такое кино
Paths. Epilogue
She stood before a large sheet of cheap paper spread out on the floor.
The brush in her hand was not a brush — but a scalpel with which she was to excise the tumor of doubt that had infected the body of the Revolution. She saw this tumor every day at the university. In the eyes of the professors, in their soft, yielding voices, in their quotes from ancient, dead books. Their words were cobwebs. Gray, sticky, in which the great red sun gets bogged down, losing its heat. They speak of “humanism,” of “nuances,” of “objectivity,” but she hears only one thing — the whisper of an old world that refuses to die.
The Chairman had lit a fire within her. His words in her head were not just words, but burning coals. “Bombard the Headquarters!” — and she felt this call becoming her own pulse. No. She is an instrument. She is the hand of history. She believed: if she said it loudly, if she wrote it in ink, if she did not flinch — everything would change. Everything would become better. For everyone. For the country. For each person.
She dipped the brush in ink. The black color was absolute. It was not a color, but its absence. Zero point, from which everything must begin anew.
The first character lay on the paper — sharp as an axe blow.
Resolutely!
The paper seemed to shudder under this pressure. She was not writing words — she was forging them. Every character was a soldier marching into battle. Every line — a blow, every dot — a drop of venom for the enemy.
Radically!
Wholly and completely!
She felt no rage, no personal hate. Only the cold, pure fire of righteousness. This was not destruction, but purification. She was uprooting weeds to let the pure, scarlet flower grow. The monsters she was destroying had human faces; they drank tea with her in the staff room, they greeted her in the corridors. But these were mere masks. Beneath them — revisionists of the Khrushchev type, worms undermining the great tree.
Her entire life, all the books read, all the sleepless nights — all of it led to this moment, to this sheet of paper. This was her magnum opus.
Destroy!
When the last character was written, she stepped back. Her hand trembled, but not from fear, rather from the colossal energy that had passed through her. She looked at her creation. At the black, angular signs frozen on the white field. For some, these were words of hatred. For her — it was a poem. Harmonious, calibrated, terrifying in its rectitude.
She had created her own “Black Square.” And it was beautiful.