THE LITERARY CLUB

You probably know by now that I get a little worked up about Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin!

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I went to this club at 18 Nevsky Prospekt last night. I went there just because they insist that that is where Pushkin had his meal before going to duel some guy who was making after his wife. Of course, he got the worse of it and died two days later, on 10 February 1837. Then this other bastard turned around and married Pushkin's sister-in-law.

I didn't realize until last night that since he was born in 1799, he is one of these geniuses who died before he turned 40.

If I were the type that gets depressed, I'd be depressed now. What the hell have I done in 66 years, other than to help "replenish the earth" with some of the most beautiful children you ever saw.

Note: You must forgive me using "hell" so goddamed much. You see, I just re-read The Catcher in the Rye, and Holden Caulfield simply cannot seem to finish a sentence without swearing. I swear.

And I am still impressionable.

Patrick Barry B.