To the 10th Anniversary of the Revolution Therewards
I
According to one of the Chevengur residents, revolution is what children do. I agree with him, but with a proviso: it's doing of bad children and gospel commandment to be like children has nothing to do with it. Continuing in Chevengurian - and this is far from the worst of the languages - I would say that there are revolutions directed there and there are revolutions directed therewards and back. Moreover, the first are mostly carried out by nice children the second - by nasty ones. For example, February revolution was directed therewards and October - backwards. The peculiarity of the Chevengurians is that, in fact, they do not very clearly distinguish between all these backwards and therewards, most often they perceive all as a whole and are happy to get involved in any mess, just to cherish the dream of success. All the more so in 1917 when the transition there and back occurred in a matter of weeks. How could anybody think clearly at that time? Good children then mixed with bad ones in a common scum, everything rolled like a shaft, there was no time to think. The smartest of the Chevengurians in those days turned their heads in a daze, unable to guess "where the fate of events is taking us." And whenever you think about what happened to us in the twentieth century, I remember the author of the quoted line, the greatest Chevengur poet, Sergei Yesenin. Yes, indeed, it is his figure that seems to me here the most revealing, or, as they say now, iconic.
You will ask why? At that time in Russia there were many wonderful poets, some of whom, like Blok, were more educated than Yesenin; others, like Mayakovsky, were no less brilliant and revolutionary; still others, like Klyuev, were almost more grass-root and "folk". And nevertheless, each of these great poets represented only a certain thesis of Russian life, while only Yesenin was destined to be the lyrical synthesis of the era.
II
Synthesis is always somewhat rustic, straightforward, intuitive, chevengurian. Any thesis seems smarter than it, for it is visibly analytical. The synthesis is "a bit silly" in the sense of Pushkin's "poetry, God forgive me, should be a bit silly". Synthesis is also a little rough, since it unceremoniously interrupts analysis, "removes", or rather, discards contradictions-theses, for it wants to be the seed of a new life. The synthesis is homogeneous with the myth and comes from it. Like the latter, it is universal and harmonious. It is always about the main thing, seeking for all-embrasive.
III
Synthetic and mythical wings carried Yesenin, the angel of Chevengur, whose rise and fall are adequate to the deep folk-religious drama. The peak of the flight falls on April 1917 - February 1919, that is, time for ten "biblical poems", from "Singing Call" to "Pantokrator". Twenty two months. Approximately in the middle of this time interval, there appeared "Inonia" - the upper point of the ascent. But I belive the complete "Inonia" comprises all the "biblical" poems and a few more poems written at the same time, as well as the treatise "Keys of Mary".
The sober and perceptive Khodasevich in his essay about the poet gave, it seems, the best analysis of the tragic phenomenon of Yesenin, paying due tribute to Inonia. But this analysis is at the level of his century, not free from taking sides. Quoting Tsvetayeva, "he belongs to the twentieth century." However, a more profound approach is also possible - in her own words, "before every century." Rather, to be more precise, above the century.
Yesenin was accused of mistakes by all and sundry. But the poet is not the author of a scholarly or political treatise, he is a bearer of the spirit. Poetry may be mistaken in a word that bears the attributes of a specific time, but it - if it is genuine - never makes mistakes in the spirit, for the spirit of poetry is eternal. Its eternity is that it is the spirit of opposition to death. But until death has been eliminated, life for the most part is subordinate to it. That is why the poet is an uncomfortable and hostile being to our usual, "prosperous", or not very prosperous, life. The world is small for him, for it is defiled by all kinds of death. In times of crises and revolutions, the poet's hopes and aversions are magnified manifold.
IV
In the summer of 1916, Yesenin wrote a scary little poem, "Listen, you rotten heart ...", ending with the lines:
If there is anything in the world
It is only the void.
Here I see a certain extreme point, a negative moral pole. The void is another name for absolute death. This little rhyme sets off the "biblical" poems, emphasizes the opposite pole, where the poet ascended in "Inonia", in order to "enjoy the seductive beauty" of which, according to Khodasevich, it is necessary to stock up on "something like a durable diving outfit."
