G bocharov you will not die. Victoria Samoilovna Tokareva everything is fine, everything is fine

A damp whirlwind rushed in,
It brought heat and moisture from the south.
He drove the clouds ahead of him,
How a wolf chases sheep or goats.
Swept away the plains from frozen waters
The ice hostile to life was broken.

And the snow melted on the mountains,
The fields were flooded.
The river, having forgotten its peaceful run,
She rushed off, seething furiously.
And, like chips, blocks of ice
Noisy water swirled.

A huge black croaker
The bridge rose above the depths.
And he lived customs officer On him:
With my little daughter, with my wife
He whiled away his life in a shack.
"Run, unfortunate man!"

This was the last enemy shot. The cannonade died down. The screams of people became louder. And what was especially surprising was the voices of ducks. Exhausted by captivity in a cramped cage on a ship, these birds, finding themselves in the open, quacked with some special joy that did not fit these terrible moments of death. Water, which brought suffering and torment to everyone, was the native element for ducks.
... And all around, exhausted and shivering from the cold, people said goodbye to each other, prayed to God, and cursed their fate. Strong and strong sailors, easily floating on the water, helped their comrades escape and gave them more reliable means of swimming. Some resilient people, even in these terrible moments, maintained their presence of mind, joked, laughed at their plight. One of the sailors was swimming with a cigarette behind his ear.
- Brothers, does anyone have a match for a cigarette? - he asked the sailors with such a prayer, as if his salvation depended on it.
Bare feet suddenly poked out of the water. Bending at the knees, they jerked as if doing gymnastic exercises. The driver Grigory Skopov was the first to swim up to them. He easily straightened the man who had lost his balance. It turned out to be the fireman Semyon Mineev, who had capsized upside down and had a lifesaving device. bib was tied too low. Together they swam further.
Only two hours later two Japanese cruisers: "Iwate" and "Yakumo". Having lowered the boats, they began to rescue people. By this time, the swimmers were carried away by the waves in different directions, far from the place where the Ushakov was sunk. While they were picking people up from the water, it got dark. The last swimmers, barely alive and numb, were already being searched for by the beams of searchlights. It was harder for these unfortunates in the dark than on a battleship in battle. There the shell could fly past, but here they were already choking in the cold depths of the sea. Everyone wanted the spotlight to fall on him as quickly as possible, and the beam slid around, leaving many unnoticed. The thought that they would not get on the boat was terrifying.
The rescue ended in complete darkness at about nine o'clock in the evening. Of the four hundred and forty-two people of the entire Ushakov crew, three hundred and thirty-nine people were caught alive on both cruisers. There was no valiant commander among them. He remained at sea and died as a hero.

• 26 scripts based on the book “First Blood” were written and rewritten, and all this time - all the 70s - there was a search for an actor for the main role. Clint Eastwood, Al Pacino, Robert De Niro, Dustin Hoffman and even John Travolta received offers. When the turn came to the young and fashionable Sylvester Stallone, he refused: after so many unsuccessful scripts and castings, this project, in his opinion, was doomed. But three and a half million dollars in fees were able to miraculously change his attitude.
• The starting series of the bloody franchise was an adaptation of David Morrell's novel First Blood. The writer struggled for a long time with a name for the hero and, in another fit of creative stupor, began to gnaw on delicious apples. “What kind is this?” - David asked his wife, to which she replied: “Rambo!” Immediately a chain of associations started in my head. The writer remembered the French poet Arthur Rimbaud, who had a poem “One Summer in Hell.” Everything came together: hell, and Rimbaud, and even somehow apples (don’t ask us how). Thus a new heroic name was invented.
David Morrell and Stallone-Rambo
• Rambo doesn't kill a single person in the first film. Yes, it just hurts a little. It is also quite curious that there are no female characters in this film - a wonderful rarity for Hollywood.
• The original version of the script for the sequel “Rambo: First Blood, Part 2” was written by an unknown young James Cameron. He did this in parallel with the writing of “Terminator” and “Aliens”. By that time, Cameron himself had only managed to make one forgotten but funny movie, Piranha 2: The Spawning.
Cameron and the camera (they are not namesakes!)
• Rambo: First Blood Part 2 is the only film in the Rambo series to be nominated for an Oscar. Of course, in the category “Best cutting off heads in a background”... We’re kidding, actually in the “Sound Effects” category. He lost this competition to the tape.
• The iconic scene from the second episode, where Rambo takes a long time and carefully weighs his body with weapons and ammunition, was actually born as a result of a natural disaster. In Mexico (which portrayed Vietnam) there was a terrible hurricane, filming was disrupted, and in order not to waste time and money, it was decided to shoot more scenes inside the hotel. And this one, with fees, first of all.
• In the second film, Rambo personally killed 57 people, for a total of 67 deaths on screen.
• In the middle of the second film there is a dialogue where Cho Bao asks Rambo why he agreed to participate in this suicide operation. To which Rambo replied that he was just expendable material, cannon fodder: “I"m expendable.” It was this phrase that gave birth decades later to the infernally funny film cycle The Expendables, lousy translated by distributors as “The Expendables.”
"Cannon fodder"
• Rambo 3 was the most expensive film in history at that time, costing $63 million. By modern standards, this is approximately 126 million - you can check it yourself using an inflation calculator.
• The modern video version of the third Rambo ends with the message “This film is dedicated to the brave people of Afghanistan.” However, the original 1988 version read, “This film is dedicated to the brave mujahideen warriors of Afghanistan.” Changes had to be made after the events of September 11, when American intelligence agencies revealed the connection of the Mujahideen with the Al-Qaeda organization.
• The third "Rambo" was included in the Guinness Book of Records (1990 edition) as the most violent film. The meticulous commission was pleased to count 221 acts of violence and more than 108 deaths.
• "Rambo IV" is even more cheerful, one might say - more life-giving! On average, 2.6 people are killed per minute on screen. A total of 236 corpses, which is a record for this glorious series!
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• The fourth "Rambo" could very well be the very last film for Sylvester Stallone. During filming in Burma (aka Myanmar), the entire film crew was almost shot by local soldiers. Stallone recalled Burma as a hell hole, and said this: “They shot over our heads. And we saw survivors everywhere with their legs cut off, landmine wounds, maggot wounds and ears cut off”... Yeah, it looks like the next Miss MAXIM pageant shouldn't be held in Myanmar, as our fitness editor suggests!

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Last name, first name, patronymic – Bocharov Alexey Efimovich

Year of birth: 1948

Place of work – APN

Purpose of visit: business trip

Bocharov filled out the hotel sheet. I gave it to the administrator. The administrator took the piece of paper and passport and began to check. Bocharov was waiting. Actually, he was not Efimovich, but Yukhimovich. The simple-minded father at one time decided that Yukhim was too peasant, an unintelligent name, and wrote himself down in the passport as Efim, mechanically turning his son into Efimovich. Abram, Efim are Orthodox names, but they are used by Jews. The country is, of course, international, but why take on someone else’s things? We have enough of our own. Although, if you look at it, everything is fine, everything is fine.

YEAR OF BIRTH: 1948. Neither subtract nor add here. The war ended in '45. Yukhim came shell-shocked, but unharmed. I thought the country would thank me. But they told him: “The country doesn’t owe you anything. You owe her everything." Yukhim spent his entire life fulfilling and exceeding production targets, but never earned a car or a dacha. In summer he sunbathes on the balcony. Production took his health and years out of him, then spat him out on a miserable pension, did not say “thank you” and did not say “sorry”. The winners were the “elbowmen” - those who fought their way through with their elbows. They didn't expect the country to take care of them. They took care of themselves. And now they have everything, and the children will have it all. And Yukhim has nothing but the name Efim. The only thing he grabbed for himself and left for his son.

