My title is reminiscent of Lenin's signature "What Is To Be Done?
" I call it signature since I already pored over it for an intensely long time in HIS424. It makes me think of this dire, serious man shrugging with a confused look on his face in a comic way.
Right now, technically, I'm in the middle of his Persecutors of Zemstvo and Hannibals of Liberalism. What's been slowing me is the impulse to see if I can drudge up who Dragomanov is, but when I've left the book for a while, I forget entirely what I wanted to do.
*is here now so puts that name into the Internet to see what comes out*
Maxim Dragomanov, whom a Ukrainian University is named after, not unlike Lomonosov.
I have a great deal of Russian literature at my fingertips. I finished puzzling through Gorky
for today, but he'll be back tomorrow. (I have a novel of his in Russian! A dilapidated copy of Жизм Клима Самгина. *research* Okay, Life of Klim Samgin. An unfinished novel series. So that makes me less inclined to read all of it.)
I feel at the forefront of the battle, but for what? I've slowed in composition of Verst After Verst since I'm dreadfully afraid to talk about suicide, which is where the story has brought me. After all, that insanely-famous comedian (Groundhog Day star, I don't recognise anything else he did) killed himself this week!
I don't know if this piece of music is in Hindi, but that seems highly likely. *scans comments* Да! How did I nail that?
I still don't know why Pushkin is so popular. My parents told me they've never heard of him. I told them, no, in the Russian culture. "Greatest Russian poet." (Dad: "Like James Joyce in Ireland?" - I said I guessed, then remembered toiling through Joyce in high school and assented.)
I struggle with poetry, generally not seeing the point, though I've been trying to incorporate several verses into each chapter of VAV, due to how close a verst (distance not unlike a kilometer) is to a verse.
Katie wants to either co-author a story with me or not write anything at all. I find that frustrating, due to the solitary nature of writing, or at least, in my experience.
I feel like that's just bullying me, but if I say so, then I imagine she'd say let's just not bother.
That's as good as if it were already said and done. Hence I'm not even privatising the sentiment.
So, I'm headed to my friend's tomorrow, where she's promised me lovely teas.
It seems that according to my mythos, I'm a tea aficionado, besides an international literary genius and an expert in Russian, Chinese, and a few other mysterious tongues such as Ukrainian, Farsi and Japanese. Um, нет! Not anything in comparison with many of my friends. I don't like most teas or ways to say stuff. My aversion to poetry, I sense, is key here.