Yes, the depth here is dangerous, the pressure is high. But after all, it was said - With whatever measure you measure, it will be measured to you." And, of course, one should not descend into this depth with the measure of this age: a spacesuit, even a progressive one, will not save anybody. For this age, Yesenin, as the same Khodasevich said, is only a half-pagan, and on a thousand-year scale, I think, he may prove the best of Christians. After all, the White Guard cornet Obolensky from the famous song is, strictly speaking, the same kind of a pagan as the commissar who picks up his girl at a restaurant, otherwise you might think that the Red Chevengurians were opposed - almost like in the mystery of Milton against Satan - by heavenly regiments of selected Christians of the angelic rank rather than by simple officers fighting for the tzar.
Yes, the best of Christians - if they are at all possible in this age. Inonia, the greatest Christian poem of the 20th century, testifies to this most vividly.
Like all "biblical" poems, "Inonia" is "awry", rude, tousled. Poetry lovers if you ask them about Yesenin, will hardly remember these poems -after all, they would rather think of something generally beautiful, like "No more wandering, no more crumpling orach in the crimson bushes" or "I do not regret, and I do not shed tears,
All, like haze off apple-trees, must pass"-
that is, something tenderly feline, lulling our tearfulness. And here: "Lord, calve at last!" or "... in women, the third eye hatches from the navel." And you come across such lines at every step. These poems can hardly be called beautiful. Beauty, they say, will save the world. Well, if so, then any, for example, metametaphorist is a much greater savior of the world than the author of Inonia. And what kind of salvation can there be at all, if "I spit the Corpus Christi out of my mouth"? Or - "I will pluck out even the God's beard with the grin of my teeth"? Or, finally, if the poem is crowned by beating everything Bolshevist finale -
Our faith is the might
Our truth is ourselves
True, the words about the Corpus Christi, although they sound monstrous, can still be mistaken for shocking, for a feigned feeling, in extreme cases it is a refusal just from prosphora, that is, from the sacrament, from the rite. Likewise, the threat to the "God's" beard or the line "I scream, tearing off Christ's pants" can be attributed to the infelicities of his style.
You are the gold fire placers
Loosening the waters with a pick.
A pack of your clouds barking like wolves,
Like a pack of fierce wolves
Pierced with a spear of its fangs
All those crying out and daring
.
And this can no longer be attributed to the accidentally burst out phrase of a heated mind. This is a rejection of Orthodoxy. A harsh, decisive rejection, for which the imagined Jews, those who, according to other bestially wild Chevengurians, killed Yesenin, should have carried him in their arms: after all, they crucified Christ, and he, in fact, knocked down the Cathedral of Christ the Savior - clearly, after all, that if he had lived up to 1930, he would not have cried when this temple exploded into the air, rather he would have helped to plant dynamite there.
Yesenin was neither crazy nor empty-headed. He stated with good reason in the brilliant Keys of Mary that "only that, which sheds the bark from itself, really grows" and warned, gravely, menacingly, biblically:
I tell you - you will all perish,
The moss of faith will stifle you all.
I would ask those who were not too lazy to look into "Inonia": and are you not surprised that a few lines after this threat to "ours" - "faith moss"! - he, referring to "strangers", to America, reproaches it for the opposite:
Beware of steering iron ships
Over the seas of faithlessness!
The faith of some people and the the gaithlessness of others are equally wrong. What is right, what does he want? Is he paranoid, as people with fish blood sometimes call him, which are unable to understand that the power of love is inseparable from the power of hatred and that contemptible uniform "love" for everything indiscriminately is only the heat death of the moral universe? Therefore, in particular, pacifism as a spiritual phenomenon is disgustingly hypocritical, deceitful and inhuman ...
So what about Yesenin? And you can't attribute it here to his alleged ties with the Bolsheviks - by the way, he perfectly characterized their obscurantism in the same "Keys": "Before us stands a new symbolic black cassock, very similar to the methods of Orthodoxy, which obscured the light of the sun of truth with its blackness." Here, one phrase grasps the red-black core of the Russian darkness, the weight of the grounded spirit, generating all types of slavery ... Maybe his friends are Makhno and Pugachev with their blood-stained wild freedom? But they do not overcome this core either, not to mention the fact that it is petty, earthly palliative, cut-throat nausea.
Yes, the city of America is attacking the village of Radonezh. But he himself helped it against Radonezh by trampling it down. And what's the use of talking when America is already in the Kremlin?
