Only teasing. Allow the jaw to relax, and the mouth to drop open, all loose. Be intelligent, too. Connect to a balance between the ears, to a correct positioning of the jaw, to a correct alignment of the spine. And at all times be aware of your feet, and their degree of balance or imbalance.
The feet are your roots to the earth. The foetus develops first as ear, as hearing: you are above all a response to sound. There is sound. And you yourself, in some sense, are the echo. There is an incantation, a calling out, a question: and you are the response, the answer. Now, standing, perhaps also swaying a little, back and forth, like a reed in a breeze, be aware of that point at which, falling forward, moving forward, becomes inevitable. And already here there is illumination and a key to understanding life.
How to express this understanding? As follows. In life, one cannot always test the next step; one must simply trust, have blind faith, step out, walk. Is it not so?
Neversmile:В Один Прекрасный День Lyrics
And this walk, properly understood, is a walk towards — or into — death. There is no turning back. How to enjoy this walk? How to derive from it a maximum of pleasure, satisfaction, intensity, beauty, meaning? Now imagine a little old lady, gnarled, haggard, greatly aged, stooped low, and barely able to lift her head let alone to walk. Yet walk on she does. Slowly; extraordinarily slowly, and deliberately, and consciously, she walks on.
And can you slow yourself down so as, not to pass her, but rather, to follow her, walking a little way behind, and ever so, ever, so, slowly? Can you accompany her on her way, at her pace, her speed? And each pink cherry blossom falls in a perpetual stream of colour, each petal a moment of life, an experience, a thought, a memory; and the blossom sparkle and glitter in the blazing spring light, like diamonds in the mind.
Settling upon the earth, each cherry blossom nourishes the dead who lie beneath: yes, for it is the dead who make up the material of this long road, and the path itself a mosaic of rotting flesh, decomposing corpses atop the dry bones of the long dead. The old woman, walking slowly forward, contemplates with pleasure the cherry blossom as they settle at her feet, falling one by one to earth. And only once do you see her look up to admire the cherry trees themselves.
And I want you to do something extraordinary, now. I want you to imagine that you are one of these cherry trees. I want you to imagine that you are the cherry blossom, falling to the earth. I want you to imagine that you are the old woman, walking slowly on. I want you to imagine that you are the old woman, who is dying.
I want you to imagine that you are the old woman, who is dead. I want you to imagine that you are the old woman; and you are death itself. And I want you to imagine that flowers fall from your open mouth; and from your nose; and from your ears; and from your eyes. And I want you to imagine, now, that you are the path. For you, too, belong among the dead.
And you, too, are one of the ancestors. And from the immense darkness of such an experience, and knowledge, one awakens to a new life, full of hope and promise, energy, and light. Sometimes calling out a name is simply the best you can do. And sometimes a name is all you have. Recall the names of your loved ones, departed; hold them dear. To you I write these words. It is to think to know a little, already now, of a natural great peace; to be whole, one. May you rest in natural great peace, now and always.
Ranger : Поступления новинок музыки 10/02/ : User File Exchange
Recalling their example swells the heart and gives us the strength and confidence to go on. Before death one is always at a loss for words: silenced by death, words fail us. May death be my forgiveness. A fire flames up within us that threatens — or promises — to purge us wholly of or at least to distract us from our small, separate selves.
We draw too near to that flame; naturally, we get burnt. The powerful emotional charge present at times of profound change naturally renders us confused, without words, dumb, numb. How to gain insight from within the midst of an intense emotion? Pierce the confusion, then, and simply face it: hold up death as a mirror to your life and learn to gaze unflinchingly upon your reflection there.
In doing so, you receive a reminder that beyond all change is that which does not change, which knows nothing of change, just as, looking beyond life, what one comes to see is death. Life, then, is like the upturned face of a coin. It is to know that we are each and every one of us but a sigh of breath between earth and sky, thin as air. In this we share a common humanity. I repeat: to honour the dead is to turn our thoughts again to the living. It is to think afresh about those who cross our path, the relationships that subsequently develop, the growing trust and mutual respect, the emerging friendship and love.
