Introd., Panikin, 1097
THE MEMOIRS OF A NEW RUSSIAN MANUFACTURER Homeless My family on my mother's side comes from peasant stock. For several generations they had lived in the village of Khilkovo, on the Vorona River in central Russia. These are the backwoods. Our village was one of those "different" ones, like Zaplatova, Dyriavina, Razutova, Znobishina, Gorelova, Neelova, and Neurozhaika.1 The back of the beyond. I was born in Krasnodar, a generous, green city. I never knew my father. My parents parted ways when I was less than a year old. I learned a bit about my father later from stories. He was of Kuban Cossack heritage, and he served in the armed forces. Apart from me he left no visible signs that he ever existed. While I was growing up, I was less than obedient. I was continually annoying my nearest and dearest with outbursts and escapades. My mother had no time for such things, and she found it hard to deal with me. She worked long hours as a bookkeeper and earned miserable wages. She often had to take a second job. My mother loved me, of course, but fitfully and furiously, dissolving in the desperate, even morbid attachment of a lonely woman to her only child. We often quarreled. Her punishments and moral admonitions, her reproaches and silencings drove me crazy. I soon became my own master. I do not remember when, but soon enough she lost control over me. My grandmother Evdokia lived with us. It was she who had a decisive influence on me. Although she never really tried either to educate or spoil me, her kindness and patience won me over.
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