PLACE OF WORK: APN. News Press Agency. International journalist, mass media. Bocharov has been working as a “means” for fifteen years. Of these, seven and a half spent time in distant India, in the city of Madras. When they asked: “Well, how is it?” - the wife answered: “They heat it well,” meaning fifty degrees in the shade.

In Madras, Bocharov was the head of the bureau, here he is also the head. with a salary of three hundred and sixty rubles a month, plus fifty for the language, plus interviews, publications - it cost five hundred rubles. Who else in our country receives that kind of money? Professors? Deputy ministers?

The apartment is all in Japanese technology and Russian antiques. Mahogany is deep, warm, alive. It smells like time. It seems to tell about a former life, former owners - beautiful idle women, noble men. It is possible that Pushkin sat on this chair and wrote poems for the owner in an album. When you live surrounded by antiquity, then you cannot be in modern walls made of chipboard. It would seem, what difference does it make – what’s around you? The main thing is what's in you. But what is around imperceptibly seeps inside. And suddenly you notice that your soul is filled with boring boxes made of pressed sawdust.

PURPOSE OF ARRIVAL: BUSINESS TRIP. More precisely, he came for personal purposes. University professor Rosalia Efimovna Galesnik called him in Moscow and said that she wanted to give him her folders. He is afraid, he will die and everything will be lost. They will, of course, appoint a heritage commission, but it’s hard to think that other people’s indifferent hands will delve into its papers. Alyosha Bocharov is a favorite student. Let him take her legacy (part of the legacy), sort it out, write a book or dissertation. Self-improves and brings humanity up to its knowledge. Gives a treasure to his favorite student. How not to take it? It's just awkward to refuse.

Rosalia Efimovna, like him, was not a real Efimovna. Her father's name was Srul, an old biblical name. So: Rosalia Srulevna. But teaching with such a middle name is unrealistic. Yes, and life is inconvenient. Any most serious person could not restrain his flying smile. And my colleagues at the department were simply embarrassed. Rosalia went to the police to rewrite her passport, but the head of the passport office refused to falsify the document. Then Rosalia personally transferred the letter “C” to “E”. I attached a ring to the letter “r” on the other side. I erased the “u” from my leg with a razor. And so on until the end. It turned out “Efimovna”. So Bocharov and Professor Galesnik came to the same patronymic from different ends. He is from the Orthodox Yukhim. She is from the Jew Srul.

However, the main thing about Rosalia is not what her dad’s name was, but her manic craving for India. She claimed that she lived there at her first birth and wanted to be born there again after her death. And who knows, maybe she really lived there.

The administrator placed a heavy key in front of Bocharov. Said:

- Seventh floor.

Bocharov extended his hand. The hand was in short hair. Hairs were leaking out from under the cuff of his shirt - onto his arm and even onto his fingers up to the knuckle. The administrator imagined the rest of her body, covered with hair, like that of a primitive man. She looked into his face. With a trained eye, she noted the white starched collar propping up her well-groomed cheeks. I thought: white collar. Without a mistake, she knew how to distinguish the masters of life from the victims, ours from foreigners. All this is reflected on the face, although it is believed that nothing is written on the forehead. But everything is written on the forehead, especially in the eyes. Our people, tortured by socialism, were visible right from the door with a guilty expression on their faces.

The white-collar man took the key and walked away. The administrator followed him with her eyes. Then she took the next piece of paper, held out by the next hairy hand.

“Farhad Badalbeyli Shamsi-ogly,” she read. I thought: “Not a name, but a song with a chorus.”

Bocharov turned the key and entered the room. The number is like a number. Temporary housing. They lived here before you, now you. Tomorrow you leave - the maid will come, change the bed, air it out so that your spirit will not be there. The next one will move in. And it’s the same with him. All this reminds us of the frailty of existence. We've arrived. We lived. Then time blew away. Next…

Recently Bocharov watched Lenin's funeral on television. Many thoughts and many feelings arose in him. But one thing shocked me. This whole sea of ​​people no longer lives. This generation is gone. They lived, loved, suffered and died; mostly suffered.

Bocharov went to the window. He pulled back the curtain. The hotel stood on the square, like on a peninsula. The bow of the hotel cut deep into the square, and the end went into the city, towards the houses.

The houses in this area are old and antique. Petersburg. They are quite shabby, but if restored, they will start talking.

Bocharov loved Leningrad. He was born here and studied at the university at the Faculty of Oriental Studies. Then he married a Muscovite and emigrated to Moscow. Leningrad gradually turned from the “cradle of the revolution” into a stronghold of reaction. Then many fled to Moscow, away from the new Romanov. That one - Nicholas II - was a tsar. And this one is the king. The words are similar, but different. Bocharov left Leningrad, but was bored. Cheryomushki, with identical white geometric boxes, resembled the hallucinations of a madman. Sameness oppressed, depersonalized, deprived of uniqueness. You are like everyone else. Incubator. But he is not like everyone else. He is he.

Bocharov went to the phone. I dialed Rosalia Efimovna’s number. On the phone they said:

- Now…

“Whose voice is this?” – Bocharov did not understand. Must be neighbors. The neighbors changed several times during the eighty-nine years that Rosalia lived in this apartment. Here is another one, from the Yukhima breed. A world-renowned professor, she knows more about India than the Indians themselves. She made Soviet-Indian friendship truly a friendship, and not an event. In the West, she would have a villa with a swimming pool, her own plane and yacht. Here he is sitting in a communal apartment, without an elevator. Can't go out into fresh air. Sitting - the same age as the century, as old as the century.

Bocharov heard her voice - low, smoky. The old woman used to smoke and even, it seems, drink. Her husband left her before the war. Couldn't stand the competition with India. Rosalia told her husband: “The most uninteresting thing in my life is you.”

Bocharov said that Streloy had arrived and would be with her in an hour.

- You call, darling, four rings. And if no one is there for a long time, don’t leave. This means I'm going.

– Can’t the neighbors open it? – asked Bocharov.

“The neighbors are at work at this time,” explained Rosalia Efimovna. - Well, how are you?

“Everything is fine, everything is fine,” said Bocharov.

- How’s mom?

Bocharov fell silent, as if he had failed. Then he said:

– Mom died twenty-five years ago. You were at the funeral.

- Yes? – Rosalia Efimovna was surprised. “Yes, yes, I remember...” she confirmed.

“It’s floating...” thought Bocharov.

- You should definitely come, my dear. I have prepared four folders for you, each containing five hundred pages. You'll understand. I will give four more folders to my daughter Rashmina.

“Which daughter? – Bocharov was surprised. - She does not have kids". Then I remembered: she gathers around her Indian students who study in Leningrad and calls them children. They help her and warm themselves next to her. Indians in Leningrad feel chilly and cold after their fifty degrees in the shade.

– Is Popov in my folder? – asked Bocharov.

- In yours, in yours, folder number two.

Some things that were not necessary for her - for example, whether his mother was alive or not - Rosalia Efimovna confused and forgot. But I remembered everything related to the profession to the smallest detail.

“Don’t have breakfast,” Rozalia Efimovna warned. - I'll feed you.

She loved her students, past and present. Charged with goodness. The students responded in kind. This is how the earth responds to the blessed rain. If you water it, it bears fruit.

Bocharov walked through the city. Blue sky. Bright snow. He loved his St. Petersburg both in the velvet rain and in the white nights. I loved it because I was used to it. It was given to him to love from childhood.

