RUSSIA

Being born into a great nation, and then suddenly, for whatever reason whatsoever, being transplanted away from its nourishing soil to a foreign environment is a tragic experience for the Russian soul, unless that soul, like Ivan Turgenev’s, could go back whenever it felt the urge to be replenished.
In my circumstances, I have not seen Russia for thirty years, and in some sense, I think that it was fortunate. I am glad that I was not in Russia in the 1990’s and not experienced at close range the profound revulsion at the shocking events unfolding there, which to me have been and continue to be even worse than the mayhem of the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution, being so utterly antagonistic to everything that Russia is about.
My revulsion from afar was still nearly devastating to me, and my only rescue from total despair was that in my self-imposed exile from Russia, I always had Russia with me, not just as a sweet, yet bodiless, memory, but as a strong and wholesome physical presence. Unlike Turgenev, all I ever needed to do was to look into the eyes of my wife of nearly forty years, talk to her, gratified by the best shared memories of our Russian past, always feeling her reassuring presence with me.
My wife Galina Sedova is an exceptional person with a unique mind (all great minds are unique). Talking to her, sharing my thoughts and notes with her, has benefited me more than reading a hundred nietzsches. My best ideas transferred into this book have been born out of our conversation, or, as I might properly put it, from our intimate acts of mental procreation. Some of these best ideas and sharp colorful images have come from her directly, of which fact I am hereby making a formal acknowledgment.
But above all, and to capsulate it all, my wife is my Russia.