A collection of ideal social studies essays. The problem of a person gaining a sense of homeland The flying cranes gave birth in the heart of the berg

Just recently, cranes flew over our region and carried sadness on their wings into the distance, beyond the horizon, carrying away the much-desired warmth. The sky was torn apart by their last cry and its echo swayed for a long time, and the earth began to cry with wormwood dew. But it did not go out completely, but echoed in the song of composer Vano Muradeli “The Cranes Flew.”

Swung in the clouds
Sang a sad song
We said goodbye to our homeland,
With maples that quietly wave
Following them with ropes,
With native copses,
With Russian fields...

Over the Moscow Sea,
The sea seemed to them
Their Ryazan field.
Where the birch tree rustles in spring
Above the Priokskaya steep,
Where the rowan is tenderly friendly
With a weeping willow

Over the Tsimlyansk Sea,
The sea seemed to them
Their Ryazan field,
Where the aspen trembles in the spring
Over the Meshchersky meadow,
Where are the stars in the sky at night?
They wander after each other.

Swung in the clouds
Into the blue distance
The cranes flew away.
The rains will stop making noise,
The blizzards will be swept away,
And sing to the fields of Russia
The cranes will return...

I listen to it performed by Lyudmila Zykina and feel sad for the past summer, which will not return, for the years that flew by so quickly, like clouds across the blue sky. This is Vakhtang Kikabidze’s “My years are my wealth,” but we still want there to be less of such wealth.
When I write these lines, the sun sets crimson, another day of life floats away into eternity, and tomorrow restless everyday life will come again and in the bustle of everyday life, the wondrous voice of Lyudmila Zykina will flare up with the light of a distant star, so dear, so poignant, and all the misfortunes and sorrows that have been so dear will be carried away. enough today.

Reviews

Very beautiful miniature!
Yuri, you added your own Ukrainian accent to the words of P. Barto “The cranes flew” (Moscow, Ryazan, Meshchersky, etc.) and it’s great!
I like!
And further. I really like the collages you use to decorate your miniatures.
In each of them one can feel the love for L.G. Zykina.

Dear Nina! I was deeply touched by your words. You feel the soul of a person so subtly. I always love the return of the cranes and try not to miss their flight over my yard. Otherwise, then spring is not spring for me. Remember how Lyudmila Zykina sang: “Like the call of spring, I hear the cries of cranes.” Couldn't have said it better. Thank you!

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Essay based on the text:

In this text, the famous Russian writer K.G. Paustovsky raises the problem of a person gaining a sense of homeland. Using the example of his hero - the artist Berg - he shows that the feeling of the Motherland in a person can mature for years; a push is needed to understand not only with the mind, but also with the heart, one’s inextricable connection with one’s native land. The artist Berg, who previously always grinned ironically at the word “homeland”, did not notice nature and did not understand it, according to the author, at the invitation of a friend, goes to the Murom forests and there discovers a new “strange feeling” for himself - “a joyful feeling of the homeland”: “ this forested and solemn region, full of nameless lakes, impassable thickets, dry foliage, the measured hum of pine trees and the air smelling of resin and damp swamp mosses.” That is why, upon returning home, he sent his “first landscape” to an exhibition of art works, capturing everything “that trembled somewhere in his heart.”

The author describes in great detail the new emotional state of his hero, his “awakening”: through the evolution of the character it is easy to trace the author’s attitude to the problem raised. Only through an inextricable connection with the native land is the creative process as such possible: skepticism and neglect of one’s roots deprive a person of spirituality. That is why the author’s verdict at the beginning of the text, repeating to some extent the assessment of his colleagues (“ Eh, Berg, you crack soul!”) is obvious: " Maybe that's why Berg wasn't good at landscapes" To show the evolution of Berg’s feelings, their strength and depth, the writer uses extensive rows of homogeneous members (“ Berg wanted to give all the power of the colors, all the skill of his hands, everything that trembled somewhere in his heart to this paper, in order to depict at least a hundredth part of the splendor of these forests, dying majestically and simply"). In the bright, colorful, lively descriptions of the nature of the Murom forests, the author’s admiration for his native land is clearly visible. K.G. Paustovsky is a recognized master of landscape descriptions. “Metaphors (“the shadows of the branches trembled,” “the blue shone”) and epithets (“the lemon field,” “fragile lichens”) help the author convey the beauty of his native nature.”

