I can say this much about myself that I was born on September 5, 1936 at 11.30 in the 1st hospital of Riga city. But it must be said that my infant career was not successful. My mother was an actress of the Liepāja Workers' Theater, Marija Zauerhāgena, and it was a strange theater because the actors were not paid there. But she studied seriously, she also attended the lessons of Mikhail Chekhov. But then the playwright Emīls Skujenieks came to Liepāja with some serious play, it is his only serious play, as far as I know, but it has not survived, only the title - "During Floods". My mother played the lead role in this play. And soon after this show, a family was founded. And nothing more than poverty awaited them. Father was a bohemian, and he loved bohemians quite a lot, and the result was that there was always a shortage at home. I've heard from family stories that they even once lit the stove with old newspapers and danced to keep warm. My brother Leon was born in 1934, the mother's health seemed to get better, because she had been ill since childhood, and this is quite typical, I know several such cases in my life, where after the birth of the first child, the tuberculosis patient's condition seems to improve. But the time came after a couple of years when I applied, and then it was a question of what to do, it was debated. Take the risk and give me birth, or give me up? However, decided to take a risk. And it turned out to be fatal for the mother. She died 8 months after my birth, and now lies in the cemetery of Rainis. We go there once in a while, clean the grave, and we have decided that we too will sleep there, in the urns. Contrary to the rest of the Skujenieki family. Because the rest of the Skujenieki family is in our beloved Leishmale, there are beautiful rows of graves, they are always maintained. But still, even if I don't remember my mother, I have such a feeling for her. The longer I live, the greater the sentiment. I feel sorry for her more and more. That a talented, beautiful person, young, has to leave life like that.

In fact, I've grown up without a family and without a home, because I've been all the time... From the beginning, they tried to lure me into some kind of orphanage. Before that it was, if I'm not mistaken, the same now famous house on Kapseļu Street. But my father couldn't pay those debts, he was forever harassed... he even tried to place me with some relatives, and in the end my grandmother, my father's mother, slammed her fist on the table and said: "That's it, I'm taking those boys with me!" It could have been around 1937. And so I lived there in Leishmale from that time until the 50th year. All pre-war, war and post-war times in one place.

I was a big dreamer, not particularly suitable for practical work. My grandfather was a miller, he built, worked hard all his life, and it seems that he managed to pay off the mill by 1940. Then the Soviets came, he built the mill himself, worked himself, was a miller himself, he did not deal with earthworks. I had to herd the cows, but not any other farm work. I was not teached in practical work. Maybe our grandparents hoped that we would live like rich man, but it didn't work out. The war and everything else that goes with it began. Grandpa didn't like me very much. We became friends with him only when he had already lost everything, then both of us without possessions we started to have intelligent talks.

That's where I started going to school. I studied there for 6 years, the school was very small. But I studied for 6 years and got sick. And then I was in a hospital in Riga for a month. Possibly also with the lungs. After that, I had to look for a place to finish elementary school, in the neighboring parish, Taurkalne parish, which no longer exists now, which is divided between Valle and Kurmene. I finished primary school there. Back then, it wasn't calculated exactly as it is now. We were in the same room with the alphabet students, and each of the seventh graders had one alphabet student with whom we had to work. We had physics for half an hour and reading for the other half. After that, I went to Janujelgava as the closest one, entered high school there, I wouldn't say that I particularly liked it there, and in the end it turned out that I had to leave there. Perhaps, let's not say exactly as a class enemy, but in any case as a descendant of undesirable persons. At the end, the director gave me a post-exam in physics, which he taught. Later, while working somewhere, I read in a newspaper that he had become a "labor hero" of the USSR. It was clear to me that there would be no life there.

It's wartime here. The army was not very close to us, we were on the outskirts, only to see that the army left on the road. We tried at the first moment to wave red and white flags like all the other Latvians, but no one even looked. So they left, and then all this began. At school there was a big picture of Hitler on the wall, we had to sing "Deuchland uber alles". But it was only for one year. After that, they started sending Russian war prisoners. The grandmother fed them. As the war ended, the German prisoners of war appeared, again the grandmother fed them. When the Germans complained about poor nutrition, she reminded them: "You probably didn't feed the Russians with cakes either." This is what I learned from my grandmother - not to discriminate people by nationality, and it has remained with me to this day. And that's why it's difficult for me sometimes with our national organizations, because the thing is not that a person is Russian or other. It's another thing if a person is a Bolshevik, it's not the same thing.

In my early childhood, I wanted to be a tractor driver. I had never seen a tractor, only maybe in pictures, and then I had tried to build it myself from all kinds of boxes, cans, etc. After that, there were other interests. My first poem, I didn't remember it, but another cousin of mine had saved it. And the thing that is mentioned to me all the time, my "politically improved" first publication - I have not sent it to anyone anywhere. My cousin did it. But she said that I have a character like my grandfather - I get angry easily, but only for a short while and then my anger passes.

