Elena Kholmogorova’s prose – modest, chamber, but with Akhmatova’s regal posture – defends a very simple thing: the right of a person to live a private, family life. Run to the pharmacy for an aerosol, walk with an old mother arm in arm along the Patriarchs, get sick, bury, love, pray, go to the savings bank and, walking through the village near Moscow, see not a gentle sunset, but Tajiks offering: “Do you need a euro digging of a ditch?”
Elena Kholmogorova’s prose – modest, chamber, but with Akhmatova’s regal posture – defends a very simple thing: the right of a person to live a private, family life. Run to the pharmacy for an aerosol, walk with an old mother arm in arm along the Patriarchs, get sick, bury, love, pray, go to the savings bank and, walking through the village near Moscow, see not a gentle sunset, but Tajiks offering: “Do you need a euro digging of a ditch?” Well, reader, raise your eyebrows, ask the author: “What is this you have here? Some boiling kettles, frying pans with potatoes?” Elena Kholmogorova will only smile in response, easily and clearly: “But this is our life.” The most amazing thing is that when you close the book, you understand: this is really so. All three stories included here are about him, the stream of our daily existence, with which Elena Kholmogorova convinces us not to be burdened, on the contrary, to see the most important thing in this voyage.
AST, ASTREL, 320 p.