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Of course, Tolstoy was largely an improviser. His thought got ahead of his hand.
All writers must know that wonderful state during work when a new thought or picture appears suddenly, as if bursting like flashes to the surface from the depths of consciousness. If they are not written down immediately, they may also disappear without a trace.
There is light and awe in them, but they are fragile, like dreams. Those dreams that we remember only for a split second after waking up, but then immediately forget. No matter how much we suffer and try to remember them later, we fail. What remains from these dreams is only the feeling of something extraordinary, mysterious, something “wonderful,” as Gogol would say.
We need to have time to write it down. The slightest delay - and the thought, flashing, will disappear.
Perhaps this is why many writers cannot write on narrow strips of paper, on galleys, as journalists do. You cannot take your hand off the paper too often, because even this insignificant delay of a fraction of a second can be disastrous. Obviously, the work of consciousness is carried out with fantastic speed.
The French poet Beranger wrote his songs in cheap cafes. And Ehrenburg, as far as I know, also liked to write in cafes. It's clear. Because there is no better loneliness than among a lively crowd, unless, of course, no one and nothing directly takes you away from your thoughts and does not encroach on your concentration.
Andersen loved to make up his fairy tales in the forests. He had good, very strong vision. Therefore, he could look at a piece of bark or an old pine cone and see on them, as if through a magnifying lens, details from which a fairy tale could easily be composed.
In general, everything in the forest - every mossy stump and every red robber ant that drags, like a kidnapped pretty princess, a small midge with transparent green wings - all this can turn into a fairy tale.
I would not like to talk about my own literary experience. This is unlikely to add anything significant to what has already been said. But still I will add a few words of my own.
If we want to achieve the highest flowering of our literature, then we must understand that the most fruitful form social activities the writer is his creative work. Hidden from everyone before the publication of the book, the work of the writer turns after its publication into a universal matter.
We need to save the time, energy and talent of writers, and not waste them on exhausting literary fuss and meetings.
A writer, when he works, needs peace and, if possible, freedom from worries. If there is any, even remote, trouble ahead, then it is better not to take up the manuscript. The pen will fall from your hands, or tortured empty words will creep out from under it.
Several times in my life I have worked with a light heart, focused and leisurely.
Once I sailed in winter on a completely empty ship from Batum to Odessa. The sea was gray, cold, quiet. The shores were drowning in ashen darkness. Heavy clouds, as if in a lethargic sleep, lay on the ridges of distant mountains.
I wrote in the cabin, sometimes I got up, went to the porthole, looked at the shores. Mighty machines sang quietly in the iron womb of the ship. The seagulls were squeaking. It was easy to write. No one could tear me away from my favorite thoughts. I didn’t have to think about anything, absolutely nothing, except about the story I was writing. I felt this as the greatest happiness. The open sea protected me from any interference.
And the awareness of movement in space, the vague expectation of port cities where we were supposed to go, the premonition of, perhaps, some kind of non-tiring and short meetings, also helped a lot.
The motor ship cut the pale winter water with its steel stem, and it seemed to me that it was carrying me to inevitable happiness. It seemed so to me, obviously, because the story was a success.
And I also remember how easy it was to work on the mezzanine of a village house, in the fall, alone, with the crackling of a candle.
The dark and windless September night surrounded me and, like the sea, protected me from any interference.
It’s hard to say why, but it really helped to write knowing that the old village garden was flying around the wall all night long. I thought of him as a living being. He was silent and patiently waited for the time when I would go to the well late in the evening to get water for the kettle. Perhaps it was easier for him to endure this endless night when he heard the clanking of a bucket and the steps of a man.
But, in any case, the feeling of a lonely garden and cold forests stretching beyond the outskirts for tens of kilometers, forest lakes, where on such a night, of course, there cannot be a single human soul, but only the stars are reflected in the water, as a hundred and a thousand years ago - this feeling helped me. Perhaps I can say that on these autumn evenings I was truly happy.
It’s good to write when something interesting, joyful, loved awaits you ahead, even such a trifle as fishing under black willows on a remote oxbow river.
Old man in the station cafeteria
A thin old man with prickly stubble on his face sat in the corner of the station cafeteria in Majori. Winter squalls swept over the Gulf of Riga with hanging streaks. There was thick ice off the coast. Through the snowy smoke one could hear the crashing surf, hitting the strong ice edge.
The old man went into the buffet, apparently to warm up. He didn’t order anything and sat dejectedly on the wooden sofa, with his hands in the sleeves of his clumsily patched fishing jacket.
A white furry dog came with the old man. She sat pressed against his leg and trembled.
Nearby, at a table, young men with tight, red heads were noisily drinking beer. The snow melted on their hats. Melt water dripped into glasses of beer and onto smoked sausage sandwiches. But the young people were arguing about a football match and did not pay attention to it.
When one of the young men took a sandwich and bit off half at once, the dog could not stand it. She walked up to the table, stood on her hind legs and, ingratiatingly, began to look into the young man’s mouth.
- Petit! – the old man called quietly. – Aren’t you ashamed! Why are you bothering people, Petya?
But Petya continued to stand, and only her front paws kept trembling and drooping from fatigue. When they touched the wet belly, the dog remembered and picked them up again.
But the young people did not notice her. They were deep in conversation and kept pouring cold beer into their glasses.
Snow covered the windows, and a shiver ran down the spine at the sight of people drinking completely ice-cold beer in such cold weather.
- Petit! – the old man called again. - And Petit! Come here!
The dog quickly shook its tail several times, as if letting the old man know that she heard him and apologized, but could not help it. She did not look at the old man and even looked away in a completely different direction. She seemed to be saying: “I myself know that this is not good. But you can’t buy me a sandwich like that.”
- Eh, Petit! Petit! – the old man said in a whisper, and his voice trembled slightly with chagrin.
Petya wagged her tail again and glanced casually, pleadingly at the old man. She seemed to ask him not to call him again and not to shame him, because she herself was not feeling well in her soul and, if not for the extreme, she would, of course, never have asked strangers.
