Syedyshev Oleg
Syedyshev Oleg

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"All have died
except for those who are alive, and those whom we remember"Confucius

Essay 90. Betwixt and Between...

Mikhail Zadornov, and I prefer to call him uncle Misha, not because of familiarity, but because of respect of his wisdom dressed in vestments of humor; and he himself likes to be called that way; so when he is asked about what he writes or reads from the stage, he answers: "Essays!". He calls his works "essays", because nobody knows, what an "essay" is.

That's the case, Mikhail Nikolayevitch, sorry, uncle Misha. He can permit himself to write and say such things about himself. And what can I say, the one, who started writing less than half a year ago, and who qualified his writing as "essays", and who ventured to write a report on the work done for the six-months?

Without further ado, I will honestly admit that all my essays are like puppies produced by a mongrel she-dog after mating with a pack of rubble mutts like it. However a careful reader will undoubtedly find some elements of philosophy in my torrent of words, at least attempts at it, I mean philosophy. And there are my diary-like revelations and unexpected even for me confessions, they are like in a joke about a female student, who came to confession, but did not want to tell the truth. Though, she was mumbling incoherently that she was guilty. Well, nobody reasonable will have a thought that I am writing something like a short story. Though there is a bit of belles-lettres in my essays anyway. Of course, I want to tell you, my dear readers, honestly, and it is necessary to speak honestly also because such a significant date as six-months of creative work does not presuppose anything else. So, I like what I am writing. Obviously, I like something more and something less.

I enjoy writing essays. I like that I can be unusually flexible when developing a story. And if to be absolutely honest, the following happened repeatedly: I had a story ready not on paper, but still in my mind. I was thinking it over, smoothing and leveling it off, and I liked it, I was satisfied. Though as soon as I sat at my computer to fix my thoughts in words and started writing, I realized that I was driven away from the story I had developed somewhere in an absolutely different direction. Nevertheless, the most amazing thing is that I also like the story I end up with. Those who were at a pet market, where dogs are sold, for sure saw cute puppies, active, cheerful, stoutish, and later it was found out that they were " the nobles". So those faked nobles or plebeians are better and easier get adjusted to circumstances in real life, than the real nobles without quotation marks. I see my essays that way. For some reason I think that my current readers, and I've noticed that majority of them are not my former student fellows, who've known me earlier and who are mentioned in the essays, forgive me a great deal of literary transgressions. "What can be expected from him? He is writing not short stories or stories...", - maybe this is the way they think. Generally speaking, it is difficult to say, what my readers think, though in the guest book the overwhelming majority of comments are kind and positive ones. I do not overestimate myself, not at all; however I dare hope that in an essay I've found the optimal proportion in combining true to life realism, which originates from writing a diary, and reflective generalization, which has its roots in my philosophy, I say "my" meaning the way I understand it, and distinctness and plasticity of images, which surely come from literature.

I won't discover America, if I admit my creative and most probably intellectual weakness; what a reasonable and intellectually strong person would all of a sudden start writing, and not just writing, but writing essays!!! I will tell you without concealing anything that I also lack basic philosophical as well as artistic talent, about my absolute inability to write something expressive, complete and generally useful, some kind of a novel, a narrative, or at least a story.
I like the following quotation from Michel Montaigne, because it relates to me by its spirit and essence: "... whoever shall catch me tripping ignorance, will not in any sort get the better of me; for I should be very unwilling to become responsible to another for my writings, who am I not so to myself, nor satisfied with them. ...and if I am a man of some reading, I am a man of no retention.... I borrow... either for want of language or want of sense, I cannot myself so well express." (essay Of Books).
These are the words of the founder of an essay genre Michel Montaige. Of course, it is scary to say things of such kind about dear self, though I believe that the judgment I deliver is to show the measure of my own sight, and not of the things I express my opinion about.


To sum up my report about six-months of my creative activity, I will openly say: there is room for improvement. Let them blame me for the statement to be the daring one, I will humbly and reverently accept all the blames placed on me and will continue writing, and maybe God helps me to create something genuinely good... because so far what I am writing is betwixt and between!


5 December, 2011

© Copyright: Oleg Syedyshev, 2012
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