This means - "You are to perish, my land!.. Your mystery is great." "Untimely loss and weariness" overtake him, for a moment he very strongly connected his transcendental dreams with earthly time and strained - "the earth draws me, I'm sucked by the quicksands ..." - struggling with telluric weight. Pain is overwhelming him but even for his weakness he does not repent to us:
Oh, the red evening dawn!
Forgive me my crying out.
Forgive me for confusing your Ursa Major
With a scoop of a water carrier.
Some Balmont would have settled comfortably under the wing of the otherworldly Ursa Major, like others snuggled under the patronage of a communal water carrier, and would have safely "slipped through". Lovers of poetry adore such "correct" poets, faithful to the rose they sing, who would never dream of wedding it with a toad. But for its lovers, poetry is a delight of the soul, an innocent play of human abilities, while for Yesenin it is a way of remaking oneself and the world. However, above we have already doubted that the beauty of "Inonia" will save the world and even brought reasonable considerations, having found out that this poem does not shine with verse beauty and cannot compete with metametaphorists. Now we admit, possibly having upsetting poetry lovers, that this is not quite true, or rather, not at all true. If you think carefully, did prince Myshkin mean such beauty when he looked at the portrait of Nastasya Filippovna? .. Here, of course, the language failed: it was clearly not about beauty - it was about the beautiful.
Inonia is beautiful. Sublime. I emphasize this, for the sublime is now being mistreated in all ways, but we are not forever doomed to fly face-down into the mud of vain desublimation, and someday the reverse movement will also begin - so for this to start sooner, I am writing these lines.
Appearing at the moment of the deepest historical rift, "Inonia" became its voice, frightening for the Chevengurians up to this day, and at the same time it crossed the gaping abyss with a bridge of meaning, bringing to us the main Russian idea. This is the idea of resurrection.
It takes very long to change Chevengur. Even more so to change the planet. When we say "resurrection", we seem to establish an astronomical scale, pointing to a fixed point of glow in the sky of the moral universe, something like the unchanging center of the galaxy for our weak eyes. It tells us that it is an eternal theme for us, which contains a goal, a problem and a yardstick together. This is a point of transcendental synthesis, our metaphysical sun, to which the poet called to aspire in the days of social catastrophe:
Long live the revolution
On earth and in heaven!
He saw the essence of this revolution in that, as he put it, " thrusting into the solar space" following Christ. "The storm of our days," he wrote in "Keys", "must also impel us from the shift of the ground space to the shift of the cosmic space. We consider it a crime to fix our gaze only on the single space of the belly; the shadows of the unreasonable, not born to dedication to hearing the kingdom of the sun within us, are now trying to drown out any voice that goes from the heart to the mind, but against them the same merciless struggle must be waged as the struggle against the old world. "...
V
While Europe was still burning out in the First World War, at one its ends two geniuses were laying the foundations for a further, century ahead, view of a confused Western society on itself and humanity as a whole. One of them, Spengler, found nothing better than to turn the history of mankind in his famous studies into something like a solitaire, a rebus or a chess problem, which later came to be called cultural studies. The second one, Joyce, at the same time was creating an amazing protective psychological mechanism that guarantees a person the dulling of higher abilities and his transformation from a feeling and thinking being into a sentient being: I am talking about the worm-like (using Yesenin's term belly-like, which is the same thing), according to the excellent definition of K. Jung, optics of his "Ulysses". Together, these two methods have multiplied the "power" of avant-garde movements in literature and in the humanities in general, eventually allowing them to dump the ocean of random and superficial facts about humanity into a super-Babylonian pseudo-scientific tower of quasi-representations about cultures, religions, psychologies, practices, experiments, etc. ., in which the difference between truth and lies disappears, since in games and at the level of sensations only, the border between the real and the imaginary is insignificant. This tower continues to grow before our very eyes at the beginning of the 21st century, threatening to make (or has already made) all of us its hostages.
In days gone by, the church quite rightly feared the demon of science. Alas, the power of this demon over us has become unlimited, and now all its consequences have to be accepted as inevitable. Science makes Chaos its subject, subdivides it into objects, classifies, marks, puts it into a museum - and the Chaos processed in this way, which has become partly man-made, because it bears the traces of human efforts, acquires magical, sacred power over us, simply because it is common to love and be fascinated by what we do. Science has truly become the gates of hell, the school of love for the devil. God Himself, who was once a perfect form and a cornerstone at the foundation of the Cosmos, becomes an ordinary object in the laboratory of science, one of the details of Chaos.