Finally, one of the young men, with high cheekbones and a green hat, noticed the dog.
-Are you asking, bitch? - he asked. -Where is your master?
Petit happily wagged her tail, looked at the old man and even squealed a little.
- What are you doing, citizen! - said the young man. – If you keep a dog, you should feed it that way. Otherwise it turns out uncivilized. The dog is begging you for alms. Begging is prohibited by law in our country.
The young people laughed.
- Well, I’ve soaked it, Valka! – one of them shouted and threw a piece of sausage to the dog.
- Petya, don’t you dare! - the old man shouted. His weathered face and skinny, sinewy neck turned red.
The dog shrank and, lowering its tail, walked up to the old man, without even looking at the sausage.
“Don’t you dare take a crumb from them!” - said the old man.
He began frantically rummaging in his pockets, took out some silver and copper change and counted it in his palm, blowing off the debris stuck to the coins. His fingers were trembling.
- He’s still offended! - said the high-cheeked young man. – How independent, please tell me.
- Oh, leave him alone! What did you give it to! – one of his comrades said conciliatoryly, pouring beer for everyone.
The old man didn't say a word. He walked over to the counter and placed a few coins on the wet counter.
- One sandwich! - he said hoarsely.
The dog stood next to him with its tail between its legs.
The saleswoman served the old man two sandwiches on a plate.
- One! - said the old man.
- Take it! – the saleswoman said quietly. - I won’t go broke on you...
- Paldies! - said the old man. - Thank you!
He took the sandwiches and went out onto the platform. There was no one there. One squall passed, the second was approaching, but was still far on the horizon. Even weak sunlight fell on the white forests beyond the Lielupe River.
The old man sat down on a bench, gave one sandwich to Petya, and wrapped the other in a gray handkerchief and hid it in his pocket.
The dog ate frantically, and the old man, looking at her, said:
- Oh, Petit, Petit! Stupid dog!
But the dog did not listen to him. She was just eating. The old man looked at her and wiped his eyes with his sleeve - they were probably watering from the wind.
That, in fact, is the whole little story that happened at Majori station on the Riga seaside.
Why did I tell it?
Reflecting on the meaning of details in prose, I remembered this story and realized that if I told it without one main detail - without the dog apologizing to its owner with all its appearance, without this ingratiating gesture of the little creature, then this story would become rougher than it was was actually.
And if we throw out other details - a clumsily patched jacket, indicating widowhood or loneliness, drops of melt water falling from the hats of young people, ice-cold beer, small money with rubbish stuck to it from the pocket, and, finally, even squalls that came from the sea in white walls, then the story would become much drier and bloodless.
IN last years details have begun to disappear from our fiction, especially from younger writers.
But without details, a thing cannot live. Any story then turns into that dry smoked whitefish stick that Chekhov mentioned. The whitefish itself is missing, but one skinny sliver sticks out.
The meaning of detail is that, according to Pushkin, a little thing that usually eludes the eye will flash large and become visible to everyone.
On the other hand, there are writers who suffer from tedious and boring observation. They fill their writings with piles of details - without selection, without understanding that detail has the right to live and is necessary only if it is characteristic, if it can immediately, like a ray of light, snatch any person or any phenomenon from the darkness.
For example, to give an idea of the heavy rain that had begun, it is enough to write that its first drops clicked loudly on the newspaper lying on the ground under the window.
Or, to convey the terrible feeling of the death of an infant, it is enough to say about it as Alexei Tolstoy said in “Walking through Torment”:
Exhausted, Dasha fell asleep, and when she woke up, her child was dead.
“I grabbed him and turned him around; his blond and thin hair stood on end on his high skull.
...Dasha told her husband:
- While I was sleeping, death came to him... Understand - his hair stood on end... One was suffering... I was sleeping...
No amount of persuasion could drive away from her the vision of the boy’s lonely struggle with death.”
This detail (the light child's hair standing on end) is worth many pages of the most accurate description of death.
Both of these details are right on target. This is the only detail that should be—determining the whole and, moreover, mandatory.
In the manuscript of one young writer I came across the following dialogue:
“Great, Aunt Pasha! - Alexey said as he entered. (Before this, the author says that Alexey opened the door to Aunt Pasha’s room with his hand, as if the door could be opened head.)
– Hello, Alyosha,– Aunt Pasha exclaimed warmly, looked up from her sewing and looked at Alexei. - Why haven’t you come in for a long time?
- Yes, there’s no time. I held meetings all week.
– All week you say?
– Exactly, Aunt Pasha! Whole week. Is Volodka missing? – Alexey asked, looking around the empty room.
– No. He's in production.
– Well, then I went. Goodbye, Aunt Pasha. Stay healthy.
– “Goodbye, Alyosha,” answered Aunt Pasha. - Be healthy.
Alexei went to the door and opened it and left. Aunt Pasha looked after him and shook her head.
- A lively guy. Motor".
This entire passage consists, in addition to carelessness and sloppy manner of writing, of completely unnecessary and empty things (they are underlined). All these are unnecessary, uncharacteristic, non-defining details.
The search and definition require the strictest selection.
Detail is closely related to what we call intuition.
I imagine intuition as the ability to reconstruct a picture of the whole from a single particular, from a detail, from one property.
Intuition helps the authors of historical works to recreate not only the true picture of the life of past eras, but their very unique flavor, the feelings of people, their psyche, which, in comparison with ours, was, of course, somewhat different.
Intuition helped Pushkin, who had never been to Spain or England, to write magnificent Spanish poetry, to write “The Stone Guest”, and in “A Feast in the Time of Plague” to give a picture of medieval England, no worse than Walter Scott or Burns could have done - natives of this foggy country.
Good detail also gives the reader an intuitive and correct idea of the whole - about a person and his condition, about an event or, finally, about an era.
White Night
The old steamer left the pier in Voznesenye and went out into Lake Onega.
The white night spread all around. For the first time I saw this night not over the Neva and the palaces of Leningrad, but among the northern wooded spaces and lakes.
