A CENTURY WITHOUT

A hundred years ago, on 𝗗𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟴, 𝟭𝟵𝟮𝟱, 𝑺𝒆𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒚 𝒀𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏 was found dead at Saint Petersburg’s Hotel Angleterre. Beside him lay blood on paper – his final poem, “𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚋𝚢𝚎, 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍, 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚋𝚢𝚎” – its eight lines to be engraved inside the Russian mind, just forty-four words holding all the tragedy & fatalism of the Russian soul.

Earlier in October, the poet celebrated his thirtieth birthday. On the last day of the year, his funeral gathered two hundred thousand attendants.

We’re posting this on 𝗗𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟯𝟭 — the centennial day of his funeral — because this week isn’t an abstract anniversary: it’s a live, calendar-perfect window where history still feels like a pulse.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗮 𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗻𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲

Yesenin came from the village, not the salons: a self-taught “peasant poet” whose lines keep the smell of soil and horses, even when he’s dressed in the city’s chaos. That’s part of why he was adored — and part of why he became politically inconvenient. A lyric voice that won’t behave is always dangerous to a system that wants tidy feelings.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘀: 𝗮 𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗼𝗼𝗺, 𝗮 𝗳𝗮𝗿𝗲𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝗺, 𝗮 𝗱𝗲𝗯𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗱𝗶𝗲

December 1925 reads like noir. The official version says suicide. But almost immediately, the story split into arguments: about the room, the logistics, the politics, the surveillance atmosphere of the era, and why so many records and details stayed contested. That uncertainty is exactly what makes it “fun” in the darkest sense: it reads like a murder mystery because it never stopped being argued as one.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝘂𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗹: 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝘂𝗽, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗻’𝘁 𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴

What is certain: the grief went enormous. On December 31, 1925, Moscow turned out in a way that made it impossible to pretend Yesenin was just a “hooligan” footnote. And then came the long tug-of-war over his legacy: admiration on the street, suspicion in official culture, suppression and revival, memorized lines surviving any ban.

𝗪𝗵𝘆 𝘄𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲

Yesenin remains a cultural pressure point: the poet of tenderness and self-destruction, peasant memory and metropolitan ruin — proof that lyric truth doesn’t always align with political usefulness.

𝗦𝗼: 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦?

Open-and-shut tragedy — or a century-old case file that still feels unfinished?

𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆: 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘺 𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦. 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘜.𝘚. 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵, 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭/𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝟫𝟪𝟪. 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘜.𝘚., 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘴.