The anti-Soviet prose of A. Gladilin already in the early 60s made a solid hole in the canons of socialist realism and brought new heroes, a new language, a new form of writing to the stage... I am really superstitious. I'm not afraid of black cats, but I believe other signs: Mondays, thirteenth numbers, lucky tickets. I often remember that day and think that I had to stay. It was necessary, although I understand that it is impossible to immediately change all plans, replay the long-decided, start over. This is not the first time I left settled places, good work, parted with friends (naturally, making an appointment, swearing that I would write, etc.), never wrote and never saw them again - this is some kind of fatum, illness, geographical fever: rush somewhere in search of the best and then realize that where you left, you felt good. I never went back to square one. But that's not true. I always went round and round. Circled around him.