I share the author’s position, since I believe that the feeling of the Motherland, our native land is given to us from birth. You don’t choose your homeland, just like your parents. She - small and large - is the foundation, the roots that nourish us from childhood. The awareness of this fact may not come to everyone and not immediately, but it is this feeling that makes our “life warm, cheerful and a hundred times more beautiful than before.”

The theme of the Motherland, native land is one of the important themes in the work of any artist (both brush and word).

The theme of the Motherland is one of the main ones in the work of I.A. Bunin, who was forced to leave Russia at one time and felt this loss especially acutely in his work. The story “Antonov Apples” is one of the most poetic works in his work. The taste and smell of Antonov apples becomes for the hero (and the author himself too) a symbol of the Motherland, without a blood connection with which human life loses its meaning.

In V. Rasputin’s story “Farewell to Matera,” the author talks about a small village on the banks of a Siberian river that is about to be flooded due to the construction of a hydroelectric power station. The old men and women who remained in the village (the youth left for the city) are reverent and careful about the past that these places preserve. In other words, those who truly love their native land are protecting their native corner from flooding, strangers (young people who have left for the city, authorities, etc.) are ready to violate the graves of the old cemetery, burn down houses in order to quickly evict the elderly from them...

Thus, the feeling of a native land in a person is akin to a core, which includes his life in the context of a variety of spiritual and moral pillars - family, people, nation, state. Belonging to one’s native land, the feeling of one’s native land makes a person’s life meaningful and beautiful.

Text by K. G. Paustovsky

(1) When the word “homeland” was uttered under Berg, he grinned. (2) I didn’t notice the beauty of nature around me, I didn’t understand when the soldiers said:
“(3) Let’s take back our native land and water our horses from our native river.”
- (4) Chatter! - Berg said gloomily. - (5) People like us do not and do not
maybe homeland.
- (6) Eh, Berg, crack soul! - the soldiers answered with heavy reproach. -
(7) You don’t love the earth, eccentric. (8) And also an artist!
(9) Maybe that’s why Berg wasn’t good at landscapes.
(10) A few years later, in early autumn, Berg went to Murom
forests, to the lake where his friend the artist Yartsev spent the summer and lived there
about a month. (11) He was not going to work and did not take oil supplies with him
paints, but I only brought a small box of watercolors.
(12) For whole days he lay in the still green meadows and looked at the flowers
and herbs, collected bright red rose hips and fragrant juniper,
long needles, aspen leaves, where they were scattered across the lemon field
black and blue spots, fragile lichens of a delicate ashy shade and
wilting carnation. (13) He carefully examined the autumn leaves from the inside out,
where the yellowness was slightly touched by leaden frost.
(14) At sunset, flocks of cranes flew over the lake with their murmurs.
south, and Vanya Zotov, the forester’s son, said to Berg every time:
- (15) It seems that birds are throwing us away, flying to the warm seas.
(16) Berg for the first time felt a stupid insult: the cranes appeared to him
traitors. (17) They abandoned this forest and solemn
a land full of nameless lakes, impassable thickets, dry foliage,
measured hum of pine trees and air smelling of resin and damp swamp
mosses.
(18) One day Berg woke up with a strange feeling. (19) Light shadows
branches trembled on the clean floor, and behind the door a quiet blue shone. (20)Word
Berg encountered “radiance” only in the books of poets, considered it pompous and
devoid of clear meaning. (21) But now he realized how precise this word is
conveys that special light that comes from the September sky and sun.
(22) Berg took paints and paper and, without even drinking tea, went to the lake.
(23) Vanya transported him to the far shore.
(24) Berg was in a hurry. (25) Berg wanted all the power of colors, all his skill
hands, everything that trembled somewhere in the heart, give to this paper, so that at least
in a hundredth part to depict the splendor of these forests, dying majestically and
Just. (26) Berg worked like a man possessed, sang and shouted.
…(27) Two months later, a notice about the exhibition was brought to Berg’s house,
in which he had to participate: they asked him to tell how many of his
The artist will exhibit works this time. (28) Berg sat down at the table and quickly wrote:
“I am exhibiting only one watercolor sketch made this summer - mine
first landscape".
(29) After a while, Berg sat and thought. (30) He wanted to see what
In subtle ways, a clear and joyful feeling of his homeland appeared in him.
(31) It matured for weeks, years, decades, but the final push came
forest edge, autumn, cries of cranes and Vanya Zotov.
- (32) Eh, Berg, crack soul! - he remembered the words of the fighters.
(33) The fighters were right then. (34) Berg knew that he was now connected with
his country not only with his mind, but with all his heart, as an artist, and that
love for his homeland made his smart, but dry life warm, cheerful and in
a hundred times more beautiful than before.
(according to K.G. Paustovsky)

