History’s a country of rubble and supposing, friend. We’ve thrown things into the air that will never touch the ground. Still I study. I read till my brain’s kaput, the memoirs, the official accounts, even the ones where the faces are redacted. It’s hard to know what’s going on, but you can be sure of one thing — there’s always a man with a gun.
When Tukhachevsky was shot, they say that’s when Dmitri wrote his great lament. They mean that’s why he wrote it. We love the orderly: A caused B.
But lately, I’ve been thinking about a pack of dogs let loose on the mesa.