Parsnips It was winter and the wind was blowing from the steppe. Boris Pasternak - Christmas Star: Verse

It was winter.

The wind was blowing from the steppe.

And it was cold for the baby in the den

On the hillside.

The breath of the ox warmed him.

Pets

We stood in a cave

A warm haze floated over the manger.

Shaking off the dust from the bed

And millet grains,

Watched from the cliff

Shepherds wake up in the midnight distance.

In the distance there was a field in the snow and a churchyard,

Fences, gravestones,

Shaft in a snowdrift,

And the sky above the cemetery is full of stars.

And nearby, unknown before,

Shy than a bowl

At the gatehouse window

A star twinkled on the way to Bethlehem.

She was burning like a haystack to the side

From heaven and God,

Like the glow of arson,

Like a farm on fire and a fire on a threshing floor.

She rose like a burning stack

Straw and hay

In the middle of the whole universe,

Alarmed by this new star.

The growing glow glowed above her

And it meant something

And three stargazers

They hurried to the call of unprecedented lights.

They were followed by gifts on camels.

And donkeys in harness, one small one

The other one was walking down the mountain in small steps.

And a strange vision of the coming time

Everything that came after stood up in the distance.

All the thoughts of centuries, all dreams, all worlds,

The whole future of galleries and museums,

All the pranks of fairies, all the deeds of sorcerers,

All the Christmas trees in the world, all the dreams of children.

All the thrill of warmed candles, all the chains,

All the splendor of colored tinsel...

The wind from the steppe blew angrier and more fiercely...

All apples, all golden balls.

Part of the pond was hidden by the tops of alder trees,

But some of it was clearly visible from here

Through the nests of rooks and treetops.

As donkeys and camels walked along the dam,

The shepherds could see it clearly.

“Let’s go with everyone, let’s worship the miracle,”

They said, wrapping their covers around them.

The shuffling through the snow made it hot.

Through a bright clearing with sheets of mica

Barefoot footprints led behind the shack.

On these traces, like on the flame of a cinder,

The shepherds grumbled in the light of the star.

The frosty night was like a fairy tale,

And someone from a snowy ridge

All the time he invisibly entered their ranks.

The dogs wandered, looking around cautiously,

And they huddled close to the shepherd and waited for trouble.

Along the same road, through the same area

Several angels walked in the midst of the crowd.

Their incorporeality made them invisible,

But the step left a footprint.

A crowd of people was crowding around the stone.

It was getting light. Cedar trunks appeared.

-Who are you? – asked Maria.

– We are a shepherd’s tribe and ambassadors of heaven,

We have come to praise you both.

- We can’t do it all together. Wait at the entrance.

In the midst of the gray, ash-like pre-dawn haze

Drivers and sheep breeders trampled,

Pedestrians were arguing with the riders,

At a hollowed out watering hole

Camels brayed and donkeys kicked.

It was getting light. Dawn is like specks of ash,

The last stars were swept from the sky.

And only the Magi from the countless rabble

Mary let him into the hole in the rock.

He slept, all shining, in an oak manger,

Like a ray of moonlight in the hollow of a hollow.

They replaced his sheepskin coat

Donkey lips and ox nostrils.

We stood in the shadows, as if in the darkness of a stable,

They whispered, barely finding words.

Suddenly someone in the dark, a little to the left

He pushed the sorcerer away from the manger with his hand,

And he looked back: from the threshold to the Virgin,

The Christmas star looked on like a guest.

It was winter.
The wind was blowing from the steppe.
And it was cold for the baby in the den
On the hillside.

The breath of the ox warmed him.
Pets
We stood in a cave
A warm haze floated over the manger.

Shaking off the dust from the bed
And millet grains,
Watched from the cliff
Shepherds wake up in the midnight distance.

In the distance there was a field in the snow and a churchyard,
Fences, gravestones,
Shaft in a snowdrift,
And the sky above the cemetery is full of stars.

And nearby, unknown before,
Shy than a bowl
At the gatehouse window
A star twinkled on the way to Bethlehem.