When I was about 13, my brother contracted polio. At that time, it was not known how to treat it. He was led around sanatoriums and hospitals. In the end, he was adopted by our mother's sister, Aunt Zenta. Since my brother's name was Leon, we called my aunt Leo's mom. Leo's mother worked as a cleaner at the school. Officially, he was only my brother's guardian, even though I had no place to be. Then we were both a burden to her. I tried to earn something in the summer paving streets, repairing trams, but nothing came of it. The aunt earned an extra living by handicrafts, which were illegal at the time. The school was located directly opposite the police station, next to the hotel Metropol. A policeman came with a folder under his arm, saw how poorly we lived, and did not write a report at all. That's how we lived. My brother graduated from the first secondary school, at that time it was the so-called Paegli, it was a famous school.

I came and wanted to enroll in school. I wanted to enter the technical school for cultural workers. Although my grades were good, but I did not have a good character, I was not fit for power. Then I wander around the schools. First I went to the 1st secondary school, then to the 3rd secondary school, which turned out to be a girls' school. And then I went to school, where the colossal director was Jānis Ābietis. Soviet times were very quiet for us, because almost every one of us had a skeleton in the closet. But nobody talked about it because it was Stalin's time. We finished school in 1954, already after Stalin's death. But we had colossal teachers who knew what to say and what not to say, and who you could say and who you couldn't say. The director was very happy to talk and discuss with me, we used to talk for hours in his office. So are our teachers. We were unlucky with the literature teacher, who, it turns out, had also taught the poet Rokpelnis. He then spoke more harshly about her. But there were other good teachers to talk to. I am very grateful to my teachers, our first teacher, the history teacher, told us clearly that in 1940 no socialist revolution could happen. Purely statistically - the entire leadership of the Communist Party was in prison, and the other organizations that were there - the number was small. The main thing is that no one turned him in to the authorities. We found out about many skeletons in the closet only later - someone's parents were deported, some teachers fled from Latgale. The diploma or certificate was such that I could not enroll anywhere with it. I was not a diligent student.

I finished high school and wanted to enroll in a literary institute in Moscow, but I didn't make it. At the last moment, I entered the Faculty of History there, studied for two years. It was so gray and boring there, I also lost my scholarship because of my frivolity. But a lucky chance - the so-called Higher Literature Courses had just been established in Moscow at the institute. No documents about it had arrived in Latvia. The boss at that time, Lukss, called Moscow - Nikolajs Kisenov was the secretary there, he was an old friend of Latvia who had fought in the territory of Latvia during the First World War, he had many memories from Latvia, and he said: "Send it here." And that's how I got there. I had to take the exam. [..] but after 2 years of studies at the Faculty of History, the exams did not cause me any particular difficulties. I could read scientific literature well and fluently in Russian. But I had no conversational practice. A few days before the exams we went to a dance. I didn't really do well there because my language skills were such that girls either thought I was a fool or opposite. In the end I found such a girl standing alone and we danced, I accompanied her home. A few years ago, that girl found me through the organization "Looking for a person"! [..] This is how our student life in Moscow began. But we did not lose our Latvian spirit there, we looked for each other. At that time, we were there about 120 Latvian students. The Lithuanian people had already organized their team, then the idea came to organize a Baltic team, including Latvians and Estonians, too. We founded the organization "Baltikums". The Lithuanian and Estonian governments somewhat helped, but in Latvia officials looked at us suspiciously, calling us a hotbed of nationalists. Sometimes we managed to get something from Kaupiņš. Then there was an option - either the services of Kaupins or the services of Läcis. We got rooms in a dormitory of an institute, in a club. Our official caretakers are the All-Union Central Committee. The club's management was constantly criticized - why do they support us? The manager replied: well, if one group of Russian students went to Georgia, for example, they would like to meet there, sing or dance.
We did perform twice on Moscow TV, we had a choir, actually the same choir singers were also dancers. We had to learn Lithuanian and Estonian dances as well. Then there was also a pop group. Together with a colleague from Lithuania, we published "The Fools magazine", so that there is something to read. He had some numbers saved. But after that KGB tried to incriminate me the case for all the activities in Baltics. When I was in my last year, it was my turn to lead the ensemble, but I said that I could only do it for half a year, because the next half-year I have to write my thesis. I usually always managed to get home on Midsummer's Day, but not this time, I stayed. An event had to be planned. Previously, it was organized by the the Library Institute, where some 5 Latvian girls studied, and by Latvians from the Cinematography Institute. [..] For the first two years at the institute, while we didn't really have a place to live, we lived in the suburbs in a famous place in Peredelkino - in old writers' cottages. By the way, the writer Pasternak lived in the house next to us, whom we saw every day. I didn't go to talk to him because I felt like an emigrant in the institute.
We studied one course together with Vizma, who had started a year before, but then she switched to absenteeism and I was left alone. Then we celebrated Minsummer in Peredelkino. It was nice and noisy.

