You can probably guess what's going on here. There was always an amazing aroma in her house! And one day she showed me a trick! I still can't believe it! Just don't think

Where? The story " Golden Rose» Konstantin Paustovsky is dedicated to the essence writing work. It's not really piece of art, but Paustovsky talks so vividly and interestingly about how he and other writers work that it seems like you are reading a novel. Why? Autumn is approaching - a time that has inspired many writers. Why autumn? The writer gives his answer to this. Let's read. Almost every writer has his own inspirer, his own kind genius, usually also a writer. It is worth reading at least a few lines from the book of such an inspiration - and you will immediately want to write yourself. It’s as if fermentation juice splashes out of some books, intoxicating us, infecting us and forcing us to take up the pen. It is surprising that most often such a writer, a good genius, is far from us in the nature of his work, in manner and in themes. I know one writer - a strong realist, an everyday worker, a sober and calm person. For him, such a kind genius is the rampant science fiction writer Alexander Green. Gaidar called Dickens his inspiration. As for me, any page from Stendhal’s “Letters from Rome” makes me want to write, and I write things so far from Stendhal’s prose that it surprises even myself. One autumn, while reading Stendhal, I wrote the story “Cordon 273” - about protected forests on the Pre River. It is absolutely impossible to find anything in common with Stendhal in this story. Frankly, I didn’t think about this case. Obviously, an explanation can be found for it too. I mentioned this only to talk about the many seemingly insignificant circumstances and skills that help writers work. Everyone knows that Pushkin wrote best in the fall. No wonder “Boldino autumn” has become synonymous with amazing fertility. “Autumn is coming,” Pushkin wrote to Pletnev. “This is my favorite time - my health usually gets stronger - it’s time for my literary works It’s coming.” It’s probably easy to guess what’s going on here. Autumn is transparency and coldness, “farewell beauty” with its clarity of distances and fresh breath. Autumn brings a meager pattern into nature. The crimson and gold of forests and groves are thinning every hour , enhancing the sharpness of the lines, leaving bare branches. The eye gets used to clarity autumn landscape. This clarity gradually takes over the consciousness, imagination, and hand of the writer. The spring of poetry and prose flows with clear, icy water, with only the occasional tinkling of pieces of ice in it. The head is fresh, the heart beats strongly and evenly. Your fingers will just feel a little chilly. By autumn, the harvest of human thoughts ripens. Baratynsky said this well: “And the dear harvest will ripen, and you gather it in the grains of thoughts, having reached the fullness of human destinies.” Pushkin, according to him, blossomed again every autumn. Every autumn he grew younger. Obviously, Goethe was right when he argued that geniuses experience several relapses of youth throughout their lives. On one of these autumn days Pushkin wrote poems that express an unusually visually complex creative process poet: And I forget the world - and in the sweet silence I am sweetly lulled to sleep by my imagination. And poetry awakens in me: The soul is embarrassed by lyrical excitement, Trembling, and sounds, and seeks, as in a dream, to finally pour out in free manifestation - And then an invisible swarm of guests comes to me, Old acquaintances, the fruits of my dreams. And the thoughts in my head are agitated in courage, And light rhymes run towards them. And the fingers ask for the pen, the pen for the paper. A minute - and the poems will flow freely... This is an amazing analysis of creativity. It could only be created in a fit of high spiritual elation. Pushkin had one more feature. He simply skipped those places in his works that were not given to him, never dwelled on them and continued to write further. Then he returned to the places he had missed, but only when he had that elation that he called inspiration. He never tried to force it. Last weekend we published

Almost every writer has his own inspirer, his own kind genius, usually also a writer.

It’s worth reading at least a few lines from the book of such an inspiration – and you’ll immediately want to write yourself. It’s as if fermentation juice splashes out of some books, intoxicating us, infecting us and forcing us to take up the pen.

It is surprising that most often such a writer, a good genius, is far from us in the nature of his work, in manner and in themes.

I know one writer - a strong realist, an everyday worker, a sober and calm person. For him, such a kind genius is the rampant science fiction writer Alexander Green.

Gaidar called Dickens his inspiration. As for me, any page from Stendhal’s “Letters from Rome” makes me want to write, and I write things so far from Stendhal’s prose that it surprises even myself. One autumn, while reading Stendhal, I wrote a story “Cordon 273” - about protected forests on the Pre River. It is absolutely impossible to find anything in common with Stendhal in this story.

Frankly, I didn’t think about this case. Obviously, an explanation can be found for it too. I mentioned this only to talk about the many seemingly insignificant circumstances and skills that help writers work.

