“The steppe! Stepan loved it too. A bright and warm memory surfaced within him, a recollection of a still night and the dreamy expanse of plains, of the endless reaches of the sky and the earth, the blue silence of the moon’s rays. Lying face up in the grass, with arms outspread, without a hat, barefoot and looking at the golden, azure, red, and green shimmering of the stars scattered across the sky by someone’s benevolent and powerful hand. To feel that hand in the air blowing faintly across your face. To fall asleep tired from observing the infinite space, secretly in union with it. And in the morning, from behind the mounds, sunrise — a ray of light from the red ocean, a terrible, giant icicle of cold fire, flowering slowly into a searing ball.” Steppe Book:Місто Source: Місто