At that moment again I felt （first near the back of my head， then on my left ear） the warm， tender breath of the Guardian Angel. He apparently noticed that the book on my lap had long been closed and that my thoughts were somewhere very far....Well， I am ready this minute to spread before him the pages of my brain. This gives one such a feeling of tranquillity and joy. I remember I even turned around and gazed long and questioningly into his eyes； but either he did not understand， or he did not want to understand me. He did not ask me anything....The only thing left for me is to relate everything to you， my unknown readers. You are to me now as dear and as near and as far out of reach as he was at that moment.
This was my way of thinking： from the part to the whole—R-13 is the part， the whole is our Institution of State Poets and Authors. I thought： how was it that the ancients did not notice the utter absurdity of their prose and poetry？ The gigantic， magnificent power of the artistic word was spent by them in vain. It is really funny； anybody wrote whatever happened to come into his head！ It was as foolish as the fact that in the days of the ancients the ocean blindly splashed on the shore for twenty-four hours a day， without interruption or use. The millions of kilogram meters of energy which were hidden in the waves were used only for the stimulation of sweethearts！ We obtained electricity from the amorous whisper of the waves！ We made a domestic animal out of that sparkling， foaming， rabid one！ And in the same manner， we domesticated and harnessed the wild element of poetry. Now poetry is no longer the unpardonable whistling of nightingales， but a State Service！ Poetry is a commodity.
Our famous "Mathematical Norms"！ Without them in our schools， how could we love so sincerely and dearly our four rules of arithmetic？ And "Thorns"！ This is a classical image： the Guardians are thorns about a rose， thorns that guard our tender State Flower from coarse hands. Whose heart could resist， could remain indifferent， when seeing and hearing the lips of our children recite like a prayer： "A bad boy caught the rose with his hand， but the thorn of steel pricked him like a needle； the bad boy cried and ran home，" etc.， etc. And the "Daily Odes to the Well-Doer！" Who， having read them， will not bow piously before the unselfish service of that Number of all Numbers？ And the dreadful red "Flowers of Court Sentences！" And the immortal tragedy， "Those Who Come Late to Work！" And the popular book， Stanzas on Sex Hygiene！
Our whole life in all its complexity and beauty is thus stamped forever in the gold of words. Our poets do not soar any longer in the unknown； they have descended to earth and they march with us， keeping step to the accompaniment of our austere and mechanical March of the musical State Tower. Their lyre is the morning rubbing sound of the electric toothbrushes， and the threatening crack of the electric sparks coming from the Machine of the Well-Doer， and the magnificent echo of the Hymn of the United State， and the intimate ringing of the crystalline， shining washbasins， and the stimulating rustle of the falling curtains， and the joyous voices of the newest cookbooks， and the almost imperceptible whisper of the street membranes....
Our gods are here， below. They are with us in the Bureau， in the kitchen， in the shops， in the rest rooms. The gods have become like us， ergo we have become like gods. And we shall come to you， my unknown readers on another planet， we shall come to you to make your life as godlike， as rational， and as correct as our own...