Everyone knows that Pushkin wrote best in the fall. No wonder “Boldino autumn” has become synonymous with amazing fertility.

“Autumn is coming,” Pushkin wrote to Pletnev. “This is my favorite time - my health usually gets stronger - the time for my literary works is coming.”

It’s probably easy to guess what’s going on here.

Autumn is transparency and coldness, “farewell beauty” with its clarity of distances and fresh breath. Autumn brings a sparse pattern to nature. The crimson and gold of the forests and groves are thinning every hour, increasing the sharpness of the lines, leaving bare branches.

The eye gets used to the clarity of the autumn landscape. This clarity gradually takes over the consciousness, imagination, and hand of the writer. The spring of poetry and prose flows with clear, icy water, with only the occasional tinkling of pieces of ice in it. The head is fresh, the heart beats strongly and evenly. Your fingers will just feel a little chilly.

By autumn, the harvest of human thoughts ripens. Baratynsky said this well: “And the dear harvest will ripen, and you gather it in the grains of thoughts, having reached the fullness of human destinies.”

Pushkin, according to him, blossomed again every autumn. Every autumn he grew younger. Obviously, G. was right when he argued that geniuses have several returns to youth throughout their lives.

On one of these autumn days, Pushkin wrote poems expressing the poet’s unusually complex creative process:

And I forget the world - and in sweet silence

I am sweetly lulled by my imagination.

And poetry awakens in me:

The soul is embarrassed by lyrical excitement,

It trembles, and sounds, and searches, as in a dream,

To finally pour out with free manifestation -

And then an invisible swarm of guests comes towards me,

Old acquaintances, fruits of my dreams.

And the thoughts in my head are agitated in courage,

And light rhymes run towards them.

And the fingers ask for the pen, the pen for the paper.

A minute - and the poems will flow freely...

This is a stunning analysis of creativity. It could only be created in a fit of high spiritual elation.

Pushkin had one more feature. He simply skipped those places in his works that were not given to him, never dwelled on them and continued to write further. Then he returned to the places he had missed, but only when he had that elation that he called inspiration. He never tried to force it.

I saw how Gaidar worked. It was completely different from the way writers usually work.

We lived then in the Meshchersky forests, in a village. Gaidar settled in big house, overlooking a rural street, and I was in a former bathhouse, in the depths of the garden.

At that time, Gaidar was writing “The Fate of the Drummer.” We agreed to work honestly from morning until lunch and not to tempt each other with fishing during this time.

One day I was writing in the bathhouse about open window. Before I had time to write even a quarter of a page, big house Gaidar came out and walked past my window with a completely independent and indifferent look.

I pretended not to notice him. Gaidar walked around the garden, grumbling something to himself, then again walked past the window, but now clearly trying to hurt me. He whistled and fake coughed.

I was silent. Then Gaidar walked past for the third time and looked at me with irritation. I kept silent.

Gaidar could not stand it.

“Listen,” he said, “don’t be a fool!” Still, you write so quickly that it costs you nothing to tear yourself away. Just think, what a Boborykin! If I wrote like this, I would already have full meeting works in one hundred and eighteen volumes.

He really liked this figure. He repeated with pleasure:

- In one hundred and eighteen volumes! Not a volume less!

“Well,” I said, “tell me: what do you need?”

“And I need you to listen to what a wonderful phrase I came up with.”

- Here, listen: “He suffered, old man, he suffered!” - said the passengers." Fine?

- How do I know! – I answered. – It depends on where it stands and what it relates to.

Gaidar became furious.

- “What does it refer to”, “what does it refer to”! – he mimicked me. – It applies to what it needs to! Well, to hell with you! Sit down and write out your essays. I'll go write down this phrase.

But he couldn't stand it for long. Twenty minutes later he started walking outside my window again.

- Well, what other brilliant phrase did you come up with? – I asked.

“Listen,” said Gaidar, “before I only vaguely suspected that you were a demagnetized intellectual and a mocker.” And now I am convinced of this. And, moreover, with bitterness.

- Go you know where! - I said. - On my honor, please don’t interfere!

– Just think, what kind of Lazhechnikov! - said Gaidar, but still left.

Five minutes later he returned and from a distance shouted a new phrase to me. She, however, was unexpected and good. I praised her. This is all Gaidar needed.

- Here! - he said. - Now I won’t come to you anymore. Never! Somehow I’ll write without your help.

- Oh revoir, Monsieur Lecriven Russe Sovetik!

He was very into it at the time French and just started studying it.

Gaidar returned several more times to the garden, but did not disturb me, but walked along the distant path and muttered something to himself.