She was burning like a haystack to the side
From heaven and God,
Like the glow of arson,
Like a farm on fire and a fire on a threshing floor.

She rose like a burning stack
Straw and hay
In the middle of the whole universe,
Alarmed by this new star.

The growing glow glowed above her
And it meant something
And three stargazers
They hurried to the call of unprecedented lights.

They were followed by gifts on camels.
And donkeys in harness, one small one
The other one was walking down the mountain in small steps.

And a strange vision of the coming time
Everything that came after stood up in the distance.
All the thoughts of centuries, all dreams, all worlds,
All the future of galleries and museums,

All the pranks of fairies, all the deeds of sorcerers,
All the Christmas trees in the world, all the dreams of children.
All the thrill of warmed candles, all the chains,
All the splendor of colored tinsel...

The wind from the steppe blew angrier and more fiercely...
...All apples, all golden balls.
Part of the pond was hidden by the tops of alder trees,
But some of it was clearly visible from here

Through the nests of rooks and treetops.
As donkeys and camels walked along the dam,
The shepherds could see it clearly.
-Let's go with everyone, let's worship the miracle, -

They said, wrapping their covers around them.

The shuffling through the snow made it hot.
Through a bright clearing with sheets of mica
Barefoot footprints led behind the shack.
These traces are like the flame of a cinder,

The shepherds grumbled in the light of the star.

The frosty night was like a fairy tale,
And someone from a snowy ridge
All the time he was invisibly part of their ranks.

The dogs wandered, looking around cautiously,
And they huddled close to the shepherd and waited for trouble.

Along the same road, through the same area
Several angels walked in the midst of the crowd.
Their incorporeality made them invisible,
But the step left a footprint.

A crowd of people was crowding around the stone.
It was getting light. Cedar trunks appeared.

“Who are you?” asked Maria.
- We are a shepherd tribe and ambassadors of heaven,
- We came to praise you both.

It's impossible for everyone to do it together. Wait at the entrance.
In the midst of the gray, ash-like pre-dawn haze

Drivers and sheep breeders trampled,
Pedestrians were arguing with the riders,
At a hollowed out watering hole
Camels brayed and donkeys kicked.

It was getting light. Dawn is like specks of ash,
The last stars were swept from the sky.
And only the Magi from the countless rabble
Mary let him into the hole in the rock.

He slept, all shining, in an oak manger,
Like a ray of moonlight in the hollow of a hollow.
They replaced his sheepskin coat
Donkey lips and ox nostrils.

We stood in the shadows, as if in the darkness of a stable,
They whispered, barely finding words.
Suddenly someone in the dark, a little to the left
He pushed the sorcerer away from the manger with his hand,
And he looked back: from the threshold at the maiden,
The Christmas star looked on like a guest.

Boris Beinfest
CHRISTMAS STAR

Among the poems of Yuri Zhivago that crown Pasternak’s novel, there is one that I would like to talk about now. This is the “Christmas Star”. Here it is.
It was winter.
The wind was blowing from the steppe.
And it was cold for the baby in the den
On the hillside.
The breath of the ox warmed him,
Pets
We stood in a cave
A warm haze floated over the manger.
Shaking off the dust from the bed
And millet grains,
Watched from the cliff
Shepherds wake up in the midnight distance.
In the distance there was a field in the snow and a churchyard,
Fences, gravestones,
Shaft in a snowdrift,
And the sky above the cemetery is full of stars.
And nearby, unknown before,
Shy than a bowl
At the gatehouse window
A star twinkled on the way to Bethlehem.
She was burning like a haystack to the side
From heaven and God,
Like the glow of arson,
Like a farm on fire and a fire on a threshing floor.
She rose like a burning stack
Straw and hay
In the middle of the whole universe,
Alarmed by this new star.
The growing glow glowed above her
And it meant something
And three stargazers
They hurried to the call of unprecedented lights.
They were followed by gifts on camels.
And donkeys in harness, one small one
The other one was walking down the mountain in small steps.
And a strange vision of the coming time
Everything that came after stood up in the distance.
All the thoughts of centuries, all dreams, all worlds,
The whole future of galleries and museums,
All the pranks of fairies, all the deeds of sorcerers,
All the Christmas trees in the world, all the dreams of children.
All the thrill of warmed candles, all the chains,
All the splendor of colored tinsel...
...The wind from the steppe blew angrier and more fiercely...
...All apples, all golden balls.