When the word “homeland” was uttered in front of Berg, he grinned. He didn't understand what this meant. The homeland, the land of the fathers, the country where he was born - in the end, does it matter where a person was born? One of his comrades was even born in the ocean on a cargo ship between America and Europe.

Where is this person's homeland? – Berg asked himself. – Is the ocean really this monotonous plain of water, black from the wind and oppressing the heart with constant anxiety?

Berg saw the ocean. When he studied painting in Paris, he happened to visit the banks of the English Channel. The ocean was not akin to him.

Land of the fathers! Berg felt no attachment either to his childhood or to the small Jewish town on the Dnieper, where his grandfather went blind while using grit and a shoe awl.

I always remembered my hometown as a faded and poorly painted picture, thickly covered with flies. He was remembered as dust, the sweet stench of garbage dumps, dry poplars, dirty clouds over the outskirts, where soldiers - defenders of the fatherland - were drilled in the barracks.

During the Civil War, Berg did not notice the places where he had to fight. He shrugged his shoulders mockingly when the fighters, with a special light in their eyes, said that they would soon recapture their native places from the whites and water their horses with water from their native Don.

Chatter! – Berg said gloomily. “People like us do not and cannot have a homeland.”

Eh, Berg, you crack soul! – the soldiers answered with heavy reproach. - What kind of fighter and creator of new life are you when you don’t love the earth, eccentric. And also an artist!

Maybe that’s why Berg wasn’t good at landscapes. He preferred portraits, genres and, finally, posters. He tried to find the style of his time, but these attempts were full of failures and ambiguities.

The years passed over the Soviet country like a wide wind - wonderful years of work and overcoming. Over the years, we have accumulated experience and traditions. Life was turning, like a prism, with a new facet, and in it, old feelings were refracted freshly and at times not quite understandably for Berg - love, hatred, courage, suffering and, finally, a sense of homeland.

One day in early autumn, Berg received a letter from the artist Yartsev. He called him to come to the Murom forests, where he spent the summer. Berg was friends with Yartsev and, in addition, did not leave Moscow for several years. He went.

At a remote station behind Vladimir, Berg switched to a narrow-gauge train.

August was hot and windless. The train smelled of rye bread. Berg sat on the footboard of the carriage, breathing greedily, and it seemed to him that he was breathing not air, but amazing sunlight.

Grasshoppers screamed in the clearings overgrown with white dried carnations. On Tsolustanki there was the smell of unwise wildflowers.

Yartsev lived far from the deserted station, in the forest, on the shore of a deep lake with black water. He rented a hut from a forester.

Berg was driven to the lake by the forester’s son Vanya Zotov, a stooped and shy boy.

The cart knocked on the roots and creaked in the deep sand.

Orioles whistled sadly in the copses. A yellow leaf occasionally fell onto the road. Pink clouds stood high in the sky above the tops of the mast pines.

Berg was lying in the cart, and his heart was beating dullly and heavily.

“Must be from the air”? – thought Berg.