This is how he worked - he came up with phrases on the fly, then wrote them down, then came up with them again. All day he walked from the house to the garden. I was surprised and was sure that Gaidar’s story was barely moving. But then it turned out that he was cunning and wrote down much more than one phrase at a time.

Two weeks later he graduated from “The Fate of a Drummer”, came to my bathhouse cheerful, satisfied and asked:

– Do you want me to read you a story?

Of course, I really wanted to listen to her.

- So, listen! - said Gaidar, stopped in the middle of the room and put his hands in his pockets.

- Where is the manuscript? – I asked.

“Only worthless conductors,” Gaidar answered didactically, “put the score on the music stand in front of them.” Why do I need a manuscript? She is resting on the table. Will you listen or not?

And he read the story to me by heart, from the first to the last line.

“You’ve got something really mixed up somewhere,” I said doubtfully.

- Bet! - Gaidar shouted. – No more than ten mistakes! If you lose, then tomorrow you will go to Ryazan and buy me an old barometer at a flea market. I had my eye on him. That old woman - remember? – who puts a lampshade on her head when it rains. I'll bring the manuscript now.

He brought the manuscript and read the story a second time. I followed the manuscript. He was only mistaken in a few places, and even then only slightly. Because of this, we argued for several days about whether Gaidar won the bet or not. But this is no longer directly related to the story.

In general, to Gaidar’s great joy, I bought a barometer. We decided to lead our fishing life around this copper and bulky structure, but we immediately found ourselves in a foolish position and were wet to the bone when the barometer predicted a “great dryness”, but in fact it rained for three days.

That was wonderful time continuous jokes, “pranks”, disputes about literature and fishing in lakes and oxbow lakes. All this in some subtle way helped us write.

I had to be there when Fedin began writing his novel “An Extraordinary Summer.”

May Fedin forgive me that I decide to write about this. But it seems to me that the style of work of every writer, especially such a master as Fedin, is interesting and useful not only for writers, but also for all people who love literature.

We lived in Gagra, in a small house on the very seashore. This house, similar to pre-revolutionary cheap “furniture houses,” was a decent slum.

During storms, it shook from the wind and blows of waves, creaked, cracked and seemed to fall apart before our eyes. Because of the drafts, the doors with the locks torn out slowly and ominously opened on their own and, after standing motionless for a few seconds and thinking, they suddenly slammed shut with such a ringing sound that plaster fell from the ceiling.

All stray dogs from New and Old Gagra spent the night under the terrace of this house. Sometimes, taking advantage of the temporary absence of their owners, they climbed into the rooms, lay down on the beds and snored peacefully.

You had to be wary of entering your room, regardless of the nature of the dog that had taken over your bed. The dog, conscientious and timid, jumped up and rushed out with a desperate squeal. If you got under his feet, he could bite you out of fear.

If you came across an impudent and experienced dog, then, lying on the bed and watching you with a hateful eye, he began to growl so terribly that you had to call your neighbors for help.

The window from Fedin’s room looked out onto the terrace above the sea. During storms, wicker chairs from the terrace were piled near this window so that they would not get wet from the splashes. Dogs always sat on this pile of chairs and looked down at Fedin, who was writing at the table. The dogs howled with desire to get into his lighted and warm room.

At first, Fedin complained that the dogs simply made him shiver. As soon as he looked up from the manuscript and, lost in thought, looked at the window, dozens of dog eyes burning with hatred glared at him. He even felt a little awkward from this, as if he was to blame for living in a warm place and doing an obviously pointless task, running a pen over paper.

This, of course, to some extent prevented Fedin from working, but he soon got used to it and stopped taking the dogs into account.

Most writers write in the morning, some write during the day, and very few write at night.

Fedin could work and often worked at any hour of the day. Only occasionally did he break away to rest.

He wrote at night to the incessant roar of the sea. This familiar noise not only did not bother him, but even helped him. On the contrary, the silence was disturbing.

One late night Fedin woke me up and said excitedly:

– You know, the sea is silent. Let's go listen to it on the terrace.

A deep, seemingly universal silence stopped over the shore. We quieted down to catch at least the faint splash of a wave in the darkness, but we could hear nothing except the ringing in our ears. It was our blood that rang. In the high, also some kind of universal darkness, the stars shone dimly. We, accustomed to the boundless noise of the sea, were even overwhelmed by this silence. Fedin did not work that night.

All this is a story about the unusual environment in which he had to work. I think that this simplicity and unsettled life reminded him of his youth, when we could write on the windowsill, by the light of a smokehouse, in a room where the ink froze - under any conditions.