It is to hold everything and everyone dear. And — the question of perhaps greatest significance — who do you wish to become? For my part, I have yet to find any succinct or satisfactory answers to these questions: what is to be done? As is true of most and perhaps all of us, I do many things, I am many people; indeed, each human life seems sometimes but a flare of intense energy through the blur of which this or that relationship, role, activity, job, hobby, whim, wish, longing, desire, passion, or dream, may prove to be of at best only partial, incomplete significance; only partial, incomplete significance compared, that is, to the lifelong mystery of a more expansive and complex human whole.
Let me say this, at least. I try to take note of what I see and of what I hear and of what I taste and sense and feel, and of what I think about all this. I write out these notes in words, in notebooks. And then I read these almost as musical notation, listening for the harmony. I try to work things out. I fail, mostly; a failure that leaves me often with a tremendous sense of loss, as now. Why write at all if not to share words of courage in the face of death: words released like prayers upon the wind.
May these words speak meaningfully to you; may they keep you company. A prayer for the living and for the dead. And, once unleashed, this monster manifests as a most fearsome creature, furiously lashing out in all directions, and in every which way, to the left and to the right, in the virulence of its anger, and its hatred, like a singular evil eye, seeing everything in black and white, seeing red, or like a red, raging fire, which appears to burn brightest in the pitch blind darkness of the very bleakest and blackest and longest of nights, consuming all in its path, including eventually even itself, sooner or later, at last, until finally, finally, finally, it burns itself out and, dust to dust, ashes to ashes, all is again quiet, and desolate, as this scorched earth of humankind, to the earth itself, once again, returned.
So take great care — be wary, prudent, vigilant, alert — for there is no ordinary human strength or wisdom sufficient to tame such a beast. Only the brave and gentle heart can do it, with a loving, kind intention, and a quiet, calm mind, like a sea of tranquillity, an ocean of compassion, and a dropping down, or at least an effort, an intention, to try, at least to try, to drop down, like a person on their knees, in prayer, into deeper, and ever deeper, deeper depths, of understanding. All we really wish for from one another is some face of recognition, forgiving gaze, some gentle eye, and loving touch, some small sign of shared humanity.
And the mind, still, and the thoughts, like the breath, slow, calm, quiet, deep, and the heart, the heart, at once centred and, like the arms, wide open. My mother read to me and with me from an early age, and she taught and encouraged me to learn to read as soon as I could. But certainly I began to read alone when still relatively young, and I could read more or less well by the time I began my formal schooling.
I am aware that in those days this may not have been something in any way exceptional; it was perhaps quite normal. But after years of dim reflection, I realized that the upshot of all this ridiculous reading precocity was that, as a walker, I was a late developer. Indeed, my reading skills had outpaced my walking abilities from the outset. And like many an Oxford baby, I fear that I quickly concluded that the body existed only as a way of transporting the brain from one place to another. And apart from an ability to pick up and carry three or four books at a time, I possessed no great physical or sporting prowess as a young man.
And now, as an old man, matters have gone from bad to worse. I think again to my father, who spent many years working on building sites. He occasionally commented to me that he had spent his life carrying around bricks, whereas in my case I carried books. But the habit of reading alone, a passion for reading, also condemned me from an early age to a life of deep solitude and at all times a preference for silence over speech, reflection over action; in other words, it condemned me, to some extent, to the life of someone socially inept, slow in thought and a terrible bore.
Around the time that I began to attend school I became excessively self-conscious. And with that excessive self-consciousness I came to realize that something terrible had happened to me in my early and formative years. I was no longer a normal, human boy. I had turned into a worm. A book worm. And from that moment on I realized that my destiny was to be pulled, squeezed, or outright crushed.
And all of these experiences I would view with the distorted vision of someone absurdly short-sighted, hopelessly myopic. Indeed, in my gilded youth, and in my solitary bookishness, and long before the days of smartphones and e-readers, I grew for a time, and on many a thick tome, quite fat. And almost no time at all was allowed, or left over, at the end of each agitated, exhausting day, for reading, or at least, not for reading as an expansion of the mind, and the imagination, and the soul.
In short, I am dying …. And the glory days of regular reading, when my reading seemed almost to fatten me up at times to something of the status of the young poet, and aspiring writer, comfortably sorrowful on his reading couch, are now long, long gone. The more we know, the more we forget.
The more we forget, the less we know. So, why read, why study, why learn? Even so, and like so many fellow worms, I draw comfort, a little comfort from the single, distant, rather doubtful, far-off longing and hope, that one day, perhaps in retirement, I shall reach again the promised land of my library to me a dukedom , and find time, enjoy time, again, to read. But will I really reach this Shangri-La before realizing my last defiant act of punctuation, my last and very final full stop, before going again into the earth, there buried six feet under, but a worm among worms?
And no wonder that books became in some sense my life, or at least my path into life, and understanding …. And on this long journey I have been blessed with many extraordinary and wonderful companions, and friends, so many, so very many, indeed, and each and every one of them of such unique quality, that it seems beggarly to try to name but one or two ….
And if I were to name just one book of special importance to me from my younger reading days — and how could I? And perhaps this has been my own problem, too, and all along. May he rest in peace. Love is blind, they say.
Reol / Monster (Nika Lenina Russian Version)
And this indeed was the first and most important lesson that love taught me. I was just sixteen years old. And in love. A mild spring day. I arrived early, she a little late. I waited, and waited. Then suddenly, there she was! For of this I had convinced myself. And she was walking towards me, she was walking towards me … towards ME! But, as she walked towards me, her focus seemed to be on some other, more distant love. Or distant spot, at any rate, her eyes squinting awkwardly, awkward, like her posture, as she walked, somewhat crookedly, in the full and magnificent beauty of that midday sun.
And it was then that I knew, and understood … You see, she walked right past me. And I stood there, unnoticed, unloved, stood up, and dumbstruck. For love was blind. Or she was, at any rate — without her contact lenses, or glasses. And this, then, was love. And love was blind. I am not sure that I have done any of these things; arguably I have done the last of the three, although I am not confident even of that. And even if one accepts that I have indeed raised a family, and specifically a son … well, maybe; but, can I say that I have been a good father?
Possibly I have been too busy trying and mostly failing to work through my ever growing list of books to read, and music to discover, and hear, and other cultures with which to familiarize myself, and explore. But, you know, the more languages and cultures with which I try to become a little bit familiar, the more confused, incoherent, and even idiotic a person I seem to be; the terrible irony of it!
But in this way there is a real risk also of losing the wood for the trees. One becomes short-sighted, like a man who spends too much time in his library, reading, reading, reading, but knows next to nothing of real life. True, we are taught at school or should be that to learn a new language is to discover a whole new world. Or, as has been my case while learning Russian, it is to discover many new worlds. And I would challenge you to prove for yourself the truth of this teaching.
I would like to share a little of my immense excitement at these privileged glimpses into other worlds that I have enjoyed thanks to my study of Russian. What do I mean? Well, perhaps it goes without saying that I am thinking more about the Russian Federation itself than I have ever done before. But the Russian Federation is so huge, so vast, and seemingly so wild, that frankly it scares me a bit. And in the media representations and no doubt sometimes distortions of the West, so much of what we see and hear about Russia can appear ambiguous, whether it be at the level of international politics, or simply at street level, with assassinations, bike and mafia gangs, bullies and bandits.
The Wild East! But you understand. And simply extraordinary, and marvellous, and wonderful! And on my first such adventure, a few years back, I visited Kazakhstan. Poor poet! And since that first trip I have often been armchair travelling along stretches of the old Silk Road, and asking myself if I shall at last find some liberation from the library of the mind in the empty, hypnotic beauty of the Steppe, and beneath the vast skies of Central Asia. For it was there, in Almaty, city of apple orchards and seduction, that I first heard, with heart and soul, the sound of galloping horses, the mysterious and bewitching music of the magical Kobyz, the warming and spirited melodies of the Dombra, and the trance-inducing throat-songs of the shamans, as they lifted their eyes and the sounds of their voices up to the great Tengri, God of the Sky.
And with a willingness to listen comes so much to hear. Feel the pulse. Sound the breath. Letting it all in. And letting it all out, letting it all go. Finding the voice. Blue throat. And sounding so. The city is located in the foothills of the Trans-Mi Alatu or Zailiyskiy Alatau in the extreme south-east. The population of the city is about 2 million. Almaty remains the largest, most developed, and most ethnically and culturally diverse city in Kazakhstan. The city has also a significant population of ethnic Russians and Ukrainians.
Almaty has a relatively mild climate with warm summers and moderately cold winters. Since the city is situated in a tectonically active area, there is an endemic risk of earthquakes; thankfully, most do not cause significant damage. The city has a spectacular beauty, whether or not it was the Garden of Eden. I visited Almaty for the first time in , in the company of a dear Kazakh friend and her youngest brother and sister, and various of her family and friends, and my own family, my wife and son. And we were in Almaty for barely a week. Nevertheless, I knew that I would feel at home in Almaty when, within a few minutes of arrival in the city, our taxi passed large statues of two old, dear friends: Krokodil Gena and Cheburashka!
Of course, I cannot claim to know the city well. But by thinking about Almaty again now, I hope to get to know the city a little better. The first place on my imaginary itinerary is the Green Market, with its rich colours and smells, sights and sounds, fruit and vegetables, fish and meat, breads and pastries, drapes and furnishings, clothes and carpets, almost anything and everything, in fact, such that whatever it is you are looking for, you will probably find it there.
Far more to my liking, however, and certainly more to the liking of my son, were the many amusements of the Central Park, near the zoo, and situated just off Gogol street not far from the flat we had rented for the week. And I took it as a sign of just how at home and how completely relaxed my son felt in Almaty, as in Kazakhstan in general, that he wanted on this occasion to try out for the first time many of the larger and more adventurous fairground rides. He perhaps discovered there, or perhaps simply recognized, a taste for adventure and the extent of his courage.
And he enjoyed himself immensely. And my teacher there, my master, my shamanic guide, was the wonderful Abzal Arykbayev. And, as such, it is indeed a kind of garden of Eden. And may I return there again, and soon, and not only in my imagination, but also in person. Tell me, little one: from deep within that echoing chamber of the body, Mother Earth, do you already hear the harmony of the heavens? And what music do you hear, to what music do you listen, that makes you wriggle about, so much, in the stillness of the night, reaching out, stretching out, with your hands, and kicking, with your feet?
Forgive me, your little voice remains for the moment so faint, so quiet, as if coming from somewhere far away: could you repeat that, please? Ah, I see: and yes, of course I can understand you. You feel lonely when your mother stops moving, like someone abandoned, floating alone; and, from the depths of that solitude, your little world, uniquely familiar, seems suddenly daunting, and so big, so vast, so empty, like the sky.
And you feel anxious, insecure: you are worried. And yet really what you perceive, perhaps—and all you have for company—are sensations, impulses, and infant thoughts, floating in space, like stars, a vast constellation of brightly shining stars, glittering, the night sky, like diamonds in the mind. And alone, do you ask: am I myself then a star?
And—bright spark that you are! That should wake her up. Relax, my child, be calm. You are not alone. Your mother is all around you, embracing you. And I am here too. And I call out to you, saying: you are not alone. Be calm, my little one, be confident. We are with you. And really, to name a child feels like such a responsibility. Something completely inappropriate, and entirely wrong? Or is it inevitable that a child grows up to dislike his or her given name? Does it really matter? In any case, no name I have seen, or heard, and mulled over in my mind, sounding it first this way, then that, holding it in my thoughts, has seemed to me sufficient, so far, to express not only our impatience—that of your mother and I—to meet you, and to hear the sound of your voice, and to get to know you, little by little; nor our immense happiness at the thought of your arrival; nor our hopes and dreams for you; nor our confidence and trust in you; nor the joy we wish for you; nor all the love we have for you.
Perhaps I should reframe the question, asking: to what call, sounded out in the music of your mother and I, in blinking eyed bliss, have you already responded, in fact, in coming to us now, as if from nowhere, a gift, and a blessing? All right, I agree: we need to relax, take it easy. All good things come to those who wait, or so they say. Take you, for example. You are coming to us, very soon: you are on your way.
And your name, too, sooner or later, sooner, or later, will come to us. And we shall recognize it when we hear it because it will feel right, sound true. And that name at that time—this name, this time—will be the right name to give to you. You are the one who responds to this or that name, or not. And you can own it, if you will.
And you certainly deserve to feel comfortable with it. And think also of this. One thing is certain: in the course of your journey you will come occasionally to realize that you are no longer who you thought you were, so that even your name may seem suddenly too small for you. Be relaxed, be calm, be creative, be free. Flow with your change. And know too that in these, the first months, the first few months, of your life, not all, surely not all, but many, so many, many names, so many names have already, at some point, or another, been loaned to you, tried out on you, called out to you, as if, at the end, you were some kind of soon to be every man, or every woman, or would be, perhaps, one day: open to all, all embracing, universal.
