The connection was often broken, and we had a lot of work. The telephone line was stretched through the park and went into the basement of the landlord's house, where the company commander arrived and settled with his servants. According to a very clever order that was not established by us, if the connection was torn, we, already mutilated and twitched communications from the front line, had to correct it under fire, and company signalmen would scold us, since we did not do it very quickly. In turn, company signalmen ran through communications to the battalion; battalion - to the regiment, and then I don’t know what and how it was done, further and communications were rarely damaged, and the signalmen called themselves telephone operators, they were well fed, washed and looked at us, trench shrews, with lordly arrogance.
Running along the communication line, I often noticed Abdrashitov digging in the park. Small, with awkwardly wrapped windings, he was already covered in clay and plaster, emaciated and completely blackened, and to my brisk "salam aleikum!", Smiling quietly and guiltily, answered: "Hello!" I asked him if he ate. Abdrashitov goggled black absent eyes: "What did you say?" I told him to at least hide during the shelling - they would kill him, but he, detachedly, with poorly concealed annoyance, dropped: "What does it matter!"
Then Abdrashitov was joined by a lame Pole in a crumpled hat, from under which his gray hair stood out. He was with gray sunken cheeks and also with high windings. A Pole walked, leaning on a gnarled walnut stick, and said something loudly and angrily to Abdrashitov, poking this stick at the naked, padded goddesses.
You yourself are a spy! the junior lieutenant laughed. - Leave them alone. They talk about great creative artists. Let them talk. The offensive is coming soon.
Creators! Vasyukov grumbled. - I know these creators ... In the thirty-seventh year, such creators almost blew up a bridge in our village ...
The goddess over the fountain Abdrashitov and the Pole were repaired. They covered the wounds on it with unclean plaster, collected the breast, but collected it without the nipple. The goddess became ugly, and even if bloodless veins would appear on her, she did not cheer up at all. The goddess, in patches, was still mournfully bowing over the silent fountain, in which the fishes rotted and the slimy lilies blackened.
The Germans got wind of something about our offensive and watered the front line with everything they had at their disposal.
My partner and I scoured the park, mending communications and scolding everyone who came to mind.
On a rainy, nautical morning, our guns struck - artillery preparation began, the ground swayed under our feet, the last fruits fell from the trees in the park, and the leaf spun up above.
The platoon leader ordered me to break up the communications and follow them on the attack with a coil and a telephone set. I merrily rushed along the line to rewind the wires: although it was cozy in the master's hut and manor, I was still tired of it - it's time and honor to know, it's time to go ahead, to joke a German to Berlin is still far away.
Shells rushed over me with discordant screams, kurlykans and whistles. The Germans answered rarely and anywhere - I was already an experienced soldier and knew: the German infantry was lying now, with its nose buried in the ground, and prayed to God that the Russians' stock of shells would soon run out. “It won't end! They will hammer for an hour and ten minutes until they make a mess of you, who are daring, ”- I reflected with feverish elation. During artillery preparation it is always like this: it is scary, it shakes everything inside and at the same time, passions flare up in the soul.
As I ran with a reel around my neck, I stumbled, and my thoughts were cut off: the goddess Venus stood without her head, and her hands were torn off, only her palm remained, with which she covered her shame, and Abdrashitov and a Pole were lying near the fountain covered with earth, covered with white splinters and plaster dust. Both of them were killed. Before the morning, the Germans, disturbed by the silence, made an artillery attack on the front line and fired a lot of shells into the park.
The Pole, I ascertained, was the first to be wounded - a piece of plaster had not yet dried up in his fingers and had not crumbled. Abdrashitov tried to pull the Pole into the pool, under the fountain, but did not manage to do this - they were covered again, and both of them calmed down.
A bucket lay on its side, and a gray plaster of paris fell out of it, the broken head of the goddess lay and with one unseen eye looked at the sky, screaming with a crooked hole punched below her nose. There was a mutilated, disfigured goddess Venus. And at her feet, in a pool of blood, lay two people - a Soviet soldier and a gray-haired Polish citizen, trying to heal the beaten beauty.
The Dome Cathedral
Home ... Home ... Home ...
Dome Cathedral, with a cock on the spire. Tall, stone, it sounds over Riga.
The vaults of the cathedral are filled with organ singing. From the sky, from above floats now a rumble, now thunder, now the gentle voice of lovers, now the call of the Vestals, now the roulades of the horn, now the sounds of the harpsichord, now the sound of a rolling brook ...
And again, with a formidable wave of raging passions, it blows everything away, again a roar.
Sounds sway like incense smoke. They are thick, tangible. They are everywhere, and everything is filled with them: soul, earth, world.
Everything froze, stopped.
Mental confusion, the absurdity of a vain life, petty passions, everyday worries - all of this remained in another place, in a different light, in a different life, distant from me, out there somewhere.
“Maybe all that came before was a dream? Wars, blood, fratricide, supermen playing with human destinies in order to establish themselves above the world.
Why do we live so intensely and difficult on our land? What for? Why?"
House. House. House…
Blagovest. Music. The gloom was gone. The sun rose. Everything is changing around.
There is no cathedral with electric candles, with ancient molding, with glass, toy and candy depicting paradise life. There is a world and I, calmed with awe, ready to kneel before the greatness of beauty.
The hall is full of people, old and young, Russian and non-Russian, party and non-party, evil and kind, vicious and light, tired and enthusiastic, all sorts of things.
And no one is in the hall!
There is only my serene, disembodied soul, it oozes with incomprehensible pain and tears of quiet delight.
It purifies itself, the soul is something, and it seems to me that the whole world held its breath, this seething, formidable world of ours was thinking, ready to fall on its knees with me, to repent, to fall with its withered mouth to the holy spring of good ...
And suddenly, like an obsession, like a blow: and yet at this time, somewhere, someone is targeting this cathedral, this great music ... with cannons, bombs, missiles ...
It can't be! Must not be!
And if there is. If we are destined to die, burn out, disappear, then let now, even at this moment, fate punish us for all our evil deeds and vices. Since we are unable to live freely, together, let at least our death be free, and the soul will go to another world, lightened and bright.
We all live together. We die separately. This has been the case for centuries. It was so until this moment.
So let's go now, let's rather, while there is no fear. Don't turn people into animals before you kill them. Let the vaults of the cathedral collapse, and instead of crying about the bloody, criminally folded path, people will carry the music of a genius into their hearts, and not the bestial roar of a murderer.
The Dome Cathedral! The Dome Cathedral! Music! What have you done to me? You are still trembling under the arches, you are still washing your soul, chilling your blood, illuminating everything around with light, knocking on your armored chests and sick hearts, but already a man in black comes out and bows from above. A small man trying to assure that it was he who did the miracle. A wizard and a songwriter, a nonentity and God, to whom everything is subject: both life and death.
The Dome Cathedral. The Dome Cathedral.
There is no applause here. Here people cry from the tenderness that overwhelmed them. Everyone cries about his own. But together everyone cries about the end, a wonderful dream subsides, that magic is brief, deceptively sweet oblivion and endless torment.
On a rainy, nautical morning, our guns struck - artillery preparation began, the ground swayed under our feet, the last fruits fell from the trees in the park, and the leaf spun up above.
The platoon leader ordered me to break up the communications and follow them on the attack with a coil and a telephone set. I merrily rushed along the line to rewind the wires: although it was cozy in the master's hut and manor, I was still tired of it - it's time and honor to know, it's time to go ahead, to joke a German to Berlin is still far away.
Shells rushed over me with discordant screams, kurlykans and whistles. The Germans answered rarely and anywhere - I was already an experienced soldier and knew: the German infantry was lying now, with its nose buried in the ground, and prayed to God that the Russians' stock of shells would soon run out. “It won't end! They will hammer for an hour and ten minutes until they make a mess of you, who are daring, ”- I reflected with feverish elation. During artillery preparation it is always like this: it is scary, it shakes everything inside and at the same time, passions flare up in the soul.
As I ran with a reel around my neck, I stumbled, and my thoughts were cut off: the goddess Venus stood without her head, and her hands were torn off, only her palm remained, with which she covered her shame, and Abdrashitov and a Pole were lying near the fountain covered with earth, covered with white splinters and plaster dust. Both of them were killed. Before the morning, the Germans, disturbed by the silence, made an artillery attack on the front line and fired a lot of shells into the park.
The Pole, I ascertained, was the first to be wounded - a piece of plaster had not yet dried up in his fingers and had not crumbled. Abdrashitov tried to pull the Pole into the pool, under the fountain, but did not manage to do this - they were covered again, and both of them calmed down.
A bucket lay on its side, and a gray plaster of paris fell out of it, the broken head of the goddess lay and with one unseen eye looked at the sky, screaming with a crooked hole punched below her nose. There was a mutilated, disfigured goddess Venus. And at her feet, in a pool of blood, lay two people - a Soviet soldier and a gray-haired Polish citizen, trying to heal the beaten beauty.
The Dome Cathedral
Home ... Home ... Home ...
