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Humanity is not a flower one would care to smell. That was the reason I decided to accept the proposal of being detached to a remote communications outpost. I came to learn, later on, that it would be L73. Lagrange. A name I had never heard before, but which seemed to me pure poetry. Pure literature, as an end in itself. Mallarmé had already begun it. That movement which makes of a writer a sculptor of words, for the simple pleasure of watching forms be born in the vowels, and souls in the consonants. Perhaps my talent was not to be a special forces soldier, but rather a Nabokov. I remember reading Nijinsky’s diaries and thinking that my own end was also destined. To die in the ice, like Robert Walser — without my writing first becoming minuscule too, almost imperceptible.

Did I already tell you they call me “the sad robot”? I think it has to do with the fact that Russia is eternally cold. Yes, cold.

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