“My night was more beautiful than day” wrote Dostoyevsky in his debut novel.
Tonight isn’t just another night. It is the longest of the year, the Summer Solstice at the end of June.
At such a close range from the arctic circle, as it is in Saint Petersburg, this night appears as a day without end.
Northern people have always celebrated the return of sunlight after months in nearly complete obscurity. In the Russian countryside, Kupala Night is celebrated. A pagan feast originating from the worship of love and fertility god Kupalo.
In Saint Petersburg, the feasts are of another order. Bachelorette parties, end of the year bashes, we’re treading along the path of the Nevski’s perspective.
However, everywhere there is effervescence.
The white nights seem to be a metaphor for human life, its brevity and its fragility.
As mayflies, we unfurl in the night. But on this night, everything will have been said.
“My God, a whole minute of bliss! Is this not enough for a man’s lifetime?” wrote Dostoyevsky at the end of his novel White Nights.
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