A pale moon hung low in the east. She gave no light.
The waves from the steamer silently ran away into the distance, shaking pieces of pine bark. On the shore, probably in some ancient churchyard, the watchman struck the clock on the bell tower - twelve strokes. And although it was far from the shore, this ringing reached us, passed the steamer and went along the water surface into the transparent darkness where the moon hung.
I don’t know what better way to call the languid light of the white night. Mysterious? Or magical?
These nights always seem to me to be an excessive bounty of nature - there is so much pale air and the ghostly shine of foil and silver in them.
Man cannot come to terms with the inevitable disappearance of this beauty, these enchanted nights. Therefore, it must be that white nights cause a slight sadness with their fragility, like everything beautiful when it is doomed to live short-lived.
It was my first time traveling north, but everything here seemed familiar to me, especially the piles of white bird cherry trees that were blooming that late spring in the dead gardens.
There was a lot of this cold and odorous bird cherry on Ascension. No one here tore it off and put it in jugs on the tables.
I was going to Petrozavodsk. At that time, Alexey Maksimovich Gorky decided to publish a series of books under the heading “History of Factories and Plants.” He attracted many writers to this work, and it was decided to work in teams - then this word first appeared in literature.
Gorky offered me several factories to choose from. I stopped at the old Petrovsky plant in Petrozavodsk. It was founded by Peter the Great and existed first as a cannon and anchor factory, then engaged in bronze casting, and after the revolution it switched to the production of road cars.
I refused to work as a team. I was sure then (as now) that there are areas of human activity where team work is simply unthinkable, especially work on a book. At best, the result may be a collection of disparate essays rather than a coherent book. In it, in my opinion, despite the peculiarities of the material, the individuality of the writer with all the qualities of his perception of reality, his style and language should still be present.
I believed that just as it was impossible for two or three people to play the same violin at the same time, it was also impossible to write the same book together.
I told Alexey Maksimovich about this. He frowned, drummed his fingers on the table, as usual, thought and answered:
“You, young man, will be accused of being overconfident.” But, in general, go ahead! But you can’t be embarrassed—be sure to bring the book. Absolutely!
On the ship I remembered this conversation and believed that I would write a book. I really liked the north. This circumstance, as it seemed to me then, should have made the work much easier. Obviously, I hoped to bring into this book about the Petrovsky Plant the features of the north that captivated me - white nights, quiet waters, forests, bird cherry trees, the melodious Novgorod dialect, black canoes with curved noses similar to swan necks, rocker arms painted with multi-colored herbs.
Petrozavodsk was quiet and deserted at that time. Large mossy boulders lay in the streets. The city was all sort of mica - probably from the faint shine emanating from the lake, and from the whitish, nondescript, but lovely sky.
In Petrozavodsk, I sat down in the archives and library and began reading everything related to the Petrovsky plant. The history of the plant turned out to be complex and interesting. Peter the Great, Scottish engineers, our talented serf craftsmen, the Carron method of casting, water engines, unique customs - all this provided abundant material for the book.
First of all, I sketched out her plan. It had a lot of history and descriptions, but not enough people.
I decided to write a book right there in Karelia, and therefore I rented a room from a former teacher, Serafima Ionovna, a completely empty-nesting old woman who was nothing like the teacher, except for glasses and knowledge of the French language.
I began to write the book according to plan, but no matter how much I struggled, the book simply crumbled under my hands. I couldn’t manage to solder the material, cement it, or give it a natural flow.
The material was spreading. Interesting pieces sagged, unsupported by adjacent interesting pieces. They stood alone, not supported by the only thing that could breathe life into these archival facts - picturesque detail, the air of time, human fate close to me.
I wrote about water machines, about production, about craftsmen, I wrote with deep melancholy, realizing that until I had my own attitude to all this, until at least the faintest lyrical breath brought this material to life, nothing would come of the book. And there will be no book at all.
(By the way, at that time I realized that we need to write about cars the same way we write about people - feeling them, loving them, rejoicing and suffering for them. I don’t know about anyone, but I always feel physical pain for the car, at least for "Victory", when she, straining herself, takes on a steep climb with all her strength. I get tired of this, perhaps, no less than the car. Maybe this example is not very successful, but I am convinced that cars, if If you want to write about them, you have to treat them like living beings. I noticed that good craftsmen and workers treat them that way.)
There is nothing more disgusting and difficult than helplessness in front of the material.
I felt like a man who had taken on his own business, as if I had to perform in a ballet or edit the philosophy of Kant.
But my memory, no, no, and even pricked me with Gorky’s words: “But you can’t be embarrassed—be sure to bring the book.”
I was also depressed because one of the foundations of writing, which I sacredly revered, was crumbling. I believed that only one who can easily and without losing his individuality master any material can be a writer.
This state of mine ended with me deciding to give up, not write anything and leave Petrozavodsk.
“You used to be like my stupid high school students before the exam,” she told me. “They fill their heads so much that they don’t see anything and can’t understand what’s important and what’s nonsense.” We were just overtired. I don’t know your writing business, but it seems to me that you won’t get anything here with pressure. You'll only get on your nerves. And this is both harmful and downright dangerous. Don't leave rashly. Relax, travel around the lake, walk around the city. Ours is nice and simple. Maybe it will work out.
But I still decided to leave. Before leaving, I went to wander around Petrozavodsk. Until then, I hadn’t really seen him properly.
I wandered north along the lake and reached the outskirts of the city. The houses are gone. Vegetable gardens have sprung up. Among them, here and there, crosses and grave monuments could be seen.
Some old man was weeding carrot beds. I asked him what kind of crosses these were.
“There used to be a cemetery here,” answered the old man. – It seems that foreigners were buried here. And now this land has been used for vegetable gardens, the monuments have been removed. What remains is not for long. They will last until next spring, no longer.
There were, however, few monuments - only five or six. One of them was surrounded by a cast iron fence of magnificent heavy casting.
I approached him. On the granite broken column there was an inscription on French. A tall burdock covered almost the entire inscription.
