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Summary
I’m smart in Russian. It fucking pisses me off—I sound like a toddler in English. The language simultaneously makes no fucking sense and is pathetically boring. It has no complexity, no richness, no nuance. It’s impossible to create the same layers of thought in English that I can in Russian. It’s as if I am trapped inside myself and can only use a megaphone held by a third grader to speak with him.
I want to say things to him that make no sense in English but would make him melt in Russian. My mother used to read poems by Pushkin to me when she tucked me in, and I want to read them to him, but every translation I find is fucking dull and stupid. He won’t even let me call him my “lover” because English has ruined that word. I hate English.
Or, Ilya tries to use poetry to get better at English.