When Yegor Gaidar died, I walked like a sick day. I couldn’t understand the reason: well, yes, well, a person dies at 53 years old, it’s a pity, but the person was not his native and not close. Everything oppressed me: the loud peppy laugh of colleagues, work, time, Moscow, people. Then I realized that this was not Gaidar, but something else died, something in me died. * * * ...