In the penultimate course, I walked one day in Moscow on a street, in a famous place, on Dzerzhinsky Square, Lubyanka, there is the KGB, and on the other side there is a fast-paced "Detskij Mir", where half of Russia rushed to shop, because they could at least buy something there. I see two Latvian students walking down the street, at that time they still wore student caps, and you could tell by them - the guy is from the University of Latvia and the girl is from the Latvian Academy of Agriculture. I was also wearing a student hat, but a Baltic, common one. Then I went to talk with my compatriots. [..] Inta had her graduation year then, she kindly invited me to the prom, I would have liked to go, but I couldn't. I tried to pretend I was sick, but I was exposed and I didn't make it. I wrote a polite letter to Inta and we met next year. [..] She then worked as a temporary worker in Rāmava after graduating from the academy. At that time, Inta's brother came to study in Riga, he also lived here for a while. Somehow we arranged for him a place to sleep in our tiny apartment, we have had many people sleep here and there in the past, because the station, the center, is here. One day, Inta's brother says - let's go visit my sister! We went, and went to the Daugava to swim.

My grandmother was a great person. She was a paramedic and a midwife. She probably helped to be born about 4 thousand children. Not only in our parish, but also in the surrounding parishes, because at that time there was no doctor nearby. He was the only person with a medical education in a large area. She even had to do very serious operations. Second, she had the right of a pastor. If a child was born who could be seen not to survive, then she had the right to baptize him. She was from Riga, but my grandfather was born in Skaistkalne. They met while singing in the church choir in Bauska, but I don't know anything more about that. I have had no one to tell. She was a city girl, she didn't dress like a country girl either. She did only one thing like the peasant woman. She never wore a hat, but a scarf. She had studied at a city school, where she learned German, and Russification also began at that time. But then the parents thought that they could not send a Catholic child to a city school, where it is possible that the faith is taught by a Lutheran pastor. He was sent to study at a Polish church school. She didn't know a word of Polish. There is such a funny moment: she and her classmates had learned three words in Polish - hello, goodbye and monkey. And they walked down the street and count those 3 words. But as a result, she learned the Polish language perfectly. Until 1939, she helped Polish workers write letters home, as many of the workers were illiterate. Grandmother sang a lot in various languages, including Latvian. I have already forgotten a lot. But I still use grandma's humor. She knew that very well.

I liked the girl, even though she officially already had a fiancé. But in the end she sent me a letter that she had canceled the engagement. While I was in Moscow, she visited my aunt, my brother, and then they asked ironically: "This is probably our future relative?" I had to go at least formally, according to old laws, to Alūksne to Inta's father and mother to ask for daughter's hand in marriage. It was quite a romantic trip, there was a lady sitting next to me on the bus, only later I found out that she was a university lecturer. The bus broke down and we stood for an hour. When the lady found out why I was going to Alūksne, she read Rimši in front of me, we had such a soulful conversation. The wedding was huge and with Latvian traditions. One of my father's sisters knew how to organize the wedding. Both of them had finished the Zeltmata courses in their time, they wanted to leave the older sister in Riga in a professional theater, but she refused. They worked as provincial directors all their lives. I had never participated in a wedding, my wedding was my first experience and then I was told what to do. There were guests from Riga, and then one collegue of mine - Vizma. From Alūksne relatives came from the kolkhoz, the chairman of the kolkhoz was at the wheel, a whole big car full of relatives, decorated, as they did back then, well - and we celebrated for 3 days. We celebrated at the same school where we lived because it was summer vacation. Guests slept overnight in the sports hall, while the newlyweds slept in the principal's office. The peasants celebrated for 2 days, they could not do it longer, and the others - for 3 days. When we had drunk what we had bought, the homemade alcohol was poured into those bottles and no one even noticed it. Everything was as it should be at the wedding, including the stealing of the bride - I couldn't find her for a long time, and she was angry and frozen, waiting so long. Everything was as it should be.

We had nowhere to live, so we started living in the gardener's house in the botanical garden - five square meters of living space, one square meter of hallway. We also held parties there. We partied for so long until… and then another life began.

For half a year, I was kept in a semi-basement by the KGB, while they interrogated me and made a case. Then when it was ready, then I was taken to the central prison to await trial. They're entangling me with people I didn't know at all, that's a long story. But in any case, the whole thing basically, if I look at it now - she wasn't even worth an egg. But they needed to do a mock trial and I was involved. I didn't know that company, I said - leave me alone. And for that I got another accusation - without agitation and propaganda I got an accusation for not reporting. It turns out that there is also such an article. I referred to that accusation later, when I came back, and when the KGB made the last recruitment drive, I said, boys, are you completely crazy? Do you think you can make a whistleblower out of a whistleblower? Do you think you can make a traitor out of me? We got drunk, then there was a fight, and we went our separate ways. After that there was peace.

But those seven years in custody... I started to write something diligently already in prison, after the verdict, waiting for us to be transferred to Mordovia. Also at the beginning of 1963, when I came to Mordovia. For about half a year, I wrote about the same style as everyone else. And then I realized that the thing is empty. Some more serious content began to emerge. Back then, everyone mentioned Fidel Castro, the Little Prince, and Kilimanjaro in their poetry. All this was repeated for one poet, the second poet, the third poet... I didn't want to pretend to be a fool, so I wrote in the same way. Until finally I gave it all up. I left a small part of poems from 1963. In addition, I began to work seriously on writing poetry.