Unwittingly watching Fedin, I learned that he sat down to write only if the next chapter was strictly thought out, verified, enriched with reflections and memories, if it took shape in his mind down to individual phrases.

Fedin, before writing, peered very closely at this future work of his, peered from different angles and wrote only what he clearly saw, and, moreover, in complete connection with the whole.

Fedin’s clear, firm mind and stern eye could not put up with the instability of the plan and implementation. Prose should, in his opinion, be perfected to the point of error-freeness and tempered to a diamond strength.

Flaubert spent his entire life in a painful pursuit of perfection of style. In his quest for crystalline prose, he could not stop; editing manuscripts became for him in some cases not a path to improving his prose, but an end in itself. He lost his ability to appreciate, got tired, fell into despair and clearly dried out and killed his things, or, as Gogol said, “he drew, drew, and sketched.”

Fedin knows where to stop when developing prose. The critic never tires of it, but also does not suppress the writer.

In Flaubert's high degree the writer’s property was expressed, which literary theorists call “personification,” or, more simply, the ability to transform into one’s heroes with such force that everything that happens to the hero (at the will of the writer) is experienced by the writer himself as unusually painful.

It is known that, while describing the death of Emma Bovary from poison, Flaubert felt all the signs of poisoning and had to resort to the help of a doctor.

Flaubert was a martyr. He wrote so slowly that he said with despair: “It’s worth punching yourself in the face for such work.”

He lived in Croisset, on the banks of the Seine, near Rouen. The windows of his office overlooked the river.

All night in Flaubert's office, filled with exotic things, a lamp with a green shade burned. Flaubert worked at night. The lamp went out only at dawn.

Its light was constant, like the light of a lighthouse. And indeed, in dark nights Flaubert's window began to serve as a beacon for fishermen on the Seine and even for captains sea ships, ascending the river from Le Havre to Rouen. The captains knew that on this section of the river it was necessary, in order not to stray from the fairway, to “keep Monsieur Flaubert at the window.”

Occasionally they saw a stocky man in a colorful oriental robe. He went to the window, pressed his forehead against it and looked at the Seine. It was the pose of a completely tired man. But the sailors hardly knew what was outside the window great writer France, exhausted by the struggle for the perfection of prose, this “damned liquid that does not want to take the necessary form.”

For Balzac, all his heroes were living and close people. He either wheezed with rage, calling them scoundrels and fools, or chuckled and patted them on the shoulder approvingly, or clumsily consoled them in their misfortune.

Balzac's faith in the existence of his heroes and in the immutability of what he wrote about them was truly fantastic. This is evidenced by a curious incident from his life.

In one of Balzac's stories there is a young nun (I don't remember her name, but let's assume her name was Jeanne). The abbess of the monastery sent the meek Jeanne to Paris on some monastic business. The young nun was shocked by the brilliant, bustling, dazzling life of the capital. In the light of gas jets, she spent hours looking at the incredible wealth in store windows. She saw women in the finest and most fragrant dresses. These dresses seemed to undress these beauties and emphasize the beauty of their thin backs, high legs, and small sharp breasts.

She heard strange, intoxicating words of confession, hints, and the insinuating whispers of men. She was young and beautiful. She was followed on the streets. They told her the same strange words. Her heart was pounding wildly. The first kiss, wrested from her by force in the thick shade of a plane tree in some garden, was deafening, like thunder, and deprived her of her sanity.

She remained in Paris. She spent all the monastery money to turn into a seductive Parisian.

A month later she went to the panel.

In this story, Balzac mentioned the name of one of the existing at that time convents. Balzac's book came to his abbess. There was just a young nun, Zhanna, in the monastery. The abbess called her to her and asked menacingly:

– Do you know what Mr. Balzac writes about you?! He disgraced you! He denigrated our monastery. He is a slanderer and a blasphemer. Read!

The girl read the story and burst into tears.

- Immediately! – the abbess said in a thunderous voice. “Get ready immediately, go to Paris, find Mr. Balzac there and demand that he inform all of France that this is slander and that he has humiliated pure girl, who had never even been to Paris. He insulted the monastery and our entire flock. Let him repent of this crazy sin of his. You must achieve this. Otherwise, don't come back.

Zhanna left for Paris. She found Balzac and with difficulty got him to accept her.

Balzac sat in an old dressing gown, panting like a hog. Tobacco smoke filled his room. The table was littered with mountains of hastily written sheets of paper.

Balzac frowned. He had no time - life was calculated in advance so that he had time to write at least fifty novels. But Balzac's eyes shone sharply. He did not take them off Zhanna.

