Dawn spreads like a saffron scarf across the rooftops Shabby P-44T Puddles fester like gasoline in March Unusual dawn for the capital Acrid smoke with a taste of Varanasi The saffron harvest season lasts only a few days Getting yellowish tendrils out of a flower is painstaking work. Standing in the hot sun, bending towards the ground Azerbaijani saffron feeds the country no worse than oil In ancient times, hands were cut off for counterfeiting saffron.

I begin with a confession: regardless of all political and economic theories, which deal with fundamental differences between different groups of the human race, regardless of class and racial differences, regardless of all the artificial boundaries between women's and men's rights, I believe that these differences could meet at one point and grow into one perfect whole. By that I do not mean to propose a peace treaty.

Translation of a short introduction to the book “The Poetics of Singularity” by Timothy Clarke, an American literary theorist from Durham University. In the book, Clarke is busy reconstructing a certain approach to the work of art, a special poetics, which he calls the poetics of singularity and which is represented by the names of Heidegger, Derrida, Blanchot and Gadamer.