Lake Berg suddenly saw through the thicket of thinned forests.

It lay obliquely, as if rising towards the horizon, and behind it, thickets of golden birch trees were visible through the thin haze. A haze hung over the lake from recent forest fires. Dead leaves floated across the tar-black, transparent water.

Berg lived on the lake for about a month. He was not going to work and did not take any oil paints with him. He brought only a small box with a French watercolor by Lefranc, preserved from Parisian times. Berg treasured these paints very much.

For whole days he lay in the clearings and looked at the flowers and herbs with curiosity. He was especially struck by the euonymus - its black berries were hidden in a corolla of carmine petals.

Berg collected rose hips and fragrant junipers, long pine needles, aspen leaves, where black and blue spots were scattered across the lemon field, fragile lichens and wilting cloves. He carefully examined the autumn leaves from the inside out, where the yellowness was slightly touched by a light leaden frost.

Olive swimming beetles were running in the lake, fish were playing with dim lightning, and the last lilies lay on the quiet surface of the water, as if on black glass.

On hot days, Berg heard a quiet trembling ringing in the forest.

The heat rang, dry grass, beetles and grasshoppers rang. At sunset, flocks of cranes flew over the lake to the south, and Vanya said to Berg every time:

It seems that the birds are throwing us away, flying to the warm seas.

For the first time Berg felt a stupid insult - the cranes seemed to him traitors. They abandoned without regret this deserted, forested and solemn region, full of nameless lakes, impassable thickets, dry foliage, the measured hum of pine trees and air smelling of resin and swamp mosses.

Weirdos! - Berg noted, and the feeling of resentment for the forests becoming empty every day no longer seemed funny and childish to him.

Berg once met Grandma Tatyana in the forest. She trudged in from afar, from Zaborye, to pick mushrooms.

Berg wandered with her through the thickets and listened to Tatyana’s leisurely stories. From her he learned that their region - the wilderness - had been famous since ancient times for its painters. Tatyana told him the names of famous artisans who painted wooden spoons and dishes with gold and cinnabar, but Berg never heard these names and blushed.

Berg spoke little. Occasionally he exchanged a few words with Yartsev. Yartsev spent whole days reading, sitting on the shore of the lake. He didn't want to talk either.

It started raining in September. They rustled in the grass. The air became warmer from them, and the coastal thickets smelled wildly and pungently, like wet animal skin.

At night, the rains slowly rustled through the forests along remote roads leading to no one knows where, along the plank roof of the lodge, and it seemed that they were destined to drizzle all autumn over this forested country.

Yartsev got ready to leave. Berg got angry. How could one leave in the midst of this extraordinary autumn? Berg now felt Yartsev’s desire to leave the same way he once felt the flight of the cranes - it was betrayal. Why? Berg could hardly answer this question. A betrayal of forests, lakes, autumn, and finally, a warm sky drizzling with frequent rain.

“I’m staying,” Berg said sharply. - You can run, this is your business, but I want to write this fall.

Yartsev left. The next day Berg woke up to the sun.

There was no rain. Light shadows of branches trembled on the clean floor, and a quiet blue shone behind the door.

Berg encountered the word “radiance” only in the books of poets; he considered it pompous and devoid of clear meaning. But now he understood how accurately this word conveys that special light that comes from the September sky and sun.

The web flew over the lake, every yellow leaf on the grass glowed with light, like a bronze ingot. The wind carried the smells of forest bitterness and withering herbs.

Berg took paints and paper and, without even drinking tea, went to the lake. Vanya transported him to the far shore.

Berg was in a hurry. The forests, illuminated obliquely by the sun, seemed to him like piles of light copper ore. The last birds whistled thoughtfully in the blue air, and the clouds dissolved in the sky, rising to the zenith.

Berg was in a hurry. He wanted to give all the power of the colors, all the skill of his hands and keen eye, all that was trembling somewhere in his heart to this paper, in order to depict at least a hundredth part of the splendor of these forests, dying majestically and simply.

Berg worked like a man possessed, singing and shouting. Vanya had never seen him like this. He watched Berg's every move, changed his paint water and handed him porcelain cups with paint from a box.