Inta Skujeniece speaks: It was in 1963 - my father went to a cultural goods store in Alūksne, that's what those stores were called back then. The saleswomen at the store were familiar to us, and they said: we have a special shipment coming - imported typewriters, "Ērika". By the way, Ojārs Vācietis also has exactly the same one in the museum. My dad bought two at once - with Latin script and with Russian script, for my father's wife. Knuts could send two letters a month from prison, and in order to fit more pages into an envelope, poems were written almost on tissue paper. Now they are in the National Library. When I received the letter, I rewrote it on a typewriter. In fact, everything that Knuts has printed, was rewritten on this typewriter. After work, I often rewrote at night - there was a lot in the envelope, about 10 pages. Knuts Skujenieks speaks: there were letters to six, seven recipients in one envelope, because I was only allowed to write two letters a month and only to one address and one person. I numbered them - if a letter got lost, I would write it again later. All letters had to be open, and all letters that came to me in prison were also checked. Total censorship. Inta Skujeniece speaks: that was the rule. Knuts wrote in notebooks, and those notebooks were also brought back after his release. Now those notebooks are in the National Library. The original poems were in the notebook, and then the poems were rewritten to send home. If something got lost, the notebook remained. Knuts Skujenieks speaks: Then I wrote a new letter with the appropriate number. Inta Skujeniece speaks: After that, those poems were given here and there, including to the Writers' Union, the poetry section, and it was already a rare case in the Soviet Union at that time that a prisoner's poems were discussed in the poetry section twice. Knuts Skujenieks speaks: In 1965 and 1968, and the poems were positively evaluated. Maybe they naively hoped that this would somehow ease my situation. But I had already announced that I was not going to ask for an amnesty. Who else, besides the Writers' Union, were the readers of the poems I sent? Inta Skujeniece speaks: Vizma Belševica, Ojārs, Inta and Māris, Imants Auziņš. I was working at the time, I was on expeditions, I had no time to go to Riga often. When I went to Riga, I tried to visit everyone who needed to deliver poems and letters. At that time, those poems were simply scattered around Riga on A4 sheets of paper, because everything was being copied. I copied 5 copies, one stayed at home and the rest were distributed. It was a great success that my father bought that typewriter – it was like a gift from God. Knuts Skujenieks speaks: and people continued to rewrite those poems from those pages. Inta Skujeniece speaks: and they also passed the poems on, all of Knut's production had spread quite widely and was known to everyone. It was very successful. Knuts Skujenieks speaks: one pioneer leader told me, she had gone to some pioneer leader seminar in Riga - and came back with a whole pile of Skujenieks' poetry pages! In that eye center, it turns out, our doctor had also rewritten a lot of poems during her student years. And the situation was like this: the writer Bels had spoken out, demanded that censorship be abolished and something else, and our boss Alberts Jansons was called in to provide explanations - first about Bels, and then about a whole pile, rewritten in all sorts of handwritings of mine, he was told - look what he writes! Jansons calmly takes one page, reads it, takes another, and then says in a calm voice: "But what else can a person who is in prison write?" And that's it, that was the end of the conversation.

I was almost elected to the Writers' Union, I was probably one or two votes short of being elected to the Writers' Union board at that time. It was a shock, and the next time I was already on the board. At that time, Jānis Lapsa said: "Even though I am on the opposite side of the barricades, I am against you, but I voted for your candidacy for the board." I was very surprised. At that time, in 1965, we succeeded in what we had not succeeded in 1962, when I was arrested. No none of those old monkeys were left. Only Lukss was left. Lukss was in an official position, he said what was allowed and what was not allowed, but he himself did nothing bad. He was a good person in general, so the young people were happy to leave him, the only one of the old people on the board. Oh my God, how the central committee kicked the earth into the air! Well, I didn't know that, I was still in the prisoncamp at the time, it was 1965, when it all worked out. Daina Avotiņa was there, Vizma was there. They specially arranged intrigues and said: Comrade Krauliņš, do you know what Grigulis said about you?” Then he went to Grigulis, said: “Comrade Grigulis, do you know what Krauliņš said about you?” And that's how they put those old men on their horns! Good job! I was sitting in prison at the time, I had just received a fresh issue of the magazine “Literature and Art”, I was sitting near my barracks in the sun, reading the composition of the board and the audit commission, I was sitting and scratching my belly. So - I didn't sit for nothing, it worked out after all! Because the scandal was huge. That newspaper, when I read the new board composition, it was a great satisfaction for me, because everything else that they tried to accuse doesn't cost a penny. The main thing was this moment. Because in fact, it was not so much the KGB that put me in jail as the Writers' Union. The KGB simply executed me, the KGB did not have any materials for interrogation.