Forgive me if I go too far, for not only as a parent, or as a soon to be parent, but as a human being, a simple, human, being, one hopes, one wishes, one dreams; and one gets so carried away; and, with good fortune, one even gets carried far, far, far away; for this is the journey, the adventure, of life; for this is life.
And when all is said and done, perhaps what we call you—how we name you—is not necessarily of such importance, in and of itself, in the end; but that we do call you, as we call out to you now, and always shall do; that, yes, is important. And that call, and the rush of our racing blood, the rhythm of our hearts, the sound of our voices, all our hopes, dreams, and desires—conscious, and unconscious—that call, at least, you shall hear, and know, and recognize, and understand. And know that the voice you heard earlier, the voice you hear so often, in fact, resonating all around you, so extraordinarily powerfully, is the voice of your mother, as you yourself well know, and, know so well, and so much better, know so much better, as you yourself, as you yourself know so much better than anyone, the voice, your mother.
When I can, I like to wake early in the morning. I sip on warm tea and trace my thoughts as they pass in time, floating as upon a dream, unanchored, and perhaps free. I try to keep my back straight and strong. I try to be alert to the movement and the quality of my breath. And, like a musician, I listen for rhythm and harmony. Mostly I am silent, simply listening. But then sometimes, at first almost without realizing it, I begin softly to hum to myself. And sometimes I also sing, with a full, strong voice. Whose is this voice? From where does it come?
Who is this crazy man who sings sometimes love songs, teary-eyed, to the rising, new-day sun? Today I barely recognize the man as me. At least, it is not the me of this current period in my life; it is not the me of today; it is not the man of this morning far from it. The man of this morning is barely a man at all. Back no longer straight, spine no longer strong, breath no longer deep, he slumps exhausted across his table, feeling as pale and as empty and as devoid of meaning as the blank white page on which his weary head drops down to rest, and upon which he leaves no positive impression but only the shallow indentation of a deep depression.
Besides being exhausted, this man is broken-hearted. And in his clenched fingers he clutches a pencil like a dagger, cutting from his thoughts only cruel and hurtful words. And, in this state, he feels completely overwhelmed by life; it is as if life has in some sense defeated him. And like a beggar who kicks his dog in rage, he curses himself for all his many failures and failings, but to no good purpose. Why not simply erase them from the page and cut out all these useless, ugly stupidities, and start all over again, perhaps from scratch. What to do? Do what you will, but trust, be calm, have confidence; sooner or later, that earlier lightness of spirit will again be yours, and all will be well.
Today, Just in case, I am giving my final, farewell concert. From eye to eye, pour mirth into all of them. Light up the night with the by-gone festivity. From body to body, pour the joyous mood. Let no man forget this night. Listen to me, I will play the flute On my backbone tonight. But, how should we understand this curious contemporary phenomena that posits that we must find everything to be good, if not great, if not wonderful?
What is it all about, this desperate frenzy of positivism? Is it a kind of brainwashing? Control of the masses? Happily, I often feel very genuinely joyful. But, although I am often joyful, perhaps I have been so less often in the past few years, and most especially during this last long winter. And so what?
If at times I know sadness, unhappiness, frustration, despair, does this mean that I am in some way at fault? Am I malfunctioning? Do I need to be mended? Must I seek out help? First a doctor and then a pharmacist? I enjoyed it a lot. My dear, dear Uncle Don: he was the man who first got me dreaming of Russia when I stayed with him as a young boy; perhaps I was only 8 or 9, or perhaps 10 or 11 years of age. I no longer remember exactly how old I was at the time.
No matter. Was it this film that stirred in me the dream to be one day a poet? Or did I somehow sense in this film some strange parallels to life as it would one day be, like looking into a magic ball foretelling elements of my future? And I repeat: falling exhausted before the oncoming train; falling exhausted before the oncoming train; falling exhausted before the oncoming train. Sometimes the rhythm of our repeated thoughts is mesmerizing, and we find ourselves locked in a train of thought that speeds relentlessly on, as if out of all control.
And is it then fate? May one be fated? May life be fatal? How many are we in the world today who choose or feel no choice but to live in this way? And I ask myself: how many times in a lifetime can one find oneself, as in a moment of eternal recurrence, yet again at a train platform, broken-spirited, exhausted by life, waiting always for the last train to depart? For how long can a soul endure such a life before it withers and dies? My father himself was for some years a railway worker, sweeping the platform for hours on end with a stiff brush.
