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And so we must ask, Can you rebuild a pyramid into the Parthenon? The ancient Egyptian pyramids are rightly considered the most enduring of architectural forms -- much more durable and solid than the Parthenon. And the legitimate question arises: Do pyramids lend themselves to perestroika? It would be possible, of course, to adorn them with decorative colonnades, to cover them with molding, to suspend Greek porticoes on them. But would these changes enhance them? Wouldn't they spoil the fundamental style and profile?
I'm trying to use this transparent metaphor to explain why -- despite all my sympathy for the works of perestroika -- I share the doubts of many about the reforms that are being called forth to rejuvenate the Soviet system in the democratic manner.
When perestroika began, I asked myself if perhaps I hadn't been mistaken about the pyramid. But not long ago, I had the sad occasion to spend some time in Moscow. On the evening of Dec. 30, my friend Yuli Daniel died. If it had not been for his death, they would not have let me into Moscow. Moscow had been denying my wife Maria a visa for a year and a half. The Soviet consulate in Paris had informed us by telephone on the morning of Dec. 30 of the latest denial. Then, after two days of negotiations, they had to give us a visa. If they had not, a scandal would have broken out in the press. After all, for many years -- since our arrest -- my name has been inextricably linked with that of Daniel's (Sinyavsky-Daniel, Daniel-Sinyavsky . . .).
We didn't arrive in time for the funeral. We flew in the day after, and we spent the five days that Moscow gave us at the home of Daniel's widow Irina Uvarova.
Perhaps Daniel's death colored my impressions. Moscow seemed incredibly dreary. I hadn't been there for 15 years. The darkness was striking. From the first moment, while we were still at the airport, it seemed as if the electricity had burned out and that the meager light was being supplied by a weak portable generator. The sense of abandonment and homelessness was aggravated by the piles of dirty, blackened snow along the sides of the dark streets. It hadn't been like that before. Where were the streetlights? Where had the stately yard keepers, who used to clean Moscow, disappeared to?
It's good that at least they're writing about all this in the newspapers. Glasnost provides salvation from psychological destitution. But it's still a long way from physical evidence of perestroika. The gypsy cabdriver who drove us from the airport remarked in a melancholy tone of voice on the neglected roads, filled with potholes, over which we, swearing, were bouncing: "So have ended many great empires!" I was amazed at the daring and aesthetic exactness of his maxims. In my time, people didn't talk so freely . . .
< At the market near the cemetery, where we were buying flowers, someone tried to photograph our group. A watchwoman objected, "It's forbidden to photograph the market! The director doesn't allow it!" Why? Wasn't it because the market was catastrophically empty?