There were a couple of man in prison, I know for sure about one of them, he made copies of my poems all the time, he wrote in his notebook - in case something happened. Thank God I didn't care about the poems, because I wasn't going to overthrow the Soviet government at that time. There were already those there who wanted to overthrow the Soviet government in 5 minutes, and as far as I understand, they confiscated the texts. I actually didn't lose much of what I wrote. The only moment were the letters, there was probably something else inside, because the thing was that I wanted to send my portrait illegally, like a suitcase with a double bottom. A picture wasn't enough, there was something else to put inside, I put the letters, the poems, I guess... Well, I'm not really chasing after that. I was happy that that portrait was there. It turns out that that portrait is alive. Because the camp administration informed me that the portrait had been destroyed. I said - but why didn't you invite me? According to the law, if it's my property, even in camp conditions, if someone destroys property, then the owner must be present. They say - well, we can write now. I say - no, I don't need it now. The prison administrator said - I saw your portrait, it's excellent. I said: what, it's not destroyed? He says - yes, it's not destroyed, but unfortunately I can't give it to you now, it's in your file. Then when you're released and get home, I'll be able to give it to you. Well, and then he gave it back. It was solid in the sense that he was sensible enough, that he knew that recruiting me wouldn't make much sense. They tried to do it later, and my childhood friend, who was now a lieutenant colonel, did it. I say: what are you doing here like a blue fly in a circle? I said, no way! Well, in the end, we got drunk, broke up and parted ways. So we talked, I say: well, tell me more about the sisters, how are they? Well, we talked about that very quickly, and we're back to the same topic again. I said: listen, you gave me a case about not reporting, what do you want - to make a reporter out of a non-reporter, that's a mockery! So that's how it ended. That's how we broke up, after that they left me alone. In any case, I didn't have to sign any papers. Even after I had already returned, a letter came from Amnesty, from Berlin. They asked me if I wanted to write them something exposing. I said that I didn't know West German. I didn't know East German either, but in this case the idea was that I didn't know West German. And after that they left me alone.

The gentleman from the KGB this time was solid, solid talking, as they say. He wasn't trying to recruit me or anything like that. Of course he was interested in me, he came a short time before my release, about a month before that, and asked: what will I do after my release? I said - well, apparently I'll work some kind of regular job. But I'll continue writing anyway. He says - no, that's not the point. It's about you returning to literature as soon as possible. I say - how so? He says, yes, of course you don't know, I have to tell you that Amnesty International has started to take an interest in you at the last minute. They had trumpeted about others, for example, Astra, Freimane, all over the world, but no one was interested in me, only Latvia. He said, the employees of the relevant institutions, to whom Amnesty International wrote letters about your case, turned out to be such fools that they announced that Skujenieks was no inprisoned at all, that he lives peacefully in his own house. Then of course Amnesty International asked them to give Skujenieks address so they could contact him. All this happened when I was still in prison. After asking that question, they said - Skujenieks is sick and doesn't want to contact anyone at all. That's it.

I wasn't particularly diligent, because where there is something to learn, as they say, there was no learning! Where I struggled here, translating, for example, Greek folk songs. Then I thought, mamma mia, my classmate in University for all five years was a pure Greek emigrant. I could have learned from him, but now I had to torture myself and learn by myself. But never mind. There's that legend about those many languages I know, but I don't know most of them, and I'm not going to learn them either, I just get by with them, with dictionaries. Of course, there is something, some minimum of grammar is needed so that you can work with a dictionary. It's already needed there, you have to know, for example, how a word is in the past tense. In the dictionary a word is in the indefinite form. You have to know things like that. Well, when we got to Tranströmer, to the last book - there I realized that I was forced to give up, that I couldn't do it anymore, I found the name, ok, that's good,and then it's forgotten, I have to look for it again. I said - I can't work like that anymore. And then Kronbergs took it with Godiņš, and then they made a good book.

They tried very hard to prevent my book from being published. But there were quite a lot of poems floating around, I didn't come across them anymore because I was preparing a book. It was clear that the poems written in prison would not go through. Well, maybe they would have even gone through if Monta Crome, who was the editor, hadn't had a quick idea. There was one review by Ojar about the poems, very positive, and I was told in a cynical way that they would not take it into account because it was too positive. The other was a review by Andrejs Balodis, who by the way was not in a negative mood, but a lot of things were not clear to him, were incomprehensible, and naturally what he did not understand would have been crossed out of the book. But maybe it would have come out. But Monta thought that it was not enough and that a third reviewer should be found, and gave my poems to Grigulos. Grigulis left out of that manuscript... in fact, there was no such manuscript at all - I didn't submit a manuscript, I just submitted a whole bunch of poems that were written in prison. I didn't have time to start making the book. I could have started the book when they told me that... (it was already after the return) Maybe a fourth part of my poems remained.

While in prison, I received orders from the publishing house, they were preparing for the 100th anniversary of Lesya Ukrainka. I had already translated something and they ordered me more. I think it was Māris Čaklais at that time, at that time he was in charge of the poetry department. And they spared me Lorca. I had already started translating Lorca a little before the arrest, people had remembered it. I had managed, even before the prison - in Riga there was not, I don't remember, in the Fundamental Library or the National Library, there was no normal edition of Lorca. Then I specially boarded a plane, went to Moscow to visit my fellow student, who was from Spanish emigrants. At his home, I rewrote about 800 lines by hand. When Maija Silmale returned, she had that thick edition of Lorca with her. She said, "It's yours for the long haul, and if I pass away, it's yours." It also remained in my possession, and then I sent this book to the National Library. But I made the book then.
I had a lot of work, especially in the last year I had to work a lot - both writing myself and especially translating a lot. I've been writing every day for the last few years, at least a little bit at a time. Of course, you had to get a sip of tea or coffee somewhere to get high. While the doping lasted for about one and a half, two hours, something had to be done in the meantime. After that there was a lull. After that, I just wandered around the area, we chatted, told anecdotes or something, I read poetry in front of it. And I also wrote on order. For example, someone came up to me and said - listen, can't you write a poem to my mom, can't you write a poem to my wife? I said - why not! Of course, I wrote in such a way that the poems were not too personal, they were in the form of a wish. But they were also published in a book afterwards.