Part of the pond was hidden by the tops of alder trees.
But some of it was clearly visible from here
Through the nests of rooks and treetops.
As donkeys and camels walked along the dam,
The shepherds could see it clearly.
“Let’s go with everyone, let’s worship the miracle,”
They said, wrapping their covers around them.
The shuffling through the snow made it hot.
Through a bright clearing with sheets of mica
There were large footprints leading behind the shack.
On these traces, like on the flame of a cinder,
The shepherds grumbled in the light of the star.
The frosty night was like a fairy tale,
And someone from a snowy ridge
All the time he was invisibly part of their ranks.
The dogs wandered, looking around cautiously,
And they huddled close to the shepherd and waited for trouble.
Along the same road, through the same area
Several angels walked in the midst of the crowd.
Their incorporeality made them invisible,
But the step left a footprint.
A crowd of people was crowding around the stone.
It was getting light. Cedar trunks appeared.
-Who are you? – asked Maria.
– We are a shepherd’s tribe and ambassadors of heaven,
We have come to praise you both.
- We can’t do it all together. Wait at the entrance.
In the midst of the gray, ash-like pre-dawn haze
Drivers and sheep breeders trampled,
Pedestrians were arguing with the riders,
At a hollowed out watering hole
Camels brayed and donkeys kicked.
It was getting light. Dawn is like specks of ash,
The last stars were swept from the sky.
And only the Magi from the countless rabble
Mary let him into the hole in the rock.
He slept, all shining, in an oak manger,
Like a ray of moonlight in the hollow of a hollow.
They replaced his sheepskin coat
Donkey lips and ox nostrils.
We stood in the shadows, as if in the darkness of a stable,
They whispered, barely finding words.
Suddenly someone in the dark, a little to the left
He pushed the sorcerer away from the manger with his hand,
And he looked back: from the threshold at the maiden
The Christmas star looked on like a guest.

