Diary of a Loser

by Edward Limonov

  Let’s go for a swim but not together and on different days. After all, it’s been a long time since we were man and wife. It’s just that we were young together.

  *

  My poor baby, sweetheart, my dear sleepyhead. Recall how we stormed the botanical garden when the bullets knocked the branches off the fan palms. The greasy aloe dripped its sap right onto the faces of the wounded, the blue pines cast shadow on the perished, and in the midst of this blazing hell the demented countess Eva Gonzales kept appearing in her white hat and in her white dress, all in tatters. Recall how we chased her away and how a peacock farm squalled when it was accidentally riddled with a burst of machinegun fire. And the wind smelled of soot and flowers. And we knew that we’d all be slaughtered for sure, and that the new 1933rd year will grow old without us. And they’ll again rebuild the border patrol house…

  Like I said, the wind in the botanical garden smelled of flowers, of tropical flowers and tombs. And some of our guys peeled away their mustaches, running for their lives, hiding – in vain – deep in the trees, or in the bony bamboo.

  And I recall a certain Carlos Akun: his lips in blue lipstick, he kept laughing hysterically at his torn-away arm. Oh, the smells of the botanical garden!

  Our wounds were rotting like the fruits. Like the fruits were rotting our wounds.

  *

  The mug our Limonov has – it’s pretty big. He’s well built, like a soldier. But on the old pictures he looks pathetic like Jesus. A weakling, you know. An intellectual, a poet. «A poet with glass wings,» as one old asshole characterized him, contemptuously.

  Nowadays Eduardo guffaws at these pictures.

  *

  If on a warm humid evening you carefully put on some make-up by the mirror, pull a purple hat down over your eyes, put on long black stockings, a see-through black garter belt, lace panties, and a dress fluttering and hanging strangely on you and then go for a walk, swinging your purse – this will evoke in your body and soul feminine sensations. And even more if you meet a sad, red-necked sailor from a lonely ship. Oh, how blue his eyes are!

  *

  The hounds bark, the horses neigh, the deer snort…

  And what a forehead she has – round, depraved, her purse is murky, she’s wearing jeans, and a shirt of a girl-tramp. There are many like her on the two shores of our great empire, both here and in California. She lies down here, she sits down there, takes a bite, lights up a cigarette…

  During the absence of her king (he was hunting), the queen says that she misses him – no one believes her. The courtiers politely clear their throats, the king laughs – everyone knows that the queen is an out-and-out slut. That is everyone with the exception of a court jester huddling in a corner of a picture. He’s a secret admirer and the author of the romantic hymns. Though the entire palace and its inhabitants know about the jester’s passion – the queen is an out-and-out slut, and her forehead is round.

  *

  Shit! Imagine me lounging at a cute little restaurant – I cross my legs and call on the servants. And the girls – lovely and hungry – I bring them along. «You cocksuckers,» I address the servants poetically, «bring in the girls! Feed the girls, give them Russian caviar, vodka, bring ‘em all kinds of juices and whiskey. I’ll take ‘em dancing afterwards. Come-on, move and make sure everything is high-quality; for the girls, I want everything the best, the most expensive. If I find something amiss, I’ll shoot every (how many are you here?) fifth one».

  That’s what I call pleasure. And we arrived not in any old car but in an armored carrier, it puffs outside by the door, its machine guns stick out rudely in all directions. The driver, by the way, is a Brazilian.

  *

  I always keep my knife in my pocket. I walk along a street and the knife is open in my pocket – I can stroke the blade. I get home, sit at the table – there, I have two knives. When I write something, I play with them automatically. When I go to sleep, I have yet another knife, the main one, the biggest-it’s kept under my pillow. Thus my entire life is surrounded by knives.

  And safety is not really the reason why – what can you do against this world with just a knife? I keep it for the pleasure of seeing and feeling a knife. A revolver is a different matter altogether – it only requires a decision; a knife is braver.

  And to tell you the truth, I’ve always been and remained to this day a criminal from the working-class suburbs: I see trouble – I go for the knife. Whenever I look at my picture where I’m nineteen – the crooked grin, the cruel eyes and lips, the shape of the nose – it’s plenty clear, it explains the knives. And you were saying how I’ve changed.