Here is the house where Krupskaya lived in her youth. Volodya Ulyanov came to her and ran up the steps. She opened the door for him. How long ago it was. In general, not that long ago. Bocharov was born during Stalin's lifetime. 1948 Stalin is Lenin's ally. Lenin was born during Dostoevsky's lifetime. Dostoevsky found Pushkin. If you hold hands, you can reach Pushkin. Everything is nearby. And General Popov is very close. The story of General Popov is in the second folder of Rosalia Efimovna.

It was good to walk along Nevsky Prospekt and think about Popov.

A forty-year-old landowner, like Bocharov, a handsome man, a widower or a bachelor (this needs to be clarified, but what difference does it make - no, it’s still a difference) - he meets a noble maiden in St. Petersburg, she has just graduated from the Bestuzhev courses - she is beautiful, smart, passionate about chemistry. Popov sees her and at first glance understands that his long search for happiness has been brilliantly completed. He gets married and gives her a laboratory as a wedding gift. The young wife is in the laboratory from morning to evening - experiments, experiments, what the chemists are doing there, what they pour into their flasks, retorts, what compounds they obtain. It all ended with her dying in her laboratory: she either exploded or burned, or maybe both. Yesterday it was, today it’s not. Popov could not come to terms with this fact - yesterday it was there, today it’s not there. He went a little crazy. The brain refused to accept the cruel reality. Popov went to his estate - somewhere in Chernivtsi - and built a marble ship on the river bank. While the memorial was being built, Popov lived by it: he worked hard, hired people, and worked until exhaustion. Work and ideas distracted him from the meaninglessness of life. The ship is ready. We need to do something further. Popov dug an underground tunnel from his house to the ship. I dug alone - from morning to evening. He came to the ship through the tunnel and missed it. Perhaps he wasn't crazy. He loved, as they say now, truly. Many believe: today, at the end of the twentieth century, there is no SUCH love. Bocharov thought differently. Love is always the same. People are different. Now there are no SUCH people. So, Popov lost the meaning of life and painfully searched for this meaning. He learned that a certain sage, or saint, Vivekananda, lived in India, and went straight to him, far away. It was a different time: I felt sad - build a ship or go to the other side of the world. Look for a way out.

Vivekananda is the way out. His worldview fell on Popov’s soul like insight, like grace. Reconciled him with himself, with the world. Popov suddenly realized that the world was his home. Countries are rooms, people are relatives: sisters, brothers, children. You can calmly walk from room to room and see familiar faces. You are not alone.

Popov returned to St. Petersburg. He felt painfully sorry for people who do not know Vivekananda. He began to translate it into Russian. In some ways, Vivekananda overlapped with Tolstoy. There was much in common in the worldview of these two great elders.

The revolution did not touch Popov, he did not bother anyone - the gray-bearded, meek old man must have seemed quietly insane. But he was a normal person. He simply knew a lot and, like God, looked down on the human fuss. He looked not indifferently or disgustedly, but with passion. I wanted to bequeath, as to my children, everything I knew and accumulated. They didn't listen to him. Not up to him.

Popov died a natural death. They buried him near the ship. This ship still stands on the banks of a small river to this day. And the grave is there. We need to find out: where exactly? Definitely go.

Beautiful story. Beautiful life. Bocharov felt sorry for something: maybe Popov’s young wife, who died at the beginning of her blossoming, or maybe himself. Could he do it like Popov? I would get married in a year. And I would go to India as the head of the press center to replace Frolkin. And he would take his new wife with him. She would save dollars. The dollar is a hard currency. It was good for Popov to express strong feelings when he had estates, nobility, and inheritance. At least three previous generations worked for him: great-grandfather, grandfather, father. And he, Bocharov, is the son of Yukhim. What could he have inherited from his father? Fear. Before the war, Yukhim was afraid that he would be imprisoned. During the war, they will kill you. After the war, they will imprison you again. You never know what will come into the head of a crazy leader of nations? He stayed alive only because he was a small, inconspicuous person. Ordinary human wood chips. But then chips flew in all directions, because - as everyone knows - the forest was cut down to build communism.

Bocharov, in comparison with General Popov, is poor and naked. But that’s not the point, that’s not the point...

The door was opened immediately. A young Indian woman stood on the threshold wearing a woolen Soviet jacket over a sari. The sari and jacket went together strangely. And it was just from the jacket that it was obvious how restless and cold they were here. She smiled at Bocharov shyly and openly at the same time.

Rosalia sat at the table like a haystack. She reached out to Bocharov with both hands, like a little girl. Old people are dependent like children.

Bocharov kissed her soft cheek. He sat down at the table. I got used to Rosalia. She always seemed incredibly old to him: both twenty years ago and now. The skin on the face and hands is in small ripples, as if the wind had passed through the water. But in some ways it remained unchanged. This unchangeable looked from the bottom of cheerful eyes. Rosalia began to talk with humor about her illnesses, about how every day, sitting down at the table, she bargains with her kidneys. “I’ll eat a piece of herring, what I love. And then what you love: cottage cheese and porridge.” The kidneys did not agree, but Rosalia did it her way. She always lived as she wanted.

There was food on the table placed in jam sockets. The portions are doll size. Bocharov was afraid to eat. He just looked: in one of the sockets there was something crimson - beets. In the other - dark green: seaweed. Rosalia supplied beets for the kidneys. And cabbage for yourself. Around the walls there are shelves with books and folders. Materials on Indian-Russian relations since the fourteenth century. It is priceless, like, say, a work of art. But Rosalia distributes and arranges her folders like children, so as not to send them to an orphanage. But in essence, these are her spiritual children, they need to be placed in order to then die in peace. Rosalia treated the death factor as a transfer station. I've arrived. Moved. And further. Until the next station. The path is endless.

Freeing yourself from the fear of death is like taking off painfully tight shoes. How easy it is to go then.

– Who is that on your tie, crayfish? – Rosalia asked.

“Horses,” answered Bocharov.

The blue silk of the tie has red stripes about a centimeter long. If you look closely, these are not stripes, but running horses. As soon as Rosalia noticed?

“You bought it in Delhi,” Rosalia identified. – I was friends with a doctor in Delhi. He has the same tie, only there are little crustaceans on it. Black crustaceans on a white background. He never took it off.

- Why? – Rashmina was surprised, and the Russian “why” just as strangely did not coincide with her dark face and the red circle on her forehead.

“He discovered he had stomach cancer and performed the operation on himself. Didn't trust anyone. I cut it out myself, my assistants sewed it up. He went home.

- Is it possible? – Bocharov didn’t believe it.

– In Bombay, they invented a painkiller that affects the pain center, and the rest of the brain works normally. Not like our anesthesia. Silences on the spot.

- Why don’t we have it? – asked Bocharov.

– We don’t have a lot of things.

- How is he now? – asked Rashmina.

– Anesthesia or a doctor? – Rosalia clarified.

- Healthy. No relapses. Just a tie. Still, I lost my mind a little.

Bocharov peered at Rosalia and strongly suspected that she, too, had gone a little crazy. The story with the doctor seemed real, this could have happened, but somewhere the line of reality was blurred, and everything floated like a mirage. A doctor who cut himself open and delved into his own insides... A young Indian woman in a wigon jacket with a purely Russian language, the semi-mystical eternal Rosalia. A little more - and Bocharov will cease to understand where he is: in Leningrad, in Moscow or in India. Or maybe he's rocking out on Arrow and having a dream.

Rosalia switched to Popov, as if she knew him, and maybe she did. Rashmina brought four folders, placed in a green plastic bag with the inscription “Stankoimport”.

Rosalia said that this story could be made into a Soviet-Indian movie, since Indians love cinema. Then Popov’s life will spread widely, but shallowly. Cinematography operates in breadth. Prose works deeply. If you dig deeper, then you need to write documentary prose. For Russians, prose is better. For Indians - cinema, because they are sentimental, they prefer pure feeling.

