In short, it is very difficult but Gorky's prose magnifies and chisels a knut blow in each sentence offers us some glimpse. It is a country deeply believing in Christ and in the resurrection that lacked the Middle Ages and reason. Jesus who reverberates in the light of the icons is felt, he is not understood. He shines in the iconostasis lamp that illuminates the icons. Orthodoxy is like a drunkenness of infinite sounds where the choirs sing marvelous hymns. Oh that orthophony of the "sobor", that rumor of cathedral. On the other side is the contradiction, the gift of drunkenness of the "steltzi" that sect that castrated themselves so as not to fall into the sin of lust, a belief opposed to those of the redola, the jumpers who preached free love and the dance of the dervishes. Circling one arrives at Paradise. Mysterious Russia. No one knows what their drift will be. Where is it going to come from? It is like the inscrutable face of Vladimir Putin subjected to the power of dark forces under pressure from Israel. Because the Jews want to rule Russia again. Lenin was put in a freight the ri