such a stupid fool.)
This made me a suffering person. I will tell you why. I knew why he was a little less than crying. I knew very well, and I wanted to go to him and tell him that I had a little less than cried too, just like him, and that no matter how much it seemed like he would never grow up to be a premium person like me, with many girls and so many famous places to go, he would. He would be exactly like me. And look at me, Little Igor, the bruises go away, and so does how you hate, and so does the feeling that everything you receive in life is something you have earned.
But I could not tell him any of these things. I roosted on the floor of the kitchen, only several meters distance from him, and I commenced to laugh. I did not know why I was laughing, but I could not stop. I pressed my hand against my mouth so that I would not manufacture any noise.
My laughing got more and more, until my stomach pained. I attempted to rise, so that I could walk to my room, but I was afraid that it would be too difficult to control my laughing. I remained there for many, many minutes. My brother persevered to a little less than cry, which made my silent laughing even more. I am able to understand now that it was the same laugh that I had in the restaurant in Lutsk, the laugh that had the same darkness as Grandfather’s laugh and the hero’s laugh. (I ask leniency for writing this. Perhaps I will remove it before I post this part to you. I am sorry.) As for Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior, she did not eat her piece of the potato.
The hero and I spoke very much at dinner, mostly about America.
“Tell me about things that you have in America,” I said. “What do you want to know about?” “My friend Gregory informs me that there are many good schools for accounting in America. Is this true?” “I guess. I don’t really know. I could find out for you when I get back.” “Thank you,” I said, because now I had a connection in America, and was not alone, and then, “What do you want to make?” “What do I want to make?” “Yes. What will you become?” “I don’t know.” “Surely you know.” “This and that.” “What does it mean this and that?” “I’m just not sure yet.” “Father informs me that you are writing a book about this trip.” “I like to write.” I punched his back. “You are a writer!” “Shhhh.”
“But it is a good career, yes?” “What?” “Writing. It is very noble.”
“Noble? I don’t know.” “Do you have any books published?” “No, but I’m still very young.” “You have stories published?” “No. Well, one or two.” “What are they dubbed?” “Forget it.” “This is a first-rate title.”
“No. I mean, forget it.” “I would love very much to read your stories.”
“You probably won’t like them.” “Why do you say that?” “I don’t even like them.” “Oh.” “They’re apprentice pieces.” “What does it mean apprentice pieces?” “They’re not real stories. I was just learning how to write.” “But one day you will have learned how to write.” “That’s the hope.” “Like becoming an accountant.” “Maybe.” “Why do you want to write?” “I don’t know. I used to think it was what I was born to do. No, I never really thought that. It’s just something people say.” “No, it is not. I truly feel that I was born to be an accountant.” “You’re lucky.” “Perhaps you were born to write?” “I don’t know. Maybe. It sounds terrible to say.
Cheap.” “It sounds nor terrible nor cheap.” “It’s so hard to express yourself.” “I understand this.” “I want to express myself.” “The same is true for me.” “I’m looking for my voice.” “It is in your mouth.” “I want to do something I’m not ashamed of.” “Something you are proud of, yes?”
“Not even. I just don’t want to be ashamed.” “There are many premium Russian writers, yes?” “Oh, of course. Tons.” “Tolstoy, yes?
This made me a suffering person. I will tell you why. I knew why he was a little less than crying. I knew very well, and I wanted to go to him and tell him that I had a little less than cried too, just like him, and that no matter how much it seemed like he would never grow up to be a premium person like me, with many girls and so many famous places to go, he would. He would be exactly like me. And look at me, Little Igor, the bruises go away, and so does how you hate, and so does the feeling that everything you receive in life is something you have earned.
But I could not tell him any of these things. I roosted on the floor of the kitchen, only several meters distance from him, and I commenced to laugh. I did not know why I was laughing, but I could not stop. I pressed my hand against my mouth so that I would not manufacture any noise.
My laughing got more and more, until my stomach pained. I attempted to rise, so that I could walk to my room, but I was afraid that it would be too difficult to control my laughing. I remained there for many, many minutes. My brother persevered to a little less than cry, which made my silent laughing even more. I am able to understand now that it was the same laugh that I had in the restaurant in Lutsk, the laugh that had the same darkness as Grandfather’s laugh and the hero’s laugh. (I ask leniency for writing this. Perhaps I will remove it before I post this part to you. I am sorry.) As for Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior, she did not eat her piece of the potato.
The hero and I spoke very much at dinner, mostly about America.
“Tell me about things that you have in America,” I said. “What do you want to know about?” “My friend Gregory informs me that there are many good schools for accounting in America. Is this true?” “I guess. I don’t really know. I could find out for you when I get back.” “Thank you,” I said, because now I had a connection in America, and was not alone, and then, “What do you want to make?” “What do I want to make?” “Yes. What will you become?” “I don’t know.” “Surely you know.” “This and that.” “What does it mean this and that?” “I’m just not sure yet.” “Father informs me that you are writing a book about this trip.” “I like to write.” I punched his back. “You are a writer!” “Shhhh.”
“But it is a good career, yes?” “What?” “Writing. It is very noble.”
“Noble? I don’t know.” “Do you have any books published?” “No, but I’m still very young.” “You have stories published?” “No. Well, one or two.” “What are they dubbed?” “Forget it.” “This is a first-rate title.”
“No. I mean, forget it.” “I would love very much to read your stories.”
“You probably won’t like them.” “Why do you say that?” “I don’t even like them.” “Oh.” “They’re apprentice pieces.” “What does it mean apprentice pieces?” “They’re not real stories. I was just learning how to write.” “But one day you will have learned how to write.” “That’s the hope.” “Like becoming an accountant.” “Maybe.” “Why do you want to write?” “I don’t know. I used to think it was what I was born to do. No, I never really thought that. It’s just something people say.” “No, it is not. I truly feel that I was born to be an accountant.” “You’re lucky.” “Perhaps you were born to write?” “I don’t know. Maybe. It sounds terrible to say.
Cheap.” “It sounds nor terrible nor cheap.” “It’s so hard to express yourself.” “I understand this.” “I want to express myself.” “The same is true for me.” “I’m looking for my voice.” “It is in your mouth.” “I want to do something I’m not ashamed of.” “Something you are proud of, yes?”
“Not even. I just don’t want to be ashamed.” “There are many premium Russian writers, yes?” “Oh, of course. Tons.” “Tolstoy, yes?
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