  But have I really? I just put on the glasses and let my hair grow long.

  *

  I have nobody to fuck now, guys! That is, yes I do, I have two objects, but I don’t love them. I’m ashamed to fuck them, though I do sometimes when I’m drunk and smoked out, though I berate myself afterwards. No, honest, I have nobody to fuck now. You see I’m not lying, I’m not striking a pose.

  «My prick, you’re my baby, unemployed, an integral part of me. Poor baby. If you could only live by yourself, separately, just using the smarts of the dashing fellow Eddie Limonov, then you’d be really happy.»

  *

  My ancestors, I bet, loved the earth. As soon as spring comes I’m tormented by a longing to plough and sow, to feel soil with my hand, to run to the earth. I’m sure I’d make a good, thrifty peasant. The females would love and fear me, and so would my sons and neighbors: The neighborhood. I’d probably be rich and would get drunk just twice a year to maintain the order. So why did my destiny bring me here, to this hotel on Broadway?

  *

  Let’s go into the temple. We’ll steal in quietly. We’ll light the candles and we’ll commit a sin. It’s not like I’m going lie on top of you or anything like that-we’ll do this in a cheep, depraved way, the way they have it in the porno-magazine. Standing, you’ll rest your arms, face, and shoulders on the pulpit. I’ll fold up your black coat: your white behind bare-I’ll roll my eyes from this vision of the aging, white dampness. You’ll squat a little and, not without some effort, settle my prick into your well-we’ll go for a ride. We’ll be accompanied by the soft winds and gazes of our Lord and by this whole interior of stone, wooden, and redolent beauty… And the ohs, and the sighs, and the candles’ shimmer, and in some nooks there’s the sensation: it’s a Christmas tree, it’s the New Year’s celebration, it’s the childhood and mama baked some sweet pies. You eat them and it’s warm in the stomach. And you eat them for the last time.

  *

  We shot the sisters as we were supposed to – at the sunrise. There were my three Croatian friends, an Austrian from the Sixth International and a deputy from the Italian ultra Castelli, a Japanese Ioshimura, and me – the Emissary Extraordinaire of the Annihilation League. We’ve designed the execution in the style of the beginning of the 20th century. We’ve chosen the mustached Bozhimir to announce the sentence. The mountain bushes were already broken in by the sun’s edge, when these women fell into the dewy grass. We stood opposite them as it’s depicted in all the classical paintings. We’ve divided our targets: one sister per three shooters.

  At this point, I’m not sure the death sentence was necessary, but perhaps it was made necessary by this severe, mountainous country. Perhaps, had this taken place in some coastal town where the wine screams and sparkles, where there’s dancing to the vinyl in a cafe, then there would not be an execution but simply a rape, and even then I don’t mean a gangrape. I as the Annihilation League representative was their chief.

  Nonetheless, before the execution the youngest Jewess was brought to me and lying in her white tatters, she was quite lovely. And as I was shooting, I aimed at that spot. As it is, I’m known for my eccentricities but I couldn’t hold myself.

  *

  to M.S.

  If I lie down to sleep, I’ll envelope myself into pork’s fat or lamb’s fat. And I won’t be cold, just as long
as it doesn’t start growing into me. Before sitting yourself down, spread onto the seat a thin layer of meat. Girdle yourself with meat to cover your naked parts. When it will wear off, throw it away, find another meat.

  Put a fat, chubby piece of meat under your head.

  Frame and hang meat on your wall.

  Piss blood.

  (And never part with your knife.)

  *

  A nurse was sitting in a corner.

  Paul was standing by the window, he was smiling.

  Jean was standing by the door, he was smiling.

  Pierre was standing by the wall, he was smiling.

  The nurse became frightened by their smiles.

  In the town of Arle, the reception desk at twelfth municipal hospital opens at 6 a.m. The sick entertain bizarre fantasies-the General Council of the Sick, their trade union has voted unanimously and now the hospital opens with the burst of the fountain in the yard-and this even in the winter, at 6 a.m. Through the doors, in walk the new arrivals – words fail to describe them. One has to see these faces, the expression of these faces.