Why so many hours spent waiting on the platform? Waiting, thinking, thinking, waiting. For what? And what if you already missed your train? Is it already too late? A train of thought. A train of thought, travelling from here to there, then back again, and then again, from here to there, there to here, always to and fro. My thoughts return to Pasternak. I have heard that a number of the Pasternak family now live in Oxford, the city of my birth. The Russians say that when one dies, the other soon follows.
And, like Zhivago, as finally he sees his opportunity to leave the brigade of red army communist partisans, whom for two years he has been forced to serve, I long to turn back, to ride away, to turn back the clock. And what a long, dark winter. Weeping, take ink. Find words in a sobbing rush For February, while black spring Burns through the rumbling slush. And take a cab. Where rooks in thousands, like charred pears Windfallen from their branching skies, Drop into puddles and bring down Desolation into deep eyes. Thawed patches underneath show black, The wind is furrowed with cries, and then, The more suddenly the more surely, Verses sob from the pen.
What will come of my life? What is life for? And to some extent I agree. And quiet flows the Don. And she has shared a few of her stories and worries concerning the situation in the Crimea, especially as it concerns her father and his family. For a while perhaps still now , the Ukrainian government had frozen all assets held in the Crimea. At the same time, local prices for basic goods had risen to match the prices one finds in Moscow.
I tried to find some supportive and encouraging words for her, but how could I? I understand nothing of such things! They are beyond the scope of my beggarly imagination. But who will ever hear this prayer? But no wonder! For too much meditation on the meaning of life and death makes it a struggle for me even to write a simple shopping list, let alone to elaborate a fantasy of a wonderful holiday, in fine weather!
And if you ask me — me, an Englishman! The sun is not shining, the sky is not cloudless and blue, the trees give no fruit, the flowers are not in blossom, and the birds are not singing. Am I then a depressive type? Sorry to sound again so negative, but still I answer, no, no, no, and not at all. In fact, this is a film that I like to watch from time to time for light relief. I see it as a kind of post-modern summer camp. Indeed, if I think back through the last ten years, all family holidays, almost without exception, have been spent with my parents. And how curious, unexpected, sometimes startling it is.
The formula or is it a prayer? My thoughts returning again to Tolstoy there is a photo of the old starritz on the table before me, where I write , I ask myself: what purpose is there even to attempt to capture in words these confused and seemingly faithless, godless words, lacking as they do all confidence or courage? And yet, as all these thoughts bleed out into words upon the page, so much spilled ink, it seems to me that perhaps they do in fact serve some purpose, albeit modest.
And perhaps for you, dear reader supposing you exist, that is — I am writing rather hypothetically , it is rather an awkward or even an embarrassing experience to read these words. You may find yourself feeling impatient or even irritated with me. You may think me a fine fool. I think you not far wrong. Nevertheless, I feel on my side a little better for the process; just a little. And setting this all down in words is undeniably cheaper and quicker — probably also more effective — than visiting a therapist. And it enables me at last to turn my freed up thoughts to a holiday — and, goodness knows, I need one now more than ever.
So where shall we go? I ask my son. His wish is to travel again to Cornwall, in the south of England, to stay with Tim and Valerie on their farm, where we can feed and watch the farm animals, the sheep and goats and horses and donkeys and pigs and cows, play hide and seek, walk across the fields, climb on the rocks, walk on the sand, splash and swim in the sea, ride on a ferry boat, go fishing and, at least once or twice, in the evening, eat fish and chips with ketchup and mayonnaise, adds my son.
I tell him that I, too, am looking forward to these days and how much. And now that finally we are onto the subject of holidays, let me note here that, to the surprise of some, I am not so terribly fond of sitting around on a beach, feeling barbecued by an intense summer sun. This is another reason why I like to holiday in England. A Cornish summer can witness some glorious warm days, but there is often also a cooling breeze, and dramatic changes in the weather that add interest and variety, and often a wild sea.
The countryside is always so vibrant and alive, the sky is huge, and the long horizon across the sea is restful to tired eyes. I look forward in the late afternoon to drinking tea, from water in a flask, and then to walking with my son along the beach, at the shore as the sun sets across the sea, as once my father did with me. Thinking about that far horizon, I ask myself again: how to explain death to a child?
