| Abstract: | Here in Moscow, in the quiet light of the table lamp, you open your soiled travel notebooks and the gray, limp page strikes your eye with a shaft of multicolored rays as if the brightest slide had been inserted in a projector: a steep mountain slope in screes of red stones; a "tanker" burns, giving off smoke; greasy, sooty clouds drift toward the village; the driver in a Panama hat, having fallen down the smoking slope, breaks pale, dotted trails through the fire. The column, which makes the road shake, rolls down toward the gorge; gun barrels jerk and roar on the open flatcar. |