I broke the burdock and read: “Charles-Eugene Lonseville, artillery engineer of the Grand Army of Emperor Napoleon. Born in 1778 in Perpignan, he died in the summer of 1816 in Petrozavodsk, far from his homeland. May peace descend upon his tormented heart.”
I realized that in front of me was the grave of an extraordinary man, a man with a sad fate, and that it was he who would help me out.
I returned home, told Serafima Ionovna that I was staying in Petrozavodsk, and immediately went to the archives.
A completely wizened, even transparent old man in glasses, a former mathematics teacher, worked there. The archive had not yet been completely dismantled, but the old man managed it perfectly.
I told him what happened to me. The old man was terribly excited. He was used to issuing, and even then rarely, boring certificates, mainly extracts from church registers, but now he had to carry out a difficult and interesting archival search - to find everything related to the mysterious Napoleonic officer, who for some reason died in Petrozavodsk more than a hundred years ago .
The old man and I were both worried. Will there be any traces of Lonseville in the archive so that it would be more or less likely to reconstruct his life? Or will we find nothing?
In general, the old man unexpectedly announced that he would not go home for the night, but would rummage through the archive all night. I wanted to stay with him, but it turned out that outsiders were not allowed to be in the archive. Then I went to the city, bought bread, sausage, tea and sugar, brought all this to the old man so that he could eat at night, and left.
The search lasted nine days. Every morning the old man showed me a list of things to do, where, according to his guesses, there might be some mention of Lonseville. He put “birds” against the most interesting cases, but called them, like a mathematician, “radicals.”
Only on the seventh day was an entry found in the cemetery book about the burial under somewhat strange circumstances of the captured French army captain Charles-Eugene Lonseville.
On the ninth day, references to Lonseville were found in two private letters, and on the tenth, a torn, unsigned report from the Olonets governor about the short stay in Petrozavodsk of the wife of “the said Lonseville, Maria Cecilia Trinite, who came from France to install a monument on his grave.”
The materials were exhausted. But what the old archivist, beaming with this luck, found was enough to make Lonseville come to life in my imagination.
As soon as Lonseville appeared, I immediately sat down to the book - and all the material on the history of the plant, which until recently had been so hopelessly scattered, suddenly fell into place. He lay down tightly and as if by himself around this artilleryman, participant french revolution and Napoleonic campaign in Russia, captured by the Cossacks near Gzhatsk, exiled to the Petrozavodsk plant and died there of fever.
This is how the story “The Fate of Charles Lonseville” was written.
The material was dead until man came along.
In addition, the entire pre-planned plan for the book was shattered into pieces. Now Lonseville confidently led the narrative. Like a magnet, he attracted to himself not only historical facts, but also much of what I saw in the north.
The story contains a scene of mourning for the deceased Lonseville. I took the words of the woman’s crying over him from genuine lamentations. This incident is worth mentioning.
I was traveling by boat up the Svir, from Lake Ladoga to Onega. Somewhere, it seems in Sviritsa, a simple pine coffin was carried onto the lower deck from the pier.
In Sviritsa, it turns out, the oldest and most experienced pilot on Svir died. His pilot friends decided to carry the coffin with his body along the entire river - from Sviritsa to Voznesenye, so that the deceased would say goodbye to his beloved river. And besides, to give the coastal residents the opportunity to say goodbye to this very respected in those places, a kind of famous person.
The fact is that the Svir is a rapid and rapid river. Steamboats without an experienced pilot cannot pass the Svir rapids. Therefore, for a long time there has been a whole tribe of pilots on the Svir, very closely related to each other.
When we passed the rapids, our ship was pulled by two tugs, despite the fact that it itself was working at full speed.
Downstream the steamships went to reverse order- both the steamer and the tugboat worked in reverse against the current in order to slow down the descent and not run into the rapids.
A telegram was sent up the river that a deceased pilot was being transported on our steamer. Therefore, at every pier the steamer was greeted by crowds of residents. In front stood the old mourning women in black scarves. As soon as the ship approached the pier, they began to mourn the deceased in high, yearning voices.
The words of this poetic lament have never been repeated. In my opinion, every cry was improvised.
Here is one of the laments:
“Why did he fly away from us in the mortal direction, why did he leave us orphans? Why didn’t we welcome you, didn’t we greet you with kind and affectionate words? Look at the Svir, father, look for the last time - the steep slopes are caked with ore in blood, a river flows from only our women’s tears. Oh, why did death come to you at such an inopportune time? Oh, why are funeral candles burning all over the Svir River?”
So we sailed until the Ascension, accompanied by this crying, which did not stop even at night.
And on Ascension, stern people - pilots - boarded the ship and removed the lid from the coffin. There lay a gray-haired, powerful old man with a weather-beaten face.
The coffin was lifted on linen towels and carried ashore to the sound of loud crying. A young woman walked behind the coffin, covering her pale face with a shawl. She led the white-headed boy by the hand. Behind her, a few steps behind, was a middle-aged man in the uniform of a river captain. These were the daughter, grandson and son-in-law of the deceased.
The flag on the ship was lowered, and when the coffin was carried to the cemetery, the ship blew several long whistles.
And one more impression was reflected in this story. There was nothing significant in this impression, but for some reason it is firmly connected in my memory with the north. This is the extraordinary brilliance of Venus.
Never before have I seen the brilliance of such intensity and purity. Venus shimmered like a drop of diamond moisture in the green pre-dawn sky.
It was truly a messenger from heaven, a harbinger of a beautiful morning dawn. In the middle latitudes and in the south, I somehow never noticed it. And here it seemed that she alone sparkled in her virgin beauty over the wastelands and forests, alone ruled in the early morning hours over the entire northern land, over Onega and Zavolochye, over Ladoga and Zaonezhye.
]Konstantin Paustovsky - "The Old Man in the Station Buffet" - reads - Miliza
A thin old man with prickly stubble on his face sat in the corner of the station cafeteria in Majori. Winter squalls swept through the Gulf of Riga in whistling stripes. There was thick ice off the coast. Through the snowy smoke one could hear the crashing surf, hitting the strong ice edge.