A dull twilight passed like a sudden wave through the foliage. The gold was fading. The air grew dim. A distant, menacing murmur swept from edge to edge of the forests and froze somewhere above the burnt areas. Berg didn't turn around.

The storm is coming! – Vanya shouted. - We need to go home!

“An autumn thunderstorm,” Berg answered absentmindedly and began to work even more feverishly.

Thunder split the sky, the black water trembled, but the last reflections of the sun still wandered in the forests. Berg was in a hurry.

Vanya pulled his hand:

Look back. Look, what fear!

Berg didn't turn around. With his back he felt that wild darkness and dust were coming from behind - the leaves were already flying like a shower, and, escaping from the thunderstorm, frightened birds were flying low over the small forest.

Berg was in a hurry. There were only a few strokes left.

Vanya grabbed his hand. Berg heard a rushing roar, as if the oceans were coming at him, flooding the forests.

Then Berg looked back. Black smoke fell onto the lake. The scaffolding swayed. Behind them, like a lead wall, the rain roared, cut by cracks of lightning. The first heavy drop clicked on my hand.

Berg quickly hid the sketch in a drawer, took off his jacket, wrapped it around the drawer, and grabbed a small box of watercolors. Water spray hit my face. The wet leaves swirled like a snowstorm and blinded my eyes.

Lightning split a nearby pine tree. Berg went deaf. A downpour fell from the low sky, and Berg and Vanya rushed to the shuttle.

Wet and shivering from the cold, Berg and Vanya reached the lodge an hour later. At the gatehouse, Berg discovered a missing box of watercolors. The colors were lost - the magnificent colors of Lefranc. Berg searched for them for two days, but, of course, found nothing.

Two months later in Moscow, Berg received a letter written in large, clumsy letters.

“Hello, Comrade Berg,” Vanya wrote. – Write down what to do with your paints and how to deliver them to you. After you left, I looked for them for two weeks, searched everything until I found them, but I just got a bad cold - that’s why it was already raining, but now I can walk, although I’m still very weak. Dad says that I had inflammation in my lungs. So don't be angry.

Send me, if possible, a book about our forests and all kinds of trees and colored pencils - I really want to draw. Our snow has already fallen and melted, and in the forest, under some tree, you look and there is a hare sitting. We will be looking forward to seeing you in our native places in the summer.

I remain Vanya Zotov.”

Along with Vanya’s letter they brought a notice about the exhibition - Berg was supposed to participate in it. He was asked to tell how many of his things he would exhibit and under what name.

Berg sat down at the table and quickly wrote:

“I am exhibiting only one watercolor sketch that I made this summer - my first landscape.”

It was midnight. Shaggy snow fell outside on the windowsill and glowed with magical fire - the reflection of street lamps. In the next apartment someone was playing a Grieg sonata on the piano.

The clock on the Spasskaya Tower struck steadily and far away. Then they started playing “Internationale”.

Berg sat for a long time, smiling. Of course, he will give Lefranc’s paints to Vanya.

Berg wanted to trace by what elusive ways a clear and joyful feeling of his homeland appeared in him. It matured for years, decades of revolutionary years, but the final impetus was given by the forest edge, autumn, the cries of cranes and Vanya Zotov. Why? Berg could not find the answer, although he knew that it was so.

Eh, Berg, you crack soul! – he remembered the words of the fighters. - What kind of fighter and creator of new life are you when you don’t love your land, eccentric!

The fighters were right. Berg knew that he was now connected with his country not only with his mind, not only with his devotion to the revolution, but with all his heart, as an artist, and that love for his homeland made his smart but dry life warm, cheerful and a hundred times more beautiful, than before.

The writer Alexander Stepanovich Green had a nondescript mongrel dog, Tobik, in the quiet Old Crimea. The whole street where Green lived unfairly considered this dog a fool. Read...

Grandmother Anisya's son, nicknamed Petya the Big, died in the war, and her granddaughter, Petya the Big's son, Petya the Little, stayed with the grandmother to live. Little Petya's mother, Dasha, died when he was two years old, and Little Petya completely forgot who she was.

