LITTLE WHORES of Chekhov Putin. THE STORY OF MY LIFE

Chekhov's books give me peace of mind, some disappointment in the things of the world. Silence and sadness. Everything is ephemeral, omnia transit. I have returned to "The Story of My Life" many times. This is the life of a writer.

This is my life, a fight with windmills, the cruelty of people, boredom, cold winter, theater, failed love.

Anton Pavlovich Chekhov's father was a cruel man who beat this genius of Russian literature in childhood.

I saw my reflection in each of his passages. Ana Blagovo, the first love that did not work out, and the failed marriage. Masha, his wife, runs away with an American. There is another hidden theme in intellectual labor compared to physical labor. The protagonist is a gentleman (nobleman) who, faced with the condemnation of his entire family, becomes a

broad-brush painter, installing zinc roofs on the roofs of churches with onion-shaped domes.

How much this detail impressed me when, more than fifty years ago, I read “The Story of My Life” on the subway in a book I had borrowed from the Cuatro Caminos library because I did not have the money to buy a copy.

It is an ideogram novel that announced my steps in life. I read it again on the plane when I arrived to get married in a northern city and my girlfriend left me at the door of the church, the wedding fell through, but I did not love this Sondia Sotrondia, my true love was in her. Ana Blagovo. A sweet Englishwoman with blond hair, white skin and a smeared face.

A love that never came. Then there would be other loves that would sow disappointment and disillusionment in me, my life would be a struggle with boredom, wretchedness, barbarity, lack of communication, cuckoldry. Chekhov was for my prophet the herald of Russian humanism, Christianity, which has nothing in common with our irreconcilable and inquisitive Catholicism.

We are all sinners. Christ came to save us. These are the espastors. But humanity does not change. We have only your forgiveness.

Holy Rus', Evangelical Russia. Full of contradictions. This is a beautiful liturgy next to dumps of sex. Beautiful women with their asses up, showing their flesh online. On honeydromes.

Putin's whores, pussies are back.

I look at them sometimes, and my soul is filled with sadness when I hear them roaring like cats in heat. Russia is a cast of a riddle. I have said this many times already.