The old man went into the buffet, apparently to warm up. He didn’t order anything and sat dejectedly on the wooden sofa, with his hands in the sleeves of his clumsily patched fishing jacket.
A white furry dog came with the old man. She sat pressed against his leg and trembled.
Nearby, at a table, young men with tight, red heads were noisily drinking beer. The snow melted on their hats. Melt water dripped into glasses of beer and onto smoked sausage sandwiches. But the young people were arguing about a football match and did not pay attention to it.
When one of the young men took a sandwich and bit off half at once, the dog could not stand it. She walked up to the table, stood on her hind legs and, ingratiatingly, began to look into the young man’s mouth.
- Petit! - the old man called quietly. - Aren’t you ashamed! Why are you bothering people, Petya?
But Petya continued to stand, and only her front paws kept trembling and drooping from fatigue. When they touched the wet belly, the dog remembered and picked them up again.
But the young people did not notice her. They were deep in conversation and kept pouring cold beer into their glasses.
Snow covered the windows, and a shiver ran down the spine at the sight of people drinking completely ice-cold beer in such cold weather.
- Petit! - the old man called again. - And Petit! Come here!
The dog quickly shook its tail several times, as if letting the old man know that she heard him and apologized, but could not help it. She did not look at the old man and even looked away in a completely different direction. She seemed to be saying: “I myself know that this is not good. But you can’t buy me such a sandwich.”
- Eh, Petit, Petit! - the old man said in a whisper, and his voice trembled slightly with chagrin.
Petya wagged her tail again and glanced casually, pleadingly at the old man. She seemed to ask him not to call her again and not to shame her, because she herself was not feeling well in her soul and, if not for the extreme, she would, of course, never have asked strangers.
Finally, one of the young men, with high cheekbones and a green hat, noticed the dog.
- Are you asking, bitch? - he asked. -Where is your master?
Petit happily wagged her tail, looked at the old man and even squealed a little.
- What are you doing, citizen! - said the young man. - If you keep a dog, you should feed it that way. Otherwise it turns out uncivilized. The dog is begging you for alms. Begging is prohibited by law in our country.
The young people laughed.
- Well, I’ve soaked it, Valka! - one of them shouted and threw a piece of sausage to the dog.
- Petya, don’t you dare! - the old man shouted. His weathered face and skinny, sinewy neck turned red.
The dog shrank and, lowering its tail, walked up to the old man, without even looking at the sausage.
- Don't you dare take a crumb from them! - said the old man.
He frantically rummaged through his pockets, took out some silver and copper change and began counting it on his palm, blowing off the debris stuck to the coins. His fingers were trembling.
“He’s still offended!” said the high-cheeked young man. - How independent, please tell me!
- Oh, leave him alone! Why did he give himself up to you? - one of the young men said conciliatoryly, pouring beer for everyone.
The old man did not answer. He walked over to the counter and placed a handful of loose change on the wet counter.
- One sandwich! - he said hoarsely. The dog stood next to him with its tail between its legs. The saleswoman served the old man two sandwiches on a plate.
- One! - said the old man.
- Take it! - the saleswoman said quietly. - I won’t go broke on you...
- Paldies! - said the old man. - Thank you!
He took the sandwiches and went out onto the platform. There was no one there. One squall passed, the second was approaching, but was still far on the horizon. Even weak sunlight fell on the white forests beyond the Lielupe River.
The old man sat down on a bench, gave one sandwich to Petya, and wrapped the other in a gray handkerchief and hid it in his pocket.
The dog ate frantically, and the old man, looking at her, said:
- Oh, Petit, Petit! Stupid dog!
But the dog did not listen to him. She was eating. The old man looked at her and wiped his eyes with his sleeve - they were watering from the wind.
That, in fact, is the whole little story that happened at Majori station on the Riga seaside.
A thin old man with prickly stubble on his face sat in the corner of the station cafeteria in Majori. Winter squalls swept through the Gulf of Riga in whistling stripes. There was thick ice off the coast. Through the snowy smoke one could hear the crashing surf, hitting the strong ice edge.
The old man went into the buffet, apparently to warm up. He didn’t order anything and sat dejectedly on the wooden sofa, with his hands in the sleeves of his clumsily patched fishing jacket.
A white furry dog came with the old man. She sat pressed against his leg and trembled.
Nearby, at a table, young men with tight, red heads were noisily drinking beer. The snow melted on their hats. Melt water dripped into glasses of beer and onto smoked sausage sandwiches. But the young people were arguing about a football match and did not pay attention to it.
When one of the young men took a sandwich and bit off half at once, the dog could not stand it. She walked up to the table, stood on her hind legs and, ingratiatingly, began to look into the young man’s mouth.
Petit! - the old man called quietly. - Aren’t you ashamed! Why are you bothering people, Petya?
But Petya continued to stand, and only her front paws kept trembling and drooping from fatigue. When they touched the wet belly, the dog remembered and picked them up again.
But the young people did not notice her. They were deep in conversation and kept pouring cold beer into their glasses.
Snow covered the windows, and a shiver ran down the spine at the sight of people drinking completely ice-cold beer in such cold weather.
Petit! - the old man called again. - And Petit! Come here!
The dog quickly shook its tail several times, as if letting the old man know that she heard him and apologized, but could not help it. She did not look at the old man and even looked away in a completely different direction. She seemed to be saying: “I myself know that this is not good. But you can’t buy me a sandwich like that.”
Eh, Petit, Petit! - the old man said in a whisper, and his voice trembled slightly with chagrin.
Petya wagged her tail again and glanced casually, pleadingly at the old man. She seemed to ask him not to call her again and not to shame her, because she herself was not feeling well in her soul and, if not for the extreme, she would, of course, never have asked strangers.
Finally, one of the young men, with high cheekbones and a green hat, noticed the dog.
Are you asking, bitch? - he asked. -Where is your master?
Petit happily wagged her tail, looked at the old man and even squealed a little.
