From the author: Fragment of correspondence about poetry “Answer to Emptiness” Once I said to myself: every poem can be read the way it is written, and such a possibility always exists, despite the difference in interpretations, experience, associations... it’s difficult, very difficult, but it happens, maybe... You just need to tune in, live, experience, endure, mature, wait for an inner push - and inside you someone is born who knows these meanings... Many writers provide their poems with reminders about the differences between the author and the lyrical hero. In this way, they seem to be abandoning themselves - after all, if not from themselves, then from whom else? Isn’t this where the first separation of meanings lies, followed by the difficulty of reading? To abandon oneself, to distance oneself, to show one’s almost condescending attitude towards the “suffering and tossing of the hero”... It seems to me that too much importance is attached to the sleek “image of the author.” Who is he? Is it obligatory to correspond to the average idea of ​​a reserved, culturally intelligent person, a little quirky, but keeping his “face” from the pressure of the unconscious? After all, this “face” betrays its weakness, and only the “lyrical hero” abandoned alone must withstand the blow of reality, already exhausted, drained of blood, abandoned by his suspicious commentator... If we talk about detachment, then this should be to a much greater extent detachment from the “author” rather than from the “hero”. Detachment is inherent in the nature of those who live within poetry. He knows about the fluidity of his world much better than the author’s ego, clutching at any straw in attempts to preserve self-identification... The fragmentation of our languages ​​is determined by our fear of the unconscious, of a living being breaking through in poetry, demanding attention and love. This monster of ours, our Frankenstein, is terrible only because no one is able to accept and endure his love and life force - and this force is forced to look for a way out where it is least expected... and the first to betray him is the “author”... But who will go with the Hero all his way, who will heal his wounds and agree on the main thing? We abandon ourselves - that’s the whole reason that liveliness and authenticity leaves our everyday life, from our relationships, in turn giving us over to the dullness, monotony, and sensory poverty of the surrounding landscape. And why is returning to ourselves perceived as exile, as regression, as a loss of time and loss of chances? Daily resistance to such a habitual betrayal of oneself, constant support for the melting forms of the unconscious, seeking an expression of love, ready for complete dedication - this is what seems to me the only chance to resist and remain human. Let them walk, not having time to leave a mark on the sand, and again hide in this indifferent sea... so indifferent, so silent, imperceptibly feeding, nursing and again pushing onto the shore, the solid merciless shore, so that the appearance will once again appear... always unsaid, half-drawn, under-voiced... let them learn to pronounce their first sounds...Who they are and why they are coming, what their strength and purpose are will appear someday later. Maybe then it will turn out that the “author” is just an illuminated circle on a table near a lamp, to the light of which moths flock... flock in a natural desire to be recognized and told before inevitably disappearing into the darkness... so is it worth turning away your “face”»?