We always imagine eternity as something beyond our conception, something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, what if it’s one little room, like a bath house in the country, black and grimy and spiders in every corner, and that’s all eternity is? I sometimes fancy it like that.
Who if not Russians can imagine heaven as an old, dusty room with crawling spiders? They are so used to hardship, so accustomed to endurance that in their heads there is not even hope for a better afterlife. After all for true writers it is actually the best possible situation. A bad, a desk, a typewriter and no distractions whatsoever. Forever. Yet they’d be missing one, maybe the most important element of the art. They would not see, coulnd not touch everyday life, miss the society, would’t be able to comment on the most absorbing issues of the time. They can write about past expirience for a few decades, yet eternity is a little too long for that.