Dome Cathedral, with a cock on the spire. Tall, stone, it sounds over Riga.
The vaults of the cathedral are filled with organ singing. From the sky, from above floats now a rumble, now thunder, now the gentle voice of lovers, now the call of the Vestals, now the roulades of the horn, now the sounds of the harpsichord, now the sound of a rolling brook ...
And again, with a formidable wave of raging passions, it blows everything away, again a roar.
Sounds sway like incense smoke. They are thick, tangible. They are everywhere, and everything is filled with them: soul, earth, world.
Everything froze, stopped.
Mental confusion, the absurdity of a vain life, petty passions, everyday worries - all of this remained in another place, in a different light, in a different life, distant from me, out there somewhere.
“Maybe all that came before was a dream? Wars, blood, fratricide, supermen playing with human destinies in order to establish themselves above the world.
Why do we live so intensely and difficult on our land? What for? Why?"
House. House. House…
Blagovest. Music. The gloom was gone. The sun rose. Everything is changing around.
There is no cathedral with electric candles, with ancient molding, with glass, toy and candy depicting paradise life. There is a world and I, calmed with awe, ready to kneel before the greatness of beauty.
The hall is full of people, old and young, Russian and non-Russian, party and non-party, evil and kind, vicious and light, tired and enthusiastic, all sorts of things.
And no one is in the hall!
There is only my serene, disembodied soul, it oozes with incomprehensible pain and tears of quiet delight.
It purifies itself, the soul is something, and it seems to me that the whole world held its breath, this seething, formidable world of ours was thinking, ready to fall on its knees with me, to repent, to fall with its withered mouth to the holy spring of good ...
And suddenly, like an obsession, like a blow: and yet at this time, somewhere, someone is targeting this cathedral, this great music ... with cannons, bombs, missiles ...
It can't be! Must not be!
And if there is. If we are destined to die, burn out, disappear, then let now, even at this moment, fate punish us for all our evil deeds and vices. Since we are unable to live freely, together, let at least our death be free, and the soul will go to another world, lightened and bright.
We all live together. We die separately. This has been the case for centuries. It was so until this moment.
So let's go now, let's rather, while there is no fear. Don't turn people into animals before you kill them. Let the vaults of the cathedral collapse, and instead of crying about the bloody, criminally folded path, people will carry the music of a genius into their hearts, and not the bestial roar of a murderer.
The Dome Cathedral! The Dome Cathedral! Music! What have you done to me? You are still trembling under the arches, you are still washing your soul, chilling your blood, illuminating everything around with light, knocking on your armored chests and sick hearts, but already a man in black comes out and bows from above. A small man trying to assure that it was he who did the miracle. A wizard and a songwriter, a nonentity and God, to whom everything is subject: both life and death.
There is no applause here. Here people cry from the tenderness that overwhelmed them. Everyone cries about his own. But together everyone cries about the end, a wonderful dream subsides, that magic is brief, deceptively sweet oblivion and endless torment.
The Dome Cathedral. The Dome Cathedral.
You are in my shuddering heart. I bow my head to your singer, thank you for the happiness, albeit a short one, for the delight and faith in the human mind, for the miracle created and sung by this mind, thank you for the miracle of the resurrection of faith in life. Thank you for everything, for everything!
Cemetery
As the steamer passes a luxurious territory with houses, teremkas, a countryside for bathers, with tenacious signs on the shore: "Forbidden zone of a pioneer camp" - a cape is visible ahead at the confluence of the Chusovaya and Sylva rivers. It is washed away by water that rises in the spring and falls in the winter.
Opposite the cape, on the other side of Sylva, dry poplars stand in the water.
Young and old poplars, all black and with broken branches. But on one birdhouse hangs down the roof. Some poplars bent down, others still hold straight and look with fear into the water, which washes away everything and washes away their roots, and the shore crawls, crawls, and soon it has been twenty years since the sea has been overflowing, but there is still no real shore, everything is crumbling. Earth.
On the day of the Forgiveness, people come from the surrounding villages and from a brick factory, throw cereals into the water, crush an egg, pinch a bread.
Under the poplars, under the water is a cemetery.
When the Kama reservoir was filled, there was a big assault. Many people and machines raked up the forest, houses, orphaned buildings and burned them. The bonfires were hundreds of miles away. At the same time, the deceased were moved to the mountains.
This is a cemetery near the village of Lyady. Not far from here, in the village of Troitsa, the once free, daring poet Vasily Kamensky lived and worked.
At the Lyadovskoye cemetery, work was also carried out before filling the free sea. Fast work. The builders dragged about a dozen fresh houses up the hill, assured themselves with a certificate from the village council about the fulfilled obligation, the magarych, on the occasion of the successfully completed business, drank it and left. The cemetery poplars went under the water, and the graves went under the water. Then a lot of bones turned white at the bottom. And the fish stood there in a school. Big bream. The locals did not catch fish and did not allow the strangers to catch. They feared sin.
And then the dried poplars fell into the water. The first to fall was the one with the birdhouse, he was the oldest, the most bony and the most woeful one.
A new cemetery was formed on the mountain. It has long been covered with grass. And there is not a single tree there, not even a single bush. And there is no fence. Polo around. The wind is coming from the reservoir. Grasses stir and whistle at night in crosses, in wooden and iron pyramids. Lazy cows and skinny goats with thorns graze here. They chew grass and chew wreaths of fir from the graves. Among the graves, on the frail grass, knowing neither trembling nor fear, a young shepherd is lying around and sleeping sweetly, blown by the breeze from the big water.
And they began to fish where the poplars fell. While strangers, unknowing people are catching, but the locals will soon start.
It's very cool in the evenings in steamy weather to take bream at this place ...
Stars and Christmas trees
In Nikolsky district, in the homeland of the late poet Yashin, for the first time I saw stars nailed to the ends of the corners of rural huts, and decided that it was Timurov's pioneers who had decorated the village in honor of some holiday ...
We went into one hut to drink some water. She lived in that wooden hut, with low rafters and narrowly, in one glass, cut through windows, a friendly woman whose age could not be immediately determined - her face was so mournful and dark. But then she smiled: “Avon, how many suitors fell to me at once! If only they took me with them and lost my way in the forest ... ”And we recognized in her a woman who had passed the middle of the century, but was not crushed by life.
The woman joked well, her face brightened and, not knowing what to treat us, she offered everything pea whites, and when she found out that we had never tried such concoctions, she naturally presented us with dark pretzels, sprinkling them from a sheet of tin on the car seat, assuring us that Such a pretzel in a peasant has a strong spirit, and a sinful one pulls him into a funeral.
I am never tired of being amazed at how people, and especially women, and especially in the Vologda region, despite any adversity, preserve and carry through life an open, cheerful soul. You will meet a Vologda peasant or a woman at a crossroads, ask about something, and they will smile at you and speak as if you have known you for a hundred years and you are their closest relatives. And it really is relatives: after all, they were born on the same land, some troubles wept. Only some of us began to forget about it.
Tuned into a cheerful wave, I cheerfully asked what the stars were on the corners of the hut, in honor of what such a holiday?
And again the face of the old woman darkened, the giggles disappeared from her eyes, and her lips stretched out in a strict thread. Lowering her head, she answered in a dull voice, with worn-out dignity and sorrow:
- Holiday?! God forbid anyone such a holiday ... Five did not come back from the war: myself, three sons and brother-in-law ... - She looked at the stars, cut from tin, painted with crimson student paint, wanted to add something else, but only suppressed in herself sigh, closed the gate behind her, and from there, already from the yard, smoothing out the awkwardness made by me, added: - Go with God. If there is nowhere to sleep, turn to me, the hut is empty ...
“The hut is empty. The hut is empty ... "- it was beating in my head, and I was looking at everything steadily - in the village streets stars flashed in red specks on dark corners, sometimes singly, sometimes in bulk, and a difficult war, probably not a single family remained in Russia that would not have lost someone ...
And how many unfinished and aged huts are in the Vologda region! The residents of Vologda loved to build thoroughly and beautifully. Houses were erected with mezzanines, decorated with carvings - wooden lace, made a porch under the tower. The work is so painstaking, it takes time, diligence and skill, and usually the owner of the house moved in with his family into a warm, businesslike, or something, half of the hut, where there was an entrance hall, a kut and a Russian stove, and he finished the house, mezzanine, and so on slowly, efficiently so that the "clean" half is always festive and light.
It was these light halves of the huts that remained unfinished. The cracks in the windows, in some places already cut through, were again hastily taken away with logs. On some houses, the decoration of mezzanines, window frames and gates has already begun. But the war broke out, the owner wiped the sweat from his forehead, shook off the shavings from his shirt and, carefully hiding the entire "structure" in the closet, postponed the work for later, until after the war ...
I put it aside and could not return to her. A Russian peasant lies in the Salsk or Don steppes, near Lvov or Warsaw, lies on the Seelow Heights or near Prague - he sleeps soundly in our and foreign land, and in his homeland, in the villages, eaten by rye is crumbled, but still stored just in case women are “strument”, women themselves are getting old, huts that have not lightened up are getting old, and the Russian proverb “Without a master and an orphan's house” has acquired some very woeful meaning.
