Russian comedy

By the time the ’68 tank knights returned home from Prague, they had already been received by another world in Moscow. At first, the boys began to be naughty. We, the author of Russian beauty and other works of beauty, Viktor Yerofeyev, were aspirants of the Institute of World Literature. He wrote a book about Gogol, I wrote a book about Chekhov. But even more so about yesterday’s college students who, until the new works could appear, read and watched the classics, played and directed them. However, the international situation has only “intensified”. The Komsomol Theater presented Chekhov's Seagull in jeans and sneakers. Ephros, the director, first had a heart attack. The third is already catching up with him in Taganka. "Use our camphor injections for artistic problems!" My scientific leader, who wrote couples for Rajkin at the more boring conferences, gave up his high-profile classified ad at the Lityeraturnaja Gazeta at that time. He was immediately expelled from the party. I was sent home nicely. I just ran back, as a tenant. My room opened from the kitchen, where the discussions lasted until late at night. Towards the end of the table, I tried to understand the essence of the sizzling debates. I recorded the most important thoughts on a paper handkerchief with my neighbor’s eyebrow pencil. It was a big shortage there then. At that table, however, everyone still blindly believed that it was not Money but the Spirit that could redeem the World. This book was also written in this faith.