Jeanne looked down, blushed and, calling on the name of God for help, told Mr. Balzac the whole story in the monastery and asked to remove from her the shameful shadow that Mr. Balzac, for some unknown reason, had cast on her chastity and holiness.

Balzac clearly did not understand what this beautiful and gentle nun wanted from him.

-What shameful shadow? - he asked. – Everything I write is always the holy truth.

“Have mercy on me, Mr. Balzac.” If you don't want to help me, then I don't know what to do.

Balzac jumped up. His eyes flashed angrily.

- How?! - he shouted. – You don’t know what to do? I have written absolutely clearly everything that happened to you! Absolutely clear! What doubts can there be?

“Do you really want to tell me to stay in Paris?” asked Zhanna.

- Yes! - Balzac shouted. - Hell yes!

- And you want me to...

- No, damn it! - Balzac shouted again. “I just want you to take off this black robe.” So that your young body, beautiful as living pearls, learns what joy and love are. So that you learn to laugh. Go now! Go! But not on the panel!

Balzac grabbed Jeanne by the hand and dragged her to the exit door.

“I have everything written there,” he said. - Go! You are very nice, Zhanna, but because of you I have already lost three pages of text. And what text!

Jeanne could not return to the monastery, since Mr. Balzac did not remove the shameful stain from her. She remained in Paris. They say that a year later she was seen among young people in a student tavern called “Silver Vyuk”. She was cheerful, happy and lovely.

There are as many working skills as there are writers.

In village house near Ryazan, which I have already mentioned, I found letters from our famous engraver Jordan to the engraver Pozhalostin (I also mentioned these letters).

In one of his letters, Jordan writes that he spent two years engraving a copy of one of the Italian paintings. While working, he constantly walked around the table with an engraving board and rubbed a noticeable mark in the brick floor.

“I was tired,” Jordan writes. “But I still walked and moved.” How tired Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol must have been, accustomed to writing while standing at his desk! This is truly a martyr to his cause.”

Leo Tolstoy worked only in the mornings. He said that in every writer there is a own critic. This critic is angriest in the mornings, and at night he sleeps, and therefore at night the writer is completely left to himself, works without fear and writes a lot of bad and unnecessary things. Tolstoy referred to Rousseau and Dickens, who worked only in the morning, and believed that Dostoevsky and Byron, who loved to work at night, sinned against their talent.

burden writing work Dostoevsky was, of course, not only that he worked at night and at the same time drank tea continuously. This, in the end, did not greatly affect the quality of his work.

The difficulty was that Dostoevsky did not get out of lack of money and debts and therefore was forced to write a lot and always in a hurry.

He sat down to write when there was very little time left. He wrote none of his things calmly, in full force. He crumpled his novels (not by the number of pages written, but by the breadth of the narrative). Therefore, they turned out worse for him than they could have been, than they were intended. “It is much better to dream about a novel than to write one,” said Dostoevsky.

He always tried to live longer with his unwritten novel, constantly changing and enriching it. Therefore, he put off writing with all his might, because every day and hour a child could be born. new idea, and, of course, you can’t insert it into the novel retroactively.

Debts forced him to do this, although he often realized, when he sat down to write, that the novel was not yet ripe. How many thoughts, images, details were wasted just because they came to mind too late, when the novel was either already finished, or, in his opinion, irreparably spoiled!

“Because of poverty,” Dostoevsky said about himself, “I am forced to hurry and write for the sake of business, therefore, I will certainly spoil it.”

In his youth, Chekhov could write on the windowsill in a cramped and noisy Moscow apartment. And he wrote the story “The Huntsman” in the bathhouse. But over the years, this ease of work disappeared.

Lermontov wrote his poems on anything. It all seems that they immediately came together in his mind, sang in his soul, and then he only hastily wrote them down without corrections.

Alexey Tolstoy could write if there was a stack of clean, good paper in front of him. He admitted that, when he sat down at his desk, he often did not know what he would write about. He had some picturesque detail in his head. He started with her, and she gradually pulled out the whole story with her, like a magic thread.

Tolstoy called the working state and inspiration in his own way - coasting. “If it comes,” he said, “then I write quickly. Well, if it doesn’t work, then you have to quit.”

Of course, Tolstoy was largely an improviser. His thought got ahead of his hand.

All writers must know that wonderful state during work when a new thought or picture appears suddenly, as if bursting like flashes to the surface from the depths of consciousness. If they are not written down immediately, they may also disappear without a trace.

There is light and awe in them, but they are fragile, like dreams. Those dreams that we remember only for a split second after waking up, but then immediately forget. No matter how much we suffer and try to remember them later, we fail. What remains from these dreams is only the feeling of something extraordinary, mysterious, something “wonderful,” as Gogol would say.