What are you doing, citizen! - said the young man. - If you keep a dog, you should feed it that way. Otherwise it turns out uncivilized. The dog is begging you for alms. Begging is prohibited by law in our country.
The young people laughed.
Well done, Valka! - one of them shouted and threw a piece of sausage to the dog.
Petya, don't you dare! - the old man shouted. His weathered face and skinny, sinewy neck turned red.
The dog shrank and, lowering its tail, walked up to the old man, without even looking at the sausage.
Don't you dare take a crumb from them! - said the old man.
He frantically rummaged through his pockets, took out some silver and copper change and began counting it on his palm, blowing off the debris stuck to the coins. His fingers were trembling.
Still offended! - said the high-cheeked young man. - How independent, please tell me!
Oh, leave him alone! Why did he give himself up to you? - one of the young men said conciliatoryly, pouring beer for everyone.
The old man did not answer. He walked over to the counter and placed a handful of loose change on the wet counter.
One sandwich! - he said hoarsely. The dog stood next to him with its tail between its legs. The saleswoman served the old man two sandwiches on a plate.
One! - said the old man.
Take it! - the saleswoman said quietly. - I won’t go broke on you...
Paldies! - said the old man. - Thank you!
He took the sandwiches and went out onto the platform. There was no one there. One squall passed, the second was approaching, but was still far on the horizon. Even weak sunlight fell on the white forests beyond the Lielupe River.
The old man sat down on a bench, gave one sandwich to Petya, and wrapped the other in a gray handkerchief and hid it in his pocket.
The dog ate frantically, and the old man, looking at her, said:
Ah, Petit, Petit! Stupid dog!
But the dog did not listen to him. She was eating. The old man looked at her and wiped his eyes with his sleeve - they were watering from the wind.
That, in fact, is the whole little story that happened at Majori station on the Riga seaside.
Why did I tell it?
When I started writing it, I was thinking about something completely different. Strange as it may seem, I was thinking about the meaning of details in prose, remembered this story and decided that if it is described without one main detail - without the fact that the dog apologized to the owner with all its appearance, without this gesture of the small dog, then this story will become rougher than she actually was.
And if we throw out other details - a clumsily patched jacket, indicating widowhood or loneliness, drops of melt water falling from the hats of young people, ice-cold beer, small money with rubbish from the pocket stuck to it, and, finally, even squalls flying in from the sea white walls, then the story would become much drier and bloodless.
In recent years, details have begun to disappear from our fiction, especially from younger writers.
Without details, a thing cannot live. Any story turns into that dry smoked whitefish stick that Chekhov mentioned. The whitefish itself is missing, but one skinny sliver sticks out.
The meaning of detail is that, according to Pushkin, a little thing that eludes the eye will flash large, into everyone’s eyes.
On the other hand, there are writers who suffer from tedious and boring observation. They fill their writings with piles of details - without selection, without understanding that detail has the right to live and is necessary only if it is characteristic, if it can immediately, like a ray of light, snatch any person or any phenomenon from the darkness.
For example, to give an idea of the heavy rain that had begun, it is enough to write that its first drops clicked loudly on the newspaper lying on the ground under the window.
Or, to give a terrible feeling of the death of an infant, it is enough to say about it as Alexey Tolstoy said in “Walking through Torment”:
“Exhausted Dasha fell asleep, and when she woke up, her child was dead and the light hairs on his head stood up.”
“While she was sleeping, death came to him...” Dasha said, crying, to Telegin. - Understand - his hair stood on end... One was suffering... I was sleeping.
No amount of persuasion could drive away from her the vision of the boy’s lonely struggle with death.”
This detail (the light child's hair standing on end) is worth many pages of the most accurate description of death.
Both of these details are right on target. This is the only detail that should be—determining the whole and, moreover, mandatory.
In the manuscript of one young writer I came across the following dialogue:
“- Great, Aunt Pasha! - Alexey said as he entered. (Before this, the author says that Alexey opened the door to Aunt Pasha’s room with his hand, as if the door could be opened with his head.)
“Hello, Alyosha,” Aunt Pasha exclaimed warmly, looked up from her sewing and looked at Alexei. - Why haven’t you come in for a long time?
Yes, there’s no time. I held meetings all week.
All week you say?
Exactly, Aunt Pasha! Whole week. Is Volodka missing? - Alexey asked, looking around the empty room.
No. He's in production.
Well, then I went. Goodbye, Aunt Pasha. Stay healthy.
“Goodbye, Alyosha,” answered Aunt Pasha. - Be healthy.
Alexey went to the door, opened it and went out. Aunt Pasha looked after him and shook her head:
A lively guy. Motor".
This entire passage consists, in addition to carelessness and a sloppy manner of writing, of completely unnecessary and empty things (they are underlined). All these are unnecessary, non-characteristic, non-determining details.
The search for and determination of details requires the strictest choice.
Detail is closely related to the phenomenon that we call intuition.
I imagine intuition as the ability to reconstruct a picture of the whole from a single particular, from a detail, from one property.
Intuition helps historical writers to recreate not only the true picture of life in past eras, but their very air, the very state of people, their psyche, which, of course, was somewhat different compared to ours.
Intuition helped Pushkin, who had never been to Spain or England, to write magnificent Spanish poetry, to write “The Stone Guest”, and in “A Feast in the Time of Plague” to give a picture of England that was no worse than Walter Scott or Berne - natives of of this foggy country.
Good detail gives the reader an intuitive and correct idea of the whole - or of a person and his condition, or of an event, or, finally, of an era.
It is difficult to imagine Russian literature of the 20th century without the work of the outstanding writer K. N. Paustovsky. Each work of Paustovsky makes the reader think about the world around him, about the events that people face and about the role a person plays in the mystery of life.
For Paustovsky, literature acts as a tool with the help of which he tries to sow seeds of goodness, justice and morality in the hearts of people. Konstantin Grigorievich's stories contain the wisdom that we often lack.
