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Donald Finkel, 79, Poet of Free-Ranging Styles, Is Dead
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Book Review: The Dream by Gurbaksh Chahal
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Book Review: The Dream by Gurbaksh Chahal
Donald Finkel, a noted American poet whose work teemed with curious juxtapositions, which in their unorthodoxy helped illuminate the function of poetry itself, died on Nov. 15 at his home in St. Louis. He was 79. The cause was complications of Alzheimers

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Best Russian Short Stories written by Various

V >> Various >> Best Russian Short Stories




"If you should drive us away on the great day, we will turn to you and
say: 'You spotless Cherubim--if human thoughts had the power to wound,
kill, and rob man of honour and property, then which of you innocent
doves would not deserve the knout and imprisonment for life?' Then we
will go away from you and build our own gay, sporting, desperate
thieves' barricade, and will die with such united songs on our lips
that you will envy us, you who are whiter than snow!

"But I have been once more carried away. Forgive me. I am at the end.
You now see, gentlemen, what feelings the newspaper slanders have
excited in us. Believe in our sincerity and do what you can to remove
the filthy stain which has so unjustly been cast upon us. I have
finished."

He went away from the table and joined his comrades. The barristers
were whispering in an undertone, very much as the magistrates of the
bench at sessions. Then the chairman rose.

"We trust you absolutely, and we will make every effort to clear your
association of this most grievous charge. At the same time my
colleagues have authorised me, gentlemen, to convey to you their deep
respect for your passionate feelings as citizens. And for my own part
I ask the leader of the deputation for permission to shake him by the
hand."

The two men, both tall and serious, held each other's hands in a
strong, masculine grip.

The barristers were leaving the theatre; but four of them hung back a
little beside the clothes rack in the hall. Isaac Abramovich could not
find his new, smart grey hat anywhere. In its place on the wooden peg
hung a cloth cap jauntily flattened in on either side.

"Yasha!" The stern voice of the orator was suddenly heard from the
other side of the door. "Yasha! It's the last time I'll speak to you,
curse you! ... Do you hear?" The heavy door opened wide. The gentleman
in the sandy suit entered. In his hands he held Isaac Abramovich's
hat; on his face was a well-bred smile.

"Gentlemen, for Heaven's sake forgive us--an odd little
misunderstanding. One of our comrades exchanged his hat by accident...
Oh, it is yours! A thousand pardons. Doorkeeper! Why don't you keep an
eye on things, my good fellow, eh? Just give me that cap, there. Once
more, I ask you to forgive me, gentlemen."

With a pleasant bow and the same well-bred smile he made his way
quickly into the street.