We need to have time to write it down. The slightest delay - and the thought, flashing, will disappear.

Perhaps this is why many writers cannot write on narrow strips of paper, on galleys, as journalists do. You cannot take your hand off the paper too often, because even this insignificant delay of a fraction of a second can be disastrous. Obviously, the work of consciousness is carried out with fantastic speed.

The French poet Beranger could write his songs in cheap cafes. And Ehrenburg, as far as I know, also liked to write in cafes. It's clear. Because no better loneliness, as in the midst of a lively crowd, unless, of course, no one directly takes you away from your thoughts and does not encroach on your concentration.

Andersen loved to make up his fairy tales in the forests. He had good, almost microscopic vision. Therefore, he could examine a piece of bark or an old pine cone and see on them, as if through a magnifying lens, such details from which one can easily compose a fairy tale.

In general, everything in the forest - every mossy stump and every red robber ant that drags, like a kidnapped pretty princess, a small midge with transparent green wings - all this can turn into a fairy tale.

I wouldn't like to talk about mine literary experience. This is unlikely to add anything significant to what has already been said. But still, I consider it necessary to say a few words.

If we want to achieve the highest flowering of our literature, then we must understand that the most fruitful form social activities the writer is his creative work. The work of a writer, hidden from everyone before the publication of a book, turns after its publication into a universal matter.

We need to save the time, energy and talent of writers, and not waste them on exhausting literary fuss and meetings.

A writer, when he works, needs peace of mind and, if possible, the absence of worries. If any, even remote, trouble awaits ahead, then it is better not to take up the manuscript. The pen will fall from your hands or tortured empty words will creep out from under it.

Several times in my life I have worked with a light heart, focused and leisurely.

Once I sailed in winter on a completely empty ship from Batum to Odessa. The sea was gray, cold, quiet. The shores were drowning in ashen darkness. Heavy clouds, as if lethargic sleep, lay on the ridges of distant mountains.

I wrote in the cabin, sometimes I got up, went to the porthole, looked at the shores. Mighty machines sang quietly in the iron womb of the ship. The seagulls were squeaking. It was easy to write. No one could tear me away from my favorite thoughts. I didn’t have to think about anything, absolutely nothing, except about the story I was writing. I felt this as the greatest happiness. The open sea protected me from any interference.

And the awareness of movement in space, the vague expectation of port cities where we had to go, perhaps for some tireless and short meetings, also helped a lot.

The motor ship cut the pale winter water, and it seemed to me that he was carrying me to inevitable happiness. It seemed so to me, obviously, because the story was a success.

And I also remember how easy it was to work on the mezzanine village house, in the fall, alone, with the crackling of a candle.

The dark and windless September night surrounded me and, like the sea, protected me from any interference.

It’s hard to say why, but it really helped to write knowing that the old village garden was flying around the wall all night long. I thought of him as a living being. He was silent and patiently waited for the time when I would go to the well late in the evening to get water for the kettle. Perhaps it was easier for him to endure this endless night when he heard the clanking of a bucket and the steps of a man.

Guys, we put our soul into the site. Thank you for that
that you are discovering this beauty. Thanks for the inspiration and goosebumps.
Join us on Facebook And In contact with

If you love making fun of others and are waiting for April 1st to do it “legally,” then this article is just for you. However, it will also be useful for those who don’t like all this: you will learn what to avoid on April Fool’s Day.

So, website found for you 13 fairly harmless but funny pranks that you can play at home, at work or with friends.

Caramel shower

For this giveaway you will need unfilled caramel candies. Early in the morning, while your “victim” is still sleeping, unscrew the shower head, put candy in it and carefully screw it back. An unsuspecting person will take a sweet shower, after which he will have to wash himself again. But please do not do this to those who are prone to allergies.

Apples with a surprise

Onions coated with caramel are difficult to distinguish from apples. Therefore, if someone offers you such a “delicacy” on April 1, it would be wiser to politely refuse it. And if you are wondering how to prepare these “apples” yourself, here are the instructions.

Aquarium in the desktop

Has your colleague dreamed of an aquarium? Help him make this dream come true - set up an “aquarium” right in his desk. To do this, wrap a table drawer with waterproof film, pour pebbles there, add water and introduce toy or even live fish - if you are ready to take care of them later.

"Explosive Cake"

No, no, no firecrackers instead of candles or anything like that. For the "explosive cake" you will need a cereal box, balloon, duct tape and a generous dollop of whipped cream or cream. From all this we construct a believable-looking “cake” (you can learn how to do this from this video) and ask the “victim” to cut it.

