By Jean Cocteau
"Je ne suis pas celui que vous croyez", disait souvent Cocteau. Ce souci de démystification, on le retrouve en filigrane dans le magazine d'un inconnu (1953) où parlant de l'inspiration, de los angeles mémoire, du temps, de l'amitié, l'auteur nous découvre son vrai visage. Une écriture éblouissante pour une vérité toujours fuyante.
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But if our aim is to reverse and repair the destruction wrought by neoliberal policy there will be many battles ahead, and the work of the protestors in Wisconsin, combined with words like those of Tracy Fuller, have given me, and my parents, and plenty of others, reason to continue to believe that, beyond the horizon of the expected, a more human future might yet await us. + Fiction and Drama Raisa - Yelena Akhtiorskaya Published in Issue 11: Dual Power Publication date: Spring 2011 F L U N G A SI D E B Y A C O M M U T E R C HA N G I N G T RA I N S , tripped over a pothole crossing Chambers, forgot her notebook on a bench by the Hudson during lunch, calculus teacher said, Darya, get your head out of the clouds, physics and poetry teachers absent, the notebook gone upon returning after school, a sick passenger delayed the Q, walking home it grew oppressively dark, each window she passed like a turned back that said don’t come near, ages before she reached the yellowish-beige brick comfort of her building, a relief lasting only as long as it took to unlock the lobby door — there’s something odd in the atmosphere, she thought, and to not disturb the oddness she tiptoed in, finding kitchen dark, living room empty.
Those protruding veins weren’t his veins. But for how long could you lament a set of hands? H E L E FT F O R W O R K long before dawn. Oleg, who was meant for a sitting job, obvious from his build alone, the low hips, heavy thighs, narrow shoulders, flat feet. Meant to sit. His prominent forehead announced: This is where the action happens. But it wasn’t. That was where the wrinkles were, parallel, like lined paper that would remain blank. He worked for a glazing contractor, Glassnost on Bay Parkway, not surprisingly run by a man named Sasha Gorbachenko — who’d known from the first that Oleg wasn’t meant for the work, but hired him anyway for two reasons: first, they realized within five minutes of meeting that their fathers had been Park Shevchenko chess partners, and second, Oleg was desperate while Sasha was deeply susceptible to pity.
She was his younger sister, he treated her like a baby. Every one of her complaints he took seriously, though he knew she was a hypochondriac, and somewhat stupid at that. When he passed so unexpectedly, it was perhaps hardest on her. She never married, never anything. My daughter doesn’t look well, Gala thought, and later consulted Oleg, who had gradually grown sturdier, and was strutting confidently around the house. They came to a decision that would do everyone some good, a little vacation to the Bahamas.