In life, Vysotskiy knew a pompous sort of glory. But after his death, he won the most steadfast attention for himself, far from the affectations of an empty call to arms. On the day of his funeral º permanently silenced, having been subdued by the customary ceremonies – it seemed that he was also working. In the same fashion, the force of his name on Taganskaya Square brought about an unprecedented silence. When the actors carried his casket through the doors of the theatre, a strange noise range out above the square, like long, quiet applause. It was a group of boys releasing doves to the sky from the roofs surrounding the square. There were scores of incredible human faces all around.
Someone said: there wasn’t a single bad face. The bus had already left the theatre building, and all the people kept standing. They had been standing like that since morning, and even earlier – since the evening, and the whole day afterward.