Embodied by happiness ...

Viktor Koval, Vityushi, as we called and continue to call him, his friends, is no longer with us. In the morning of the first of February, this just began year, one must somehow get used to living without it. So far I don't know how. But you'll have to go anywhere.

I am sitting and looking for photos where Vitya is. A couple - found. On both - Vitya, Mikhail Aisenberg and me. Well, this is natural: we often in different years ended up in one space - kitchens, scenes, and a common feast.

And I also found some very small text about Vitya, I don’t remember at all when and for what reason written. Either it was composed of some anniversary date, or as a preface to some collection. I don't remember. And it doesn’t matter now.

I want to bring this text here. Bring completely, because it could be written today. This time - in the sad quality of the necrologist. So I will place it here in this capacity. But I will not change the time of verbs from the present to the past. I do not want, do not, why.

Here it is, this text.

I’ll start with the quarry and start with what, in theory, I would have to finish. To begin with, Viktor Koval in my view is an embodied happiness, projected either on a sheet of poetic text, then on a grotesque picture, then on a living Koval, standing on the stage, sitting at a friendly table, speaking, silent, any. The very phrase "Victor Koval" immediately raises my mood. That's just immediately.

Everything, there will be no more excellent degrees. In our circle, this is somehow not very accepted. I’ll just add that my wife called him somehow- in my opinion , very capacious and insightfully-“syncretic genius”, and that's all, I will no longer. Moreover, I didn’t say that.

And now I will say about the same thing, but more and more dead.

I have always preferred the oral, rape forms of the existence of poetic matter. I do not insist on this, this is, as they say, the fact of my biography.

The fact of my biography once was the poet Viktor Koval, whose defiantly original poetics is inseparable from his appearance, his speech intonations, his life and in general. He seems to be poetics to himself, his own stylistics, his own creative manner.

His name does not so often arise in critical reviews. I think the point here is that Koval is completely unable to classify. What is the lyrics, cabaret, booth, shamanic campaign? Who is he-a poet, artist, artist, a reader-deck, a fair, a Fair, a Polesky sorcerer from a non-clay communal apartment?

This is neither one nor the other nor the third. And this is all together. This is Viktor Koval, a unique syncretic phenomenon embodied by happiness ... Lord, I already talked about it!