The word “war” is even less comprehensible during wartime than in peacetime, when it’s used quite differently. Since the war started, I have rarely opened a book, and when I do, I read no more than two or three pages. The room tells a story of peace that I can’t take seriously anymore as an “adult.” On the shelf there are books in Russian, German, Ukrainian, and English. And now I have to spend the night here again. Looking around, it feels like a child’s room that was abandoned a long time ago. THE ROOM I GREW UP IN no longer corresponds to the life I lead-the life that is unfolding outside the window. She plans to resume writing when she returns to Kyiv. This diary is copublished with ISOLARII.ĭAY 35 (WEDNESDAY, MARCH 30): IN THE NERVE CENTER OF CATASTROPHE Yevgenia left Kyiv on April 5 and is currently in Warsaw en route to Venice, where her diary will be exhibited as part of the the Biennale. The girl, who was about six years old, told me in a serious voice, “For two weeks we lived in the basement! We were twenty-one adults and seven children.” I met an elderly man and his granddaughter.
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