(1) When the word “homeland” was uttered under Berg, he grinned. (2) I didn’t notice the beauty of nature around me, I didn’t understand when the soldiers said:
“(3) Let’s take back our native land and water our horses from our native river.”
- (4) Chatter! – Berg said gloomily. – (5) People like us do not and do not
maybe homeland.
- (6) Eh, Berg, crack soul! – the soldiers answered with heavy reproach. –
(7) You don’t love the earth, eccentric. (8) And also an artist!
(9) Maybe that’s why Berg wasn’t good at landscapes.
(10) A few years later, in early autumn, Berg went to Murom
forests, to the lake where his friend the artist Yartsev spent the summer and lived there
about a month. (11) He was not going to work and did not take oil supplies with him
paints, but I only brought a small box of watercolors.
(12) For whole days he lay in the still green meadows and looked at the flowers
and herbs, collected bright red rose hips and fragrant juniper,
long needles, aspen leaves, where they were scattered across the lemon field
black and blue spots, fragile lichens of a delicate ashy shade and
wilting carnation. (13) He carefully examined the autumn leaves from the inside out,
where the yellowness was slightly touched by leaden frost.
(14) At sunset, flocks of cranes flew over the lake with their murmurs.
south, and Vanya Zotov, the forester’s son, said to Berg every time:
- (15) It seems that birds are throwing us away, flying to the warm seas.
(16) Berg for the first time felt a stupid insult: the cranes appeared to him
traitors. (17) They abandoned this forest and solemn
a land full of nameless lakes, impassable thickets, dry foliage,
measured hum of pine trees and air smelling of resin and damp swamp
mosses.
(18) One day Berg woke up with a strange feeling. (19) Light shadows
branches trembled on the clean floor, and behind the door a quiet blue shone. (20)Word
Berg encountered “radiance” only in the books of poets, considered it pompous and
devoid of clear meaning. (21) But now he realized how precise this word is
conveys that special light that comes from the September sky and sun.
(22) Berg took paints and paper and, without even drinking tea, went to the lake.
(23) Vanya transported him to the far shore.
(24) Berg was in a hurry. (25) Berg wanted all the power of colors, all his skill
hands, everything that trembled somewhere in the heart, give to this paper, so that at least
in a hundredth part to depict the splendor of these forests, dying majestically and
Just. (26) Berg worked like a man possessed, sang and shouted.
…(27) Two months later, a notice about the exhibition was brought to Berg’s house,
in which he had to participate: they asked him to tell how many of his
The artist will exhibit works this time. (28) Berg sat down at the table and quickly wrote:
“I am exhibiting only one watercolor sketch made this summer - mine
first landscape".
(29) After a while, Berg sat and thought. (30) He wanted to see what
In subtle ways, a clear and joyful feeling of his homeland appeared in him.
(31) It matured for weeks, years, decades, but the final push came
forest edge, autumn, cries of cranes and Vanya Zotov.
- (32) Eh, Berg, crack soul! – he remembered the words of the fighters.
(33) The fighters were right then. (34) Berg knew that he was now connected with
his country not only with his mind, but with all his heart, as an artist, and that
love for his homeland made his smart, but dry life warm, cheerful and in
a hundred times more beautiful than before.
(according to K.G. Paustovsky*)

Show full text

Sooner or later a person begins to feel incomprehensible, touching kinship with the nature and culture of their country. K. Paustovsky, in the story “Watercolors,” described the worldview of the artist Berg before and after discovering this feeling in himself, and raised the problem of love for his homeland.

How scary it is not to notice the beauty of forests, full-flowing rivers and thin streams, not to draw inspiration and vitality from them! People of art feel unity with nature especially deeply. It is difficult to imagine a creator grinning at the word “homeland,” and yet Berg is like that. It is not surprising that they called him a “cracker soul,” adding: “And also an artist!” Yes, he was like that, but that shining morning changed him, helped him see the beauty of his native land and feel new joy.