And the sea, worn out by long-lasting tempests, looked at death with regret. Did the sea bear a weak resemblance to an eagle.--No, it did not.
Will he look at the sea?--No he cannot.
But hark! suddenly someone trumpeted, either savages or not savages. He looked at humanity.
--Alexander Vvedensky, from the last poem written before his death during a prisoner transportation in 1941. What survives of his work does so because the poet Yakov Druskin, in the middle of the most deadly winter of the Leningrad blockade, retrieved it from the sealed apartment of Vvedensky's friend, the writer Daniil Kharms, who had also been arrested.
I have a great fear--maybe my greatest--that this will never work, I will die, no one will do anything on my work's behalf, and it will be as if I never existed and was not what I know with utter certainty that I am.