This is a personal, quiet space for thinking. I write about philosophy, the nature of violence, literature, art, cinema, and whatever else catches my attention.
Why do I write when I could be spending my time on dates with pleasant women, as Proust once suggested, or giving my life to ambition so as not to end up like Beckett's characters?
I began writing at the moment when I felt my helplessness before life most sharply – when I realised how much I relied on a ready-made language. Not Russian, English, or Hebrew, but language in a broader sense: the language of a world already formulated.
I am afraid to live in a world someone else has fully articulated before me. It feels like existential claustrophobia. I write in order to formulate my own world — to breathe the way my favourite writers, thinkers, artists, and filmmakers once breathed.
Born in deep Eastern Siberia, later emigrating to Israel, living through years of survival amid wars and human stupidity, I've been forced to continuously shape my own language and way of thinking just to remain sane.
Years ago, working in a psychiatric hospital, and even earlier, observing people in extreme states of drug intoxication, I became convinced of something simple: we accelerate language to feel something – and this is a profound mistake. What we need is not louder language, but our own language.
This does not require drugs, Himalayan journeys, or decades in a Buddhist monastery. That would be too easy.
In 2022, I published my first book, True Sadness. It was an emotional rupture. I had planned to work on it for another six months, but war intervened, and the book became what life demanded of it. My life changed after that.
In this blog, I write in order to search for – and sometimes find – my own style, my own language, so that I might manage to be born into this world before I die.