In Ulysses, Joyce gave a double portrait of Chaos, two nothingness that arose as a result of the "separation of consciousness from the object": nothingness of the empty consciousness and nothingness of the empty world, because completeness arises from the connection of the subject with the object, and it is destroyed during separation. Jung calls this approaching deity and even speaks of the resurrection that took place in Ulysses after the "deliverance from the gods". Continuing this metaphor of Jung, you are surprised to discover that in Joyce's Calvary, Ulysses does not play the role of Jesus at all, but Pilate, washing his hands before the dispute between spirit and matter and with a grin "What is truth?" sending the spirit to the cross, for the cross does not threaten matter: the cross itself is the matter. Joyce is "undoubtedly a master" of death, achieving, like any executioner, the only effect, a single "deity" - a body separated from the consciousness, decapitated Nature. His remedy for medieval superstition proved to be worse than the disease. The final chords of the moon-eyed epic, which so delighted the kind-hearted psychologist, is already the wild babbling of a certain flora, plant lyrics coming to us from Lotophagy ... It was this babbling as a "stream of consciousness" that was picked up by the literature grateful to the Irishman, although Homer's Odysseus, if you remember, would have been horrified at such a turn. Explosives planted under the church are still a trifle in comparison with the revolution of "Ulysses" - there was a betrayal of the deepest archetypes of European culture, the rejection of the heritage not only Christian, but also that of the antiquity. The transformation of the Middle Ages into modernity has taken place, accompanied by a leap from the one-sidedness of Western graceless activism, bypassing the possibility of harmony, into the one-sidedness of Eastern non-action. Faust became a buddha.
Thus, the children of the West, relying on the "akathists to Nietzsche," met the rift of the 20th century - not by an attempt to overcome it morally, but by praises of the naked dehumanized nature that remains after the rifts, thereby demonstrating their loyalty to fatum.
VI
At the same time, at the end of the world massacre, on the other, eastern, edge of Europe, the Russian genius Yesenin - like an angel over the abyss - sang the highest song of Christianity, the song of the resurrection, responding to the most ancient insights about the psychophysical restoration of man, about the deification of man and nature, of every wailing creature. The all-encompassing outlook, universalism, and uncompromising nature of Yesenin's song are amazing - with its extraordinary radicalism, it resembles the thinking of another Russian - sublime - genius, who with the maximum force opposed death - Nikolai Fedorov, called the cosmist, whereas, more correctly, he was a Christian cosmist, for he considered the act of Christ a symbolic prototype of human actions in the material world. "Innonia" is a true illustration to this Russian Plato:
I saw another Advent -
Where the death
Does not dancingly defeats the truth.
I will shear the filthy wool
Off the blue firmament like off a sheep.
I will raise my hands to the Moon,
I will crack it like a nut.
I don't want Heaven without air steps,
And I don't want the snow to fall.
I don't want the frown
Darken the face of the dawn over the lakes ...
Each line here speaks of a all-embracing resurrection, more precisely, about raising from the dead (the first is a dream that this happens by itself, dooming to passive expectation; the second presupposes a conscious volitional effort) of nature. Take notice: I will shear - will raise - will crack - don't want -don't want etc. What do these verbs imply? They are about human intervention in the "God's things of creation," about the reincarnation of nature by means of reason, about curing it from the need to destroy, about what I call - the enlightenment of matter.
Remember, Lermontov's strikingly beautiful picture of the Newtonian sky, indifferent to the suffering of the Demon? "Rudderless, without a sail,
Float through mist with gentle motion
Choirs of stars that spin their tale;
"Midst the heavens" fields so boundless
Pass through sky without a trace
Woolly flocks, replete, yet soundless,
Of shy clouds in drifting race.
Neither are they joy nor sorrow..."
Drawing Inonia, Yesenin responds to his despair with verses of the same tonality, with no less beauty and musicality:
There, behind the Milky hills,
Amid heavenly poplars,
He toppled over us-
Silver-stream Aquarius.
And further, a little lower in this fragment, we find, as it were, a transition from Lermontov to Fedorov -
In a vortex of dream
I see a host of the dead,
Milk fuming garden.