Maria Veniaminovna Yudina, a wonderful pianist who was part of Pasternak’s circle of close friends, wrote to him that if he had not created anything other than this poem, he would have been guaranteed immortality on earth and in heaven.
Poetry is an unknown mystery; analyzing a poem in order to explain its miracle is akin to an ophthalmologist’s attempts to explain the miracle of Mona Lisa’s gaze.
The nature of poetry is little understood, and in this mystery is perhaps one of the clues to the unfading of the poetic genre and the poetic word. This is the sphere of the subconscious, if you like, where such ephemeral things as taste, measure, hearing and even vision matter. This concerns the form, but the content, even among intellectual poets, is determined by experience, emotional state (otherwise it is just rhymed prose), powerless attempts to comprehend it, to translate it into a language accessible to logic. And in this powerlessness is the strength of poetry, because as soon as comprehension is successful, we move into another area, the area of ​​logical thinking, which is already outside of poetry. In this, poetry seems to be close to religious feeling.
But still. Let's try to say something about this poem and the truly stunning impression it makes.
Yes, there is a description of an event - to put it mildly, not at all ordinary, epochal, grandiose in its significance for history: the birth of Christ; a description illuminated by the gaze of an artist, whose imagination works so strongly, as if he was present at this event, saw all these vivid details, details, while the effect of presence extends to the reader... But couldn’t the same vivid description be made in prose ? Why is poetry needed for such a description, what is its miraculous power, why do you want to cry while reading these lines, why do you want to fall on your face before the talent of a brilliant poet?
And the point, let us repeat this, is the magic of poetry. What lies on the surface: its external attributes - rhyme, rhythm - although they work for the result, do not, of course, exhaust its essence. The point is that versification incredibly disciplines the word, concentrates thought, bringing the language to a high degree of saturation and density. In poetry, form as an aesthetic category is equivalent and equal to content, and sometimes even dominates it. In poetry there is a lot of mediation, a lot of subtext, associations, the poetic word is extremely capacious, precise, rich, unique and therefore deeply figurative.
The sweeping prose does not, as a rule, create such precision of vision and feeling. And where he creates, prose magically turns into poetry. This happened with the biblical chapters of “The Master and Margarita” by Mikhail Bulgakov, with the prose of Paustovsky, Prishvin, and if we go back to the 19th century, then, of course, with the prose of Pushkin, Lermontov, Turgenev.
One day, Anatoly Naiman, a poet, one of Anna Akhmatova’s “chicks in the nest,” was introduced to a young man who, identifying himself, said that he was a poet. “Read two lines,” Naiman asked.
Is it possible to recognize a real prose writer by two lines? To say that these are not just excerpts from a letter, diary, memoirs, notes, etc., but excerpts from cool fiction? Hardly. Very rarely: Platonov, for example, or Gogol can be recognized immediately. In other cases, lines may seem taken out of any context. Is it possible to recognize a true poet by two lines? And how! For this is a completely different text - in structure, in richness, in condensation, in the way of vision, in emotional tension - usually high-voltage...
Shklovsky once said that Pasternak is a poet not of poems, not even of stanzas, but of lines. That he has some amazing lines that the context can only spoil: “It is grander than holy scripture...”. The poems of great poets consist entirely of amazing lines. “It’s not beautiful to be famous”, “I’m lost like an animal in a pen”, “You are a hostage to time in captivity for eternity”, “To me for judgment, like the barges of a caravan, centuries will float out of the darkness” and very, very many others. And how many such lines does Mandelstam have! “The artist has depicted for us the deep swoon of a lilac”, “Beauty is not the whim of a demigod, but the predatory eye of a simple carpenter;”, “Monstrous - like an armadillo at the dock - Russia is resting heavily”, “On Senate Square - a bank of snowdrifts, the smoke of a fire and the chill of a bayonet ", "Separation. The frantic sounds of a haunted piano”, “Falling from the shoulders, the false-classical shawl turned to stone”, “Insomnia. Homer. Tight sails”, “Power is disgusting, like the hands of a barber”... And Akhmatova’s! “I won’t tell you where the road is”, “And the interlocutor of the groves left us” (at the death of Pasternak; to him: “He, who compared himself to a horse’s eye”), “Onegin’s airy mass, like a cloud, stood above me”, “ There was a voice for me, it called comfortingly”... Stop. I think it's clear what we're talking about here. It is easier to list the lines of these poets, which are not surprising...
