Page 76 - June 2021 Litterateur
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                    ...And today the writer's wife brought several letters to this gala event, which she almost clutched to
                    her  heart.  With  trepidation  she  awaited  her  performance  in  front  of  a  huge  audience  of  famous
                    writers, poets, and students who considered him their mentor, teacher, and simply admirers of her
                    late husband's work. The writer's children sat on the front row, proud of their father. How nice to
                    hear so many good words and reviews! How comforting to know that the blessed memory is alive!
                    -  My  late  husband  devoted  his  whole  life  to  literature,"  she  began  her  usual  speech  she  gave  in
                    every interview for numerous publications. - He was not only a brilliant writer, but also a wonderful
                    father and husband. His novels, written night after night, were read by his beloved people. I was
                    constantly by his side: I was his critic, his first reader. And now nothing has changed in his office,

                    even  on  his  desk  manuscripts,  papers,  books  continue  to  lie.  Time  seems  to  have  stopped:
                    everything is as it was when the writer was alive. Sometimes it seems to me the door is about to
                    open and he enters to finish his next literary masterpiece...
                    At the end of her speech, the writer's widow read out lines from letters from grateful readers. To the
                    storm of applause and tears in her eyes, she returned to her place of honor.
                    - Ah, if all this attention and reverence had been given during the writer's lifetime. We would have
                    lived  in  peace  and  harmony.  There  would  be  no  regrets  and  remorse  today..."  she  thought,  and
                    sighed bitterly.
                    Suddenly her gaze fell on a woman sitting at the door. Catching the stern and intense gaze of her
                    rival, she covered her face with a handkerchief. The writer's widow blushed, her heart ached. She
                    was hurt and offended. More precisely, ashamed. She nervously clutched the letters in her hands.
                    Glanced in her direction one more time: no one was there anymore.
                    Calming down a little, she thought back to the events of the memorable evening. The unexpected

                    meeting with the woman made her remember that moment in her life...
                    -You  write  and  write  all  the  time!  What's  the  use  of  your  writing!  -  said  the  woman,  pointing  her
                    fingers at the manuscript the writer had been writing all night. - Do not you want to live in a beautiful
                    house, drive your own car, to travel around the world? You just want to write and write. You don't
                    need anything but books!
                    She came close to the bookshelves and burst into tears:
                    -  What  can  these  precious  books  of  yours  do?  You're  not  even  a  member  of  the  Writers'  Union!
                    People much younger than you have been members for a long time. Even your student is honored,
                    and reads his own poems from great podiums! Oh, dear!
                    - He is not my student! - He replied indifferently.
                    - And who came to our house? Didn't you write him a review? Didn't he beat you to publish his first
                    book? And now he's a member of the Writers' Union! And he's your student! - The woman wouldn't
                    let up.
                    - I wish him luck! - The man replied serenely, as well.
                    -  What  kind  of  person  are  you?  Maybe  you  should  apply  for  it  too,  eh?  Why  don't  you  want  the
                    dutcha* in Durmen valley, the apartment you are entitled to?Why don't you take advantage of the
                    benefits and privileges accorded to writers? There, some even make a fortune through their talent!

                    How many books have you written so far? Seven! - She shouted without waiting for her husband's
                    answer. - And how many books have you published? Only two! And did you get royalties for them?
                    No! You see, he doesn't write for the money. Then what's all this for? What's the point of all your
                    writing?  At  least  the  editorial  office  would  be  paid  properly.  No!  It  was  as  if  the  writer  was  not
                    listening  to  his  wife.  He  scratched  the  back  of  his  head,  crossed  something  out,  and  then  wrote

                                                                                                *Summer Villa located in countryside

                   Litterateur                                                                                            76

                         REDEFINING WORLD
                       EDITED BY SHAJIL ANTHRU
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