I’m a mountain that has been moved I’m a river that is all dried up I’m a ocean that nothing floats on I’m a sky that nothing wants to fly in I’m a sun that doesnt burn hot I’m a moon that never shows its face I’m a mouth that doesnt smile
This article, for NY Magazine’s Fall Fashion issue, seriously made me tear up. It’s really hard to reconcile the impracticality of couture, especially in today’s “economic climate”, but there is such a love for what this man does. It’s frivolous and unrealistic, but I can’t help that as I grow older and become more world weary that I hope for small little vestiges of whimsy and magic to be protected and sheltered. Maybe I’m being overdramatic, but I have to root for this man who just wants to preserve an art that’s completely and utterly at odds with the modern world. I mean, after all, isn’t that how I feel about life?
"Now who might you be, my little girl? asked Safronov. "What did your dear papa and mama do?" "I’m nobody," said the little girl. "How can you be nobody? Surely some kind of principle of the female sex must have been pleased to oblige you, if you got yourself born under Soviet power?" "But I didn’t want to get myself born— I was afraid my mother would be a bourgeois." "How did you get yourself organized then?" In constraint and fear the little girl hung her head and began to pull at her shirt; she knew that she was now present in the proletariat and so she was keeping watch on herself, as her mother, long ago and at length, had told her she must. "But I know who’s most important of all!" "Who?" asked Safronov, listening intently. "Stalin’s most important of all, and then— Budyonny. Before they came, when only the bourgeoisie lived, I couldn’t be born, because I didn’t want to be born. But not that Stalin’s become, I’ve become too!" "Well, my girl," Safronov managed to say, "your mother must have been a woman of consciousness! And our Soviet power goes deep indeed if children, even when they have no memory of their own mothers, already sense comrade Stalin!" The forsaken peasant with the yellow eyes went on whimpering in a corner of the barrack about some unchanging sorrow of his, only he never let on what it was all about and he tried to please everyone as much as he could. What kept appearing to his yearning mind was a village in the rye, the wind blowing above the village as it quietly turned the sails of a wooden mill and ground the floor for his peaceful daily bread. He had lived there until not long ago, with ample food in his belly and family happiness in his soul; and no matter how many years he had looked out from the village into the distance and into the future, all he had seen at the end of the plain was the fusion of heaven and earth, while up above he had possessed the plentiful light of the sun and the stars. So as not to think further, the peasant would lie down in lowliness and, quick as he could, weep urgent flowing tears. "That’s enough, you petty bourgeois, of you and your grieving!" Safronov would stop him. "There’s a child living here now. Do you not realize that sorrow among us has been abolished?" "I’m already dry, comrade Safronov," the peasant declared from a distance. "I just got moved out of backwardness." The little girl left her place and leaned her head against the wooden wall. Without her mother it had become lonely and boring for her. She was terrified of the new lonely night, and she was also thinking how long and how sad it would be for her mother to lie waiting till her little girl should become a little old woman and die. "Where’s a tummy for me?" she asked, turning to face the men who were watching her. "What am I going to sleep on?" Chiklin lay down at once and got himself ready. "And what about food?" said the little girl. "Look at them all— sitting there like so many Julias while I’ve got nothing to eat!" Zhachev wheeled up to her on his little cart and offered her some fruit fudge he had requisitioned that morning from the director of the provisions store. "Eat, my poor girl. There’s no knowing what will become of you— but it’s clear that nothing’s going to become of us has-beens." The little girl at and lay down, her face on Chiklin’s belly. She went pale from tiredness and, forgetting, threw an arm around Chiklin as if he were her usual mother. For a long time Safronov, Chiklin , and all the other diggers observed the sleep of this small being who one day would have dominion over their graves and live on a pacified earth that had been packed with their bones. "Comrades!" Safronov began to declare the universal feeling. "Before us without consciousness lies the fact of socialism. From the radio and other cultural material all we hear is a line— there’s nothing we can get hold of. Here, however, rests the substance of creation and the aim and goal of every directive, a small person destined to become the universal element. That is why it is essential that we finish the foundation pit as suddenly as we can, so that the home may originate more quickly and childhood personnel may be shielded from ill wind and ailment by a stone wall." Voshchev felt the little girl’s hand and looked all of her up and down, just as he had looked in childhood at an angel on the church wall; this weak body, abandoned without kin among people, would one day feel the warming current of the meaning of life, and her mind would see a time like the first primordial day. And it was decided then and there to start digging the earth an hour earlier the next day, in order to bring forward the date of laying the rubble for the foundation and remaining architecture. "As a freak, I only welcome your opinion, but I can’t help," said Zhachev. "You’re all going to perish one way or another anyway, because inside your heart lies nothing. So it’s best to love something small and living and do yourselves in with labor! Exist, you bastards, for now!" In view of the cool time Zhachev made the peasant take off his coat, and he himself put it on for the night; the peasant had been accumulating capitalism all through his life, so he had time to warm himself.