Salon

There is an old joke about a weathered sea wolf who scoffs at people when they ask him whether going to sea on Monday is bad luck. "If you have a reliable ship, a good compass and a trained crew, you don't need to be superstitious," he says. "Friday is a different matter, though."

Russian literature takes a similar stance: It is not that rich in horror stories, but various superstitions penetrate its everyday existence. Alexander Pushkin, for one, was famously superstitious. Legend has it that he was going to St. Petersburg to join his friends in the failed Decembrist rebellion of 1825 when a hare crossed the path of his sledge -- which is a bad omen, similar to a black cat -- and he changed his mind, saving him from execution or a long Siberian exile. There is also a rather reliable story about a Gypsy fortuneteller who predicted that the poet's death would result from either a white horse or a white head. It is a classically vague prediction, but, in the end, Pushkin was killed in a duel with the blonde D'Anthes.

Being fascinated with sorcerers and their tales, Pushkin recounted an ancient Russian story of the same kind in his "Song of the Wise Oleg." Oleg, the prince of old Russia, receives a prophecy that he will die "from his horse." The prince immediately sends his beloved steed into honorary retirement; when, many years after, he inquires about him, the horse is long dead. The prince laughs at the prophecy and goes to see the mortal remains of his battlefield friend -- and, just as he pensively moves the horse's skull with his foot, a snake appears from one of the eye sockets and bites him. It's an impressive story that came down to us, and to Pushkin, from the oldest Russian chronicles.

Another superstitious story is told by Boris Pasternak in his memoirs. As a youth, he was thinking about pursuing a career in music, but was worried by his lack of perfect pitch. This isn't really a serious handicap for a composer; Tchaikovsky, for example, didn't have perfect pitch either. But when Pasternak decided to share his doubts with his teacher, he made a bet with himself that he would abandon music if his teacher mentioned Tchaikovsky. The teacher did, of course, and Russian culture lost a composer (probably a mediocre one) and got a great poet instead.

So superstitions are not all bad. That Monday-morning feeling is easily explained by natural reasons. But on Friday, especially the 13th, extra caution is advisable.