Henri Volokhonsky (b. 1936) is a direct and perhaps the best student of Khlebnikov in Russian literature; It’s unlikely that anyone loves and knows our language as selflessly as he does (that’s why he’s also a translator). Whatever he does - composing poetry, songs, writing prose or translations, Volokhonsky creates meanings, so to speak, tangentially, which terribly irritates the eternal lovers of the importance of speaking banalities. He immerses the reader in an ocean of whispers, mutterings, sentences, he hints at the ingenious paths of intonation in a dense linguistic forest. This book can hardly be called a “memoir” in the usual sense of the word. Fragments, fleeting memories, poems, maxims, observations, incidents - everything that makes up memory... and literature.