I see, my grandfather pulls in his basket bow net
Sun from midday to sunset.
who, as the universal Healer Panteleimon, appears somewhere near Yesenin's grandfather... The old language of ideas about the otherworldly made the poet, by inertia, say "a host of the dead," although here we are talking about the host of those resurrected in a transformed world, where
...our blue field
Is ploughed by our ox of mind.
Yesenin may have never heard of Fedorov, but does that really change the matter? There is a common streambed in the depth of the culture and everybody brave enogh to plunge can touch it. Reading Inonia, I am ready to repeat after Pushkin: A smell of Russ! Of Russ all breathes there! - He said this about fairy tales, but culture grows from fairy tales. - And let me tell you, it smells good. How nice it would be if our Western brothers (and the West in our souls) could sharpen their sense of smell, so that, throwing away the vile political incense burners, they would breathe Russia from the best vessels! They would discover in this noble scent subtle ancient components that once formed themselves, too, forgotten pan-European elements, the roots, from which the tree of the Alpine Peninsula grew: Hebrew incense and ancient Greek balms. East and West. Jerusalem and Athens. Resurrection and Cosmos.
From the Jews and Greeks the Christians acquired the principles of the Resurrection and the Cosmos, in the consciousness of the latter merging and ripening into the idea of Raising from the Dead. It made itself felt quite tangibly in the works of Christian Church Fathers already in the 4th century, although people were still far from understanding that the subject of resurrection should be the person himself. It took shape in the minds of a thinker who realized that most of the world's religions and philosophies were falling because they keep a person in subjection to nature and in illusory hopes for external forces. He carried out an unprecedented immanent revolution of the spirit, finally transplanting God from an alien otherworldly world into the temple of the human body and proclaiming man the primary cause of further evolution, possible only by restoring everything that had been lost. This happened in Russia, on the eve of the 20th century, and you have already guessed that I am talking about the same Fedorov, whose voice has not yet reached the ear of the planet, partly because of the roar of colossal social cataclysms of the past century, partly because of church vestments of his ideas, deceptively disgusting a modern man.
And before that, in the ecclesiastical centuries, for one and a half thousand years, the idea of the integral Resurrection was supplanted by the idea of the otherworldly existence of the soul, dating back to the most ancient metempsychosis, and the Cosmos, losing its ancient this-worldly moral dimension, turned into a simple three-dimensional space. The ecclesiastical ideas of Christ's resurrection and redemption, due to their spiritualistic nature, did not help in any way here, themselves merging into the general picture of the otherworldly, indifferent to earthly life.
Since the Renaissance, the disunity of principles has gone even faster. Space without hope for the Resurrection distorted into Faustian space, the world of mechanistic matter and environmentalistic terrorism. The resurrection, severed from the Cosmos, was absorbed by the sacramental transmigration of souls. The boundless Faustian space and the "immortal soul" of the modern West wandering in it by the 20th century turned out to be practically adequate to the ancient Eastern perceptions of the world and ready for further immersion in "esoteric" neo-paganism. From the streets of our cities, it seems like a moral counterbalance to technical omnipotence - nirvana against a machine - in reality it promises in the near future an eerie image of humanity: a Drug Addict at the Wheel of the Globe. This is the harmony that the ethereal-astral dreamers risk to achieve, striving for the subtle worlds that emerge from the haze of Tibet or Yucatan.
We do not need any fantastic "paradigm shift", it is enough to return to the fundamental European moral and metaphysical idea. Speaking about the enlightenment of matter, I only repeat these two ancient principles - resurrection and the cosmos - in a single imperative, which they have always aspired, but in which only on Russian soil they merged in a living, harmonious unity. The enlightened matter, this Cosmos of ours, the cosmic house with the walls moving apart "into the outer darkness" is the resurrected matter, living in the universal transformation of the irreversible into the reversible. This is not a one-time resurrection and salvation of the world by someone from outside, who takes us into his arms as children; - it is a constantly protracted into infinity resurrection of us and nature by ourselves carried out as a single adult volitional act. The primordial European idea reached maturity precisely in Russian culture, because in our country personal salvation has never mattered so much as universal salvation, and in the depths of the people's memory the dream of a completely transformed world has never died. In this idea, all parts of the world, the entire globe, are already united, for it inherits the integrity of Christianity.
That is why Yesenin, addressing Russia in 1918, chose words that, being understood only as a language borrowed from antiquity and mechanically applied to modernity, may be taken for expression of Russian conceit:
Your collapse
is the everlasting delubrum
For the world ...