Leningrad Under Siege mainly revolves around the lives of two small children, a year-old boy and an old academic during the Siege of Leningrad. Written together with Ales Adamovich , the book is based on interviews, diaries and personal memoirs of those who survived the siege during The book was nominated for the Lettre Ulysses Award for the Art of Reportage but couldn't even make it to the seven finalists. Below is a list of works by Granin: [ 7 ]. Wikimedia Foundation. Januar als Daniil Alexandrowitsch German russ.
This is a list of authors who have written works of fiction in the Russian language. The list encompasses novelists and writers of short fiction. For the plain text list, see Category:Russian novelists. Daniel name — Daniele redirects here. For other uses, see Daniel disambiguation. Surprise yourself with use of space! High level of functionality and comfort in tiny house 34 m2 for shorter or longer stay.
Beautiful and charming 1 bedroom plus kitchen, living and dining rooms apartment in the heart of Jurmala Lielupe at Cristal Palace. The property was recently built and still under full builder's warranty.
- Let's do some good!: Japanese lesson: IROHA UTA.
- Neversmile:В Один Прекрасный День Lyrics.
- ピリカピリカ (pirka pirka).
- Akne Was Hilft - Akne Ist Laufen Ihr Leben? (German Edition).
- Russian Weather Vocab!
- We Wrote This Book To Make A Million.
- [AS] 'Follow Our Dreams': 20 Years Since Zarya Launched the International Space;
It features open floor plan, lots of natural lights, built-in furnitures and high-end appliances. The whole building is fenced in and under security surveillance. Interior of the common area are done with granite, tile and Onix stone. You will notice a great view from this condo. There are four balconies and 50 m2 of living space, underground parking and elevator from the garage to each floor.
The bedroom has its own balcony. Cozy apartment for the family, large kitchen and dining room. Total area square meter. Shopping centers are nearby. The beach is a minute walk away. The apartment was designed in pine and amber by an English artist and his wife as their holiday home to reference the surrounding pines. The apartment attracts high amount of sunshine all day and there is a sunset view from the balcony. This top floor two bedroom apartment is located in the city of Jurmala, min walk from the beach and 5min from Livu Akvaparks; min drive from Riga airport, 25min from Riga centre.
Easy train access 5min walk to Bulduri or Lielupe stations for low-cost-high-speed connection to Riga. Artist's apartment in Jurmala. Beautiful area of the city. Pines around, a beach meters, meters a river and an aquapark, two supermarkets. Nearby - bowling, hospital, 3 pharmacies, 3 shops, 2 pools, 1 km. Station meters to Riga 25 min. Between the beach and the river.
Cosy, relaxing and hospitable space in Jurmala will make your rest unforgettable. You can spend time with your friends and family here and on your own. You can enjoy yoga, volleyball, frisby, jogging, bike riding and other activities on a beach. Several shops, cafes, restaurants and local market are in min walk area. Big suppermarket "Rimi", at the entrance of Jurmala via car. Relaxing space in Jurmala. Two bedroom apartment 2nd floor in a lovely house in Lielupe, Jurmala. Lielupe is an area situated at the beginning of Jurmala city 20 km from Riga.
The apartment consists of one master bedroom and a separate living room which can also be used as a 2nd bedroom. Shops and aqua park within a 5 min. Apartment with a garden space in Lielupe. Luxuries apartment in the best location in the center Jurmala-Bulduri. Brand new Building with designer project. Everything is walking distance 5 min - 7 min super markets , restaurants, cafeterias, bars, beach side, railway station, bus station, hospital, Aqua park, just a nice walks near sea side and forests, beautiful architecture of amzing buildings.
For additional price i can pick up You at Airport and take to apartment. Luxury, Jurmala, cozy stay, beach! Apartment is located in the center of Jurmala Bulduri. Excellent location, distance from beach - 1km, supermarkets, railway station and buss stop. Buss stop is m from the apartment, and it takes 20min to get to the center of Riga. Available outdoor space for barbecue. Cozy apartment in Jurmala. Nice new 3-bedroom and 1. Our apartment has luxury style, elevator and underground garage. Near the best restaurants, cafeterias and bike service. Close to beach and right next to the river.