The Sixth Sense

I have to admit that my ability is racist, like any characterization by group rather than by individual. No one wants to belong to a classification that he did not choose. It’s one thing to be labeled a stamp collector and quite another to be a ‘person of color.’ My only excuse is that by intuitively recognizing my countrymen, I am only involuntarily breaking the rules of political correctness. I am now coming to terms with my “sixth sense” of roots, and I’m diligently trying to understand its workings.

What are the ingredients of this inexplicable ‘Russianness’ that cleverly leaps national boundaries to make us all children of one ruined empire? And who (that is, until the Last Judgment) dares define it?

Solzhenitsyn did not consider Brezhnev Russian. Brezhnev probably did not consider Nathan Sharansky Russian. But in America, all three are united under one banner. Foreign surroundings develop it like a roll of film.

Life is full of inexplicable phenomena, and the secrets of a “Russian” person are no easier to explain than those of a Yeti and just as hard to capture. We are left only with the petty but unarguable details:

We no longer drink until morning, but still like to sit in the kitchen.
We no longer read the classics, but insist our children do.
We know what foie gras is, but still love wild mushrooms.
We tolerate democracy, but prefer extreme measures.
We no longer say “we,” but can’t take being alone either.
We no longer push to the front, but still get in the elevator first.
We don’ t like ourselves anymore, but don’t like other people either.
We speak without accents, but still refer to beer as “a little brew” and vodka as “you know.”

It’s hopeless; subtraction results in zero and addition gives you infinity. You can’t retreat, either.

Not too long ago I was in Serbia. The presentation for my Belgrade audience ended with time for questions. The first taker was a bearded dissident with a steely gaze.

“Is there a God?” he asked.

I turned around hoping to see the authority he was asking, but behind me was a wall with a very realistic portrait of a cigarette butt.

“Well, you know…” I stumbled.

“No, we don’t,” firmly answered my interrogator — my answer had been translated verbatim “do you know?”.

“ But why me?” I asked.

“It’s clearer to you Russians.”

That’s when I knew I was in trouble.

-Alexander Genis