Vita Nostra

To live is to be vulnerable. A thin membrane of a soap bubble separates one from impenetrable hell. Ice on the road. The unlucky division of an aging cell. A child picks up a pill from the floor. Words stick to each other, line up, obedient to the great harmony of speech...

There are concepts that cannot be imagined but can be named. Having received a name, they change, flow into a different entity, and cease to correspond to the name, and then they can be given another, different name, and this process—the spellbinding process of creation—is infinite: this is the word that names it, and this is the word that signifies. A concept as an organism, and text as the universe.

I’m serious, Sasha: what is so important about being human? Is it because you simply haven’t experienced anything else?

By verbally identifying an object, by giving it a name, we alter it. And at the same time we prevent it from changing. A name is like a forked stick that we use to hold a snake on the ground.

But no one had ever been saved by memories, no one had been protected by words and pledges, and those loved greatly by others died too.

Sasha, the world is full of entities that people cannot negotiate with. But somehow people survive, don’t they?

There are words that are simply trash, refuse, they turn into nothing immediately after they are spoken. Others throw shadows, hideous and pathetic, and sometimes gorgeous and powerful, capable of saving a dying soul. But only a few of these words become human beings and pronounce other words. And everyone in the world has a chance of encountering someone whom he himself spoke out loud . . .

The world, as you see it, is not real. And the way you imagine it—it does not even come close. Certain things seem obvious to you, but they simply do not exist.” “And you, do you not exist?” Sasha couldn’t help herself. “Are you not real?” Portnov removed the scarf from her face. Under his gaze, she blinked confusedly. “I exist,” he said seriously. “But I am not at all what you think.

Love is not when you are aroused by someone, it’s when you are afraid for that person.

This institution of higher education had no such concept as mercy.

Nothing corporeal has any significant value. Anything that is truly valuable is beyond material substance . . .

She knew herself to be a word spoken by the sunlight. She laughed at the fear of death. She understood what she was born for and what she was destined to carry out. All this happened while the lightning remained in the sky, a white flash.

What a depressing way to go through life, hoping for ideas.

To her, existence consisted of days, and each day seemed to run like a circular ribbon—or, better yet, a bike chain, moving evenly over the cogs. Click—another change of speed, days became a little different, but they still flowed, still repeated, and that very monotony concealed the meaning of life . . .

What’s in a name? that which we call a rose/By any other name would smell as sweet.’ In other words, the essence of an object does not change depending on its name. This is a common misconception, not unlike the ‘world is flat’ belief. By verbally identifying an object, by giving it a name, we alter it. And at the same time we prevent it from changing. A name is like a forked stick that we use to hold a snake on the ground.

She knew herself to be a word spoken by the sunlight.

You have already become a butterfly, but are still trying to crawl. You remember being a caterpillar.

To live is to be vulnerable. To love is to fear. And the one who is not afraid—that person is calm like a boa constrictor and cannot love.

Vita nostra . . . “Our life is brief, / It will shortly end; / Death comes quickly.

Word. A verb. Harmony of speech. A crystal termite nest of meanings. Inhuman beauty. Infinite cognition. Page after page, and the book does not end, the most fascinating book, is it possible that Sasha would not know what happens next?

What's in a name? that which we call a rose/By any other name would smell as sweet.' In other words, the essence of an object does not change depending on it's name. This is a common misconception not unlike the 'world is flat' belief. By verbally identifying an object, by giving it a name, we alter it. And at the same time we prevent it from changing. A name is like a forked stick that we use to hold a snake on the ground." Portnov imitated using a forked branch to press down an imaginary viper. "By the way, consider this: the contradictory nature of a statement almost certainly proves its legitimacy... Come in." [...] "May I continue? Thank you. However, there is also another misconception-by which a name automatically defines the properties of an object. Here is a pen." He tossed up and caught a dark-blue pen with a white top. "If I give it the name of... an earthworm, will it slither?" Second years, Group A, maintained a tense silence. No one wanted to risk an answer. "It will not." Portnov let the pen fall on his desk. "Because this given piece of plastic has nothing in common with the process and events that we are talking about, that we spend time studying... between dance parties and dealing with gastrointestinal problems. Besides, when I say 'give a name,' I do not imply any of the languages that are commonly used by any of the living persons. I am talking about Speech, which you will begin to study during your third year. Some of you may start earlier.

Think of what you told me,” Kostya said. “What?” “‘If we get to the end of the course . . . we shall become just like them. And we shall speak their language. Then we’ll take revenge.’” Sasha shook her head. “If we get to the end of this course, we won’t want to take revenge anymore. We’ll become just like them . . . and we’ll want to be like them.

It is the consequence of objective, unyielding laws. To live is to be vulnerable. To love is to fear. And the one who is not afraid—that person is calm like a boa constrictor and cannot love.

Nikolai Valerievich was smiling, as if she’d said something amusing. “That’s a perfectly ordinary situation, Sasha. You don’t want to learn? But what do you want? Look into your soul, and you will realize: all you really want is fun and pleasure. Any instance of learning is coercion. Any form of culture must be enforced, alas. You are immature internally, and all of you must be forced, and forced cruelly.

nowhere else had she felt as mute as she did in a noisy crowd.

I never ask for the impossible.