Analect2.710x

3 May 2010. Warm sun, early. Filtered light though camphor leaves. One low-flying crow swooping down the street, under the canopy...

Everyone's stories. In this case, Sergei Nikitin, with his white hair, kindly voice, holding forth to an audience of Muskovites--their attentive and intelligent faces--almost self-consciously so--as he tells of his mother lifting him up as a little boy, standing him on the wardrobe so that he can hear a song by Aleksandr Galich--the one being played by their neighbor just over the partition. (I think this was the gist.) His mother's face, just below, weeping...

Speaking in a quiet, even pensive way. To share, to relive...



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And a recording of Galich singing...