In the work “The Old Man in the Stationary Buffet” all the realities are clearly depicted modern life. Maybe some of the readers will see themselves in this story, because often we do not notice our own cruelty and indifference.
Summary
The action takes place in one of the small towns in Latvia. An old man with a small dog came into a small buffet, which is located next to the railway station. The man sat down at an empty table and began to wait for the end of the rain to continue his journey with his little companion.
At the next table sat a group of young people who were enthusiastically discussing football. The young men did not notice how a dog ran up to them and began to ask for a piece of the sandwich that they were eating. The dog, despite the prohibitions of its owner, continued to ingratiatingly jump around the table of young people.
One of those sitting looked at the animal, after which he insulted its owner. His friend still handed the dog a piece of sausage, but also could not resist sarcastic insults towards the elderly man, calling him a poor old man who cannot even feed his pet.
The old man took his dog back and did not accept the young man's treat. He took the last few coins out of his pocket and ordered a sandwich from the barmaid. The woman who observed this situation took pity on the man and gave him another sandwich for free, emphasizing that she would not become poor if she treated the small dog.
When the old man went outside, he fed his little dog. Looking at how she greedily eats, he sadly begins to reproach her for her behavior, without uttering a single offensive word against his offenders. On such a sad note, the story ends.
The meaning of the story
This story tells us how cruel people can be sometimes. Instead of helping the disadvantaged man, they began to insult him. At the same time, the old man, being poor and unhappy, did not lose his moral values.
This person prefers hunger and poverty to servility. He did not exchange his honor for food for his favorite, because he understood that by doing so he would betray both himself and her. The good news is that there are still people in the world who understand the true meaning of things.
The kindness of the barmaid shining example to that: the woman realized that the old man had nothing to feed his dog, not to mention himself. By offering two sandwiches, the barmaid seemed to thank the man for being able to resist temptation and act according to his conscience.
Problem-dialogical literature lesson
Literature 6th grade “School 2100”»
The book is a textbook of life
/K.G.Paustovsky “The Old Man in the Station Buffet”/
Objectives: 1. Get acquainted with the life of K. G. Paustovsky and his short story “The Old Man in the Station Buffet”
2.Teach children, with the help of a book, to look into themselves and analyze their own actions
Learning tools: 1. Presentation
2. Control sheet
Lesson stages. Time | Teacher | Students | Board and equipment |
1.Organizing moment | We have an unusual lesson today. Guests have come to us, let's greet them. Get ready for work. | They turn towards the guests. They say hello. | |
2.Creating a problem situation | Reading the epigraph What questions would you ask Leo Tolstoy using this epigraph? How would you answer Leo Tolstoy's question? Conclusion: Your answer suggests that you are now at the age of adolescence and feel part of a common world. | 2.Ask? to the epigraph? //What does a known time of life mean? What does it mean to turn to the unknown side? What helps me discover an unfamiliar world?/ | 1. textbook p.67 Epigraph by L.N. Tolstoy "Adolescence" Slide No. 1 /highlight the words that are being asked?/ |
3.Formulation of the problem (5-7 min) 4. Proposing hypotheses - - - - - - - - -- - - - - 5.Updating knowledge. Activity planning (5-10 min) 6.Discovery of new knowledge - - - - - - - - - - - - Stage 1: before reading Gymnastics for the eyes: - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - Stage 2: while reading 1. Discussion of the episodes that students highlighted in the text. - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - -- - - - - - -- - - Working with text after reading | What or who helps you see the unknown side of life? What are the assumptions? Insert one of the words you suggested in place of the missing one and formulate the topic of the lesson. Read carefully the title of the topic, think and decide question for today's lesson. What should we remember to answer this question? What to talk about? - - -- - -- - - -- - - - - - -- - - - - - - Do all books help people? Which ones help? Only real books, i.e. books by talented writers who see the world in a special way, rejoice and suffer along with their heroes and force us, readers, not to be indifferent We will find out whose predictions were more accurate at the end of the lesson.. And now let's remember What talented writers have you met so far? In this small list you came across the name K. D. Paustovsky. What do you remember about him and his stories? Teacher: Not once again during the years of study will we turn to the work of this wonderful Russian writer. After all, every new appeal to him is fraught with new discoveries. You still know very little about Paustovsky, but his life itself, which is the basis of his stories, can help us. .Love for people, animals, nature forced the writer to peer and listen the world to understand yourself as part of this world. What else can be said about Paustovsky that is new and interesting? Find in the passages what you don't yet know about him. And maybe you’ll discover another Paustovsky? What discoveries have you made? Conclusion: Indeed, Paustovsky noticed a lot around him that not everyone sees. Therefore, he teaches us to look attentively. How can we learn from him? - - - - - - - -- -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Let's go back to the story, withwhom you met at home. What did you pay attention to before reading? What is the name of the story? Do you understand it? Who main character story? What questions did you have before reading? What is this story about? Or about whom? What did you expect from the story? What in the story was a surprise for you? What is the genre of a story with an unexpected ending called? Gymnastics - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - Let's check your assumptions by referring to the text. When you first read it at home, you highlighted the parts that particularly excited you: 1. How did it make you feel? characters: old man, dog, young people? 1. Select words from the text that express the feelings of the characters 1c-old man; 2c – dog; 3v-young people? 2. Let's check if you understand the heroes? 3.Make a score of feelings using words for reference. Conclusion: 1.What feelings did the image of the old man evoke in you? dogs? Young people? 2. Why is there such a variety of colors that express the feelings of the characters? Conclusion: - Find confirmation of this idea in the biography of Paustovsky? - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - 2.