“Not mine, but yours, what I mean is: they belong to you; they were meant for you. And I think that’s funny. These words, snatched from a dead man, from death itself, in order to be repeated, transmitted and kept alive, I am entrusting to a mute! Will this farce never end? Read these tales, Grisha, and you will learn about the life and death of a Jewish poet, your father. He was somebody, your father. Difficult to get on with. In the beginning, during the first interrogation, he annoyed us to th...e point of exasperation. I was only a clerk, you understand. Nothing more. A stenographer. I took notes. From my corner, I observed the prosecutor, the colonel, the magistrate—to hell with all these titles, anyway, they all added up to the same thing—and I observed the accused without being seen by them. I was a piece of furniture. An instrument. Part of the scenery. The invisible man from whose attention nothing escaped. So you can believe me, son, when I tell you that he was somebody, your father.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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