COULD YOU PLAY NOCTURNE?
After the Putin and Biden summit, the world will be a different place, or, maybe not at all
By Alexander Prokhanov
Александр Проханов: "А вы ноктюрн сыграть смогли бы?"
Женева отстрелялась. Путин и Байден "перетёрли". Они в четыре руки сыграли ноктюрн на мировом рояле. Их руки бегали по…
June 24, 2021
Translated from Russian
With Putin and Biden recycling their agenda items, the Geneva summit has delivered. Four-handedly, they have played nocturne on the grand piano of the world. Their hands ran over the keys without touching each other with each key producing a different sad or tearful sound: Hypersonic missiles race; Hybrid warfare; The ozone hole; The whales dying in the ocean; The Arctic as if it were a bar of stick ice-cream; Ukraine as if it were a badly grilled kebab; The Nord Stream-2 pipeline as a symbol of the sunset of Europe; Navalny as if he were a nail stuck in the shoe.
Putin had a lively talk with Biden; he appeared in high spirits, jovial, witty, radiant, resembling a flying fish jumping from wave to wave. It was obvious that he had tasted Europe and it was sweet; he had taken a break and had a fresh breath-in away from the heavy chinned, dull-eyed, and mush-mouthed entourage. He is a peacemaker. He needs peace. Entire world.
Adoration, admiration, and devotion were communicated by the journalists crowding him. Putin spoon-fed them and wiped their lips with tissues. The journalists gratefully ate the mill cake, unaware that in addition to this fodder, Putin had hidden a precious handful of grain: those secrets, the protocols remaining invisible to the world at large which invariably accompany such meetings.
Putin and Biden silently traded: great silence and great quiet were the bargaining chips; just as the insiders communicate during the initiation. They understood each other without words. Gesturing with their fingers, jerking their shoulder, putting their feet on the floor in a special way… This language does not require any interpretation. It is the language of mysticism spoken to one another by priests and politicians who are not made of paper-mâché but of the delicate alloys created in the melting furnaces of alchemy.
After the Putin and Biden summit, the world will be a different place, or, maybe not at all.
Covid is fed up with the lies of doctors and politicians. The virus takes no bribes. So, he decided to clean up the mess. Just as Russia’s Guardsmen will push rioters into police vans, Covid pushes frivolous and unruly citizens into inoculation stations. If you want to chew lobster in a nightclub, stick a needle into yourself. The Russian citizen sullenly looks at the vaccine syringes, as if he can see little devils being injected into Russian blood, and at schools, children are getting shot at, gas stations blow up, forest ashes smell roasted moose, the wild game, and opinion leaders may suffer from constipation.
How many lies have been spoken or uttered by the authorities if the people still prefer to die of Covid, but not to be vaccinated! What does Solzhenitsyn’s admonition to “live without lies” mean? How many ‘Stars of David’ must have been pinned on the tunic chest of Alexander III, for the people to love the monarchy?
The principal lie of the Russian state is not that a man now retires a month before he dies. It is not that the “world’s best” Russian hospitals treat patients with distilled water and soda. The principal lie is that the greatness of Russia is celebrated by patriots whose real estate adorns the suburbs of London, whose children work for military corporations in the West, and whose grandchildren can barely speak Russian. The principal lie is that Solzhenitsyn’s “preservation of the people” leads up to extinction, and immortality goes to those to whom Russia is not their homeland, but an ethnographic reserve, and where the maidens in a kokoshnik-crown dance around an oil pipe. If people prefer to die, but not to get vaccinated, then national security is dealt a mortal blow. Injustice is a deadly weapon in the hands of the enemy. Hypersonic missiles, The Scarlet Sails celebrations, and remote voting during the State Duma election campaign will be powerless against this weapon.
There are black holes in the calendar. The demons fly out from those holes by hordes and hover flying over Russia and eclipse the sun of the earthly life. June 22, 1941, is a black hole, as such. The darkness that fell onto Russia was so huge that it took thirty million Matrosovs using their bodies to plug blind the terrible machinegun embrasure and thus they sealed off the evil.
As a teenager, I hunted in the woods of Volokolamsk with a single-barrel hunting rifle in my hands. In November 1941, the regiments marched in that direction straight from the Red Square. I walked in the woods, and crossed the fields, and sensed the Parade of the year forty-one was laid to rest forever that in those snowdrifts, and in the thickets.
In the thickness of the woods, I saw a German tank: one caterpillar track was missing; the hatch was swung open, the gun was stuck into the snow, and the cross in whitish color on the rusty armor was still visible. A thicket of woods grew up around the tank. Aspen trees surrounded the tank with their brittle branches and roots and prevented it from reaching Moscow. The Russian trees had this tank trapped; it was doomed to remain in the Volokolamsk forests forever, until it was finally eaten up and crushed by Russian ants and lichens, turning it into a handful of rust. I looked at that tank, and thought of my father, he had been killed at Stalingrad, I thought about the parade men killed in action in the woods at the Battle of Volokolamsk Highway. I pulled the trigger and fired a shot at the whitish cross inscribed on the armor; I hit the tank. But I didn’t finish it off, because today, it’s still crawling down on European proving grounds and aims at the targets at firing ranges, near the lands of Pskov.
I am looking at the young men to see their eyes: will they be able to fire a punishing shot into its turret?