It is quite sad perhaps for me that only the few can read this story while seeing before their eyes that apartment on Mytninskaya street, those walls and ceilings, those neighbours... But such is the fate of any work of art – leaving his creator behind, it begins to live its own life, and – asymmetrical dualism of language sign! – it ceases to correlate with what it is about, and everybody reading it sees something of his own, and somebody will see just nothing, and nothing can be done about it. Though the theory allows also a possibility that someone will see exactly what the author had in mind when he created his work.
Every one of us lives in his own world, reading in his own manner what our common Author writes about it. But the principal possibility to see the world exactly how He saw it is not closed for anyone.
And in the place that is left free, I want just to write: Vasya! Katy! be healthy and live ever in love and freedom, sharing with each other that joy with which you are shining now.
Your old farter
Pechkin.