You can love or hate the Bible, but you still can’t deny that Jesus Christ was the superstar of his time.
You may love or hate Venichka Erofeev’s alcoholic trip from Moscow to Petushki, but there’s no denying that it makes us look into the mirror of our own soul and shudder.
Today he is 85 years old. Hero or writer? You can’t even say it anymore: Venichka is so intertwined with Venicet in the mass consciousness that when you mention one, you immediately mention the other. However, today the writer Venicet Erofeev is 85 years old. And “it would have happened” and “it would have happened” if there were no additions. 85 – a person whose reaction to books can be judged only by the expression on the interlocutor’s face.
Nothing could be more difficult than talking about it here, now, when so much has already been said and written. I want to take off my gray academic topcoat, put on a casual tracksuit and talk like a human. And so, word by word, move on to the notorious “I respect” and “I do not respect”, turn off rationality, but turn on emotions at full volume.
For any random interlocutor to feel who Erofeev is, on the path to the lost and unattainable Heaven (or rather, just to Purgatory, but it’s too early to talk about this). Maybe we will be able to understand that some people admire Venichka (hero, author, it does not matter), while others frown, as if we are talking about something obscene? But first…
Here Venichka, a writer, is born, but Venichka, a hero, gets on the train that is our whole life. He runs somewhere like Gogol’s Russian and doesn’t answer no matter how many times you ask. And so the vision of the newborn who has come in is gradually getting used to the weak illumination of white flickering lamps, and now it can be seen more and more clearly – dirt. The vomit of envy under the seats and the dried piss of anger whose smell has not yet dispersed in the corners; syringes of broken hopes and crumpled boxes of lust. And the devil whispers in your ear between Usad and the 105th kilometer: Come on, jump on the rails, get rid of this abomination, leave the train before it reaches anywhere. Leave this Pelevin “Yellow Arrow” train with no point of departure or destination.
And someone listens and gets off the train ahead of schedule. Someone hides his gaze so as not to notice the dirt. And Venichka screams about him. He doesn’t hesitate to go through our dirty laundry while we put it in the closet; he is afraid not only to wash it, but also to acknowledge its existence.
Venichka screams. Its sound is a menacing alarm.
Now it’s time to look out the window – of course, the air is dirty, so cloudy that it is not clear whether there is life behind it or whether the world is closed to a single train – and give free rein to your thoughts. Suddenly a book appears in your hand. Not in vain – this is “The Courage to Be” by the theologian and philosopher Paul Tillich, which tells about three types of human concerns that replace each other with the development of society.
The first is the concern for fate and death, to which Jesus would say, “There is no death.” Then – the anxiety of guilt and condemnation, about which Christ will say: “I am in each of you.” And finally, the anxiety of emptiness and loss of meaning. And then Venichka rang a menacing alarm bell. It came at a time of great change, at the end of the 20th century, when the same loss of meaning was taking place. He arrived, sat down, walked towards Petushki and created a strange postmodern mosaic. He took apart Christian stories and pieced together a seemingly gruesome, alcohol-scented cadaver, but made the Bible understandable again, wonderful again. And for a moment, Jesus Christ became a superstar again; but of a completely different kind. He did not shine on Hollywood stages, but shook in the car and splashed his saliva of artistic techniques, telling us about ourselves. In the most unpleasant terms. Broom – Jesus. Open any scientific article to see for yourself. And Venichka talked about the third human concern: of course it has a meaning. After all, all your sins – the new sins of the 20th century – are forgiven. I begged them to leave. I got stabbed because of them. They silenced my scream. Directly to the throat. First of all, you people. So – is he really a god?
The train is slowing down. End of the road.
You step out into the cold October weather, get wet in the rain, and think. For some reason, a strange analogy suddenly persistently comes to my mind with something I read recently – “The Secret Tragedy” by Alexei Salnikov, a novel from the shortlist of the Yasnaya Polyana literary prize. You remember the drunken angels and demon bloggers of Salnikov who lived in the Urals. You smile, remembering something else: Salnikov organized this whole carnival of grotesque masks on purpose. He emphasized that the most fantastic thing in Russia is the simple Russian man, living on his salary and dealing alone with the mysterious “residues”, which is the metaphysical essence of the novel. You look around – you see the same ruins. And then you understand: Salnikov gives a person self-confidence. And Venichka, who also decided to cut out these Russian paper apostles, demons and angels, gave hope for salvation. He turned the world upside down, uncovered the dirty gold, put on this ostentatious outfit like a king’s new robe, and set out on the road to Petushki-Jerusalem. He was crucified in his hometown, forbidding his cry of alarm. Or a joyful “Hosanna!” was greeted with or booed. His shadow is still hailed and booed to this day.
Yes it’s okay. But not for our sins. He didn’t undertake these things himself, he just showed them to all of us. He poured our own mud on us and brought us to purgatory after this strange baptism of the 20th century.
The train hums to a halt. The weather is getting colder at the station. He’s not around. Where to go? Now it’s up to you to decide: Will you go to heaven with your feet covered in blood, or will you give up everything and fly back to hell?
Venichka is silent. Venichka said everything. And three days later he didn’t get up again.
But he left this opportunity to us. And we have many more days.
All life.
The author expresses his personal opinion, which may not coincide with the position of the editors.