Solzhenitsyn, Russian Nobelist and noblest Russian
Trudging through heavy snow along the perimeter of the Maple Avenue Cemetery, my steps are punctuated irregularly by shotgun blasts from the deer hunters in the nearby woods. Why did I wear this cervine-tawny jacket? I gaze up into the slate sky of a late November twilight and think… well, my first thought is that I hope these guys are good shots, local boys and not city hunters. My second thought is of Aleksandr Solzhenitysn, the long loneliness of exile, and the sustaining dream of repatriation. ‘Away from home in a country far away Even the springtime sun is gray.’ Or so Solzhenitsyn wrote as he dreamed of his return.