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The first thing I did when I got back to Berkeley was to redecorate our bathroom with a little something I got for Christmas from Mother. As Critical Companion wrote to me the day before I left Sweden, “I’ll always be the Sheldon to your Leonard”, I’m sure most of my dear comrades recognize where this reference to popular culture comes from.

While transferring in London I decided that a new year calls for a new perfume. [I did buy a tiny bottle from Chloé in the fall but realized the scent doesn’t come out as well when you use a roll-on instead of a spray bottle – lesson learned.] I opted for Tom Ford’s latest: Violet Blonde, which at first smells like any old lady and then suddenly goes ‘bang!’ and unfolds as a forceful feminine fragrance. Also I think Critical Companion and I need to do something about the perpetual ‘Christmas spirit’ lingering in our apartment…

On the flight over the Atlantic, I had plenty of time to think about why I do these things. During my last week in Sweden, I finished an article about my journey in the steps of Shalamov in the northern Urals in July 2009 and submitted it to be published in a Swedish Slavic journal. At the time I didn’t realize I had made a controversial conclusion [I always have trouble with conclusions; most of the time I just want to end my research with ‘hope you liked it and see you next time’], but I was shortly informed of this fact by the journal’s editor. This journal doesn’t pay anything but is prestigious as it is read by all Slavic scholars in Sweden and articles in it are published on a ‘by invitation only’ basis, thus if you’re asked to submit a text, this means you’re going places. Or that you have powerful connections, which is perhaps more true in my case because it was my Swedish professor M. who helped me get a slot in it for the first number of 2012. I don’t want to write here what I wrote in the article because contents may be googled and I don’t want anyone googling a certain person from Soviet history and finding my blog – suffice it to say that I’ve found myself in a tricky situation because after six years in Russia I am no longer comfortable with judging this country according to Swedish standards [with which I may or may not be associated anymore]. Perhaps this is the troublesome lot of the expat – especially after so many years of living in various countries – that you eventually must depart from the prejudice of your national heritage and reexamine old convictions and become increasingly ambivalent about applying your values to other people’s experience. In my article I wanted to refrain from making what is known as ‘a value-judgment’ but I was soon told that not taking a moral standpoint equals taking the opposite moral standpoint. I upset my Swedish professor M. and found myself on the brink of loosing his friendship; I was called ‘a Soviet nostalgic’ [which can only be said about me with a big NOT afterwards] and accused of not understanding nor realizing the horrors of the GULAG. This painful argument completely tore down my entire world for twenty-four hours as I faced the worst possible outcome of what I had done: I could be labeled ‘pro-Stalin’ among Swedish Slavic scholars, loose M. for all eternity, and end up not being seen as serious in any academic setting, be it Swedish, Russian, or even American. I realized that my career would be over before it even began – and all because I had written one ambigious paragraph the opinion of which I am not in any way married to. On my flight over the Atlantic I contemplated throwing myself from the Golden Gate Bridge upon my arrival – which I understand was a reflection of how inadequate my emotional response to difficulties is at the moment – because I wasn’t able to imagine my life after having published something like that. Today I woke up at six in the morning, re-wrote my conclusion, answered both the editor and M., and now I will wait for their responses. At times like these I wish that my field of research was puppies in Russian literature, and not Shalamov. I wonder why I can’t just stick to folklore in Dostoevsky since that’s such a safe topic which has as of yet not caused me any suicidal thoughts… And I wonder if it is worth it, if it worth all the emotional turbulence and all the academic conflicts and all the scholarly stress just to be able to write something about one’s favorite author? Also I wonder what this says about me as a person, if I assume I can express something I think is correct without seeing how the same thing can be so controversial and change other people’s opinion of me and risk a productive friendship that has lasted for seven years now and sustained me through all the ups and downs of academic life? If I don’t have M. on my side, I might as well close this chapter of my life and change my profession because I don’t know what I would do if I can’t turn to him once in a while for support. Today I understand that this controversy was also a clash of generations and might have a lot to do with the editor telling me to ‘read about it on wikipedia’ which wounded my pride. Once again I feel like a need a break from my break.

But it was nice to come back home and find Critical Companion waiting for me in our apartment, ready to listen and ready to go order our favorite pizza from Addie’s. I understood that I had come home this time – this was the first time I was away from our apartment – because I liked the smell that met me upon my arrival. Our apartment in Berkeley smells like me – or maybe more like us – and that was a wonderful thing to recognize. I do have a beautiful home here in California and one of the best friends I’ve ever had to share it with. That’s also something to remember and think about when you feel like you’d rather throw yourself from a bridge than participate in this life.