Andrey Arsenyevč Tarkovsky (1932 – 1986) was a Russian director, screenwriter and writer. His most famous films are 'Stalker', 'Solaris', 'The Mirror' and 'Andrey Rublev' and are considered some of the masterpieces in the history of cinema.
September 12
Yesterday I spoke with the head of sound, Yuri Mikhailov. He's really great. According to him, we shouldn't use Bahu in the film, it's fashionable. A lot of people are using Bahu.
Teynishvili said today that after Solaris he would like to offer me some kind of job abroad. I wonder what he has in mind. And who? Gambarov?
In any case, it would be better to explain to him that I won't do anything just for money. I think after Solaris I have to do it. The Bright Day.
I wonder if I'll ever be able to earn enough to pay off all my debts and buy the most essential things – a couch, some odd piece of furniture, a typewriter, the books I'd like to have? There are also repairs that need to be done in the village – that means even more money.
I haven't seen my father in years. The more time passes without seeing him, the more depressing and alarming it becomes to go to him. It's quite clear that I have a complex about my parents. I don't feel grown-up when I'm with them. And I don't think they consider me grown-up either. Our relationship is somehow tortured, complicated, we can't talk about it. It's not fair, though. I love them very much, but I've never felt comfortable in front of them, or their equals. I think they're afraid of me, no matter how much they love me.
It's extraordinary – Ira and I have separated, I have a new life, a different life, while they continue as if they haven't noticed anything. Even now, after Andriushka was born (VR: Tomorrow or the day after tomorrow – go to the Registry Office and register him). They are too reserved to talk to me about it. So am I. This could go on like this forever.
It's incredibly difficult to talk if you're playing 'you can't say yes or no or black or white'. Whose fault is it? Theirs, or maybe mine. Everyone's, at this point.
Same, I can go see my father before I leave for Japan. It's hard for him too, because our relationship is like that. I know that for sure. I just can't imagine how things would turn out if I were the one to break the ice. And it's so hard. Maybe I should write him a letter. But letters won't fix anything. Then we could meet and pretend that letter never was written. It's a kind of Dostoevskyism, or Dolgorukism. We all love each other and are shy, afraid of each other. For some reason it's very easy for me to connect with complete strangers...
Now I have to go to bed and read The Glass Bead Game. I've been looking for it for years, but today, finally, I have it in my hands. I'm so terrified of funerals. Even when we buried my grandmother, it was scary. Not because she was dead, but because I was surrounded by people expressing their feelings. I can't stand to see people express their feelings, even sincere ones. I find it unbearable when my nearest and dearest expresses his feelings.
I remember my father, I was standing at the church, waiting for the moment when we would take my grandmother's coffin to the cemetery (the service and burial were held in different places) and my father said (it doesn't matter about what), 'Good is passive. Evil is active.'
During the funeral service for my grandmother and the others (I think there were seven or eight of them) in the church at the Danilov cemetery, I was at the head of the coffin, not far from Marina and my mother. Marina was crying. The priest wrote down the names of the deceased and the service began. When the priest, during the service, read out the names of all the dead, it occurred to me that he had forgotten to mention Vera, that he had left out my grandmother's name by mistake. I was so terrified that I began to push myself forward towards the priest in order to remind him of my grandmother's name. I felt that if I did not do this, then something terrible would happen to my grandmother. She knew before she died that there would be a funeral service for her. And now here she was, lying there, believing that the funeral prayers were being said for her and the priest had carelessly left her name out. She was lying there dead, but I knew that she herself would have been horrified if she had been able to feel and understand that her name had been forgotten during the service. I was right behind the priest who had just started saying the names for the second time when I heard it – Vera… So maybe I had just imagined it. But how terrified I was!
This was the only funeral I attended. No – the first time I was in a cemetery was when Antonia Aleksandrovna, my father’s second wife, was being buried. I was just a child at the time. All I remember is the beautiful, slender profile of the dead woman and her heavily powdered face. She had died of a tumor in her head. Cancer. It was winter and my head was rising. Then, too, my father was behind me.
I remember when I was still very young and I was visiting my father at Party (!) and there he met Uncle Leva (I believe it was him).
My father was sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, I imagine he was feeling unwell. Uncle Leva stopped in the doorway and said, 'Look, Arseny, Maria Danilovna is dead.' My father stood there for a minute, without speaking, then turned to one side and started crying. Maria Danilovna was my paternal grandmother. My father rarely saw her. She seemed somehow embarrassed. Maybe she is related, at least on my father's side? Or maybe I am mistaken about my father and grandmother Maria Danilovna. They may have had a completely different kind of relationship than the one between me and my mother. My mother sometimes told me that Arseny only thought about himself, that he was selfish. I don't know if she is right or not. She has every right to say that I am selfish too. I probably am. But I love my mother, and my father, and Marina and Senka. I am overcome with astonishment and cannot express my feelings. My love is not active. I suppose all I want is to be left alone, even forgotten. I do not even want to count on their love, nor do I ask for anything from them except freedom. There is no freedom here, nor will there be. Then they blame Ira on me, I feel it. They love her, naturally and simply. I am not jealous, I just do not want to be tortured and thought to be holy. I am not holy, nor am I an angel.
I am selfish, afraid more than anything else in the world of the pain suffered by those I love.
Come on, I'm going to read Hesse.
/Taken from Andrey Tarkowsky, Time Within Time, The Diaries 1970 – 1986, faber and faber, 1994
/Translation: Gazeta Express
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