Phantoms of White Nights

Black people, red dwarfs, idols on bronze steeds, shadows of geniuses and heroes. This is not a story about Hades from an ancient history textbook. This is Saint Petersburg in the mystical literary tradition as it is. A pomposity, an open space, and deathliness. There is no gleam in the sky, the Neva looks like it has been poured from lead, a crude air presses and cannot pass through lungs already struck by Koch's bacillus, and there are ominous frights threatening to punish for an unknown offense. And even the white nights are bad. It looks as if you can meet the phantom of a poet who was tortured in the thirties of any of the last centuries. Be careful with monuments. They are fond of walking along the town quays (as told us Pushkin—he brings luck!). And do not trust this Neva prospectus. The city—a phantom, evolved from a bog which is the refuge of evil spirits. Brilliant St. Petersburg.