How an idea is born

I don’t mean an IDEA, but a very narrow and specific thing: the idea of ​​a novel, the idea of ​​a character. At the heart of every work there is always some speck that was blown into the author’s eye by the wind. The author blinks, his eye itches and waters. A tear flowed, dropped onto the paper, turned into ink... Okay, to hell with the metaphors. You know what I mean.
I’m not sure that I can remember about each of my books and from what speck it grew. Very often the logical-associative connection turns out to be so long and confusing that it is not easy to restore it in hindsight.
I once already had a post on this topic : I explained where a certain plot device in the novel “The Death of Achilles” came from.
Here is another example, only now I will tell the story first, and you can guess for yourself what it transformed into. Unless, of course, you read-I-don’t-tell-you-what.

In the mid-eighteenth century, an unusual child was born in England. He was still not quite confidently hobbling on his legs, but he was already reading volumes of English history in his father’s study. At the age of three he began to study Latin. At twelve he entered Oxford and graduated at fifteen.
The child prodigy's name was Jeremy Bentham.

This is him at 13 years old, a student

Like many children who have phenomenal abilities, Jeremy was apparently autistic. All his life he was distinguished by odd behavior, did not know how to maintain emotional balance in relationships with others, did not start a family and, it seems, had no connections with women. The only close person of the strange genius was his brother Samuel, who lived for many years in Russia and was a favorite of Prince Potemkin (which gave me another clue for the book).
Bentham devoted himself to every task with manic obsession. That's why I managed to do a lot. He left a multi-volume legacy, which includes works on philosophy, jurisprudence, sociology; fought for women's rights and for the abolition of criminal prosecution of homosexuals, and also fought for a long time (and in vain) against his compatriots' habit of foul language.

Bentham in his prime: for all the good against all the bad

The last outstanding act of this outstanding man was the creation of an educational institution, which today is called University College London. There they sacredly honor the memory of the founder and just as sacredly fulfill his last will. And she was, frankly speaking, strange.
Bentham bequeathed to dissect his corpse at a public anatomical lecture for the benefit of science. The head is cut off and embalmed. Attach back to the skeleton. Make a stuffed animal. And put it in a wooden box, behind glass. This eerie artifact, called the Jeremy Bentham Auto-Icon, can still be seen in the main building of the college.

Bentham today. On your favorite chair, in your favorite frock coat

The head, however, is no longer real. Embalming in those days was poor, so first the glass eyes fell out (Bentham ordered them to be made during his lifetime), and one day the entire head ended up lying on the stuffed animal’s lap - it rotted and fell. I had to replace it with wax.
Twice in the history of the college, during anniversary celebrations, the box was dragged into the meeting room of the University Council, and the minutes wrote that Mr. Bentham “was present but did not vote.”
Tell me, oh my readers (I apologize to my non-readers), what character did my ever-living Jeremy Bentham transform into?

And one more question, not quite on topic - by association.
How do you feel about displaying unburied remains, be they the relics of saints, the mummies of pharaohs or the cadavers of leaders?
For example, I would not at all want Lenin to be buried in a grave. It's a pity - after all, it's a historical artifact. But, of course, the mausoleum would be moved from Red Square.
If only we could create a Soviet-era Disneyland with monuments, themed pavilions, and museums. So that the loudspeakers would play songs like “One falcon is Lenin, the other falcon is Stalin” or something about the Party. The best performances of Brezhnev would be played non-stop in the cinema hall: “Tits, Tits”, “Azerbaijan Walks Widely”. And as the center of all this splendor is the mausoleum of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin.
Let schoolchildren be taken there on historical excursions, and any citizens who yearn for the fallen communist empire are welcome to be nostalgic.

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