Donuts with mayonnaise

If your flatmates love to help themselves to your food without asking, April 1 is a great day to wean them off the habit. Buy delicious donuts without filling and a jar of mayonnaise, and then use a piping bag or syringe to fill the donuts with it. Leave the bait in a visible place and wait for the greedy hands of food lovers to reach for the sickening delicacy.

Drink can that won't open

Treat your friend to a can of cola or something stronger, first turning the key over so that the can does not open. Of course, an attentive person will quickly guess what’s going on here, but you’ll still have to suffer a little.

Fake stash

Do you know someone who has a habit of taking everything that is bad? Play it out. Cut off the corner of the bill (you don’t have to spoil the real ones, you can use “money” from play set), attach a funny picture or note to it, put it in the book and leave it in a visible place. Some people will be quite disappointed!

Painted spider

Most of us are afraid of these creatures, so toilet paper with a realistically drawn spider is sure to plunge those who use it into momentary terror.

Nightmare on the ceiling

Many offices use suspended ceilings - a great opportunity to scare colleagues. Replace one of the ceiling tiles with a scary picture from the movie “The Ring” or “The Grudge” and wait for the screams of the terrified “victims”. But don’t be surprised if they beat you later, we warned you.

How it works: 1) Place a sign on your office toaster or coffee machine stating that the device is voice controlled. 2) Spend a fun morning watching those who fell for your bait and started screaming at the “naughty” unit.

An animated printer

If your neighbor has acquired a wireless printer, but has not thought about how to protect it from your intrusion, then send him a document to print that will look as if the printer itself was the author of the message. We don’t know about you, but we would definitely be surprised if a peacefully standing printer suddenly “came to life” and printed such a message.

I want to tell you about a new fraud scheme on the RuNet, which I almost fell for.

My friend and I decided to buy a website. We found a topic with an auction on a specialized forum, liked the site, and placed a bid. The author of the topic did not indicate any of his contacts, so it was assumed that further communication between the auction winner and the site seller would be carried out through personal messages on the forum. About 30 minutes pass and the site seller writes to my friend on ICQ, asking if he really wants to buy the site for the amount mentioned in the topic. Receives confirmation, after which he offers to proceed with the transaction itself, without waiting for the result of the auction, since the money is needed urgently.

As they say in smart books - “the attentive reader has probably already guessed” what’s going on here :) Yes, of course, the person who knocked on ICQ has nothing to do with the site - he simply copied the seller’s nickname, trying to pass for him and get money for the site . Already here we guessed about the scam scheme, and when a search for the ICQ number brought up a forum topic about the sale of ICQ numbers, where the number that appeared was sold 3 days ago, there was no doubt left. However, I didn’t want to just let the scammer go.

Since the scammer intended to receive payment through webmoney, I decided to play along with him, find out the wallet number and make a purely symbolic payment, and then submit an application to arbitration to block his certificate. The scammer agreed and sent the wallet number. When checking the certificate to which this wallet was linked, it turned out that its owner was completely fair man- in any case, registration in 2004 and a personal certificate with high level business activity (aka BL) spoke about this in no uncertain terms. Why would a person with such a wmid scam someone and get their certificate blocked for it? Then a suspicion arose that the owner of the wallet was not in business, but was being used by a fraudster in a more cunning scheme.

Having found the ICQ number in the contact details of wmid, I contacted this person, briefly describing the situation. As expected, he did not know about any sale of the site, and the ICQ number was unfamiliar to him. I asked for help in getting the scammer out clean water and having received consent, he began to act. Interestingly, the scammer gave the number of a wallet that did not belong to him - which means that if we fell for his bait, he would have to somehow withdraw money from it. To clarify this mechanism, we decided to play along with the scammer further.

Having found out what amount was suitable as an advance payment, the friend wrote to the scammer that the transfer had been completed. In fact, no money was transferred, but the owner of the wallet was warned about the money allegedly transferred to him. Interestingly, the scammer immediately confirmed that he had received the money, after which he went offline.

Then the second part begins - they write to the owner of the wallet from another ICQ that they would like to use his services. After a short discussion of the details, the scammer writes that he accidentally transferred an amount larger than necessary (and many times larger), so he issued an invoice to the wmid of the owner of the wallet for the amount that he allegedly overpaid. According to the scammer’s logic, the owner of the wallet in in this case had to make concessions and pay the invoice, without even noticing that he was paying not to the wallet from which the money originally came.