In poetry, as in music, subtle, ideally absolute, pitch is of paramount importance. Each single word, like a note, must be assigned the only correct, necessary place, in the vicinity of other single words. Style, combination of words, their selection, arrangement, proportionality - this is the basis of fine literature. In essence, a qualified poet (like a prose writer, for that matter) is a person with an ear for style and intonation. It’s not for nothing that in music purity of tone is called intonation. In fact, almost anyone can rhyme, but a poet also knows how to critically evaluate what has been written, select the necessary nuggets from a thousand tons of verbal ore, he subtly senses falsehood and inaccuracy in the expression of thoughts and feelings, the inconsistency of style with the theme, and sweeps aside this falsehood. This is his rough work on the poem. Another thing is that for a brilliant poet the selection goes quickly, sometimes instantly, and the inspirer of this magical process is the Muse, standing behind the poet and silently dictating his words. This Muse is called Talent, Gift. Remember Akhmatova? “Did you dictate the pages of Hell to Dante? Answer: I."
From this point of view, let's take a closer look at Pasternak's poem.
First of all, let's say that it is crystal clear and pure, not clouded by any extra, unnecessary inclusions that obscure the painted picture. “Through the magic crystal” we see amazingly clearly everything that the artist draws. As clearly as he sees.
The beginning sets the scene in a strikingly simple way. These two phrases: “It was winter. / The wind was blowing from the steppe” are so unpretentious that they could be the beginning of a story, say, by Chekhov. But suddenly this same wind brings the breath of poetry into the text, introduces words that a prose writer could not find: “and the baby was cold in the den,” “he was warmed by the breath of the ox.” This is already a picture with rich subtext, nourishing and striking the imagination; there is no further need to explain at what time the event occurs, the detail works and speaks for itself: the baby is not in the house - in the den, it is not the oven that warms him - the breath of the ox. We immediately imagine this biblical scene in the Judean desert. And although it seems impossible to depict the sensations of cold and heat on canvas, the impetus for the imagination has already been given, and a talented brush artist will find the necessary visual means, just as Pasternak found them, giving his picture in words. As Ivanov found them in “The Appearance of Christ to the People.” Remember the boy there, crawling out of the water and shaking with chills? How did the artist do it? A mystery, as much a mystery as poetry.
The precisely found rhythm of the poem, when short two-foot lines are suddenly interspersed with tetrameters, closing them, when the length of the stanzas varies, the number of lines in them changes (from the stanza “The growing glow ...” to the end of the poem according to the scheme: 4-3-6-4-5 -2-5-5-4-6-5-4-4-6), akin to music and at the same time gives naturalness, living breath to the story, places the necessary accents, switches and at the same time concentrates attention. In music this is achieved by similar means: varying the tempo, triplets, crescendo (transition from piano to forte), diminuendo (vice versa), etc.
Is it possible to say in prose: “Domestic animals”? Since they are animals, they are wild. And domestic animals are animals. But “pets” is a quote from a textbook on animal husbandry. And “domestic animals” are already poetry. Why? Because behind this is the idea of ​​a time when the difference between wild and domesticated animals was not yet so sharp, when wild ones were caught, tamed, trained, and domesticated ones could leave at any moment and become wild again. There is more than one tone in a word; there are many overtones in a word. It is generally accepted that animals are predators. But here’s how the Encyclopedic Dictionary defines this word: “BEASTS, the same as mammals; Often only predatory mammals are called beasts.” Often, but not always and not necessarily! The rumor here has not changed the poet! And this word sounds here brighter and more figuratively than any other. It's there!
And then everything is as simple as life itself (and what is called everyday life today) was in those days. Doha, bed dust, millet grains (remains of yesterday's dinner)... And the picture around is also incredibly simple: a field in the snow and a graveyard, fences, tombstones, shafts in a snowdrift... From the same row - from the steppe. Not noticed “at first reading.” Where does the steppe come from in Judea? Well, we don’t yet know what will happen next, so the steppe doesn’t seem alien yet. Winter and the steppe - what could be simpler and more natural for a Russian poet and Russian reader?
But when we immediately come across a nativity scene, then during the “second reading” we think: why are these simple Russian words in such a plot: steppe, winter, why does the poet combine them with a nativity scene? (By which he means - as will become clear immediately, from the second stanza - the original meaning of this word: just a cave). But... they don't seem out of place here! After all, this event is universal! It is equally close to both the Jewish shepherd and the Russian (which the latter - Scythian or Vyatichi - does not yet suspect). And such is the magic of poetry that we are not embarrassed - but on the contrary, it seems very organic - this stylistic mixture (intentional!), just as the mane of the lioness in Lermontov’s “Mtsyri”, which some very meticulous reader noticed, does not confuse us.
And suddenly - an explosion! “The sky above the cemetery is full of stars”! Full of stars! Only a poet could say that.
