Love has, of course, taken root here, and often, but we entirely lack any culture of passion. Yes, it looms large in Dostoevsky, Leontiev or Tolstoy, both love and tears, but alas, it hardly figures in the everyday lives of people like us in the twenty-first century. We have become habituated to quiet love, to understanding another person to the depths of their soul. We pity the unfortunate and the alcoholics drinking themselves to death because their souls have been defiled. We have a tradition of making do with love on a shoestring, of living in hope as the years go by, of washing his feet and drinking the dirty water. But passion as a short-lived, allconsuming fire – forget it! We are incapable of a month of passion (even just the one, but sweet, devastating, and luring us towards madness), or even of a passionate break-up to shake our whole organism to the core even though it is obvious that this is the end, so let’s end with a burst of passion. As an experiment, just try suggesting to your gentleman friend parting at the peak of your amorous relations. He will shy away in horror. For us, breaking up means divorce and walking out with all our belongings and all the ancient dust which has settled on them.
Our pro-Soviet love is nothing but rummaging around in ourselves, not a desire to take from our partner every last drop of the happiness he can give, even if these are our final hours together, and to give him in return the same, even though we know the pillow will be empty tomorrow. Passion Russian-style is a trip from A to B. At A we kiss, and at B we saw away at the bed-frame. It is great good fortune if the trip is direct, and awful if the path is tortuous, which it all too often is. But why go on? As if we don’t already know this only too well.