It took a long time. Only when Lija Bridaka came to work. I knew the previous employee before her, but she was very uninteresting and dogmatic. She was a descendant of Russian Latvians. She was educated in Moscow, was engaged in translation, also translated Latvian prose into Russian. We did not become friends with her, however. When Lija arrived, the Writers' Union had collected both copies of my books and was preparing for principled party reasoning, as Gunārs Priede said. It was clear to me what that meant. I am waiting but no news. Comrade Priede is in Cape Verde, Comrade Priede is in Zambia or wherever, Comrade Priede is in Moscow on the Lenin Prize Committee. He was already causing problems not only for me, he also hindered Vācietis in every way. He had a special love for Ziedonis, but the poetry section decided that Ojars should be promoted. Because the Estonians had one laureate of the Lenin Prize, and the Lithuanians had one. Estonians had Smūls and Lithuanians had Mežalaiks, Latvia had none. The State Prize was a lower category, Ojars got the State Prize. But Priede left for the meeting without taking any protocols with him, and then we persuaded Monta to sit on the plane, take those papers and take them to Moscow. I had to make the footnotes of his book. I said, Ojar, why? You speak Russian no worse than me. You know, I like the way you do it. Well, I made a large quantity. I knew that at least 2/3 would not go anywhere, not even to Moscow, not so much to us. But well, he had noted that... I didn't tell him anything either, I said - give everything. An editor had come from Moscow, she was staying in a hotel. And then Ojars and I came to her after she had read the manuscript. She threw a whole bunch away. I stood there with a stony face, pretending that I didn't know or understand anything. I didn't say anything to Ojars. Why should I argue with him? The book came out, he got the prize.

Well, I came from prison. What now? A whole pile of manuscripts, let's go to the Writers' Union to talk, I said - this should be published. It turns out that no, you can't, especially what was written during imprisonment. The main censor was Arvīds Grigulis, he had left out maybe 1/4 or 1/5 of my manuscript. It was clear that this was not going to work, and I was writing an intense new book. In the 1970s, from 1971 to 1974. And I did the right thing, because I showed up with who I am, not who I've been. But anyway, we also struggled for a long time with this manuscript, because it was also not accepted, because some Soviet poems were missing. I said: there is not and will not be soviet poems, thank you, I was already laughing today. I said - it won't happen, don't expect it. I don't have to rush anywhere. This is how we lived while the leadership changed. Then my old colleague Lija Bridaka came as the deputy editor-in-chief, who dealt with these issues. Before that, there was one more dramatic moment - the Party Office and the Secretariat wanted to discuss my manuscript in principle and party-wise. I knew what that meant, it meant writing mauscript off. Two copies had to be handed over to the publishing house, they were handed over. They were taken by the Writers' Union, and the copies were never returned to the publishing house. When I found this out by accident, I found some sort of dirty fifth copy from a fan. We found a way to improve the situation a little. They said - maybe add some epigraphs from the authors you translate. I said - listen, why epigraphs, let's put whole poems inside. And there were 13 poems. Extremely different in style and also from different languages. As I said, I gladly put them there in those places where I was tired of the howling of Skujenieks. Then that book finally came out in 1978. In fact, it came out at the end of 77 for Christmas, but officially the book appeared then. That year, Grigulis had publicly announced that Skujeniek's book would be published over his corpse. And when the printing house called me to ask if the book would be published or if I hadn't seen it - I said: I haven't seen either my book or Grigul's body. Such humor. When that book came out, it was "Lyrics and Voices", after that I didn't have much trouble.