Then the poet compares the star - out of shyness - with a bowl at the window of the gatehouse. Why is the star shy? Yes, because she had just appeared (“unknown before”), she was not yet accustomed to this sky full of stars, among which she twinkled. But she is already aware of her significance, her specialness, her strength, and therefore does not hide, but she overcomes this shyness and begins to flame more and more: first, like a haystack, then like arson, like a fire, like a burning stack of straw and hay, like a growing glow , glowing over her. And again, simple words familiar to the Russian peasant (shepherd): stack, farmstead, threshing floor, stack, straw, hay...
And suddenly - an unexpected transition to the insight of the entire distant future, which - we already know - will grow from this event, like an ear of grain, and will be inspired by it. Pasternak and Yuri Zhivago were true Christians, for them this event was not just significant, sacred, for them it was also the beginning of a two-thousand-year future for humanity, otherwise it would not have been worth writing such a poem.
“All the thoughts of centuries, all dreams, all worlds, / All the future of galleries and museums, / All the pranks of fairies, all the deeds of sorcerers, / All the Christmas trees in the world, all the dreams of children. / All the thrill of warmed candles, all the chains, / All the splendor of colored tinsel...” Here, the accessories of future Christmas holidays are adjacent to the mention of future art, which will be inspired by the image of Christ. Take a look at the Russian Museum, the Louvre, the Prado, the Hermitage, the Uffizi - how many paintings and sculptures are inspired by biblical motifs, the New Testament! How many brilliant artists have drawn their insights from these subjects!
How can one not compare these amazing internal rhymes, chords of rhymes that echo the main rhymes with music! Trembling - chains - splendor - fiercer - steppes... Pond - hence - dams - camels - miracle... Hot - hut - cinder - shepherds... Fairy tale - apprehensive - shepherding... As the climax approaches, three stanzas describing what happened before the wise men entered into the cave, strung together with the same rhymes - there is a powerful coda, sounding in a major key: “to the people - trunks - ambassadors - praise - at the entrance - haze - sheep breeders - pedestrians - logs - donkeys - ashes - firmament - rabble - rocks" ...
Code!
And the final chord: “He slept, all shining, in an oak manger, / Like a moonbeam in the hollow of a hollow. / They replaced him with a sheepskin coat / The lips of a donkey and the nostrils of an ox.”
No sacred words for you, no chants for you, no psalms for you, no halos for you, no! “Like the moon’s ray”! He is HE! - is still too small to be the Sun, but the month - the young moon - is a ray that illuminates the hollow manger: this is what was chosen for comparison. And those nostrils of an ox! Have you ever seen up close these soft, warm, moist pits emitting heat? I have seen. Yes, they could keep the baby warm. You clearly see it and believe that it was so. The poet's imagination is incredibly convincing.
Is it possible to say this in prose? “Try to speak in front of an audience with a story about your love experiences, and you will understand the difference between poetry and prose,” David Samoilov once said. But here the experience is much deeper.
The music of the stanzas would not be so impressive if it were not for the precise choice of words: these brush strokes are placed in exactly the right place and with the right color. The stark contrast between the mundane details and the height of the moment makes a powerful impression. “The drivers and sheep breeders trampled, / Pedestrians quarreled with the horsemen, / At the hollowed-out watering hole, / Camels brayed, donkeys kicked.”
But Providence is still present here, although it is not named or indicated anywhere. Just a light touch - and we feel the presence, in addition to disembodied angels, also of Him, without Whom Christmas would not have happened.
“There were big footprints behind the shack. / Shepherds grumbled at these footprints, like at a cinder flame...”
“And someone from the snowy ridge / All the time invisibly entered their ranks. / The dogs wandered, looking around with apprehension, / And huddled close to the shepherd, and waited for trouble.”
“Suddenly, in the darkness, a little to the left / He pushed the sorcerer away from the manger with his hand, / And he looked back...”
There is no need to explain anything. All clear. Although a slight chill bothers me at the thought that HE was there. Not only the Event, but also the poem is, as it were, sanctified by its presence. HE is not named - that would be too daring! - but HE was present there, and the poet made it clear. The poem has reached unprecedented heights - are there really many poems in the world where HE is present? The nostrils of an ox - and HE. Stunning biblical picture.
And these unknown traces are unknown to the shepherds and their restless shepherd dogs, but we know whose, the author deliberately lets it slip, not playing a guessing game - what a find! Bodily traces from disembodied participants in the action... Frozen footprints in the snow, similar to mica sheets...
Noble simplicity and restraint of tone only emphasizes - by contrast (Akhmatova’s favorite technique) - the emotional height of the event. And no leafiness, no exaltation, no paper flowers, decorations, vignettes, very precisely chosen intonation - the same musical one on which, like the skeleton of a building, any poem rests... As we move towards the finale, the internal emotional tension grows and is powerfully resolved - as befits a solemn symphony - again restrained externally, but rejoicing internally - with the appearance on stage of Him and the star that gave the name to the poem. Fin!
Yes, there is probably nothing to add to what Maria Yudina said.
15.09.2007

