There are silent places on Earth, where words are weakened. Words lose their meanings or take on different ones – especially when we try to narrate these places. The wanderer is always alone here, as he cannot escape this bell formed by the interaction of the self and the place. He stays together both within himself and with the scene.
Baikal is this kind of place for me, with pine-trees standing bolt-upright and in places birches on the steep hillside, peaks behind us, and the endless water surface ahead. Lake Baikal is a fresh-water sea surrounded by peaks, a legend, at once a pure song of praise and obscene skit, miraculous and banal,