[Editor’s Note: On this Friday, May 18, the trial of Edward Limonov will begin at 10:00 a.m. at the Lefortovo court. Through his lawyer, he’s sent us his regards; we’re looking forward to seeing him this Friday. We decided to use this space today to remind our readers that before he became a political figure of ill repute, Edward was first and foremost a novelist and an artist. For the eXile, he’s always written in broken English. In this issue, we decided to publish something of his in clean translation (courtesy of Alexei Pankin). The following is an excerpt from his novel Diary of a Loser.]

“Typically, losers settle among the people of various nations. This great and valiant tribe is scattered all over the world. In Anglophone countries they are referred to as “losers,” that is, those who have lost out. This tribe is far more populous than the Jews, though no less enterprising or brave. They are exceedingly patient: it’s not uncommon for them to feed on hopes all their lives….

One characteristic feature should be noted: after achieving success, men and women of this tribe easily renounce their own kind, adopt the customs and the way of life of the people among whom they’ve become successful, and then nothing reminds them of when they belonged to the glorious tribe of loser….”

 

(7) If you write all day long and in the evening turn on the only two lamps in your cell, then step out onto the narrow strip of the hotel balcony and position yourself there, leaning as far as possible towards the street and the sky, then you can see from the corner of your eye: people, it’s as if they had come to see me, as if it’s a celebration. It works too, if you crowd the table with glasses. And people? Where are the people? Well, they’re on the left and the right, sitting in such a way that they can’t be seen from the window, beyond the reach of your gaze….

I love insanity. My entire life is proof of this. It’s not logic, it’s ecstasy I cultivate. My morbid sensations give me pleasure. And when I need to torture somebody, I come out at night and look for a victim.

A few times already, I’ve tried some things and was delighted.

Today, I found a dollar on the ground. Then I bought myself tulips.

Day before yesterday, I stabbed my wife. She got off cheap, though.

I have a mysterious relationship with this woman. It appears simple at first glance—she left me a year ago. But what can a crowd really know about her and me?

Some things exist invisible to the eye.

One of us is a victim, one of us is a torturer. From time to time, we switch the roles. Even the most intelligent won’t be able to make anything out of this. Only the devil can make sense of it. He’s the one who made this mess in the first place.

On the face of it, it appears as though it’s she and Limonov. But I’m telling you: it’s a lot more complicated. Occasionally, I go out for a walk with the collar up on my fur coat. To the passersby, these are merely boots and hats in the store windows. For me, these boots and hats have long ceased to be just that; they are sharp and mysterious symbols and signs that prophesy and menace, and sometimes I run for my life, as though they really pursue me. And they really do, especially those black, knee-high boots on 45th Street; they scare me. They exude a melody, an odor, and they smile. The amusing city I live in now has a lot that I like. It, New York, is quite spacious. Its trash is the most beautiful in the world. A man I know tries to draw trash. But for now it doesn’t come out well. That is, he’s a good, solid artist, but you have to draw trash as you would flowers. There was one artist I knew—he was crazy—oh, how he drew flowers! He was my friend; he slept under the grand piano occasionally. Actually, this was so long ago that I get a headache.

Naturally, I can also appreciate simple joys. For example, I’m looking forward to spring. I’m not saying that spring is a blessing: I’m looking forward to spring as a time for rotting, and yes rot pleases me. At last, all that was swelling during winter now bursts and becomes exposed—the pus oozes out, the faces speak for themselves, and our city turns into one huge throng of crawling flesh—the flesh that’s characterized by the aimless Brownian motion, as I was taught in school, in those semidark science labs, by the smart Jewish teachers waving their flasks and retorts.

I was never cruel. I never burned cats or dogs, never chopped their tails or paws off, never hunted for rats or birds. Aimlessly I roamed through the fields and woods. There was no pleasure for me in torturing plants or animals. I had no knowledge yet of the happiness in torturing humans.

I happened on the Great Discovery just a few days before I turned 33. This was the most fantastic time in my life. I was in a rare shape—the woman I loved left me, laughing diabolically—I soared, I suffered every day and every night—I writhed in hysterics and masturbation—this was very complicated. I swallowed my own sperm alternating it with the swigs of wine-nectar and ambrosia of gods. It was then that boredom disappeared from my life, and I began a life of celebration.

I made the Great Discovery when I was strangling my wife. That is when, without finishing her off, I let her go. I looked at her, at this bitch, pushy and proud of her victories—proud for the quantity and quality of pricks that entered her. I looke….she was…. Oh, this moment I’ll never forget. It’s only for this that life is worth living. SHE GRUNTED. Her robe was unbuttoned, her empty, cotton-like breasts puffed up, on her pretty belly there was an unpretty crease. And she wanted to live. I could say to her: kiss my feet, eat my excrement, lick me—she would obey instantly. Strangely smiling, I felt her bare breasts—my head wasn’t exactly clear, but what was there to be clear about? I felt pleasure overflowing me. “I’ll fuck you and will let you go,” I told her. But then I didn’t need to fuck her. At that moment the orgasm overtook me—it shot out in my pants, and instinctively I rubbed against the back of the dumb wooden bench we were sitting on (and which served as a couch to our poor family).

NEWSWEEK, in a recent cover story, identified these protesters as being in the KPRF. In fact, they’re members of Edward Limonov’s National Bolshevik party—not communists at all. Waytago, Christian Caryl!

And then I understood that I LOVE VIOLENCE. And I felt peace and calm. And all the worries of the world, in soft, cotton clouds, flew away into the transcendental black sky.

That’s how I made the Great Discovery. Humans are just morbidly pathetic flesh—give it a firm squeeze and where’s he that philosophized, or did business, and where’s she that was so-and-so, and allegedly loved and this and that—they just grunt and cry. AND BEG….

I live with my discovery. It feels good to live with it. I’m not cruel at all; many consider me a nice guy. But somehow I’m indifferent to traveling and don’t really want money. My passion is different. I can’t deny myself the pleasure of seeing a person in such a grunting state, and it’s especially delightful with those who might be sexually intimate with me. I really feel like it. You see, that orgasm has stuck in my mind, and I want to repeat it. Naturally, I fear the law. I won’t risk rashly. I’m not afraid of the punishment per se, but I may lose the opportunity for my possible future pleasures.

When April and May come and the snakes of the first leaves sneak out and the buds burst, and women begin to stink from under their skirts or through the cloth of their pants—our city secretaries turn grubby, their faces covered with pimples. When the next absolutely necessary revolution will take place in nature, I’ll try a few tricks. I know the state I’ll be in then and shiver in anticipation….

Some collect butterflies, others—genial and docile jocks—play ball. And me, I’m just strange.

 

(19) I see: almost everybody is unhappy. What can you do with them?

Some—often actors—tired by the age of 40, take up with somebody and go on living together. Because it’s scary, you see, to go on alone. By this time they’re not too choosy and just put up with one another. Whatever it takes—only not to be alone—because it’s scary, you know. And their naked eyes burn with terror when suddenly they appear on the cover of People, clutching each other—scared to be torn apart.