"The hut is empty ..."
The ancient land, difficult to give birth to bread, inhabited by talented people, brisk in language and work, stretches between swamps and forests. Outside the outskirts of the villages, flax shimmers with pure greenery, reminding with its unspotted light a withered beauty of a widow; the heavy rye slopes down; wheat is ringing like an ear; piebald oats rustle.
The earth lives and works, like a hundred or a thousand years ago, and, as in antiquity, in the late clover meadow - women with Lithuanians, in colorful sundresses, with bright ribbons along the hem of aprons, with frills on sweaters and in white scarves.
- Help, guys! - they wave their hands. And we twist, laughing stiffly, take the braids and, trying not to shame the masculine gender, we hasten to close up the swath wider. And someone already had a piece of Lithuanian crunching like a splinter - a painfully sweeping Lithuanian thrust into a twisted clover wire with a wire.
- Such a clover should be shaved narrowly, smoothly, - women teach us and pretend to lament: - Oh you, trouble! The lithuania has been violated! Who will make it out to us? We have one man for the whole artel, and even that one does not get off the poveta for three days - after the name day ...
And they immediately begin to console the embarrassed mower, assuring that the Lithuanian was broken and they, the women, slipped it in for fun.
- Call in the evening! they invite. - Together we will begin to repair the Lithuanian! - the mischievous girls laugh, as in youth, and stretch out in a colorful chain along the clover, dropping its crimson-green shafts to his feet.
It seems such work is easy, and like it or not, you can compare these eternal workers with those who snort at the words "village", "sundress" and other similar things.
On one of the houses, high, under a jam, I saw a Christmas tree in ribbons, in rags and asked: what, they say, again for quirks?
And the companions explained to me that it was not quirks, but a Vologda custom that has come down to our days from antiquity: if they take a guy as a soldier, then his bride dresses his Christmas tree with ribbons and colored rags and nails it to the mezzanine or eaves of the betrothed's hut. The groom, returning from the soldiers, takes off the Christmas tree himself and solemnly, under the joyful lamentation and lamentation of the women, carries it in one hand, and with the other he brings the bride into the house, who knew how to wait and was faithful.
But if the guy for some reason does not return from the army, the nailed Christmas tree will dry up, and no one, mournful and reproachful, dares to take it off, except for the bride herself.
Alas, on many Vologda houses, Christmas trees are now mourning black and crumbling, and ribbons and rags have faded, frowned - the guys do not return to their native villages, under their fatherly roofs, to faithful and clean brides. They settle in cities or at construction sites, marry random companions and then go to waste with divorces, orphan children, yearning for their native land and regretting their easily lost faithful love.
Fields and villages. Fields and villages.
The cloudy sky above them in blue openings, forests and copses are touched by the first cold weather, crimson leaves, like stars at the corners of black huts; the Christmas trees that jumped to the side of the edge, as if waiting for them to be dressed up with ribbons; the white, wisely silent temple behind the hill; a motley herd on the green aftermath; a horse covered in dust with a cart on a bumpy country road; the first light flickering in the village; rook soda on old poplars; a girl's cry, thinly cutting through the silence of the village street: "Mom, mom, they brought white bread to the store! .."
And again the quiet serenity of the nursing mother earth, as usual, a day lived in labor, the usual twilight creeping over the hills, the usual distance, enveloped in peace.
The sadness of the ages
Among the mountains of heroic Bosnia, most of the republics of Yugoslavia, which lost people in the war and suffered the most from the war, in a quiet village, where no one is in a hurry, where life after battles, streams of blood, suffering and tears seems to be balanced once and for all. a mosque with a white minaret.
Noon. The sun bakes. On the slopes of the mountains there are still forests. The distance is covered with a haze, and in this haze the passes of the snow-capped mountains swing silently and majestically.
And suddenly, into this silence, into the eternal calmness of the mountains, into a measured life, a drawn-out, sad voice enters.
Cars, buses are racing, peasants are riding on bulls. At the cafe, people are pushing, children are running from school, and above them, like a hundred and a thousand years ago, a distant voice is heard. In a shady, cool valley, deep in the Bosnian mountains, it sounds somehow especially soulful.
What is he talking about? About eternity? Or a fast moving life? About our vanity and frailty? About a restless human soul?
Words cannot be understood. Yes, and there are almost no words in the midday prayer. There is boundless sadness, there is the voice of a lonely singer, as if he knew the truth of being.
Here, below, there were wars, people killed people, aliens took and occupied this land; the Nazis smashed the kids' heads against the sides of the cars, but he still sounded high above - gutturally, drawn out, timelessly and remotely.
The voice floating from the white rocket minaret aimed at the sky has already become familiar, and the unbelieving local residents simply do not hear or notice it. But in the morning, noon and evening hours of sunset, a lonely singer sends greetings to the sky, people, earth, preaching some kind of already incomprehensible, lost truth, suffering for us and for those who were before us, healing mental ailments with tranquility and otherworldly the wise sadness of centuries, which seemed to have not touched the rust of time and the terrible, stormy centuries of human history passed by the singer in a crush and anger.
Below, at the foot of the minaret, everyone is rushing and racing cars, always busy people are in a hurry somewhere and laughter is heard at the source of "man's water".
My dear
In the evening, the resort town of Dubrovnik smelled of blooming jasmine. From the docked white ships and yachts, the soft singing of mandolins echoed. The sea was lazily stirring in the bay, the ledges of the rocks dissolved in the twilight, and somewhere behind them, behind these rocks covered with pine forests and lush southern vegetation, was Italy, and once, long ago, Dalmatians swam to the Italian coast - to visit to the lords, and they liked to sail there so much that until they were forty they forgot to marry.
How beautiful is this southern land in Yugoslavia! The evening is beautiful and the music is beautiful.
I wander along the seaside boulevard, inhale the delicate scent of flowers, listen to the sea. The embankment is emptying. Fewer and fewer people. Quieter the sea. Quiet music. And only from the restaurant the voice of a partying port loader rushes: "Lyubova, Lyubova ..."
And under a bush of acacia, already littering with white, two are sitting: he and she. Both he and she are eighteen years old. She, in a yellow sports blouse, clung to his shoulder, hair, yellow from the light of the lanterns, fell on her face, overshadowed her eyes. He hugged her and gently stroked her slender, still angular shoulder and hummed something of his own to her, hummed softly, and only she could hear him. Heard his song, his heart. They did not notice neither the sea, nor rare passers-by, nor music, nor the acacia color that sprinkled them. They did not care about anyone, and no one prevented them from being alone in this thick, warm, dark southern night.
It seemed to me that I was guessing the song that he was singing to her, perhaps her casual companion, be it a beloved, a young carefree husband, or a friend of life forever connected to her.
It came from somewhere and wanders through our intelligent companies a song, in general, a waste, but there is a woeful, unpretentious vulnerability in it. The late Vasily Makarovich Shukshin loved this song and began his little-known film "Strange People" with it.
My dear, take me with you,
And there, in a distant land, call me ...
Quietly, on my toes, I walked past the young couple, guessing that they were unemployed, by the sponge sticking out of the pocket of my jacket, thrown on the bench - with these sponges young guys wash tourists' cars, earning themselves a piece of bread. One unemployed guy in the port canteen in the afternoon, angrily and perplexedly told us Soviet people: “My dad is disabled. He was mutilated by the Germans, and I wash the cars of German tourists. What is it like?"
And we didn’t know what to answer him. And he, an unemployed guy, pressed on us as if we and only we are responsible for him and for everything that happens to him.
Restlessness, loneliness, detachment emanated from this couple, and an incomprehensible feeling of guilt, as in a conversation with an unemployed, seized me - I fed the unemployed, gave him ten dinars from my poor foreign capital, and what can you say with this, what is their fate make it easier, how will you warm when by morning it will pull from the sea with dampness and cold?
They cuddled up to each other, warming themselves with their bodies in a luxurious resort town, on a rainbow-painted bench, and he sings his song to her, of course, not at all the one that I had imagined, but something very, very similar to her, simple-minded and absurd, like a village love story, invented by an ingenuous village head.
Roshad Dizdarovich, an old guerrilla and a wise man, told me that young people in their country are in opposition, behave defiantly until they get a "place in the sun", that is, they do not decide on a job. Our young people do not know such a misfortune, and, having received a job, having a wife and children, they often behave like reckless children.
But why, why from generation to generation in many lands it is so difficult to achieve this "place in the sun?" Did we, first of all, we - citizens of international duty, live, fought, shed blood not so that people entering life were sure that there is a place and space for them on earth? Why, why are the young men so lonely in their longing, in their dreams and in love? What are we missing? What have you overlooked? What have you misunderstood? Perhaps our mind is busy with other thoughts and deeds, completely unnecessary for this guy and girl? Why do they need bombs, rockets, choking gases, infectious bacteria? They just need a job, just bread, they need a "place in the sun."