  *

  A Russian newspaper smells of graves and an old man’s urine. Everything is paltry and pathetic – outdated – from the ads to the articles to the poems. Even Aunt Mary’s recipe is there. And what do you think it is? Why of course it’s a «Low-Fat Barley Soup.» What can be more disgusting and mediocre? It’s not a goose, not a duck, not even simply a huge steak, no – it’s a low-fat barley soup. It’s as if to say-Look how mediocre, how drab, how defeated by life we are.

  A certain K.Mondrianov asks M.Polshtoff to send his address. Why the fuck – I’d like to ask – why the fuck do you need his address? To get dead bored together. It’d be better for them not to be together, or to befriend Mr. Smith or Mr. Jones-these are healthy, jolly fellows. Instead they want to exchange the addresses, pathetic nobodies.

  There are late lieutenants and eternal cornets. «By the grace of God, lieutenant B. quietly passed away in a nursing home.» This is followed by a long list of relatives and uncle Misha (why was he marked off?) who mourn. In reality, they’re probably delighted, got drunk celebrating the departure of the eighty-nine-year-old (!) vegetable who had tormented all these relatives and who emptied their savings.

  «At the age of 80, an untimely death of Kolchak’s accountant.» Admiral Kolchak-the shaving of his cheeks is even mentioned in Mandelshtam’s poetry sixty years ago. «Untimely,» at the age of 80?! When would it be «timely» then? At 120, maybe?!

  An ad: «I make small electrical installations.» My friend, why make them small? Make them as big as the whole world makes them, as Americans, French, and other people. Someone asks «a lady in a fur coat to return an envelope with stamps which she mistakenly took on March 11.» Madam, don’t return these stamps. Instead, buy envelopes, as many as you can-be generous-put a sheet of paper with my cry only: ah-a-a-ah-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! And send this to all the countries in the world – as many as you have stamps for.

  *

  It’s good to kill a strong, tanned man-your enemy. And it’s good to kill him on a hot summer day, near the sea water, on warm rocks, so that the blood streaks the shallow waters by the shore. And in the act you also get stabbed in the hip, and limping you disappear into the coastal mountains. And you walk on, breathing the wind, smelling of the fight’s sweat, blood, and gun powder, then you scramble deep into the wormwood thicket and fall asleep. You wake up – it’s night, the stars, the black sky, and below are the town lights where you descend and find both wine and meat and couples dancing to an accordion… You descend slowly. «Adios, adios, San-Juan,» a hoarse voice reaches you.

  «We’re alive, Eduardo,» you think as you stumble over the rocks. «Alive,» you tell yourself ecstatically, «yes, alive!»

  *

  Evening. Prostitutes lick their lips. I lick mine looking at them on the sly, pretending that I’m not interested. All I have is 60 cents in my pocket – and that’s it. And, for some reason, I fancy that I’m an ancient Egyptian. And I’m drawn by the blue night’s abyss, mesmerized, my inflamed eyes glued to the prostitutes – I feel them over with my eyes, feel their legs, follow their blue tongues. It follows then that I love rot and decay. Yes, that’s what follows.

  Back home, I’m excited. I’m going to get rid of my old pants, the ones I brought with me from Russia – fuck ‘em. At least I’m busy with something.

  *

  Incredible! The city of Muchachu was captured by pigmies!

  «Four feet tall,» the radio says laconically.

  I was overjoyed. It’s delightful when the city of Muchachu is captured by pigmies.

  Did it occur to them to rape all the big women there and set the city on fire?

  *

  Our writer frequently goes out with the clear intention of selling himself to somebody, or simply to sleep with a first passerby, be it a woman or a man. From under his French cap, his curious eyes stick out. He’s elegant, his face is dark, he’s dressed in purple.

  «Go ahead, feel me up, touch me. I’ll go with you wherever you wish. When you touch me, I’m all languor, I want to die.

  I have no morals, no nothing. I want some affection. Fuck me, or I will fuck you. You, the gray-haired one, take me with you. I’m good. I’m just like a boy. I’m a Russian writer. Or you, lady. My eyes are green – I’ll give a lot of pleasure».