All apples, all golden balls

The custom of giving January issues of magazines as “gifts” developed a long time ago. Even Nekrasov, year after year, hurried Ostrovsky so that his new play would be ready in time for the first magazine book. (It’s hard to believe, but in the century before last, dramatic works were not only published in magazines, which almost never happens in the last thirty years, but also successfully fulfilled the mission of the “locomotive.”) Understand why at the beginning of the year it is necessary to organize a hit parade of star authors and take out I personally have never been able to get the best materials from the stash (it’s more rational to attract subscribers in the fall), but tradition is tradition. Another thing is that it is quite difficult to comply with it (that is, to truly please at least the devoted sympathizers of the publication). Firstly, we are all very picky these days. Secondly, quite often the focus on charisma, to put it mildly, is not very compatible with the focus on readability and/or social significance of the text.

I don’t know yet how other magazines worked (I only briefly glanced at “October”; there is complete order with sonorous names), but the January “Znamya” decorated its “New Year tree” (No. 1 also) magnificently and inventively. Even the absence of a novel (which is generally a bad sign!) is not too noticeable; it is compensated by both excellent short prose (more on that below) and two significant non-fiction experiments - the “diary with an appendix” of an artist-photographer-prose-writer-publicist -and-other-art-master Semyon Faibisovich “One Year” (there are a lot of “random”, but rarely accurate, real to the point of symbolism, sketches of Moscow everyday life, always elegantly, and often very sensibly reflected) and “notes of an illegal immigrant” by Ergali Gera "Belarusian Mirror". The Belarusian impressions of an extravagant prose writer who once aspired to be “fashionable” (his “Tales on the Phone”, 1999, caused quite a stir) came at the right time - a sharp aggravation of the dispute between the Slavs. Ger, demonstrating excellent powers of observation and sincere sympathy for the people, culture, and history of White Rus', writes entertainingly. In some places it is sarcastic, in others it is lyrical. Always - trying to prove to the reader that other informants about Belarusian affairs are swindlers or simpletons, but in reality “everything is more complicated.” So “complicated” that the text peacefully coexists the thesis about a happy country, where the government allowed the people to separate from themselves and simply live gloriously (better than in Russia and Lithuania), and an equally detailed thesis about the total corruption reigning in our neighboring country. state. Well, Ger simply does not use the most common words in today’s conversations on Belarusian topics – “oil” and “gas”. Apparently, believing that the “prosperity” of the neighboring country (which, according to Hera, should connect Russia with Europe) is ensured solely by the unhurried prudence of the local people and Father’s mighty will. There are, as they say, other opinions on this matter, but it’s still worth reading the “Belarusian Mirror”. As well as Valery Shamratov’s sensible essay “The Big Secret, or How to Get Rid of One of Russia’s Troubles” (it’s clear which one - we’ll certainly never get rid of fools) and Sergei Borovikov’s melancholic notes “Rus' has joy in drinking, we cannot live without it” ( here, too, without comment it’s clear what we’re talking about).

