, as a boy, without fully understanding, i read amazing articles, the sixth berdyaev, father sergius bulgakove poet’s poems. silver age, these old magazines had a unique smell, the smell of glue, varnishes, paper itself, leather bindings, and these smells were not in the new books, new textbooks, in the newspapers that surrounded me. many years later, i caught this smell, being in the house of the voloshino museum, in kokttybeli, when i entered these bright sunny rooms i saw a closet where they stood libra magazine files, i suddenly... caught this wonderful, almond, slightly bitter smell. one day, an old teacher, from whom i took english lessons at home, took out of the closet a dirty notebook, where she had written poems by nikolai gumilyov. gumilyov, who was shot, whose name was crossed out from the mothers of christ. and his books left the shelves, they were not in bookstores, they were sealed in secret soviet book depositories, then, among the acrid smoke of her cigarette, i heard gumelev’s poems, word, memory, sixth sense, a lost tram, my acquaintance with the great russian was amazing a