The sea is getting quieter and quieter. The music on the ships fades. The lights go out. The resort town calmed down until the morning in order to wake up tomorrow from a multilingual dialect and open the gates to the sea, to beauty and joy.
And in the seaside park, under the blossoming acacia, until the morning, shivering from the cold, everyone will sit those two, detached from people and from the world, and he will sing a song to her that neither his wife nor his sister will take her away. country ...
Window
Nothing brings such spatial sadness to me, nothing plunges me into such a feeling of helplessness, like a lonely glowing window in an abandoned village, and even in a cluster of modern houses.
You drive up to a big city early in the morning, enter this stone corridor that has become familiar, but still blowing with cold and alienation - and the feeling is as if you are slowly, slowly drowning in a deaf, bottomless well. Modern dwellings with flat roofs, with dark squares of windows, faceless masses rallying in the distance, indifferently and motionlessly stand. The outskirts were thrown into a heavy sleep - not a light, not a sigh.
A working man sleeps, having driven himself into concrete hives, he sleeps in five or six villages in one multi-entrance house, a parish or a whole region sleeps in one crowded micro-district, and only dreams connect people with the past world: horses in a meadow, yellow hay shafts in the middle green lines of swaths, a birch in a field, a barefoot boy dumping in a river, a reaper floating at a slow pace in the wheat, raspberries along the edges, saffron milk caps in pine forests, sleds rushing down the mountain, schools with warm smoke over the chimney, wood goblins behind the mountain, brownies behind the stove ...
“Dreams are AWOL,” as one poetic soldier said.
And suddenly the red-hot tip of a needle pierces the light from the dark heaps, begins to move, take the shape of a window - and squeezes the heart with pain: what is there, behind this glowing window? Whom and what alarmed, raised from the bed? Who was born? Who died? Maybe it hurts someone? Maybe joyfully? Maybe a person loves a person? Maybe it hits? ..
Go find out! This is not for you in the village, where the cry for help is heard from the outskirts to the outskirts. Far from the stone window, and the car cannot be stopped. She leaves faster and faster, but for some reason the eyes cannot tear themselves away from the vigilant light, and the consciousness torments my head that you will get sick just like that, you will begin to die and call no one - no one and nothing around, soullessly around.
What happened to you, my brother? What alarmed you? What got you out of bed? I’ll think it’s not a problem. It's easier for me. I will hope that troubles will pass by your government house, will fly past your standard window. So I'm calmer. Calm down too. Everyone around is asleep and not thinking about anything. Sleep too. Turn off the light.
Voice from across the sea
I lived in the south with an old friend and listened to the radio, probably Turkish, and maybe Arabic ... There was a quiet voice of a woman speaking across the sea; quiet sadness reached me and was understandable to me, although I did not know the words of a foreign language. Then, also quiet, as if endless, music sounded, complained, ached all night, and the singer stepped in imperceptibly, and he also led and led the complaint on one note, became completely inseparable from the darkness of the sky, from the firmament of the earth, with the rolling of sea waves and noise the foliage outside the window - everything, everything merged together. Someone's pain became my pain, and someone's sorrow became my sorrow. At such moments, the consciousness that we, people, are really united in this heavenly world, was quite clearly manifested.
Vision
A thick morning fog fell on Lake Kubenskoye. Not to see the shores, not to see the white light - everything was swaddled with an impenetrable pillowcase. You sit, sit over the hole, and you will feel the ice under you in order to feel support, and to feel yourself, or else it seems that you yourself have floated into space, covered with fog, dissolved in a white dream.
Fishermen wander at this time on the lake, shouting obscene words or, loudly gasping for good spirits, chopping the ice with ice picks, driving away the confused silence.
This is my first time at Lake Kubenskoye. Everything here is amusing and a little eerie for me, but I do not admit to myself and only look around, glad that the figure of a comrade looms three steps away from me. It does not even loom, but appears in tatters in the flowing fog, and then it will completely fade, then it is indicated more clearly.
But here the comrade approached. I can already see the head on it, the hand twitching the fishing rod with a spoon, and a white box under it. Next came the figure of a fisherman, more, more - there is a people, they live, breathe and curse the ruffs, which overwhelm the fishermen with an insatiable horde, do not allow good fish to approach, for which they are called here hunweibins, fascists and whatever. Any obscene words are considered suitable, and none of them affects the ruff, he pecks at himself and pecks at anything and whenever.
I, too, pulled out a ruff, spread out, unperturbed, and threw it into a spring puddle that had formed on the ice. In a puddle, my perch and paths were already swimming. Ruff, as soon as he caught his breath and rolled over on his belly, immediately felt like a master in a puddle, drove out to the edges and knocked over the tracks, rammed the perch. He drifted, fell on his side, splashed in panic.
While we watched the ruff, which behaved in a puddle, as if a peasant had gone for a walk in a women's hostel: having dispersed the entire "audience", he wiggled his wings and thorns in satisfaction - the fog parted even wider, a buoy flashed in the distance with a glare of flame, frozen into the ice; near the puddles, a noisy battle between seagulls and crows was opened because of the ruffs scattered by the fishermen. More and more people were designated - and the soul became more cheerful, and the fish began to take more often. Exclamations of surprise, delight, disappointment were heard from everywhere, then fishermen suddenly broke loose and ran in a crowd to one hole to help fish out a large fish and, lowering it, laughed, swore cheerfully and, consoling the owner of the hole, gave him a smoke or drink a glass.
How and when the sun rose in the sky - I did not notice. It was found high already and at first appeared in the fog only as a ghostly light, and then designated itself, as in an eclipse, with a bright rim. The mists moved away to the shores, the lake became wider, the ice on it seemed to float and sway.
And suddenly above this moving, white in the distance and gray near the ice, I saw a temple floating in the air. He, like a light toy made of papier-mâché, swayed and bounced in the haze of the sun, and the mists melted him down and swayed on their waves.
This temple floated towards me, light, white, fabulously beautiful. I put my rod aside, mesmerized.
Behind the fog, the brush of the forests emerged with sharp peaks. Already the distant factory chimney became visible, and the roofs of the houses along the corners. And the temple was still hovering over the ice, sinking lower and lower, and the sun played in its dome, and it was all illuminated by light, and a haze shone under it.
Finally, the temple sank onto the ice, established itself. I silently pointed a finger at him, thinking that I had a dream, that I really fell asleep and I had a vision from the fog.
- Spas-stone, - my comrade said shortly, for a moment looking up from the hole, and again took up the fishing rod.
And then I remembered, as my Vologda friends told me, when gearing me up for fishing, about some kind of Spas-stone. But I thought that a stone is just a stone. In my homeland, in Siberia, there is Magnetic, and Marked, and Karaulny - these are stones either in the Yenisei itself, or on its banks. And here the Savior Stone is a temple! Monastery! Without taking his eyes off the fishing rod, the comrade muttered to me the story of this diva. In honor of the Russian warrior-prince, who fought for the unification of the northern lands, this monument-monastery was erected. Tradition says that the prince, who was saving by swimming from enemies, began to drown in heavy armor and went to the bottom, when suddenly he felt a stone under his feet, which saved him. And in honor of this miraculous salvation, stones and earth from the shore were piled on the underwater ridge. On boats and on a drawbridge, which every spring was rolled up by breaking ice on the lake, the monks dragged the whole island and set up a monastery on it. The famous Dionysius painted it.
However, already in our time, in the early thirties, construction began on the collective farm and a brick was required. But the monks were builders - not like the present ones, and they made a monolith out of bricks: they had to blow up the monastery. They pulled - and still they did not take the bricks: it turned out to be a pile of ruins and nothing more. Only one bell tower and a living room remained from the monastery, in which nets are now kept and fishermen take refuge from the weather ...
The narrator is convinced that only music will save the world and each of us from internal decay, help to better understand ourselves.
K. Paustovsky "The Old Chef"
For the blind hero of this story, Mozart's music recreated a visible picture, helped to return to the past, to see the happiest events of his life.
V. Korolenko "The Blind Musician"
Petrus was born blind, and music helped him survive and become a truly talented pianist.
A.P. Chekhov "Rothschild's Violin"
Yakov Matveyevich, the hero of the story, the melody he found, amazing in beauty, touching and sad, makes him make philosophical generalizations of a humane nature: if there were no hatred and anger between people, the world would become beautiful, no one would interfere with each other. For the first time, he felt ashamed of having offended those around him.
Leo Tolstoy "Albert"
The main character of the story is a brilliant musician. He plays the violin mesmerizingly, and it seems to the listeners that they are re-experiencing what has been lost forever, that their souls are warming up.
L.N. Tolstoy "War and Peace"
With her singing, Natasha Rostova is able to influence the best in a person. This is how she saved her brother Nikolai from despair after he lost a large amount of money.
The role of fiction in the development of personality
M. Gorky "My universities"
Alyosha, the hero of the story, believed that only the books he had read helped him to withstand the hardest trials of life, to become a man ...