- Can the old man be called a positive hero? What little things in the description of the old man and his behavior helped you visualize the image and answer this question? Find evidence of your idea in 1-2 paragraphs What is this artistic technique called in literature? Give the concept of artistic detail. What role does the artistic detail play? Conclusion : artistic details help to understand the character of the old man, give an idea of his life, and allow us to understand what kind of relationship the old man and the dog had. What artistic details of the story do you still remember? Why are they important? The plot of the story is complete, but is the story over? What surprised you about this part? What lesson does Paustovsky give to the aspiring writer, and to the reader too? Conclusion: He encourages us to look more carefully at the world around us. With the help of artistic detail (details), he teaches to see the extraordinary in the ordinary. The detailed descriptions in the book (appearance, landscape, speech, interior) give the reader the opportunity to empathize, sympathize, reflect, study themselves and other people. - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - -- - - What did Paustovsky’s story make you think about? What is its theme, its main problem? The problem of mutual understanding, mercy, and compassion is very relevant in our time. Not by chance modern poets they talk about it too. This means that the problems raised by P. are eternal. And the most important idea of P. and other talented writers is to enrich a person emotionally. | 1.Look at the illustration in the textbook 2.Answer: Book Parents Older guys Textbook idols Why is the book a textbook of life? The role of books in human life Reading books helps a person open the world around you: helps you understand other people and yourself; explain actionshuman characters. - - - - - - - -- - - - - No. He talked about nature, animals, his homeland, he was known from an early age student answers 2) Find out why he is interesting? - - - - - - - - - - - - Heading Old man… Old man About the old man in the station buffet /youth and old age, mercy and compassion, attitude towards our smaller brothers, human dignity, mutual understanding The ending of the story short story Gymnastics - - - - - - - - - - - -- Filling out the table Checking the job Sympathy, compassion The world is complex: good and evil are nearby. /sympathy - a responsive, sympathetic attitude towards someone else's grief, compassion - pity, sympathy caused by the misfortune of another person/ voice position No. 3,4,5 - - - - - - -- - - - - give the answer: yes, no Evidence from the text/yes... No…/ Artistic detail Student response Description of appearance, speech, landscape. Find in text Young people, barmaid, landscape. - -- - - - - - - - - - About the relationship between youth and old age, about mercy, about self-esteem, Through artistic detail, short story genre | A list of answer options is compiled (on the board) Slide No. 2 The book is a textbook of life. Writing a topic in a notebook Slad 2 Slide number 3 (scheme: teaches, opens, - - - - - - - - - - Slide 5 Work in pairs Assignment No. 2 - - - - - - - - - - gymnastics - - - - - - - - Work in pairs Rear No. 4 Slide 6 Slide: old man, dog, young people Assignment 2 Individual work Return to “control sheet” -- - - - - - - - - Slide7 Slide 8 - -- - -- - - -- |
7.Applying new knowledge | How did you manage to hear Paustovsky today, you will check by doing your homework Page 72 – creative work | Choose 1 of 2 tasks, whichever is closer to you. Write it down in your diary | |
8. Lesson summary. Conclusion on the problem. Assessment | Thanks to the writer Paustovsky, you experienced life together with the heroes of his story. Remember the main question of the lesson and the original versions of the answers. Why is the book a textbook for life? To what extent were they justified? Conclusion: Book draws life in all its complexity and diversity, awakens we have the best feelings; opens up the world; teaches empathy; Lets you feelthe beauty and richness of language, which allows speech to be truthful and accurate; adviсe Such books can be useful for both adults and children. Helped us in class todayPaustovsky’s story “The Old Man in the Station Buffet”, included in the collection of short stories “Golden Rose”, opens the world. Studying the works of Turgenev, Pushkin, L. Tolstoy, included in this section, we will encounter this more than once. That known objects will turn towards us in an unknown direction, and we will discover something new for ourselves. | Slide 2 Control sheet. |
Control sheet
Task No. 1 Emphasize what new you learned about Paustovsky
1. Writer Konstantin Georgievich Paustovsky is one of children’s favorite storytellers
Almost every story of his shows traces of wandering. The poetry of travel merges with reality.
2. Paustovsky wrote not only about nature. The themes of his works were the life and work of people of literature and art, people of the past and present.
3. “My writing life began with the desire to know everything and see everything. I don't know anything closer to me than ours simple people. I have always lived the same life with my heroes, I have always tried to discover good traits in them. With the same force with which I loved all humanity, I hated human stupidity and ignorance."
4. “As soon as I leave the imaginary world, all the harsh truths of life stand in my way, all the evil, which is much easier to avoid than to overcome. Strength is in the call to
to man and humanity"
5. In human-to-human relationships, he cannot withstand a long conflict. His world is life as it happens, can be and as it should be.
4..Paustovsky was very fascinated by language, its richness, which allows speech to be truthful and accurate. He expressed his attitude to the Russian language and thought in his work “The Golden Rose,” which included the story “The Old Man in the Station Buffet.” Many of his notes about language and how to write are useful for both adults and children.
Task No. 2
A) Select and write down in the table words that express the feelings of the characters
1st century - old man; 2c – dog; 3c – young people.
B) Make a score of your hero’s feelings in color.
Joy
happiness melancholy
Delight sadness
Pity sadness
love hate
compassion ruthlessness
feeling
self-esteem cruelty
mutual understanding is evil
good indifference
generosity
Literary theory
Novella - a type of story characterized by acute conflict, often having an unexpected ending
Artistic detail– part of a person’s image ( appearance, appearance, speech) and the material and objective world surrounding him (nature, everyday life, things), which allows us to characterize the hero.
Fiction – narrative fiction
Vocabulary work
1. Bristle – hard hair part
2..Dejectedly - sadly, with his head bowed
3.Patched jacket - with a patch attached (a piece of fabric sewn into place for repair)
4. Ingratiating – using flattery to achieve something
5.Look at the mouth -
6. Frantically rummaging through pockets - fussy, restless
7. Soaked - said something ridiculous, indecent
8. Gulf of Riga - a bay of the Baltic Sea off the coast of Estonia and Latvia
10.Lielupa – a city in Latvia
11.Squall - a sharp gust of wind
12. Surf - sea waves hitting the shore
13. Edge - edge of ice
Assessment of work in the lesson (from 1 to 5b)
Student assessment | Teacher rating |
|
1.Ability to act according to plan | ||
2.Ability to read information from text | ||
3. The ability to express your attitude to what you read | ||
4.Activity in the lesson |