Creative autobiography
I do not consider myself a writer and I never thought that one day I'll start to write of something. Born October 19, 1949 in the heart of Russia, I spent my childhood in a small town, which was referred to by Ivan Michurin's name, who in Soviet times was the well-known reformer of nature. Can we imagine what we will become in the future? We dream? — Oh sure. I also dreamed of becoming a pilot. A graduate from high school, I tried many professions.

Such as me, in Soviet Russia, were called flyers at the time, so no wonder I had a childish dream of conquering the fifth ocean. I had to stand at the bench and work at a building site; I was a postman and a musician, worked as a teacher, and a projectionist, and only imagine as an ornithologist in the conservation area on the river Oka. Finally I realized my dream since I enrolled in the flying school of the regional center (Tambov). Maybe there, in the sky, on a par with birds for the first time I wanted to share my thoughts with others, share feelings, being, as I then wrote later, two steps away from happiness from my childish dream. Why two steps? Well, it's a different story.

In the meantime, I entered the Pedagogical Institute of Foreign Languages Department. As it happened—the two steps were not enough to the real dream. But I got my way.

Meanwhile, learning English, and later German, I supposedly found myself in another dimension, in other concepts, in a different view of the world. Thanks to the English I learned how to speak well, primarily in Russian, because the knowledge of languages, not only broadens the mind, develops memory, but it teaches a person to think first and then speak or write. As they say, the head is in front of the tongue—then emotions. In the institute the stories, translated from English into Russian were my first attempt at writing. I translated even those stories that already could be taken in the library in Russian.

One day we were visited by Americans. They visited the department, met with students, and one of them named Manhall gave a book as a keepsake. It was H.R.Haggard The Yellow God, 1912 edition. We all read it, and I straight away undertook to translate this novel in the Russian language, without knowing that the Russian version of this novel does not exist. Now there is: an electronic version on Smashwords, on paper Createspace. This year the Company Hemiro Limited in Germany has published my tr...