  *

  An unbelievable thunderstorm. He turned off the light. Tanned, naked, he lay down on the bed, crawled all the way into a corner and lay there, happy. The windows were open, the smell of fresh greenery and rain wafted in from New York. And for the first time, he felt acute pleasure at the fact that he’s lonely, that the hotel where he lives is cheap and dirty and that its inhabited by alcoholics, drug-addicts, and prostitutes, and that he’s unemployed and lives off a beggarly and embarrassing dole, which, in any event, allows him to walk about for days on end.

  The thunderstorm was compelling proof that even in this state he’s happy. And he lay smiling in the darkness, listening to the rain and getting up from time to time and looking out onto the storm.

  *

  I’ve always been poor. I like being poor, there’s something artistic and creative about it, it’s pretty. You know that I’m an aesthete. And there’s more than enough aestheticism in being poor.

  Sometimes I fancy that I’m eating a Dutch still-life painting.

  Not all of them, of course, but those that are modest I eat. A boiled, unpeeled, cold potato is languishing alone on a pale oval platter in the neighborhood of a piece of gray bread and-suddenly, outrageously, a bright green onion and glistening salt. A non-poet would gobble this up from the paper, in a hurry, using his grubby fingers.

  And a non-aesthete would do the same.

  I, using a fork and a knife, take my time – that’s why my meal appears like a remarkably beautiful surgical incision. It’s pretty and precise – the only difference is that surgery is executed in other hues. Mine are softer and more misty.

  I really love being poor. Spend half a day deciding whether to go to the Playboy Cinema – two movies for a dollar – or whether the movies are worth that much money. Or should I walk hungry around the Village, where I get hit by a peculiar aroma coming from behind every door?

  I really love being poor, being an exacting, clean, neat, poor thirty-four-year-old man – in truth, completely lonely. And I love my quiet sadness on account of this. And I love my white handkerchief in my pocket.

  *

  I want to write about velvet and its hues.

  About the marijuana smoke, and about the other smoke. About the purple morning grass, it was noticed by the driver who brought the corpse to the «Medical Purposes» building.

  I want to feel what Elena felt after she became unfaithful to her husband, Eduard Limonov, and was walking home through New York, when the sun was setting.

  I want to break in on a premiere of a new ballet at the Met and mow down the diamond-clad audience with
a pretty new army machinegun And what can be done about it, if that is what I want?

  I do try to suppress these desires but it doesn’t work too well.

  *

  to be whispered with an orchestral accompaniment

  I kiss my Russian Revolution

  On her sweaty boyish fair locks

  Sticking out from under her navy or army cap.

  I kiss her scratched Russian white hands,

  I cry and I say:

  White, you’re my white one! Red, you’re my red one!

  Gay and beautiful, forgive me!

  I mistook you for the general’s hat of a Georgian,

  And of all these military and civilian types

  Who grew up on your grave -

  All these disgusting fat grave worms.

  Those whom I oppose, and who oppose me and my poems.

  I cry about you in New York, in the city of damp Atlantic winds, where pestilence flourishes endlessly, where people-slaves serve people-masters who in turn are also slaves.

  And at nights. In my filthy hotel. Lonely, Russian, dumb, I dream, dream, dream about you – who perished innocently, still a youth, beautiful, smiling, still alive. With scarlet lips – white-necked, tender. Scratched hands on a rifle strap, speaking Russian – Revolution, my love!

  *

  And it’s a summer civil war

  In a city hot as a dream.

  And the head of the uprising, half-Latino, half-Russian Victor, and Rita, a woman with straight hair, and blue-haired, gay Kendall – all of them came to my room in the morning and stood by the door. Victor is threatening me with the muzzle of his gun because I’ve betrayed the cause of the World Revolution for the sake of the spider-thin arms of the fifteen-year-old daughter of President Alberti, for the sake of Celestina, her pink dresses, her smiles from the sea, her small child s peepee, and her always pinched ear lobes; for the sake of the porcupines in her papa’s garden and the snails on the fence.

  All this has lead me to this morning: my best comrade in arms and former lover Victor tells me, whispering, terrible words; the hysterical Kendall in a thin jacket doesn’t look away; and there is Rita’s precipitous face…