Bocharov listened and realized: Rosalia can only talk about India and what is connected with it. A man of one idea. The same age as the century. Born in 1900. During her lifetime, events occurred: Revolution, NEP, 1937, War, Victory, Stagnation and Thaw. Rosalia knew all this, but events flowed past her, like the landscape outside a train window. She was completely apolitical. And if one day I looked out the window and saw that there was fascism outside the window - it turns out that we lost the war with Hitler - then I would throw up my hands and exclaim: “Ah...” Nothing more.

And at the same time, Bocharov understood: in order to do something truly in life, you need to do only one thing. Raphael painted the domes and did not go down for two years. Lived in the woods. They brought him food there. Women climbed in there. When he went downstairs, he cut his boots, otherwise there was no way to take them off. After this, the domes remain. After Rosalia - folders. Even if you distribute them, they are still there. And what will remain after it?

– Are there still stones there? – Rosalia asked.

- Where exactly?

- Near Madras. On the shore.

“They’re standing,” Bocharov said, although he didn’t understand anything.

- How is your mother?

- Thank you.

It was stuffy. I wanted to eat. Rosalia perked up before our eyes, and Bocharov collapsed like a rubber inflatable toy. It seemed to him that Rosalia, despite her large mass, had a very weak charge and was, as it were, fueled by Bocharov. She connected to him and is quietly pumping energy.

“Now,” he said to himself. “He’ll finish the deal and I’ll leave.” Rosalia again rushed to Popov, to the genre of documentary prose, and began to list the documents in the folder, photographs, a drawing of the ship, the original translation of Vivekananda.

“Now...” Bocharov said to himself and remained sitting as if under hypnosis. Finally he pulled himself away from the chair. I almost pushed myself out of the apartment. But even at the last second it was necessary to say and promise something.

Finally he left, holding a bag of files in his hand. Stopped on the bank of the Fontanka. I breathed for a long time. Strength slowly returned. He seemed to be coming to his senses after fainting.

The waitress took the order.

Bocharov established a pattern: young waitresses are arrogant, as if they need to be paid extra for their youth. And the older waitresses are sincere. It was as if they were apologizing for their life experience. Bocharov came across an arrogant one. I wrote down the order as if I had done a big favor.

Bocharov sighed. In Madras he was a white sahib - a white gentleman. The king is played by his entourage. Bocharov's entourage, namely: the driver Atam, the cook, the nanny, constantly reminded him that he was a white gentleman. At first Bocharov was embarrassed, then he got used to it. You quickly get used to good things. He suddenly remembered the stones on the shores of the Indian Ocean. Rosalia didn't go crazy. The stones really stood. Near Madras, where they swam, there was a place in the ocean with a deep sinkhole. They said there was a shark living in it. Stones were placed against this place to prevent people from swimming. What warm, tight water in the ocean.

It was good in Madras then. Especially if you look from today. Bocharov was young, and his wife was young. They are still in their prime, but this is already their second youth. And then there was the first one. A quiet Bengali woman followed her son. She never made any comments to the child. I just walked around, that's all. And the son grew up calm, not twitchy. Because he was not pushed around by his upbringing, but simply loved. Bocharov was convinced: at the beginning of life, a person must experience non-judgmental, all-encompassing love. And then he will grow up happy.

Bocharov remembered a house on earth - a mansion, a yard with trimmed grass. A Volvo car with tinted windows, a driver named Atam. Athame - six-fingered. From the root of the thumb came another small underdeveloped finger with a nail. Atham did not use it, but did not want to get rid of it. God gave it - so so be it. God knows best what he is doing. However, no one remembered what Atam's face and voice were like. Everyone looked only at his hand, at the sixth finger. People, by God's design, are identical, and any departure from the norm - ugliness or talent - is amazing.

The ugliness is noticeable. But how to express talent if it is hidden, like Koshcheev’s death.

After India, Moscow seemed cold and gloomy. The apples bought at the grocery store didn't even smell remotely like apples. They were tasteless, with some kind of medicinal aftertaste, like penicillin. The sun went behind the gray clouds, and rain and snow fell from the gray clouds. And the relationship with my wife deteriorated, becoming like store-bought apples.

The beautiful singer took the microphone and sang a song from Pugacheva’s repertoire. She was much more beautiful than Pugacheva and sang not much worse, but come on... Pugacheva is known throughout the country, and the girl sings in a restaurant. Surely Pugacheva is tired of fame, and this girl craves it above all else. Bocharov thought that he and Frolkin had the same balance of power. Frolkin is the head of the company. He was tired of everything for a long time. He's like an old, overfed cat who doesn't catch mice. Too lazy to move. And Bocharov is forty-five - the golden ratio, when form and content meet for some time. In youth, content lags behind. In old age, the content is all right, but the form... And here one and the other are fused together. Bocharov is like a horse in which every muscle plays, and he is kept in a stall. The stall, however, is comfortable. But in the barn.

The waitress brought the Olivier salad. Bocharov looked suspiciously at the slide covered in mayonnaise. It is not clear what you are eating and how it will end for you. He didn't trust our catering. Bad meat is soaked in vinegar for a long time. It doesn't seem difficult to chew, but it tastes like pressed sawdust.

Bocharov remembered how his cook cooked chicken. The white meat was placed on a piece of fried loin. Lean chicken meat was layered with fat and smoked spirit. Bocharov ate one thing and remembered something else. “This is how they stroke, looking at the ceiling, strangers and unloved people.”

People were dancing in the center of the hall. They were having fun innocently. Bocharov loved to watch other people's fun. He felt sorry for something. Maybe they, who in their lives have never eaten anything sweeter than carrots. Maybe himself, who was left an orphan at the age of fourteen. Maybe them and myself together, because I felt an inextricable connection with them. When you live abroad for a long time, and even in a different culture, you feel this very inextricable connection. And no chicken on the tundra can replace this.

It turns out that a person is not a bird. Where it's warm, that's where it flies. Man is a tree. Where they planted it, that’s where it should be, that’s where its roots and crown are. And when the roots are in one place and the crown is in another...

The singer finished the song and exchanged glances with the pianist. He closed the lid. Look at each other - how long does it take: a second, two? But in these two seconds Bocharov understood: love. Two beams of energy crossed in space. The pianist, of course, is thinner, a nondescript little man, but a leader. It’s not like Bocharov is a stagnant horse. What he truly envied in life was a beautiful family, where everything was in one bag: sex, home, business, children, sports, money, tenderness, a common grave...

The singer screamed a new song temperamentally. The pianist was hitting the keyboard with a backhand.

They seemed intrusive to Bocharov. He paid and left the restaurant.

The female administrator looked at him strangely from her trailer. Bocharov slowed down. But General Popov glanced at him invisibly, as if observing the behavior of his biographer. Bocharov became embarrassed and walked up the stairs. In comparison with Popov, he is poor and naked, but that’s not the point, that’s not the point. Popov served God, the Tsar and the Fatherland. And who did Bocharov serve for the past twenty years? Brezhnev and his thirteen apostles.

Bocharov reached his room. For some reason, the mood deteriorated: either because of the stale mayonnaise, which tasted like vinegar, or because of the singer - the devil knows. But Bocharov was not one of those who fell into the mood. He knew how to manage it. First thing is a shower. The second thing is sleep. Bocharov climbed into the bath. Then he changed into pajamas. He went to the window and drew the curtain so that the sun would not shoot out his sleep in the morning. And suddenly I saw a ladybug on the windowsill - a real one, orange, with black dots. How did she get here? Apparently, she missed the time of hibernation and now she has insomnia...

