Farewell, my dearest treasure
How clumsy are these words,
Yet how to hide or measure them,
When dizziness still stirs.
And wretched pity, bitter,
Still claws, still rends my chest.
I’ve only one turn left to take
And then, at last, comes rest.
G. Shpalikov
November 1, 1974 — the death of Gennady Shpalikov
“I am frightened by the indifference of time and by strangers.
The farther I go, the more strangers there are —
no one to bow to,
no one to be with.
Russia is vast, yet there’s no one to call.
I understand this is an illusion,
but a completely sincere one.
I don’t know why I should go on living.”
These words came from a letter written by the poet, screenwriter, and filmmaker Gennady Shpalikov shortly before his death.
His final note was even more stark:
“This is not cowardice —
I simply cannot live among you any longer.
Don’t be sad.
I’m just tired of you.
Dasha (my daughter), remember.
Shpalikov.”
On November 1, 1974, in Room No. 6 of the Writers’ Retreat in Peredelkino,
Shpalikov hanged himself with his red scarf.
He was only 37 years old
The video accompanying this post features perhaps his most piercing poem:
“By misfortune or by grace”
Original Post
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