And it is followed by a louder still, with deafening finality:
Perish, my Rus'
The creator of the Third Covenant
What is it? What sort of covenant? We should ask once again: Can it be just false pride?
Not in the least. On the contrary, there is the deepest Christian feeling that there is no resurrection without Calvary. Russia is likened to Christ. This is not "wearing a white crown of roses," where Jesus, like Lenin, heads an excited crowd. There is still little Christianity in this. Deep Christianity is in understanding life as a periodically repeating Calvary, where, following Christ as a prototype, a person, a group, a people, or even the whole planet ascends to the cross, depending on the scope of the event. No, these are not lofty words that the Russia's catastrophe is a delubrum for the world, it is the belief that humanity grows up and wiser by experience. The figure of Christ is an image of the maturity of age and mind. The third covenant is a way out of the symbolic hopes of the New Testament to their fulfillment not only in heaven, but also on earth as a part of heaven. The soul of this covenant is that very Phoenix that flies up to us from the ashes of the 20th century.
But this is getting clear now, almost a hundred years later, and then Yesenin himself, who exhaled this faith, felt short of oxygen. Mirgorod, even made of iron, still remains Mirgorod, although the poet softens at parting:
Let there be America
Let there be London ...
Can the waters flow back?
America won, that Russia-America, which Blok wrote about. With the heavy face of quasi-Radonezh, she reigned for seventy-four years and collapsed, defeated by America of a new wave. The external America - the transformation of the planet into a single City - is evolutionarily inevitable. Inner America at the same time is not stronger than Radonezh, since the current "post-Christian" world, may be strong in body, but weak in spirit. The whole world awaits resurrection - this is a fact, before which all differences between people and their ideas become superficial and insignificant. Only inveterate materialism, which judges by the surface of things, prevents this from being understood. Therefore, America, having defeated us from the outside, is waiting for our victory from the inside.
VII
And then - for about eight years the Russian Icarus was falling from his height, burning like a fireball in the dense layers of the social atmosphere.
VIII
I deliberately associated these lines with the word "myth", which in the last hundreds of years has undergone a strange fate, becoming at first a contemptuous and abusive name for unscientific ideas, and by our time being rehabilitated for a dubious life in pseudo-scientific and pseudo-religious fantasies, while we are able with a clear mind to understand the spiritual meaning of the myth, thereby organically connecting ourselves not with the material but the ideal past.
Historically, the Myth was a universe, a way and structure of life, its death gave rise to emptiness, and not at all a transition to a "scientific worldview" because neither scientific, nor artistic, nor ballet, nor locksmith's views can be a universal way of life. These are also only particularities and means. The death of all myths, including the highest and the last - Christian, - that is, the transformation of their harmony and meaning from a real force into an imaginary one, confronts us with the need to create real harmony and meaning. Our way from myth is not to logos, but to the deed. But not to the soulless work of the external - pagan! - deeds on the anti-principle of the here-and-now, but to the Cause, guided by the consciousness-heir to the Myth.
Who is this Heir? This is the Reverent Memory of the Myth, it is also Mythonomic Piety, an acute awareness that everything that is meaningful in us is only the result of what was once in a fairy tale. The fairy tale may die - in the sense that it is impossible to live in it - but if the hero defeated the dragon in it, we have no choice but to defeat this dragon in reality. All the more so, if the name of the hero is Christ, and the name of the dragon is Death.
IX
Yesenin was the messenger of the Myth in the era of the final death of all myths, the bearer of Pious Memory, the messenger of the transition from Myth to Cause. He was the son of harmony, Mozart, one of the first devoured by the century, who opened the fetid maw of impiety and unconsciousness, illegitimate creativity, capable only of a black square, madness and live art performance, of wingless human-divine self-assertion. The entire twentieth century Salieri is kiling Mozart, algebra is killing harmony. The salierism of the avant-garde - from Khlebnikov to Borges, from Malevich to Pavich - stubbornly does its dirty deed, completely burning out the field of high idealism. In the choking smoke of conflagration, humanity instinctively seeks a way out, and, blindly shying away, disperses in the jungle and swamps of multicultures and multireligions, as if finally parting with the hope of finding a common language with neighbors in a planetary Internet communal apartment. But the Common Language exists and has existed for a long time. This essay has been written for the sake of returning to it,.