The pinnacle of the non fiction block is the publication, prepared by E. Ts. Chukovskaya, of a fragment of correspondence between Lydia Korneevna Chukovskaya and academician Viktor Maksimovich Zhirmunsky, “An Adventure Novel with Unexpected Plot Twists.” We are talking about the struggle (alas, we have to use this word) for Akhmatova’s archive, which ended up in the hands of I. N. Punina, the daughter of Akhmatova’s third husband. The drama of this bitter (and grotesque) story is expressively conveyed by Zhirmunsky’s confession after yet another explanation with Punina: “It was very difficult for me to act in such a role in A.A.’s apartment. Sometimes it seemed that the deceased was lying in the next room, and we were guests who had come to express relatives (as usual - strangers to the deceased!) their condolences, or even worse - witnesses during a search in the apartment of a recently deceased loved one. I have experienced more these days than in all my “workings” in the past.” Another fragment of this interesting correspondence was recently published in the “Akhmatov collection” “I grant forgiveness to everyone...” (about it, see the notes “At the Cedar” - “Vremya Novostey” dated August 8, 2006; included in the previous issue of the “Reader’s Diary”) - there correspondents discuss the preparation of posthumous publications of Akhmatova. It’s a little unfortunate that the epistolary dialogue turned out to be broken into parts (some of Zhirmunsky’s letters, unfortunately, are now inaccessible) - this is not only important material on the history of philological science or Soviet literary life, but also a real monument to human nobility, heights of spirit, fidelity to poetry and friendship.

The “star” principle is consistently observed in the poetic section. Sergey Gandlevsky (as many as four texts, last January there were only two), Lev Losev, Bakhyt Kenzheev, Alexey Tsvetkov - all are equally matched. I think Losev’s selection is the best, the best poem in it is “Depression-Russia” with dedication E.R.

All Russia, from the middle zone

off-road here and there

and to the Arctic, right up to the Pole,

where the ice began to erode,

Finnish rain, sowing tirelessly,

hot beam on the Tauride Lion

fit into a gray and balding

your black-eyed head.

This disease was hollered at you

Blok and Khlebnikov, that’s the answer.

It is Moscow, with hysteria, with glitches,

euphoric delirium in January

and despondency in June, depression,

looking at the wall in a St. Petersburg hole,

and a wonderful moment of balance

on Trigorsky hill in September.

The masters in the prose section are represented by Evgeniy Popov, whose story “Exaltation of the Cross. Selected passages from the correspondence between Gdov and Khabarov“is not too different from other “selected passages from the correspondence” of these characters, each of which (as well as the writer, whose surname became the title first for Gdov’s story, and then for Popov’s story) pleasantly resembles a writer born in the city of K. , standing on the great Siberian river E. In a word - a typical Popov, with all its small minuses and major pluses.

Olga Slavnikova’s story “Basileus” (the name of the cat, but the cat is not the point) fully justifies its royal title. Magnificent and mysterious, very Slavnikov-esque, prose - swelling before the eyes, frighteningly tangible mirages, quietly decaying reality, sophisticated psychological riddles without answers, the pulsation of recognizable immediacy, the flicker of yesterday and the scorching cold breeze of eternity. With Slavnikov’s ability to develop material, it could well have turned out to be a novel no less than her brilliant debut work or the book-winning “2017,” but the author decided this time to leave the dragonfly as a dragonfly, without increasing it to the size of a dog.

The story “About Bertha,” which Margarita Khemlin told readers on 24 magazine pages, would be enough for several voluminous volumes. You don’t need a particularly sharp mind or special historical knowledge to imagine how many stories fit into the life of a German Jewish woman who came to the USSR in 1936 and was still alive in 1980. Tom was a happy year when, instead of the previously announced communism, the Olympics took place, which was boycotted by the countries of the free world. Because of this, Bertha was unable to meet her nephew, who had gone to distant lands, and who was both a son and a father to her. How so? And like this. Read and find out. About laughter and sin. About kindness. About the madness of the twentieth century. About spiritual purity, which someone preserved even in Stalin’s hell. About the irony of fate. About meanness and vulgarity that can subjugate someone about whom no one would ever think so. About quiet courage and the incessant whirring of a sewing machine. About Bertha. And at the same time, about the fact that next to us there is a rare living, subtle, not afraid of tales about “banality,” artistic and generous artist - I believed in this in October 2005, when Znamya published Khemlin’s series of stories “Farewell of the Jewish Woman.”