Roles of reading in human life
R. Bradbury "Fahrenheit 451".
The science fiction writer believed that a common man could see only one hundredth with his own eyes, and the remaining ninety-nine percent he learns through a book.
R. Bradbury "Memories"
“Libraries raised me. I don't believe in colleges and universities, I believe in libraries ... I was educated in a library, not in a college. "
The moral value of fiction
R. Bradbury "Fahrenheit 451"
There are no social problems in the utopian world of the future. They were defeated by the destruction of books - after all, literature makes you think. Bonfires from works of art symbolize the death of human spirituality, the transformation of people into hostages of primitive mass culture.
Yu. Bondarev "A rare gift"
In his article, the writer discusses how from childhood the fairy tales and poems of Korney Ivanovich Chukovsky instill in readers the great qualities of humanity: nobility, love of life, hatred of evil, cowardice, cruelty.
V. Shukshin
"Literature should help us understand what is happening to us."
Roles of painting in human life
B. Ekimov "Music of the Old House"
Sketches by Shishkin and Serov in the Russian Museum helped the narrator to see the beauty of the earth, people, and life.
Roles of art in human life
V. Tendryakov "Date with Nefertiti"
Preservation of culture
D.S. Likhachev "Letters about good and beautiful"
Political epochs are changing, but in our country the attitude of the authorities to the monuments of national culture, to churches, museums, libraries has never inspired optimism. The ecology of culture should become one of the most important tasks of our time: after all, it is the source of morality, without which a person is unthinkable.
R. Bradbury "Smile"
During the next "Cultural Revolution" the boy Tom, risking his life, takes away and hides the canvas on which the Gioconda is depicted. He wants to preserve it in order to later return it to people: Tom believes that real art can ennoble even a wild crowd.
The relationship of power and personality, power and artist
The master in the novel was not created for the fierce struggle to which society condemns him and does not understand that, having become a writer, he thereby turns into a competitor of mediocrities and demagogues who have seized the “literary field” and consider it their fiefdom. They are mediocre and therefore hate talented people; among them, opportunists and lackeys, a person who is internally free, who says only what he thinks, evokes a terrible anger. And they are trying to destroy it.
A.I. Herzen "Magpie-thief"
The main heroine of the story, Aneta, is a talented serf actress of the rich prince Stalin. One of the prince's favorites
Y. Golovanov "Studies of Scientists"
The life of the famous Russian inventor Ivan Kulibin is a stern accusation of ignorance and bureaucracy. His largest projects never entered our lives: they remained in the bureaucratic folders. When serious work required the help of the authorities, a wall of indifference arose before the inventors.
OTHER PROBLEMS
Personalities and powers
M. Zamyatin "We"
A single state with its totalitarian power destroyed the personality in everyone: there are no people in the country, but there are “numbers” similar to programmed people.
The reign of evil in the world (just retribution)
M. Bulgakov "The Master and Margarita"
Evil reigns because there is no force in society capable of exposing and punishing it, but punishment, according to Bulgakov, is necessary: the writer is clearly not a supporter of the idea of non-resistance to evil by violence, on the contrary, in his opinion, it is possible only by force and even violence, fear, because these people behave humanly only when they are afraid to behave differently. Woland's retinue thus embodies the principle of justice and retribution in the novel.
Task 25. (1) Home ... Home ... Home ...
(2) Dome Cathedral, with a cockerel on the spire. (3) Tall, stone, it sounds over Riga.
(4) Sounds sway like incense smoke. (5) They are thick, tangible. (6) They are everywhere, and everything is filled with them: soul, earth, world.
(7) Everything froze, stopped.
(8) Mental confusion, the absurdity of a vain life, petty passions, everyday worries - all of this remained in another place, in a different light, in a different life that was distant from me, out there somewhere.
(9) Maybe all that was before was a dream? (10) War, blood, fratricide, supermen playing with human destinies in order to establish themselves above the world.
(11) Why do we live so intensely and difficult on our land? (12) Why? (13) Why?
(14) House. House. House.
(15) Blagovest. (16) Music. (17) The gloom has disappeared. (18) The sun rose. (19) Everything is changing around.
(20) The hall is full of people, old and young, Russian and non-Russian, evil and kind, vicious and light, tired and enthusiastic.
(21) And no one is in the hall!
(22) There is only my serene, disembodied soul, it oozes with incomprehensible pain and tears of quiet delight.
(23) It is purifying itself, the soul is something, and it seems to me that the whole world held its breath, this bubbling, formidable world of ours pondered, ready to fall on its knees with me, to repent, to fall with its withered mouth to the holy spring of good ...
(24) Dome Cathedral! (25) Dome Cathedral! (26) Music! (27) What have you done to me? (28) You are still trembling under the arches, you are still washing your soul, chilling the blood, illuminating everything around with light, knocking on armor breasts and sick hearts, but already a man in black comes out and bows from above. (29) A little man trying to believe that it was he who did the miracle. (30) A magician and a songwriter, a nonentity and a god, to whom everything is subject: both life and death.
(31) Dome Cathedral. (32) Dome Cathedral.
(33) There is no applause here. (34) Here people cry from the tenderness that overwhelmed them. (35) Everyone cries about his own. (36) But together everyone cries about the end, a beautiful dream subsides, that magic is brief, deceptively sweet oblivion and endless torment.
(37) Dome Cathedral. (38) Dome Cathedral.
(39) You are in my shuddering heart. (40) I bow my head in front of your singer, thank you for happiness, albeit a short one, for delight and faith in the human mind, for the miracle created and sung by this mind, thank you for the miracle of the resurrection of faith in life. (41) 3a everything, thank you for everything!
Music occupies a special place in the life of every person.
It's amazing how the notes, instrument and talent of a musician are able to have a beneficial effect on the soul of a person, make us rethink what, it would seem, we regard as immutable truths.
This is a special kind of art, the strength of the impact of which could hardly be compared with anything. So what is the role of music in human life? It is this problem that Viktor Petrovich Astafiev raises in the proposed passage.
The author is in the Riga Dome Church, he is fascinated by the music that “like incense smoke” is in the air. Viktor Petrovich notes that at this time for him does not exist that worries us in everyday life. All this is there, outside the walls of the church, where there are no these magical motives.
Rhetorical questions overwhelm him, making him think about the cruelty of man, the futility of wars, blood and fratricide. The hall is full and empty. The antithesis helps to abstract from the human appearance, because now in the church there is only a "peaceful, disembodied soul" and music.
The world, and with it Viktor Petrovich, are ready "to fall on their knees, to repent, to fall with their withered mouth to the holy spring of good." The author uses a detailed metaphor to show how music affects a sinful person.
The author's position is very clear. Music can heal people's hearts. Under its influence, the state of mind of a person, his view of the world around him, changes. Viktor Petrovich thanks the music and its
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WE WRITE A COMPOSITION VP Astafiev "Dome Cathedral".
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A noun phrase, in which we formulate a topic A noun phrase, in which we formulate the theme of the text (for example, Music ... Magic sounds ...) A rhetorical question addressed to everyone or to oneself (What does music mean in the life of each of us? Or: Why a person in minutes sings or listens to music? How does it help?) A general phrase leading to the formulation of the problem of this particular text (for example, Many people have pondered this problem, and NN, who is considering the role of music in ...) YOU HAVE CORRECTLY SOLVED THE JOB A28, YOU CAN IDENTIFY THE AUTHOR'S POSITION. By asking her a question, you will formulate the problem.
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The commentary should not contain The commentary should not contain a retelling of the source text or any part of it; reasoning about all the problems of the text; comments about the actions of the characters in the text; general reasoning about the text, because you need to comment on one of the problems!
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clearly, directly, directly clearly, directly, directly in the title of the text; in individual sentences of the text; through a series of arguments;
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How to correctly object to the author, setting out his position How to correctly object to the author, setting out his position The author, in my opinion, is not quite right, asserting that ... The point of view of the author is, of course, interesting, but I think that ... In my opinion, the author is somewhat categorical in his judgments.
The author's point of view, it seems to me, is rather controversial.
I believe that the author's assertion that ... In my opinion, the author is not quite right, not noticing the fact that ... The author's assertion is beyond doubt, but as far as I know, there is such a point of view : ... The author's arguments are convincing, but one can hardly agree that ...
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Examples from my own life experience Examples from my own life experience Examples from books, films, radio and TV programs Quotes (if you remember them word for word) Presumptive example Appeal to the common sense of the audience Science conclusions
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The appeal to the reader's experience is the strongest argument of the essay. But you need to refer to it if you remember well both the author of the book and the work itself, in order to avoid factual errors.
When you turn to Russian classical literature, remember this rule: do not allow expressions like Alexander Pushkin, or, say, for example, about M.I.
Tsvetaeva, you cannot call her Marina; speaking about the heroes of a literary work, name them as the author does (Evgeny Bazarov, but not Zhenya, Tatyana Larina, but not Tanya, Katerina (from "The Thunderstorm"), but not Ekaterina. Correctness and accuracy must be observed, otherwise you will lose points according to the criteria K 11, K 12.
