The Advice of Kharms
Artyom Euvgenevich sat staring at the dim light of the screen, idly scratching the shallow beard now growing on his chin out of negligence. There was always much to read about, various newspapers and detached articles standing there offering an endless supply of unnecessary insight into unimportant matters the world over. And even if one ever were to grow tired of reading these things, or writing correspondence, there are many pictures to be looked at and no one to look at them in this age when pictures are as worthless and plentiful as words, and an audience is a rare treat to the world full of artists.
The door opens, and in steps Gogol wearing wet boots and an imposing overcoat. He looks very quickly around the room in sudden glances, meeting eyes twice with Artyom Euvgenevich who sat quietly on the bed meeting eyes with Gogol who stood anxiously in the doorway. Gogol took a step forward and began examining the objects scattered on the desk. He looked at each pen in the paint-stained coffee mug with great care but was obviously displeased by all of them. Neither the magazines nor the various scraps of paper scattered there appealed to him, and he didn't even seem to notice the stack of books. He brought his pointed nose very close to the green typewriter and peered at the absence of paper in the carriage, then stood straight and hit the space bar three times in rapid succession.
"Is there nothing to write today?" he asked without looking at Artyom Euvgenevich, who anyway gave no answer.
Gogol walked across the room to the far corner with the window and drew the plastic Venetian blinds up to get a look at the moon. There was a brief look of horror on his face, which was followed by a smash of glass and met by the crisp dry boot of Kharms, who presently flew in through the third story window and took the place of Gogol's disappearing apparition. His face was as sharp as an old razor and he wore a finely tailored pin-striped suit together with dirty shoes of polished leather. He took a clamorous step towards the table, stared down at the scattered refuse upon it and picked up a small black reporter's notebook. With a flick of the wrist he hurled it straight at Artyom Euvgenevich's forehead. It bounced off and fell behind the bed.
Says Kharms, "Enough of laziness and doing nothing! Open this notebook and write down half a page at the very least. If you have nothing to write down, then at least, following Gogol's advice, write down that today there's nothing to write. Always write with attention and look on writing as a holiday."
With that he walked across through the room and through the door, taking loud steps down the stairs to the second floor. So impressed was he by the selection of mustards he found there that he could not choose one, and instead ate a plain piece of brown bread and three pickles, and left.
The door opens, and in steps Gogol wearing wet boots and an imposing overcoat. He looks very quickly around the room in sudden glances, meeting eyes twice with Artyom Euvgenevich who sat quietly on the bed meeting eyes with Gogol who stood anxiously in the doorway. Gogol took a step forward and began examining the objects scattered on the desk. He looked at each pen in the paint-stained coffee mug with great care but was obviously displeased by all of them. Neither the magazines nor the various scraps of paper scattered there appealed to him, and he didn't even seem to notice the stack of books. He brought his pointed nose very close to the green typewriter and peered at the absence of paper in the carriage, then stood straight and hit the space bar three times in rapid succession.
"Is there nothing to write today?" he asked without looking at Artyom Euvgenevich, who anyway gave no answer.
Gogol walked across the room to the far corner with the window and drew the plastic Venetian blinds up to get a look at the moon. There was a brief look of horror on his face, which was followed by a smash of glass and met by the crisp dry boot of Kharms, who presently flew in through the third story window and took the place of Gogol's disappearing apparition. His face was as sharp as an old razor and he wore a finely tailored pin-striped suit together with dirty shoes of polished leather. He took a clamorous step towards the table, stared down at the scattered refuse upon it and picked up a small black reporter's notebook. With a flick of the wrist he hurled it straight at Artyom Euvgenevich's forehead. It bounced off and fell behind the bed.
Says Kharms, "Enough of laziness and doing nothing! Open this notebook and write down half a page at the very least. If you have nothing to write down, then at least, following Gogol's advice, write down that today there's nothing to write. Always write with attention and look on writing as a holiday."
With that he walked across through the room and through the door, taking loud steps down the stairs to the second floor. So impressed was he by the selection of mustards he found there that he could not choose one, and instead ate a plain piece of brown bread and three pickles, and left.