September 8.


I have returned to Moscow and am keeping indoors. My family is busy trying
to find a new flat but I say nothing because I am too lazy to turn round.
They want to move to Devitchye Polye for the sake of cheapness.

The title you recommend for my novel--"Deception"--will not do: it would
only be appropriate if it were a question of conscious lying. Unconscious
lying is not deception but a mistake. Tolstoy calls our having money and
eating meat lying--that's too much....

Death gathers men little by little, he knows what he is about. One might
write a play: an old chemist invents the elixir of life--take fifteen drops
and you live for ever; but he breaks the phial from terror, lest such
carrion as himself and his wife might live for ever. Tolstoy denies mankind
immortality, but my God! how much that is personal there is in it! The day
before yesterday I read his "Afterword." Strike me dead! but it is stupider
and stuffier than "Letters to a Governor's Wife," which I despise. The
devil take the philosophy of the great ones of this world! All the great
sages are as despotic as generals, and as ignorant and as indelicate as
generals, because they feel secure of impunity. Diogenes spat in people's
faces, knowing that he would not suffer for it. Tolstoy abuses doctors as
scoundrels, and displays his ignorance in great questions because he's just
such a Diogenes who won't be locked up or abused in the newspapers. And so
to the devil with the philosophy of all the great ones of this world! The
whole of it with its fanatical "Afterwords" and "Letters to a Governor's
Wife" is not worth one little mare in his "Story of a Horse...."