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Book of Zatesa. Author - Victor Petrovich Astafiev. Contents - Dome Cathedral
The connection was often broken, and we had a lot of work. The telephone line was stretched through the park and went into the basement of the landlord's house, where the company commander arrived and settled with his servants.
According to a very clever order that was not established by us, if the connection was torn, we, already mutilated and twitched communications from the front line, had to correct it under fire, and company signalmen would scold us, since we did not do it very quickly.
In turn, company signalmen ran through communications to the battalion; battalion - to the regiment, and then I don’t know what and how it was done, further and communications were rarely damaged, and the signalmen called themselves telephone operators, they were well fed, washed and looked at us, trench shrews, with lordly arrogance.
Running along the communication line, I often noticed Abdrashitov digging in the park.
Small, with awkwardly wrapped windings, he was already covered in clay and plaster, emaciated and completely blackened, and to my brisk "salam aleikum!", Smiling quietly and guiltily, answered: "Hello!" I asked him if he ate.
The goddess over the fountain Abdrashitov and the Pole were repaired. They covered the wounds on it with unclean plaster, collected the breast, but collected it without the nipple. The goddess became ugly, and even if bloodless veins would appear on her, she did not cheer up at all. The goddess, in patches, was still mournfully bowing over the silent fountain, in which the fishes rotted and the slimy lilies blackened.
The Germans got wind of something about our offensive and watered the front line with everything they had at their disposal.
My partner and I scoured the park, mending communications and scolding everyone who came to mind.
On a rainy, nautical morning, our guns struck - artillery preparation began, the ground swayed under our feet, the last fruits fell from the trees in the park, and the leaf spun up above.
The platoon leader ordered me to break up the communications and follow them on the attack with a coil and a telephone set. I merrily rushed along the line to rewind the wires: although it was cozy in the master's hut and manor, I was still tired of it - it's time and honor to know, it's time to go ahead, to joke a German to Berlin is still far away.
Shells rushed over me with discordant screams, kurlykans and whistles.
The Germans answered rarely and anywhere - I was already an experienced soldier and knew: the German infantry was lying now, with its nose buried in the ground, and prayed to God that the Russians' stock of shells would soon run out.
“It won't end! They will hammer for an hour and ten minutes until they make a mess of you, who are daring, ”- I reflected with feverish elation. During artillery preparation it is always like this: it is scary, it shakes everything inside and at the same time, passions flare up in the soul.
As I ran with a reel around my neck, I stumbled, and my thoughts were cut off: the goddess Venus stood without her head, and her hands were torn off, only her palm remained, with which she covered her shame, and Abdrashitov and a Pole were lying near the fountain covered with earth, covered with white splinters and plaster dust. Both of them were killed. Before the morning, the Germans, disturbed by the silence, made an artillery attack on the front line and fired a lot of shells into the park.
The Pole, I ascertained, was the first to be wounded - a piece of plaster had not yet dried up in his fingers and had not crumbled. Abdrashitov tried to pull the Pole into the pool, under the fountain, but did not manage to do this - they were covered again, and both of them calmed down.
A bucket lay on its side, and a gray plaster of paris fell out of it, the broken head of the goddess lay and with one unseen eye looked at the sky, screaming with a crooked hole punched below her nose. There was a mutilated, disfigured goddess Venus. And at her feet, in a pool of blood, lay two people - a Soviet soldier and a gray-haired Polish citizen, trying to heal the beaten beauty.
Home ... Home ... Home ...
Dome Cathedral, with a cock on the spire. Tall, stone, it sounds over Riga.
The vaults of the cathedral are filled with organ singing. From the sky, from above floats now a rumble, now thunder, now the gentle voice of lovers, now the call of the Vestals, now the roulades of the horn, now the sounds of the harpsichord, now the sound of a rolling brook ...
And again, with a formidable wave of raging passions, it blows everything away, again a roar.
Sounds sway like incense smoke. They are thick, tangible. They are everywhere, and everything is filled with them: soul, earth, world.
Everything froze, stopped.
Mental confusion, the absurdity of a vain life, petty passions, everyday worries - all of this remained in another place, in a different light, in a different life, distant from me, out there somewhere.
“Maybe all that came before was a dream? Wars, blood, fratricide, supermen playing with human destinies in order to establish themselves above the world.
Why do we live so intensely and difficult on our land? What for? Why?"
House. House. House…
Blagovest. Music. The gloom was gone. The sun rose. Everything is changing around.
There is no cathedral with electric candles, with ancient molding, with glass, toy and candy depicting paradise life. There is a world and I, calmed with awe, ready to kneel before the greatness of beauty.
The hall is full of people, old and young, Russian and non-Russian, party and non-party, evil and kind, vicious and light, tired and enthusiastic, all sorts of things.
And no one is in the hall!
There is only my serene, disembodied soul, it oozes with incomprehensible pain and tears of quiet delight.
It purifies itself, the soul is something, and it seems to me that the whole world held its breath, this seething, formidable world of ours was thinking, ready to fall on its knees with me, to repent, to fall with its withered mouth to the holy spring of good ...
And suddenly, like an obsession, like a blow: and yet at this time, somewhere, someone is targeting this cathedral, this great music ... with cannons, bombs, missiles ...
It can't be! Must not be!
And if there is. If we are destined to die, burn out, disappear, then let now, even at this moment, fate punish us for all our evil deeds and vices. Since we are unable to live freely, together, let at least our death be free, and the soul will go to another world, lightened and bright.
We all live together. We die separately. This has been the case for centuries. It was so until this moment.
So let's go now, let's rather, while there is no fear. Don't turn people into animals before you kill them. Let the vaults of the cathedral collapse, and instead of crying about the bloody, criminally folded path, people will carry the music of a genius into their hearts, and not the bestial roar of a murderer.
The Dome Cathedral! The Dome Cathedral! Music! What have you done to me? You are still trembling under the arches, you are still washing your soul, chilling your blood, illuminating everything around with light, knocking on your armored chests and sick hearts, but already a man in black comes out and bows from above. A small man trying to assure that it was he who did the miracle. A wizard and a songwriter, a nonentity and God, to whom everything is subject: both life and death.
The Dome Cathedral. The Dome Cathedral.
There is no applause here. Here people cry from the tenderness that overwhelmed them. Everyone cries about his own. But together everyone cries about the end, a wonderful dream subsides, that magic is brief, deceptively sweet oblivion and endless torment.
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A thick morning fog fell on Lake Kubenskoye. Not to see the shores, not to see the white light. How and when the sun rose - I did not notice. The mists moved away to the shores, the lake became wider, the ice on it seemed to float and sway.
And suddenly above this moving, white in the distance and gray near the ice, I saw a temple floating in the air. He, like a light toy made of papier-mâché, swayed and bounced in the haze of the sun, and the mists swayed him on their waves.
This temple floated towards me, light, white, fabulously beautiful. I put my rod aside, mesmerized.
Behind the fog, the brush of the forests emerged with sharp peaks. Already the distant factory chimney became visible, and the roofs of the houses. And the temple was still hovering over the ice, sinking lower and lower, and the sun played in its dome, and it was all illuminated by light, and a haze shone under it.
Finally, the temple sank onto the ice, established itself. I silently pointed to him, thinking that I dreamed that I really fell asleep and a vision from the fog appeared to me.
- Spas-stone, - my comrade shortly said.
And then I remembered how my friends told me about some kind of Savior-stone. But I thought that a stone is just a stone.
And here the Savior Stone is a temple! Monastery!
Without taking his eyes off the fishing rod, the comrade muttered to me the story of this diva. In honor of the Russian warrior-prince, who fought for the unification of the northern lands, this monument-monastery was erected.
Tradition says that the prince, fleeing from enemies, began to drown in heavy armor and went to the bottom, when suddenly he felt a stone under his feet, which saved him. And in honor of this miraculous salvation, stones and earth from the shore were piled on the underwater ridge.
On boats and on a drawbridge, which every spring was rolled up by breaking ice on the lake, the monks dragged the whole island and set up a monastery on it. The famous Dionysius painted it.
However, already in our time, in the early thirties, construction began on the collective farms and brick was required. But the monks were excellent builders and made a monolith out of bricks.
I had to blow up the monastery. They pulled - and still they did not take the bricks: it turned out to be a pile of ruins, and nothing more.
Only one bell tower and a living room remained from the monastery, in which nets are now kept and fishermen take refuge from the weather ...
I looked at the sun-drenched temple. The lake was already completely swaddled, the fogs rose high. Among the huge lake, endlessly iridescent with glare, a temple stood on the ice - white, as if crystal, and I still wanted to pinch myself, make sure that all this was not in a dream, not a mirage vision.
It takes your breath away, just think what this temple was like until they laid explosives under it!
“Yes,” the comrade says, still gloomy. - He was such that words cannot be said. A miracle, in a word, a miracle created by human hands and mind.
I look and look at the Savior-stone, forgetting about fishing rods, and about fish, and about everything in the world.