Bocharov put the ladybug on his hand. She began to make her way along his hairy arm and probably thought that she was crawling among the grass. “Poor thing...” Bocharov was frightened. “How will she live?”

He got dressed again and went out into the corridor. An elderly bellhop was sitting at a table opposite the elevator. There was a sofa laid out near the window, the corridor girl was getting ready for bed, although they were not supposed to sleep.

Bocharov approached, trying to step quietly, as if he was afraid to frighten her away from her upcoming illegal sleep.

“The birds eat them.” And they... are green, probably. Grass. What else?

“Thank you,” Bocharov thanked.

-Are you doing a crossword puzzle? – asked the bellhop.

- Yes. Thank you.

Bocharov saw a ficus tree at the end of the corridor, and a plan came to his mind.

He returned to the room and took small scissors out of his travel bag. I made my way to the ficus tree and cut green noodles from its hard leaves. Clutching the greens in his fist and hiding his fist in his pocket, he returned to the room. Ladybug sat in the same place and waited trustingly.

“Now,” he said to the cow. - Now, my dear...

Bocharov took out a matchbox. I shook out the matches, lined the bottom with greenery and planted a ladybug on top. He put the lid on. Then he punched three holes in the lid and placed the box under the lit table lamp. Now there was air and light in her house. Ladybug could well imagine herself in the grass under the sun.

Having arranged the ladybug, Bocharov went to bed. His conscience was calm, his prospects were determined. But sleep did not come. Ladybug sent his thoughts into completely different directions. And in the opposite direction. Suddenly I remembered my youth, my internship in Delhi after university. Monkeys living in the wild near the walls of a dead city. For Russians, “long ago” means the eighteenth century. And among the Indians, “for a long time” is the second century. And even then not very long ago: everything is connected for them - the second century, the twentieth, the thirtieth. Like yesterday, today, tomorrow... But that’s not the point. Once they built a city and dug wells. And suddenly the water went away. Apparently, the underground river changed its course. You can't live without water. People abandoned the city and left. The dwellings collapsed over time, turned into piles of stones, then the stones eroded, leaving square foundations. The wall still stands as it stood.

Monkeys with moving human faces are grazing in front of the wall, asking people for food. Some ask, while others demand, they grab clothes, grinning aggressively. One day Bocharov saw a thoughtful monkey. She was waiting for someone near the road, peering intently, and at the same time peeling a banana. Her narrow, low-browed, big-eyed face reflected the problem of choice: wait or leave. Bocharov did not previously believe in Darwin's theory of human origins. It seemed to him that monkeys were another branch of evolution that had nothing to do with humans. But now I doubt it. Darwin is probably right. But what does Darwin, the monkey, the dead city have to do with it?...

The water in the city disappeared and the people left. You can't live without water. And you can’t live without the truth. Truth is also water. But there is no truth in Bocharov’s life. So he lives in a dead city.

What's the lie? First of all, in the profession. Bocharov publishes a magazine that promotes the Soviet way of life abroad.

“...The most privileged class in our country is children.” And in terms of infant mortality, as it turned out, we rank first among civilized countries. Next comes some Uganda.

“...Young people are treasured everywhere, old people are respected everywhere...” Old people receive a meager pension - sixty rubles a month. Just not to die of hunger. Not to die, but not to live either.

Bocharov thinks one thing, writes another. Officially lying. And for this they pay him the salary of a deputy minister and give him a shuttle life, the opportunity to live THERE, to feel like a white gentleman.

Abroad, it’s also a lie. They hoard, huddle, wives quarrel, gossip. People are gathered in a small space, like crocodiles in a terrarium - low crocodile passions are burning. The wife, a sincere person, did not like that shuttle life, but warmly approved of its consequences. She loved to squeeze juices in a Moulinex juicer, grind meat in a Moulinex meat grinder, put food in a Japanese refrigerator, and fry meat in a Teflon frying pan. Order a fur coat from the Kveli catalogue. Drinking black label whiskey, although after a while she didn't care about getting drunk. The wife loved the consequences of such a life, but was tired of life itself. From time to time she wanted to smash and scatter everything. But you can’t break it, they went abroad for that. That’s why I tore myself apart, poured alcohol up to my neck, to the very top of my head, to flood my brains so I wouldn’t remember anything. From time to time the wife went on a drinking binge. I had to hide it. If they find out, they will evict you within twenty-four hours. Bocharov always thought that he was carrying an awl in a bag and that this awl could stick out of the bag every second.

Once the binge lasted for a week, the wife took sleeping pills to switch off and fall asleep. Alcohol and a tranquilizer do not mix. She felt bad. I should have called a doctor. The doctor will come, record alcohol intoxication - and that’s the end of everything.

His wife looked at Bocharov like a wounded animal, and he stood and cried. It wasn't that material goods were more important than her life. He cried from his powerlessness, from the impossibility of living THIS way and the impossibility of canceling this life. After all, he tried for them - for his wife and son. I sold my soul for them.

Bocharov remembered how his international colleagues treated him and got out of it. Shurik Tsyganov - with ease. He was a greedy man. Everyone abroad is greedy, but Shurik had some special talents in this area. One day he fainted from hunger, as the first People's Commissar of the food industry. But this one is from honesty, this one is from greed. He could die for money. Money is his idea, like freedom for Spartak. If they told him: “Shurik, for a million and jump out from the sixteenth floor.” I would have thought for a long time. I didn’t agree right away. Still, I thought. And he jumped out. They die for an idea.

Yura Kryukin, a quiet man in high rank, did not like politics and hid from it behind the fragile back of Marina Tsvetaeva. Every day I went to the library, ordered the books I needed, collected all the foreign-language works of Marina Tsvetaeva, including her correspondence in German. I collected it, commented on it, and it turned out to be a large manuscript.

Kryukin cannot quit his job; there is no one to replace him. It turns out that there are irreplaceable ones. The irreplaceable Kryukin dreams of shaking off the West and the East, returning to his native Moscow, or rather, near Moscow, to the dacha, to the trees, to the birds, to his desk. But this is only possible after retirement. Real life begins at sixty.

Bocharov suddenly painfully wanted a different fate. Give up everything and go free. Why lie to Indians when you can tell the truth to your own people. Can he? Have you forgotten how to do it in twenty years? For the Indians, twenty years is a blink. And he has half of his conscious life. The best years - what did you spend on? For the Moulinex juicer.

Insomnia was getting worse. Thoughts were torn, chewed, like a Soviet tape tape. Out of nowhere I remembered how committee member Borya Mamin took his wife away in front of everyone. He opened the car door and said:

- Nina, let's go.

And she got into his car and drove away. And everyone stood in the yard and watched - Russians and Indians, the driver Atam and the nanny - an old Bengali woman, and his entire bureau in full force. Everyone saw how one white gentleman took away another’s wife.

Committee members are a caste of untouchables. But in a different sense than the Indians: untouchables work in toilets, you can’t touch them - it’s disgusting. But you can’t go to Bora Mamin – because you can’t.

The wife returned quite quickly, within an hour. Although in an hour - he knew this - a lot can be accomplished. My wife said that we sat in a cafe. No one saw her return; by this time everyone had dispersed. But everyone saw her leaving. It seemed to Bocharov that they began to look at him differently than before. Not in the eyes, but a little higher, on the crown of the head, where the horns of young bulls begin.

His wife looked at Bocharov with her blue eyes, offended. They were not large, but of an amazingly clear, pure tone. The very clarity and purity.