We made the scammer a little more angry - when the owner of the wallet wrote that the money had not arrived, the scammer contacted us again and said that he had mixed up the payments, having accepted money from another client for the money that we had transferred to him. Having received sworn assurances that we definitely sent the money, and sent it exactly to the wallet he indicated, he went offline again, and a minute later, from another ICQ, he once again asked the owner of the wallet to check the receipt of money.

Results

So, what we managed to do. The site seller received information that under his guise a fraudster was deceiving potential buyers of his site. The owner of the wallet was protected from potential problems with the wmid arbitration, because all suspicions point to him, which means he could well be blocked by webmoney. We, in turn, saved the money by catching the scammer in time.

Unfortunately, it is not possible to punish the fraudster in any way, since all the information about him is fake. ICQs were purchased on the forum, and wmid was registered 3 days ago without providing personal information.

Deception scheme

So, once again a scheme of deception. The scammer searches forums for offers to sell websites and sets up purchased ICQs in accordance with data about the website sellers. Then, from these icqs, he writes to those people who have expressed their interest in purchasing the site, offering not to delay the deal and to sell the site that interests them for the amount they offer. Next, we look for a person with a well-developed wmid who, in addition to this, provides some services. This person's wallet number is specified, which is then transferred to the buyer of the site. Having received confirmation from the buyer that the payment has been made, the fraudster writes to the owner of the wallet that he paid for the service, but got confused with the numbers and asks to return the difference by paying the invoice. Thus, the fraudster completely covers all his tracks and practically does not arouse suspicion among any of the participants in the transaction.

Morality

Dear Habracitizens, be careful when shopping online! Check the people you enter into transactions with very carefully. Don’t be lazy to check their contact information in search engines. And of course, use logic.

You know what word is never said? successful people?

Here it is: “we’ll see”
(meaning: anything can happen).

And a defeatist saying:
man proposes, but God disposes - successful people do not use either.

And do you know why?

Because truly successful people
Always know absolutely exactly how their circumstances will turn out
personal reality - after all, they themselves create these circumstances and
they themselves manage them.

This is why successful people

do not know worries, doubts and fears,
do not find themselves in situations of unbearable stress
and they don’t even know what it is: disappointment from unfulfilled hopes.

(by the way, you won’t find the word “hope” in the vocabulary of successful people either,
they don’t say “I hope”, they say: “my forecast is ___(such and such)”)

Can you guess what's going on here?

It's NOT about an inflated ego.
And NOT due to some exceptional luck.
And certainly not in financial support.

The whole point is
that truly successful people have very developed intuition.

What is intuition anyway?

This is the sixth organ of perception.
This organ is built into us by nature so that
we could build direct contact with that part of yourself that
knows and can do everything - with his own subconscious
(The True Self, the immortal part of your personality).

Do you hear?

Intuition is not something mystical, but completely complete
a perceptual organ through which clear and very reliable navigation is transmitted:

· what to do,
· where to go,
· and what decisions to make

CONSULTATION

I WILL HELP

This is exactly the point:

when you use only your 5 senses, then literally
you get lost in the dark - and then you stumble upon annoying obstacles that
then they make you worry, fear, doubt and be disappointed
in their own endeavors.

But when you allow your sixth organ of perception to act -
intuition, then life goes like this:
what you want, that's exactly what you get.

Just don't think

that developed intuition is some kind of exceptional gift,
which only a select few are endowed with.
This idea of intuition has no basis at all.

Because that's the way it is.

You can be born without vision.
Or without hearing.
Or with undeveloped receptors responsible for touch, smell or taste.

But being born without intuition is not. It doesn't happen that way.
All people, without exception, have a sixth organ of perception.

This organ of perception is the mental channel.
And he always – i.e. All people have potential.
(i.e. is in the phase of activity that can be requested at any time)

You - that's absolutely accurate– endowed which one is needed intuition.
Do you use this colossally (!!) resourceful organ of perception?

You, of course, receive signals (or even distinct messages) through this channel, but do not pay attention.

But in order to use your sixth organ of perception to the fullest,
those. so that every day, for any reason and at random request
receive reliable navigation that gives crystal clear instructions:

· what to do,
· where to go,
How to react to certain circumstances
· and what decisions to make –

you need to wake your intuition and bring your sixth organ of perception into an active state.

For example, Marta Nikolaeva-Garina offers such technology "Assistant. Guided intuition."

Always remember that EVERYTHING IS IN YOUR HANDS.

CONSULTATION

Especially for women experiencing relationship difficulties.

I WILL HELP

End a difficult relationship without destroying yourself - Survive a divorce or get your husband back - Repair a bad relationship - Become self-confident and valuable - Find the motivation and strength to make your life the way you want.