Presentation "Vision" - (Astafiev)
V.P. Astafiev, "Dome Cathedral": a summary, features of the work and reviews
Viktor Petrovich Astafiev, the author of the story "The Dome Cathedral", was born in troubled times and swallowed in full all the troubles and misfortunes that fate could have prepared for him.
From an early age, life did not spoil him: at first his mother died, and Victor could not accept it until the end of his life, later his father brought a new wife into the house, but she could not stand the boy. So he ended up on the street.
Later, Viktor Petrovich wrote in his biography that he began an independent life suddenly and without any preparation.
A master of literature and a hero of his time
V.P. Astafiev's literary life will be quite eventful, and his works will be loved by all readers, from the smallest to the most serious.
Astafiev's story "The Dome Cathedral" undoubtedly took one of the most honorable places in his literary biography, and even years later it never ceases to find connoisseurs among the modern generation.
V. Astafiev, "Dome Cathedral": a summary
In the hall filled with people, organ music sounds, from which the lyric hero has various associations.
He analyzes these sounds, compares them with high and sonorous sounds of nature, then with hissing and low peals of thunder. Suddenly, his whole life appears before his eyes - his soul, the earth, and the world.
He recalls the war, pain, losses and, struck by the sound of the organ, is ready to kneel before the greatness of beauty.
Despite the fact that the hall is full of people, the lyric hero continues to feel lonely. Suddenly a thought flashes through his mind: he wants everything to collapse, all the executioners, the murderers, and music sounded in the souls of people.
He talks about human existence, about death, about the path of life, about the importance of a small person in this big world and understands that the Dome Cathedral is a place where gentle music lives, where all applause and other exclamations are prohibited, that this is a house of silence and tranquility. ... The lyrical hero bows his soul before the cathedral and thanks him from the bottom of his heart.
Analysis of the work "Dome Cathedral"
Now let's take a closer look at the story written by Astafiev ("Dome Cathedral"). Analysis and comments to the story can be presented as follows.
From the very first lines, the reader observes the author's admiration for the majestic piece of architectural art - the Dome Cathedral. Viktor Petrovich more than once had to visit this cathedral, which soon came to his liking.
The building of the Dome Cathedral itself, located in the capital of Latvia - Riga, has survived to this day only partially.
Made in the Rococo style, the cathedral was built according to the project of foreign sculptors and architects, who were specially invited to erect a new structure that would have sounded for centuries and remained an excellent reminder to subsequent generations of bygone times.
But it was the organ with incredible acoustic power that made the cathedral a real attraction. Great composers-virtuosos wrote their works especially for this majestic organ and gave concerts there, in the cathedral.
Thanks to the assonances and dissonances that V.P. Astafiev skillfully uses at the beginning of the story, the reader can feel himself in his place.
Organ melodies, compared with the thunder and the rumble of waves, with the sounds of a harpsichord and a resounding stream, reach us seemingly through space and time ...
The writer tries to compare the sounds of the organ with his thoughts. He understands that all those terrible memories, pain, grief, worldly vanity and endless problems - all disappeared in an instant. The sound of the organ has such a majestic power.
"Dome Cathedral" is rightfully one of his deepest philosophical works.
The image of loneliness and soul in the story
Loneliness is not a fact, but a state of mind. And if a person is lonely, then even in society he will continue to consider himself so. Organ music sounds through the lines of the work, and the lyric hero suddenly realizes that all those people - evil, kind, old and young - have all disappeared. He feels in a crowded hall only himself and no one else ...
And then, like a bolt from the blue, the hero is pierced by a thought: he realizes that at this very moment someone, perhaps, is trying to destroy this cathedral. Endless thoughts swarm in his head, and the soul healed by the sounds of the organ is ready to die overnight for this divine melody.
The music stopped sounding, but left an indelible imprint on the soul and heart of the author. He, being impressed, analyzes every sound that sounded and cannot help but say “thank you” to him.
The lyrical hero received healing from the accumulated problems, grief and the killing bustle of the big city.
Genre "Dome Cathedral"
What else can you say about the story "Dome Cathedral" (Astafiev)? It is difficult to define the genre of the work, because it has the designations of several genres. "Dome Cathedral" is written in the genre of an essay, reflecting the inner state of the author, impressions from one life event. For the first time Viktor Astafiev published "The Dome Cathedral" in 1971. The story was included in the cycle "Zatesi".
"Dome Cathedral": composition plan
Finally
It is worth noting that the author, undoubtedly, has a subtle mental organization, because not everyone will be able to feel the music so much, heal under its influence and with subtle tender words convey their inner state to the reader. Victor Astafiev as a phenomenon of our time deserves respect. And by all means, everyone should read the work of Viktor Astafiev "The Dome Cathedral".
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Algorithm for working with part "C"
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The Dome Cathedral is an old cathedral, which, unfortunately, has not been completely preserved to this day. It is located in the capital of Latvia - Riga. The building was built of red brick and topped with a black bell dome, which is made in the Baroque style. Inside the Dome Cathedral there is an organ with incredible acoustic power. It has 4 sets of hand keys. The organ has been reconstructed three times. Many outstanding composers wrote works for the great organ and gave their concerts right in the cathedral. The organ is 25 meters high and sounds perfect.
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(1) Dome Cathedral. (2) House ... (B) House ... (4) House .. (5) The vaults of the cathedral are filled with organ singing. (b) From the sky, from above, floats now a rumble, then thunder, then the gentle voice of lovers, then the call of the Vestals, then the roulades of the horn, then the sounds of the harpsichord, then the sound of a rolling brook ... (7) The sounds sway like incense smoke. (8) They are thick, tangible, (9) They are everywhere, and everything is filled with them: the soul, the earth, the world. (10) Everything froze, stopped. (11) Mental confusion, the absurdity of a vain life, petty passions, everyday worries - all-all this remained in another place, in a different light, in a different life, distant from me, there, somewhere. “(12) Maybe all that came before was a dream? (13) Wars, blood, fratricide, supermen playing with human destinies in order to establish themselves above the world ... (14) Why do we live so intensely and difficult on our land? (15) Why? (16) Why? "
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(17) House. (18) House. (19) House ... (20) Annunciation. (21) Music. (22) The darkness has disappeared. (23) The sun rose. (24) Everything is changing around. (25) There is no cathedral with electric candles, with ancient molding, with glass, toy and candy, depicting paradise life. (26) There is a world and I, subdued with reverence, ready to kneel before the greatness of beauty. (27) Zal is full of people, old and young, Russian and non-Russian, evil and kind, vicious and bright, tired and enthusiastic, all sorts of things. (28) And no one is in the hall! (29) There is only my serene, disembodied soul, it oozes with incomprehensible pain and tears of quiet delight. (30) It is purified, the soul is something, and it seems to me that the whole world held its breath, this seething, formidable world of ours pondered, ready to fall on its knees with me, to repent, to fall with its withered mouth to the holy spring of good ...
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(31) Dome Cathedral. (32) Dome Cathedral. (33) 3 There is no applause here. (34) 3Here people cry from the tenderness that overwhelmed them. (35) Everyone cries about his own. (36) But together everyone cries about the end, a beautiful dream subsides, that magic is brief, deceptively sweet oblivion and endless torment. (37) Dome Cathedral. (38) Dome Cathedral. (39) You are in my shuddering heart. (40) I bow my head in front of your singer, thank you for happiness, albeit a short one, for delight and faith in the human mind, for the miracle created and sung by this mind, thank you for the miracle of the resurrection of faith in life. (41) 3a everyone, thank you for everything! (According to V. Astafiev)
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What is the text read about? (About music). What questions does the author consider, what is he talking about? (About how, under the influence of music, the perception of the surrounding world changes, the state of mind of the hero changes). What does the author want to tell us through this text? (About the enormous power of music, about its ability to influence the soul of a person, to heal people's hearts). Initial perception of the text
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Define the style and type of text Publicistic style Type of text - description and reasoning Make a plan for the text Dome Cathedral Everything is filled with music The impact of music on a person Purification of the soul under the influence of music Gratitude to the Dome Cathedral and music for resurrection What is this text about? The author of the text V. Astafiev reflects on the power of the influence of music on a person What worries the author? Music brings people together. What will save the human soul? Only music.
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Find in the text sentences in which the author speaks about the problems posed The sounds of music are everywhere, and everything is filled with them: soul, earth, peace. Mental confusion, the absurdity of a vain life, petty passions, everyday worries - all-all this remained in another world ... Wars, blood, fratricide, supermen ... Why do we live so intensely and difficult on our land? Here people cry from the tenderness that overwhelmed them. Formulate the problem in words In the text offered for analysis, the author reflects on the role of music in human life. Use these suggestions to comment on the issue
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We formulate the problem
A noun phrase in which we formulate the theme of the text (for example, Music ... Magic sounds ...) A rhetorical question addressed to everyone or to oneself (What does music mean in the life of each of us? Or: Why does a person sing, listen to music in moments of sadness or joy ? How does it help?) A general phrase leading to the formulation of the problem of this particular text (for example, A lot of people thought about this problem, they did not leave NN indifferent, who is considering the question of the role of music in ...) IF YOU HAVE CORRECTLY SOLVED PROBLEM A28 YOU CAN IDENTIFY THE AUTHOR'S POSITION. By asking her a question, you will formulate the problem.
