Before I sat down at the table, I looked at Camille Corot's "A Woman Reading" for a long time. The painting was made in 1896 and depicts a woman reading and, in the distance, a man in a boat. Her left hand is frozen at her chin, as if she wanted to scratch a patch on her skin, but the writing in the book suddenly caught her off guard. She may not have suspected anything special when she picked up this book, but as she flipped through the pages, she could no longer stop herself. She changed, began to look a little different. A person who looks in the mirror for a long time begins to see more and more depth and detail. As a reader, I, too, want the book to take me by surprise.

I sit in the kitchen, look at the empty coat rack, and imagine an ordinary worn coat. I wonder what it could be soaked in. Probably homemade cookies and cigarettes. This coat will fit me. Some late evening I'll come home tired and take a sit in an armchair without taking my coat off. I will not bother to take it off, and I won’t but not out of laziness, but rather because it will be cold and lonely in the apartment. And so, I'll fall asleep and have dreams about wandering from one hotel to another, waiting for some bellhop and about to marry a woman with a piercing gaze. So, a good book shouldn't be a thing, but it should smell like things. A good book shouldn't suck the water out of your eyes, but it should make it less salty than it really is. 

The metaphysical conditions I place on every new book have no limits, especially when it comes to the precious classics. As for modern literature, however, there are some of the limitations for me. And that is the author's attitude to me as a reader. The author shouldn't feel sorry for me. He has to be honest. As my wife says, many modern writers underestimate their reader and this is a mistake, although reading a work is akin to rearing your steps. It is difficult because there is always a choice. The choice is like an opportunity to put on the image of a ready-made thing. A good author also makes choices, but those choices are invisible. They are is in the creative environment they once found, like a sculptor finding a valley of soft stones, or has created a similar environment within. But what about the reader? Maybe they need some kind of environment, too? I don't think so. The reader needs a comfortable couch and good lighting. He shouldn't be disturbed or bothered by anything, and it would be nice to have someone fishing nearby. 

Only in the depths of the reading the reader finds themselves in a state of a search, a perpetual search not for happiness, but for "happy." With gulps of air, creating that very kobyz, a quiet but sharp crying musical instrument, for a good work always has a sound, forcing one to discover something new time after time. That's the beauty of the literal relationship between reader and writer.

The reader understands that any definition is limiting, but tries to work out definitions all the time. Pascal argued that poetry is an infinite sphere that has a center everywhere and no circumference. But a reader has their own circumference. They highlight a line with a piece of pencil and remember the place. The law of the star and the formula of the flower. Evgeny Abdullayev, in one of his essays, compared poetry to science. He says, "Hasn't it reached the same stage of professionalization and esotericism in its development, when the need for a poetry collection gradually disappears?" Perhaps it has, but the reader, I repeat, is not stupid as well. 

Last night I went out for a smoke around 3 a.m. and the moonlight was so thick and clear and the clouds were like cotton candy in its cooking stage. I was happy that once upon a time, when I was a child, my mother took me to the park where I first saw these glass sugar machines. The reader and the author are connected in advance. They are tied by life first and only then by words and the smell of typewriter ink. My sister recently said one thing: "When I read books, I look for myself in every line. I want to be fairness, braveness, sensuality. I wish the words would penetrate my soul and structure my essence." 

I sit in the kitchen, look at the empty rack, and imagine an ordinary worn coat. This coat belongs to my father, whom I never had.