Then Borya Mamin began to visit them. They even became friends, Borya even tried to get Bocharov involved in his business, but Bocharov didn’t get involved. He is the media and he has had enough of simple lies. Borya did not insist. It didn't hurt the friendship. But Bocharov knew the value of such friendship: they could have the most sincere relationship, but if it was NECESSARY for business, Borya could instantly cross out both Bocharov and his wife, and blue eyes would not have saved him. NECESSARY - for people like Borya Mamin - is higher than generally understood human morality. If necessary, he can instantly turn off previous feelings and turn on others, like television programs. Once! And another image. There was a concert, then there was football. Or nothing happened. Some kind of superhuman or subhuman morality unknown to Bocharov.

But Mamin, unlike Bocharov, did not doubt anything. He believed in his work, and therefore in his life.

There was a rustling sound in the matchbox. Bocharov raised his head and listened. Perhaps waves of insomnia were coming from Bocharov and this was preventing the ladybug from falling asleep. Or maybe the cow was bothering Bocharov. I didn’t sleep, I was worried about the children and parents: had they been pecked by sparrows or crows?

Bocharov looked at his watch. Four o'clock. We should turn off the lamp, but I feel sorry for the cow. Bocharov always feels sorry for someone, but not himself. It's hereditary for him. From Mom. Bocharov put his shirt over his eyes and began to count. The count was thirty-seven—I knew for sure. His city is not dead. One of the wells has crystal water. Her name is Masha. Nobody knows about it, but it exists.

Masha is a journalist, young, short as a stalk, with the face of a Renaissance angel. Smart as a man, and simple-minded as a child. She believes everything as if she was born yesterday. Bocharov loves to complain to her, they call it “gurgling.” He gurgles - she listens, heeds, sympathizes to the end and offers her soul like a basin. If you want, perform ablution over this vessel. If you want, throw up everything that is unnecessary in you. She will accept it and be happy that you are feeling better. He will look into your eyes.

However, I have to get away from work. Lie again: they say he went to an interview or to the library. He usually ran away after lunch. At two o'clock. And you have to return home at seven. The wife is waiting, looking at her watch. If you’re late, he doesn’t speak, and the house is stuffy, like before a thunderstorm. I can't breathe. Once she said: if anything happens, she’ll get poisoned. She has everything already prepared and hidden in a treasured place. Bocharov waved it off: don’t talk nonsense. But I was scared. Knew - maybe. He will go on a drinking binge and poison himself. To spite him, to spite myself. She is like that. Maximalist. It's all or nothing for her. It will enter a black spiral, from where there is only one way out - into space. And then - how to live? How to look your son in the eye? Therefore, it is better not to be late and return at seven. To get home at seven, you need to leave Masha at six. At five, Bocharov begins to glance at his watch, and his mood deteriorates from the imminent separation. But from two o'clock, when he goes to Masha, until five, three hours - TRUE. He talks and talks... He gurgles about everything: about changing jobs, going free, becoming a real journalist. He will definitely break out of the dead city and run, run... And the wind is in his face. Masha listened and breathed this new wind. He pricked her like a dragonfly on a needle. And she trembled and died. And they both flew away into PEACE - all the energy leaves the person, he dies, the soul is released and flies. People who have just died know this flight and peace: some special feeling of liberation, joyful dissolution, merging with the cosmos. No wonder Indians deify love.

They lay at the very bottom of the Rest. Then she said: “I love you.” He answered: “I love you.” This was not a dialogue:

- I love you.

- And I love you.

It was roll call. Call signs in space:

"I love you…"

"I love you…"

Is it true. Bocharov felt it with every human layer of him. Why can't we always live like this? In everything. Why is he always afraid of something? They lie when they are afraid. What? That the family will be left without funds, that a friend will be offended, that the wife will be poisoned. He took everyone into account except himself. There's nothing you can do about it. My mother was the same - Yukhim’s wife, a girl from a Belarusian village. It seemed to her that everyone was smarter than her, everyone knew more. The only thing worse than her is a cat. And she's no worse.

Bocharov remembered how his mother died. Although what does “remember” mean? He never forgot about it. Mom developed heartburn. The district doctor suggested doing an x-ray of the stomach. Mom was terrified of offices and procedures, but it was awkward to object to the doctor. He may perceive this as lack of trust. Mom came on the appointed day. The rude nurse handed me a half-liter jar of barium. Mom could not drink barium; it seemed to her that it was diluted tooth powder. She hesitated. The nurse opened her mouth, but in this case it would be more correct to say that she opened her mouth, as his son says. Youth slang. To eat means to chew. Such people have a mouth only for chewing and grunting, like pigs. But pigs are more humane. They don't pretend to be human.

In short, the nurse opened up a haval on the topic: there are many patients, but she is alone, and everyone will wander around, but she must endure for pennies. At the same time, her eyes were filled with anger, like glass, and waves of hatred washed over her mother.

Mom was embarrassed that she was allowing herself such antisocial behavior. She felt sorry for the nurse, and, in order not to burden herself, she brought the jar to her mouth. Mom knew she couldn't swallow it. For a moment my mother was overcome with horror and took a sip. And she had a stroke. For two years after that she lay paralyzed and then died.

But everything could have been different. When the nurse started being rude, we had to throw barium in her face. Turn around and leave. My sister would go to the toilet, wash her face, and dry herself with a government-issued waffle towel. And an hour later I forgot. And my mother would still be alive. And everything would be fine, everything would be fine. But mom couldn’t do it like that – decisively. And Bocharov cannot. And he won't be able to. He suddenly realized that he couldn’t, and he began to cry. No one heard him except Ladybug. Bocharov cried into his pillow and called: “Mom...”

And then he fell asleep in tears, as in childhood, and he had a strange, restless dream, as if he saw a crook on the stairs with stolen suitcases and let them into his apartment to hand them over en masse to the police. But the crook moved in with him, stayed to live, and started a fire in the kitchen. And he can't do anything.

Bocharov woke up as always, at seven in the morning. This was his time. Whenever I went to bed, I woke up at seven in the morning. The table lamp was on. There was a matchbox underneath.

Bocharov looked into the box - it was empty. The green noodles are there, but the cow is gone. Bocharov looked at the floor and pushed the bed aside. I checked the window sills. I looked into the bathroom.

“Was she there? – Bocharov doubted. Then I thought: “God be with her, she was, she wasn’t - what’s the difference.”

He did hard gymnastics - he squatted twenty times while jumping. He squeezed his body, jumped up and squatted to the end again. I worked on my knees, pumped up my legs, gave stress to my heart, restoring strength and confidence to my body.

The nervous breakdown remained in the past days. A new day was beginning, where everything should be normal, everything should be fine.

What's bad? A strong family, a desired lover, a professional job. Free bread is out of the question. At forty-five years old, will he run around the editorial offices like a student intern?...

Bocharov got into the shower: hot, cold. The cold stung. He jumped out and rubbed himself with a towel. Seeing himself naked, I suddenly thought that the Neanderthal with the oak looked the same and man had changed little in twenty centuries.

Bocharov put on a fresh white shirt and tied a tie. And while I was building a node, I came up with an idea: I could contact the millionaire Hammer and offer him a joint Soviet-American magazine. And Bocharov is at the head of the magazine.

You can become a press man, work hard from morning to night, and travel to America as if it were your own dacha. Or you can drop everything and send your wife to work. And sit down yourself, like Yura Kryukin, and write a book about Popov, bring Vivekananda to the people of today.

In a quiet office, alone with Popov and Vivekananda. Another life. A different fate.

You can spin, spin, spin - beat the air until thick - so that you can walk on air. Or you can settle and freeze, lie on the bottom like a submarine.

Bocharov looked at himself in the mirror: he was not a Neanderthal. Modern man. In the prime of life. Lives in a certain era, in the 90s of the twentieth century. Each time offered its own extra people. Today it depends on you whether to become superfluous or not superfluous.

