July 8, 1932
Alexander Green, a neo-romantic writer and author of "Scarlet Sails" and "Running on the Waves," has died.
We love fairy tales, but we don't believe in them.
He was born in 1880 in the Vyatka province. The first book he read was "Gulliver's Adventures." He dreamed of the sea. His mother died of tuberculosis when Sasha was 14, his relationship with his stepmother didn't work out, and at 16, having received 25 rubles from his father, Green left for Odessa. He found work as a sailor on a steamship sailing from Odessa to Batumi.
Now children don't play, they study. They study and study and never begin to live.
He later enlisted in the military in Penza. He became friends with the Socialist Revolutionaries. He was nicknamed "Lanky" and had a reputation as an excellent propagandist. The Socialist Revolutionary Bykhovsky once told Greene that he could have become a writer. And Greene believed him.
Already tested: the sea, wandering, traveling showed me that this is still not what my soul longs for... I understood what I long for, my soul found its way
He began publishing in 1906. Soon Greene the realist turned into Greene the romantic.
I was in a certain country. There, love reigns supreme. Although they don't build temples to it. Children aren't forced to sing its praises. They simply love. Slowly and modestly... Ordinarily—because they can't imagine how one can live without love.
Green, who had been imprisoned several times for "anti-government speeches," greeted the 1917 Revolution with hope. But he was disillusioned.
I just can't wrap my head around the idea that violence can be destroyed by violence.
In 1919, Green was mobilized into the Red Army. He contracted typhus. After his recovery, Gorky helped him obtain a room at the House of Arts and academic rations. Here, in 1923, he wrote "Scarlet Sails." During the New Economic Policy (NEP), Green's works began to be published.
Be kind to one another. From evil comes evil.
In 1926, Greene completed perhaps his most striking work, "Running on the Waves." He was unable to publish it for two years. He was subsequently persecuted as the author of works alien to Soviet reality.
The era is rushing past. It doesn't need me—as I am. And I can't be any other way.
He spent his last years in desperate need. He died at the age of 52.
