In Germany we were following the trail of two great masters. One of them is the Russian giant, a minor novelist deliciously occupying that section of the literature, where banks are more hidden and more remote thickets: Turgenev, an author who seems to turn from one side to another great gardens of Russia, France and Germany, so much so that their stories of hunters seem to develop in quiet parks nineteenth century. Perhaps this is why we find the small bust of the master and a bench dedicated to his memory at the Lichtentaler Allee, one of the most impressive urban thickets of the world. Will you, my friend Ivan Sergeyevich.
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