Bocharov went out into the corridor. Locked the door.

The corridor changed. Another woman was sitting, who had not lost confidence in life... As a sign of trust, her eyelids were thickly dusted with blue shadows.

Bocharov gave her the key. At that moment, an oriental man in a Finnish tracksuit approached the corridor. Having waited until Bocharov had gone to the elevator, he quietly, worriedly asked:

– Girl, do you happen to know what ladybugs eat?

IV. Workshop: “Writing an essay”

Lesson No. 1. How to work with text when writing an essay?

There are many techniques that will help you with your essay. We offer one of the options for preparatory work with the text.

I. Read the text.

(1) Clutching a pitchfork in her hand, Maria threw back the manhole cover and pulled back. (2) On the earthen floor of the cellar, leaning against a low tub, sat a living German soldier. (3) At some elusive moment, Maria noticed that the German was afraid of her, and realized that he was unarmed.

(4) Hatred and hot, blind anger overwhelmed Maria, squeezed her heart, and rushed to her throat with nausea. (5) A scarlet fog obscured her eyes, and in this thin fog she saw a silent crowd of farmers, and Ivan swinging on a poplar branch, and the bare feet of Fena hanging on the poplar, and a black noose on Vasyatka’s childish neck, and them, the executioners - the fascists, dressed in gray uniforms with black ribbon on the sleeves. (6) Now here, in her, Mary’s, cellar, lay one of them, a half-crushed, unfinished bastard, dressed in the same gray uniform, with the same black ribbon on the sleeve, on which the same alien, incomprehensible, hooked letters were silver. ..

(7) Here is the last step. (8) Maria stopped. (9) She took another step forward, the German boy moved.

(10) Maria raised her pitchfork high, turned away slightly so as not to see the terrible thing she had to do, and at that moment she heard a quiet, strangled cry that seemed like thunder to her:

Mother! Ma-a-ma...

(11) A weak cry, like many red-hot knives, dug into Maria’s chest, pierced her heart, and the short word “mother” made her shudder with unbearable pain. (12) Maria dropped the pitchfork, her legs gave way. (13) She fell to her knees and, before losing consciousness, she saw very close the boy’s light blue eyes, wet with tears...

(14) She woke up from the touch of the wounded man’s wet hands. (15) Choking with sobs, he stroked her palm and said something in his own language, which Maria did not know. (16) But from the expression of his face, from the movement of his fingers, she understood that the German was talking about himself: that he did not kill anyone, that his mother was the same as Maria, a peasant woman, and his father had recently died near the city of Smolensk, that He himself, having barely finished school, was mobilized and sent to the front, but he had never been in a single battle, he only brought food to the soldiers.

(17) Maria cried silently. (18) The death of her husband and son, the hijacking of farmers and the death of the farm, martyrdom days and nights in the corn field - everything that she experienced in her severe loneliness broke her, and she wanted to cry out her grief, tell about it to a living person, the first one who who she had met in the last few days. (19) And although this man was dressed in the gray, hated uniform of the enemy, he was seriously wounded, moreover, he turned out to be just a boy and - apparently - could not be a killer. (20) And Maria was horrified that just a few minutes ago, holding a sharp pitchfork in her hands and blindly obeying the feeling of anger and revenge that gripped her, she could kill him herself. (21) After all, only the holy word “mother”, that prayer that this unfortunate boy put into his quiet, choking cry, saved him.

(22) With a careful touch of her fingers, Maria unbuttoned the German’s bloody shirt, tore it slightly, exposing her narrow chest. (23) There was only one wound on her back, and Maria realized that the second fragment of the bomb did not come out, but lodged somewhere in her chest.

(24) She squatted down next to the German and, supporting his hot back of his head with her hand, gave him milk. (25) Without letting go of her hand, the wounded man sobbed.

(26) And Mary understood, she could not help but understand, that she was the last person whom the German doomed to death sees in his life, that in these bitter and solemn hours of his farewell to life, in her, in Mary, lies everything that else connects him with people - mother, father, sky, sun, native German land, trees, flowers, the whole huge and beautiful world, which is slowly leaving the consciousness of the dying man. (27) And his thin, dirty hands stretched out to her, and his fading gaze full of prayer and despair - Mary understood this too - express the hope that she is able to defend his passing life, to drive away death...

(According to V. Zakrutkin)

II. Find key phrases that will help you identify the problem raised by the author in the text and his position.

Write down these phrases, for example:

1) ...hatred and blind malice...

2) ... a weak scream pierced his chest with many knives...

3) ...after all, only the holy word “mother”...

4) ... sat down next to me... gave me milk...

III. Analyze your notes. Think about what problem the author raises in the text you read. Formulate and write down this problem, for example: Revenge or renunciation of revenge?

IV. Determine the author's position, that is, his opinion on the issue raised. From the fifth (5) sentence of the text it is clear that the desire for revenge is a feeling that is difficult to resist. This is one of the author’s views, but gradually he leads the reader to the idea that a defeated enemy has the right to humane treatment. Make a note indicating the author's position.

VI. Think about what kind of introduction you could use. The most advantageous is the analytical introduction. It immediately declares you as a person who knows how to think logically and competently. The essence of such an introduction comes down to an analysis of the central concept of the topic of the essay.

VII. Make a plan. Try to make it detailed and help you write your essay. For example:

Introduction:

What is revenge?

Main part:

1) “Kill the murderer” “in the name of supreme justice.”

2) The short word “mother”...

3) Mary’s humanistic choice.

Conclusion:

Revenge or renunciation?

VIII. Based on the plan, write an essay.

Here is a sample of such an essay. Of course, it may be completely different for you. It all depends on your point of view and your reading and life experiences.

Introduction

What is revenge?

Insulted human dignity and cruelty can cause a response - revenge. What is revenge? This is the deliberate infliction of evil in order to repay an insult or insult. But not everything is so simple, because revenge is the most complex and contradictory phenomenon in the life of society.

Main part

1) “Kill the murderer” “in the name of the highest justice.”

Revenge or refusal to take revenge - this is the main problem of the text I read.

“A scarlet fog obscured her eyes, and in this thin fog she saw... Ivan swinging on a poplar branch, and the bare feet of Fen hanging on the poplar, and the black noose on Vasyatka’s childish neck.” After reading this sentence, I understand that the author considers the desire to avenge the death of loved ones to be a feeling that is difficult to resist. And his heroine raises a pitchfork...

2) A short word "mother"...

But at the last moment Maria hears a muffled cry: “Mom!” Why did the author put this particular word into the mouth of a wounded German? Of course, this was not done by accident. Only a boy scared to death could scream like that. At the same time, Maria, hearing the word “mother,” understands that there is a helpless person in front of her, and she must be merciful.

3) Mary's humanistic choice.

And the heroine makes a choice. And this choice coincides with the author’s position: a defeated, and therefore no longer dangerous, enemy has the right to humane treatment.

This position has been close to me since the time when I read Leo Tolstoy’s book “War and Peace”

Russian soldiers warm and feed Rambal and Morel, and they, hugging them, sing a song. And it seems that the stars are happily whispering to each other. Perhaps they admire the nobility of the Russian soldiers, who chose compassion for the defeated enemy instead of revenge.

However, it is worth noting that the problem of revenge is not only associated with military events and exists not only in the adult world. Revenge or non-revenge is a choice that each of us may face. In this regard, I remember V. Soloukhin’s story “The Avenger”. In the soul of the hero-narrator there is a struggle between the desire for revenge and the reluctance to beat a trusting friend. As a result, the hero manages to break the vicious circle, and his soul becomes easy.

Conclusion

Revenge or renunciation?

