ll pick them up. And suddenly he will so skillfully turn in
the sun a minute bit of life that we shall all cry out: 'Oh, my God!
But I myself--myself--have seen this with my own eyes. Only it simply
did not enter my head to turn my close attention upon it.' But our
Russian artists of the word--the most conscientious and sincere artists
in the whole world--for some reason have up to this time passed over
prostitution and the brothel. Why? Really, it is difficult for me to
answer that. Perhaps because of squeamishness, perhaps because of
pusillanimity, out of fear of being signalized as a pornographic
writer; finally, from the apprehension that our gossiping criticism
will identify the artistic work of the writer with his personal life
and will start rummaging in his dirty linen. Or perhaps they can find
neither the time, nor the self-denial, nor the self-possession to
plunge in head first into this life and to watch it right up close,
without prejudice, without sonorous phrases, without a sheepish pity,
in all its monstrous simplicity and every-day activity. Oh, what a
tremendous, staggering and truthful book would result!"

"But they do write!" unwillingly remarked Ramses.

"They do write," wearily repeated Platonov in the same tone as he. "But
it is all either a lie, or theatrical effects for children of tender
years, or else a cunning symbolism, comprehensible only to the sages of
the future. But the life itself no one as yet has touched. One big
writer--a man with a crystal-pure soul and a remarkable talent for
delineation--once approached this theme,[7] and then all that could
catch the eye of an outsider was reflected in his soul, as in a
wondrous mirror. But he could not decide to lie to and to frighten
people. He only looked upon the coarse hair of the porter, like that of
a dog, and reflected: 'But, surely, even he had a mother.' He passed
with his wise, exact gaze over the faces of the prostitutes and
impressed them on his mind. But that which he did not know he did not
dare to write. It is remarkable, that this same writer, enchanting with
his honesty and truthfulness, has looked at the moujik as well, more
than once. But he sensed that both the tongue and the turn of mind, as
well as the soul of the people, were for him dark and incomprehensible
... And he, with an amazing tact, modestly went around the soul of the
people, but refracted all his fund of splendid observation through the
eyes of townsfolk. I ha