Every person is, to some degree, talented and can develop strength of character. But in life there are many pleasant and accessible temptations that distract, that prevent you from expressing yourself, understanding your capabilities, finding your “self,” believing that you are a person, an individual with your own view of life, your own position, and asserting your significance through concrete deeds and actions. To arrive at this, you need a goal, and you must cast aside along the way everything superfluous that hinders consistency. It is a road with deep ruts, and you must not let yourself be shaken apart on it, not trade yourself away for justifying compromises, must be able to withstand the pressure of the environment and not be frightened by it. And then, having learned the mechanism of self-improvement, you will feel the noble satisfaction that you are steering your life, rather than being carried along faceless in its current.

The idea for this diary did not arise by chance, but because in the press the work of cosmonauts has so often been presented in such a polished form that people began to lose interest in it, no longer trusting what was written, since it had diverged from real life. And so in this diary I wanted to tell about everything that torments a person aboard — what they live by, how they work, where they find the strength to endure such a flight.

Previously I hadn’t kept systematic notes, although I’ve made sporadic entries since school. But here I decided to take on this difficult task, because I saw how in numerous publications about our work, authors, fitting material into some composition, imperceptibly introduced distortions, and then, citing them, articles and books were written in which the truth was already lost — the difficulties of our life, the individuality of each person — that is, only the outward side of it was played up.

People often ask me: How was the diary written — actually in space, or is it written on Earth? Let me say at once: it is impossible to write a chronicle of each day over seven months from memory. I began it on April 28, 1982, the day we completed our flight preparation and flew to Baikonur, and I finished it on December 26, the day of our return to Moscow. The portion of the diary before launch day, May 13, I gave to the crew doctor to take home, and I continued the other portion already in flight. For the diary I had prepared in advance a standard page form where, in addition to written entries, three times a day I gave a five-point rating of the following parameters of my condition: sleep, appetite, mood, work capacity, and the daily overtime in hours. In addition, I also logged equipment failures and errors in our work.

All the while, I was tormented by the question: should I write everything? Would people understand? Isn’t it too frank? What if something happens and the diary ends up in others’ hands without me? What would they think of me? After all, I have a family, friends — wouldn’t I look too naive? Beyond that, I was concerned whether the doctors would correctly interpret my candid remarks about how I felt: after all, I’m an active cosmonaut, and might this be held against me later? In short, how do you determine the degree of openness in a diary, even when communicating with yourself — especially since I’d already had more than a few unpleasant experiences because of it. But I understood: the moment I started deciding what could be written and what couldn’t, the whole thing would become meaningless, of no use to anyone — not to me, not to the readers — since half-truths, distortions, and polishing, even over small things, would destroy the idea and with it my interest, and there would be no strength to carry this pointless burden. And so I began writing everything as it is — what I see, feel, think, do — but not merely recording facts. I tried to analyze, to answer for myself why I perceive things as I do, if I internally disagreed with something.

To separate purely professional matters from everyday ones, I kept two diaries — one working and one personal. It is the personal one I am publishing. The working diary has also been processed. It amounts to more than 400 pages of observations and an equal number of sketches documenting experimental results, analysis of the technology, and recommendations for its improvement. The personal diary is life itself — 24 hours a day, every day, interwoven with work, for all 211 days. Both diaries were written above and beyond the flight program, on my own initiative, with a single wish and aspiration: to do as much as possible and to justify my presence in space.

Some may say: “But this is your personal perception; others may see everything differently.” I agree, and that is precisely why I want one thing: that as we work in space, we not lose our experience but accumulate it, one grain at a time, from every cosmonaut. Otherwise we cannot arrive at generalizations or draw conclusions for those who will fly after us. In some things our views will converge, in others they won’t, but those who send us on our flights and who will come into cosmonautics after us will sort out what to use, what to reflect on, and where to disagree. But I am sure that each will understand the other, even if they disagree, recognizing their right to their own view.

I brought both diaries and the letters back to Earth. Many letters from family, friends, acquaintances, and strangers. I could not leave them there — this wonderful memory of those who were beside me all that time — so that later, meeting them on Earth, I would remember how rich a person’s soul can be when it shines in the noble impulse to help another. This sincerity of spirit, sent into space, is unfortunately not always conspicuously present alongside us here on Earth. These materials, along with certain clarifications of individual moments drawn from the communications transcripts, make up the diary you are reading. It is a document of our shared achievements in space, about our people with all their strengths and weaknesses. But it is the truth, and I am obligated to share it with you.