Bocharov Oleg

Oleg Bocharov

Conversation of neighbors on the bench JSC Kuker and Kuker Klox Manufacturers offers Hi-End models GASTELLO MAIN EVENT, OR MORE EXACTLY AN EVENT OF THE XX CENTURY, A VERY SAD STORY Another article of mine, which I just sculpted. HOW WE WENT TO THE BASEMENT AND ALMOST ALIVE STAYED POP AS THE FINAL PRODUCT OF CIVILIZATION In general, I've been toiling for almost a month without inspiration... FAQed BOCHAROF! All Fido votes for Feda THE TALE ABOUT THE KIBALCHISH BOY AND CARLSON At the request of necro-listeners, I repeat a short biography of Asya Kalyasina I found my old article for some newspaper Shit Parade - III Subj: Shield parades are old And this is the creation of my student pre-fidosh years. SHIT PARADE 5 Pennywise FUCKING AS THE END PRODUCT OF CIVILIZATION FAMILY RELATIONS OF MR. ENDOCRINOLOGIST HORROR FILM SCRIPT DEATH IN THE DOCTOR'S OFFICE A COUPLE WORDS ABOUT THE END OF THE WORLD ABOUT WHY IT IS INDECENT TO EAT ORANGES IN PUBLIC FIGHTING SNORING HUNTING SCOUTS IN THE BLACK EARTH REGION ABOUT SEX IN THIRD WORLD COUNTRIES RECENT CREATIVITY OF THE SOBE BOCHAROV: ABOUT THE HARMFUL RUKS ABOUT VIRGINITY HOW TO EXORCISE THE DEVIL A STORY WRITTEN FOR CHILDREN OF FIDONET SUBSCRIBERS THE TREE OF GOOD BLOWS FRUIT, FOOD BUSINESS A THOUGHTFUL HUNT FOR FIFOHOUSES FROM NEOCONCH ENNOGOYA - FIDOSHNIK (remake) FROM THE OLD (BEFORE FIDOSH PERIOD) CONTENTS OF THE TV SERIES “THE RICH TOO CRY” " ABOUT HOW WOMEN LOVE EPILATORS WITH MUTTLES BEETHOVEN VERSUS FRANKENSTEIN MASSACRE ON THE BLOODY PRAIRIE OF BRYANSHIN CHURCH LIFE, MYSTERIOUS LIFE: HOW TO COOK MULLWAIN I continue to publish the story about the unlucky sysop and others others... FEARLESS AND VERY SCARY CONQUERERS OF SPACE SKETCH FROM THE LIFE OF A COMPUTER-MODEM WORKER ONE IN THE FIELD WARRIOR RULES FOR COMPUTER USE SAGA OF THE BRAVE BOGATYR AND MANURE CULTURE, BLAKHA-FLY STIRLITZ. POOR GUY, WHAT TIME ALREADY? My new article for ROCK CITY. For PUNX only!! Nonsense during working hours HOW WE GO TO GELENDZHIK AND COME BACK WITHOUT A SINGLE CORSE HOW TO HAVE SEX (a guide for beginners and those who have never come) How to scratch your balls correctly? Fresh nasty THE ALMOST BEST OF OLEG BOCHAROFF

Conversation of the neighbors on the bench: - I don’t know anyone who loves animals more than Klava - she drowns her kittens only in warm water.

During a round, the head doctor asks his sister: “What is the morning temperature of the patient from ward seventeen?” - I don’t know for sure, doctor... - What do you mean I don’t know - it’s your responsibility! - The fact is that at night he was transferred from us... - Where? - To the morgue.

What, Grisha died? - Yes, just yesterday. - I see he’s lying in a coffin!

The psychiatrist says to his friend: - How is your husband doing? - Doctor, but I'm not married. - Yes, that means your husband is a bachelor.

At the beginning of the year, the teacher meets the students. He asks one of them: -What is your last name? -Stirlitz. -Are you laughing at me? Run after your parents! Father arrives. The teacher complains: -What is this? I ask your son’s last name, and he answers: “Stirlitz”! The father is embarrassed: - He is shy. We are Bormanns...

Two nurses are talking in the maternity hospital: - Who is crying so loudly there? Are these the triplets that were born tonight? - No, this is their father in the corridor.

At his evening, Igor Guberman told an incident that actually happened, just an anecdote: In the questionnaire for those leaving for the USA for permanent residence, there is a point about the gender of the person, it is asked in English - SEX. A future emigrant (BE) from a small town near BAKU answered him - 2 times a week. Embassy employee: YOU must mark here whether you are a man or a woman. BE: It doesn’t matter to me!

Phone call: - Hello, is Izya still at home? - Home, home, and the wreaths have already been taken out.

In a military town, a woman tells her neighbor: “Yesterday someone trampled down the entire garden.” - Maybe warrant officers? - Well, what ensigns, human traces.

They bring a crippled man to the hospital. Doctor: Last name? Man: Ivanov. Doctor: Married? Man: No, I was hit by a car.

Two children in kindergarten after the New Year: - And for the New Year they gave me a radio-controlled car with buttons, and also a gun that shoots bullets, and a box of chocolates and much more... What did they give you? - Balloon... - That's all??? - Well, not everyone has blood cancer...

The candidate is asked: -Why did you decide to run? - Look what's going on! The authorities are mired in luxury, corruption, idleness! -Oh, so you want to fight all this? -What are you talking about! I want to take part in all this!

It means that one scientist invented a device that turns two blacks into one white one and began to convert everyone who wanted to: he seemed to convert everyone, but there was only one black left who did not have enough pairs. The black man thought and thought (after all, I want to become white:) and decided to take a gorilla as my mate. Well, okay, the scientist agreed to mix it with a gorilla and see what happens (science requires sacrifices). So, they put them through the machine, and out of it they pulled out some strange creature with white skin, here and there covered with hair.. The scientist is in shock. He approaches the creature, touches the hair on his chest and says: (Teacher): What an interesting hairline! (Soz): Wah, listen, don’t touch, yes!

Two friends went to a bar every Saturday and relaxed over a glass of whiskey from everyday worries. But one day one of my friends had to leave for another city for a long time. In order not to break tradition, the friends agreed at a certain time, each in their city, to go to the nearest bar and have a glass. On the very first Saturday, a friend who had left came into the bar and said to the bartender: “Two glasses of whiskey, please!” The bartender was surprised: “Maybe I’ll pour one at a time?” - No, the point is that I drink one for myself, and the second for a friend who is now doing the same thing in another city. Several months have passed. (UE) walks into the bar and says to the bartender: “I’ll only have one drink today, Billy.” - What, is your friend dead? - No, I just quit drinking.

A man comes to a fortune teller. She looks at his palm: “What horror!” Your wife will die in two days! - I know, I know, but will they catch me?

They force paratroopers in the army to dive into a plane, like training jumps, all people are like people, and one in front of the ensign begins to break down: - I won’t fly, superstitious fears... Well, the ensign, of course, doesn’t care, he stuffed it in and the soldiers took off. The time has come to jump - the people throw themselves down without hesitation, but the superstitious one (C) again insisted: - I won’t fly! Prapor (P) asks him: P: Why aren’t you listening to the commander, s$a, JUMP QUICKLY!!! C: I can’t, Comrade Warrant Officer, I had a dream, and in it my late grandmother said that my parachute won’t open today, do whatever you want, but I won’t jump... P: Oh, you son of a bitch, quickly give me your parachute, and give me mine take it for yourself!!! Everything happens like this, the soldier jumps then pulls the ring... the parachute opens safely, the calmed soldier begins to look at the ground, when suddenly an ensign flies past him, desperately pulling the ring and heart-rendingly screaming: P: Damn your grandmother!!!