It was clear that the first book would not be published. So I started to work and did what I really should have done - start with, not who I have been, but who I am now. I actually made a new book "Lyrics and Voices" in 4 years. Then it continued again. It turns out that the publisher does not have any copies. One of the editors, Sirmbārdis, somehow drunkenly told me that. I realized that now there is trouble. I was looking somewhere for a real fifth manuscript copy. Because I understood that those originals are in the Secretariat of the Writers' Union, that those copies will no longer be returned to the publishing house. They have been stolen simply to prevent the book from being published. Then Lija and I started working. In the meantime, I was accepted into the Writers' Union as a translator, but not as an independent author. Then Grigulis said - let's wait until the book comes out, and then we will accept him as a writer. This means - after doomsday on Monday. And then we started working. From the beginning, the book was simply called "Lyrics" and that was it. Lija told me: you know, we have to invent something to calm them down. Well, for example, she said, you translate a lot, take some mottos from those authors. I said - I have a better idea, I will take whole poems. I did so, and then things went well. It turned out that there was some interest and also an understanding of the world, so in the end the book came out. It came out on Christmas, no one saw her yet, except at the printing office, Grigulis had already announced that Skujeniek's book would only be published over his dead body. Then there was that famous saying when asked - have you seen your book? I said - I have not seen either my book or Grigul's corpse. On the "Seed in the Snow" manuscript, he had drawn a big cross on the title and written next to it - change the title, it smells too much like prison. And he had forgotten that, and then he once asked me - was it really written that way? I said - unfortunately yes. And he left. There was already a great uplift, there was no independence yet, but Vaira had come from Canada and gave a speech, we already sang the Latvian national anthem "God bless Latvia". Everyone stood up, except for Grigulis, Grigulis remained seated. Then after that silence - klik, klik, klik, he was gone. And after that I never saw him again. He was one of the smartest and most intelligent people of his generation, and also the most loathsome. And it turns out that he has been like that since his early youth. Vizma told him very well why she voted against him. She said, I voted against Grigulis's candidacy because he has systematically falsified Latvian literature for the students here all these years, he was told exactly that to his face. After that, after the first book, I didn't have any more problems, but we had a hard time with this one, because from the moment when... I wrote down one poem in 1977, just to round things off. 76 ended, 72 began the book. And on the 77th, I wrote down one poem. And all that time there was talk that there would be a principled discussion about my book. Even after Lija Brīdaka, Velta Spāre took office, and Velta Spāre said that no discussion was necessary. Only this I found out sometime now, but all that time I sat, as Saltykov-Shchedrin wrote: "He lived and trembled and died and trembled." That was the situation for me.

About Stabulnieks. I could tell you about it there - not all, we have done a lot together. Then once it happened that we were at his house, there were about five of us in the elevator, the elevator went down to the basement and didn't go up again. We were on. A little more was needed and we would have suffocated. Fortunately, someone came from somewhere, returned, and somehow saved us. But those were pretty strong feelings. In general, I can say about Stabulnieks as such: he was a more perfect connoisseur of literature than any poet. Hats off. We met quite often. And then for this anniversary concert of his, he was already quite sick, he chose my silly songs.

Then, after that, the poetry of the imprisonmisonment appeared, I could only publish it in 1990, then the Soviet power was essentially gone. I was not particularly satisfied with that book, I compiled it myself, but not very successfully. But my late colleague Inta Čaklā undertook the further work - gathering, compiling and explaining. I still feel like I've lost my mother. We worked a lot, I also looked at the selection she has compiled for the school library. It's a perfect sample, I could never have done it so well myself.

Now I show you my first order that I got - Isabella the Catholic. This was tied around my neck by the Spanish ambassador when he was leaving here, he resided in Sweden, but he also came here and gathered everyone who was interested in Spain, and in the evening he usually held a party. And now something is tied around my neck. I walked, walked in a circle barking: where is the mirror? With this I began my ordained career.

The Latvian Order was not my first, a year earlier I received the Spanish Order. And then I got Latvian Order. In the first round the Orden received Broņa Martuževa, then she said: "Well, if Knuts doesn't succeed now, then I will give mine to him."

This is a Norwegian order, it is actually a protocol order, because it is due to the arrival of the Norwegian royal couple. Thor Heyerdahl was with them, I had opportunity to talk to him, his son was also there. Then I visited Valmiera after that, in Valmiera he had exhibited a small Kon-Tiki model.

He signed with his left hand because his right was paralyzed. The butterfly was apparently written by Monika... Knut, Tomas and Monika. This he wrote in my presence. Slowly and with difficulty, but he still wrote a little, not much, after the stroke. Because his right side was paralyzed. But he could walk, Monika was always by his side, speaking was quite difficult. He always answered: very well. Monica asked people to ask questions in a form that could be answered with yes or no. And so they traveled around the world, participated in poetry festivals. Their last trip, he said, I want to come to Riga again, and that's how they came to us. We had a small farewell lunch at the Swedish embassy - Kronbergs and I, the ambassador, Tomas and Monika. And so we said goodbye, we are winners of the Transträmer Award. He is from the city of Westerol. And the city of Westerol decided to establish such a prize. Who got after us - I don't know, there is no information, we were the first. In our honor, there were Latvian flags on the town hall, on the library. We were proud.I was still working on his translation, I was invited to Gotland for a seminar where Transträmer was translated into different languages. There was a Japanese woman who translated, a Slovak, a Russian, an Estonian, the owner of the creative house. Since she speaks Latvian, she is from Riga, she said: "You had the best translations." And for the Russian translation, she said: slushai, ņi stancija, a vokzal. We said goodbye so warmly. This is therefore a precious relic to me. It was difficult for him with his left hand. And in his honor, Vestard Šimkus played a special repertoire meant for one-handed playing. It was really his last trip. He was here for the first time in 70. And he came, he had been given Vizma's address, and Vizma collected a whole bunch of us - Uldis, me, Kalniņi brothers came drunk - both Imants and Viktors - and now they were starting to tie him up. He stands so big, tall, smiles. Theu asked: Do you have money? Show to us! He said: you boys are cool, but we are no worse. It turns out that at that time he worked as an educator in a juvenile colony. And then he wanted to play piano. Vizma didn't have a piano, the piano was probably half a floor higher at Janson's, we stretched the piano, pulled it down, and he announces that he had lost his desire to play. We pulled that piano up again. I met him several more times after that, he still sent me books, and then I saw him once more, then he was still dashing, big, tall, and a huge bunch of little birds in a circle around him - he was taking them somewhere. We said hello, I saw he was busy. And then I got word that he had a stroke. In principle, it could be said that he was the best of the 20th century. for Swedish poets. We thought he was going to get a Nobel Prize for his 70th birthday. It was not given then. But he got it for the 80th anniversary. But he never met Vizma again.