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the problem of the purpose of art; the role of music in human life. the problem is formulated; the problem is raised; raised the problem; the problem is highlighted; the problem is being discussed; the problem considered by the author and others. Possible variants of the formulation of the problem of the original text Support phrases for the formulation of the problem of the text
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The problem (what? What?) The author examines with an example ... Commenting on this problem, I would like to note ... Considering this problem, the author draws the reader's attention to ... There is no consensus in the literature on the problem expressed ... The problem (what? What?) Is solved by researchers in different ways , but ... This is one of the most pressing problems ... Let's consider this problem in more detail. A transitional moment from problem to comment.
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Commentary on the formulated problem of the source text
The commentary should not contain a retelling of the source text or any part of it; reasoning about all the problems of the text; comments about the actions of the characters in the text; general reasoning about the text, because you need to comment on one of the problems!
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How do I comment on the problem? Remember that the commentary should be based on the text read. The content of the commentary can be concretized with the help of the following questions: How, on what material does the author reveal the problem? What is it focusing on? What aspects of the problem are discussed in the text? What emotions of the author are expressed in the text? How is the author's attitude to the depicted expressed? What means of expressiveness help to reveal the author's attitude to the problem? The commentary represents a logical transition from the formulation of the problem to the presentation of the author's position. To distinguish a commentary from a retelling, you need to remember the following: in retelling, we are talking about what the heroes are doing, and when commenting, we are talking about what the author is doing.
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Arguing about the role of music in human life, the writer V. Astafyev speaks about the famous Dome Cathedral, about the sublime, divine sound of an organ that makes a person forget about bad, evil and separating people. Music unites all those gathered in the hall, enlightens souls (“It is being purified, the soul is…”, “the whole world is holding its breath”). The text is built on oppositions: “wars, blood, fratricide ...” - “evangelism”, “music”, “sun”. The author admires music, its power and beauty (actively uses comparisons: sounds, "like incense smoke", metaphors (sentences 6, 29, 30); interrogative and exclamatory sentences. Astafiev addresses the Dome Cathedral as a living one with words of gratitude for this purification and enlightenment. Commentary on the formulated problem of the original text
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In what proposals is the author's position expressed? Mental confusion, the absurdity of a vain life, petty passions, everyday worries - all of this remained in another world ... It is purified, the soul, and ... this ... formidable world of ours ... is ready ... to fall on its knees ... to fall with its withered mouth to the holy spring good ... Everything is changing around. I thank you for the happiness, for the delight and faith in the human mind, ... I thank you for the miracle of the resurrection of faith in life. Formulate the author's position in words. The author believes that music has tremendous power, it is able to excite the human soul, to change the attitude towards the world around us. “Mental turmoil, absurdity of vain life, petty passions, everyday worries - all of this remained in another place, in a different light ...” and others. The narrator is convinced that only music will save the world and each of us from internal decay, help to better understand myself.
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How to identify the author's position? If the problem of the text is formulated as a question, then the position of the author is the answer to the question. In order to identify the position of the author, try to answer the following questions: "What did the author want to say when creating the text?" The position of the author of a journalistic text is usually revealed quite simply. It is much more difficult to determine the author's point of view in a literary text. And here a good knowledge of pictorial and expressive means will come to the rescue, since it is through their analysis that we can determine the author's attitude to his heroes, to the problem.
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Reflection of the position of the author of the source text
clearly, directly, directly in the title of the text; in individual sentences of the text; through a series of arguments; rhetorical questions through the modal outline of the text; rhetorical exclamations; word order; lexical repetitions; evaluative vocabulary. The author's position can be expressed
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We formulate the position of the author. Do not attribute thoughts to the author that are not in the text !!! Do not confuse the author of the text and the hero of the story !!! What did the author want to say? What was the purpose of his statement? Why did he write this? How does he himself relate to the problem posed? What does the text teach? The author can relate to what is depicted: Positively Negative Ambiguously Dually Skeptical Ironically ... "One cannot disagree with the author's opinion" is not a formulation of the author's opinion.
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Do you agree with the author's point of view? I agree (agree) with the opinion of the author that ... the author is right that ... I agree with the position of the author and believe that ... and then we repeat the position of the author again only in other words. It is advisable to write each argument with a red line; one of the most successful methods of including arguments in the text of an essay is the use of introductory words: firstly, secondly. But you can argue without introductory words. It is not advised to give arguments using the construct with the union because. YOU CAN WRITE: "It is impossible to disagree with the author's point of view on (pointing out the problem)." If you disagree with the author's position, express your disagreement very correctly. For example, like this: "With all my respect for the author's point of view (or for NN's thoughts about ...), I still allow myself to express my own vision of this problem (or I will try to refute his opinion)."
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How to correctly object to the author, stating his position The author, in my opinion, is not quite right, asserting that ... The point of view of the author is, of course, interesting, but I believe that ... In my opinion, the author is somewhat categorical in his judgments. The author's point of view, it seems to me, is rather controversial. I believe that the author's assertion that ... In my opinion, the author is not quite right, not noticing the fact that ... The author's assertion is beyond doubt, but as far as I know, there is such a point of view : ... The author's arguments are convincing, but one can hardly agree that ...
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Go to argumentation. Let's give an example Let's refer to an example Let's take as an example Let's compare On the one hand None of us will object The brightest examples of this can be ... In this part, you do not deduce anything new, but only confirm what has been said !!! The goal is to explain and concretize the above provisions. The meaning of the argumentation is to show the relevance, importance of the problem, the inviolability of the axiom being proved.
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We draw up and fill in the table This part of the work cannot repeat the comment !!! The argumentation can be: Real facts from life (printed sources) Examples of their films, programs, periodicals Proverbs, sayings, aphorisms (folk wisdom) Examples from fiction Examples from historical and popular science literature.
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What can be an argument
Examples from personal life experience Examples from books, films, radio and television programs Quotes (if you remember them word for word) Presumptive example Appeal to the common sense of the audience Science conclusions
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Reading experience Fiction Historical literature Popular non-fiction Literature Turning to the reading experience is the strongest argument of the essay. But you need to refer to it if you remember well both the author of the book and the work itself, in order to avoid factual errors. When you turn to Russian classical literature, remember this rule: do not allow expressions like Alexander Pushkin, or, speaking, say, about MI Tsvetaeva, you cannot call her Marina; speaking about the heroes of a literary work, name them as the author does (Evgeny Bazarov, but not Zhenya, Tatyana Larina, but not Tanya, Katerina (from "The Thunderstorm"), but not Ekaterina. Correctness and accuracy must be observed, otherwise you will lose points according to the criteria K 11, K 12.
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For the blind hero of K. Paustovsky's story "The Old Chef", Mozart's music recreated a visible picture, helped to return to the past, to see the happiest events of his life. Petrus in the story by V.G. Korolenko "The Blind Musician" was born blind, and music helped him survive and become a truly talented pianist. With her singing Natasha Rostova ("War and Peace" by LN Tolstoy) is able to influence the best in man. This is how she saved her brother Nikolai from despair after he lost a large amount of money. One can recall the concerts of the symphony orchestra under the direction of Valery Gergiev in the destroyed Tskhinvali. Possible arguments
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Title (preferred, but not required). I. Introduction. II. Formulation of the main problem of the original text. III. Commentary on the main problem of the text. IV. Determination of the author's position. V. Statement of their own position: 1st argument in defense of their own position; 2nd argument; output. Vi. Conclusion. Thus, an essay for a given text should have approximately 9 parts. Each part must be written with a red line. The sequence of the parts also does not need to be changed, otherwise the logic of the presentation will be violated. The plan of the essay-reasoning on the given text.
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Lyrical reflection. A number of rhetorical questions, consonant with the topic (idea, problem). Dialogue with an imaginary interlocutor. A number of nominative sentences that create a figurative picture arising from associations in connection with the problems of the text. It can start with a quote, proverb, sayings. It can start with a key word of the text, etc. An introduction to an essay based on the text of V. Astafiev should be ... About what? (about music). The introduction can be written in the form:
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The introduction could be like this: French writer Stendhal said: “Music, when it is perfect, brings the heart into exactly the same state that you experience enjoying the presence of a loved one, that is, that it gives, undoubtedly, the brightest happiness that is possible on earth ". One (French) writer said that music gives a person the brightest happiness that is possible on earth, and affects the human soul as strongly as love. " Perhaps such a beginning, if you do not remember the author of the statement or the quote verbatim:
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It is enough to summarize what has been said in one sentence and move on to the conclusion to the entire essay based on the original text. To write a conclusion, you need to return to the introduction again, read it, since the introduction and the conclusion are organically linked. Conclusion
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