It belongs to our brothers Lithuanians - it is Gedimin. Order of Gedimin. It's fourth class, I'm an officer.

It is the Swedish North Star. And here the rules are as follows: if I receive a higher rank, or if I, let's say, die... in other words, when I am dead, then I have to go to the Swedish embassy or to a consultant and hand over those orders.

(Inta Skujeniece speaks): European folk songs, I have written them on the computer. It is the only one on the computer, the first mackintosh. (Knuts Skujenieks speaks): Our daughter brought us the old computer from Holland. Everything would have been ok, but the printer broke, and it was impossible to get such an old system, then you would have had to buy a new one. But for that time I gradually stopped writing altogether. (Inta Skujeniece speaks): It was written on the computer, and he went to the publishing house on the disk that is on the computer. (Knuts Skujeniecs speaks): And then those collected articles, there were already published books, and those that were not published - that everything was then collected by Inta Čaklā, and she divided it into each volume.

Here it is already clear that we have fought like lions on the barricades.

This shows that I am an honest person in Salaspils and do not steal.

It is a badge of honor of the National Writers' Union of Ukraine.

I don't write anymore. I wrote the last poem in 2008, and then I decided that that was it. And the thing is - I'm OK with it. The fact that my head is empty. Others say - well, maybe someday. I feel that I would not be able to write even a few lines. I can't do it anymore. At the same time, I also stopped translating and stopped writing. I took it very calmly. Because after all, years pass. I don't know if I would have written anything particularly good now. Because in the end - what did I write? I wrote such jokes mostly, some kind of parodies. I didn't end with fanfare, I didn't need it at all. My sense of humor hasn't left me yet, and that's more important.

It is the Cross of Appreciation. Originally from the Duchy of Kurzeme. Friedrich Casimir, Duke, founded it. Then in the year 38, Ulmanis thought of restoring him, but he did not manage to grant it to many.

I wrote with great interruptions. There was a period when I didn't write anything for about 6 years, or even longer - 9. And then after one trip to Iceland, where we went with Uldis Bērziņš to language and culture courses - Uldis stayed longer, learning the Icelandic language. I went home for treatment. Then after a while I started writing again. But I've never had any particular desire to self-publish. There has always been a moment or a specific person that has asked me to do it. For example, I wrote in Moscow, and I was scolded by one of our writers ... Jeronīms Stulpāns. He said, give it to me, I will take your poems to Riga and make a radio broadcast. And so most of my works, both collected articles and selections, were prepared by Inta Čaklā. I have enjoyed writing, but going and searching and fighting for publication - it has been a forced thing. Until the moment came when I stopped altogether. Why - I don't really know it yet, the last poem was in 2008. But somehow that poetic nerve has disappeared. And I take it very calmly and I wouldn't say that I'm overly sad. Maybe sometimes. But it's clear that even if I tried - I don't think I could. But if I could, it wouldn't be good. In the last stage, I made myself something similar to a jester's hat with all that now I'm Alexander, etc. In between there were maybe some really witty poems. In short, I've written mine, that's all.

Button. Like a cherry that protects the last remaining berry at the top, so I protect a single button in a tattered shirt. When there are no more souvenirs or hopes, and when the burden becomes too heavy, I nibble on the button that was sewn for you. In spite of years and hunger, in spite of snow and sleep, you sewed me to the holey life with threads of love and eternity. After the night has overcome the day, I look into one single bright window. It's not a window - my life on my chest burns in a button you sewed.

Zasluzhonnij dla kulturi Polskij. This is after all the changes in government. I still managed to meet with Komorovski.

The poetry book "Lyrics and Voices" was made by Kronbergs as a complete book in Swedish, since at the beginning there was only a selection of poems. The book had a grand presentation at Stockholm City Hall. I have never experienced such a presentation in Latvia. There were also some Latvians - both students and tourists. And I told jokes there. I spoke in Latvian, the Latvians laughed and the Swedes remained silent. Kronbergs then translated into Swedish and the Swedes laughed, the Latvians were silent. It was interesting. It wasn't a my own joke, but the Swedes didn't know that. I asked: What is the difference between socialism and capitalism? In capitalism, man exploits man. In socialism, it is the other way around. They liked it.

The poet Godiņš and I came up with idea and republished my first book of poems. I had a grander idea to publish all 5 first books of poets published at that time. But then who will listen to me! But for now I'm the only one. For me, it's a kind of satisfaction for what I went through with the first edition. Now my colleague Guntars Godiņš remembered it, he has a vivid memory of my first performance with that book, and he says that it was such an experience for his whole life. And so he says: "Let's try to make something like this." And we succeeded in cloning a 40-year-old book. It has lived a little longer than Dolly the sheep. Everything went well, then Guntar wrote one small preface. My foreword was also for the old edition. Everything worked out, what could be better!