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“Notes of a Hunter” - a collection of 25 relatively short stories. Most of them were written by I. S. Turgenev at the turn of the 1840-1850s. Here he talks about meetings with people during hunting wanderings in his native Oryol region and what he heard from their lips.

Turgenev “Khor and Kalinich” - summary

Turgenev describes in this essay two serfs of the landowner Polutykin - two people of completely different types. The practical, economical, prudent hoarder Khorya is opposed by the rural romantic dreamer Kalinich, who in his entire life has never found a reliable corner for himself. Despite such strong differences, they have great friendship with each other. The author, with subtle observation, depicts the merits of both characters - universal human types that are well known to everyone.

Khor and Kalinich. Audiobook

Turgenev “Ermolai and the miller’s wife” - summary

Turgenev introduces the reader to his frequent hunting companion - the tramp Ermolai. During one of their joint overnight stays at the mill, Ermolai’s acquaintance, the miller’s wife Arina, comes to the fire at night. After talking with her, the writer realizes that she is the former maid of the landowner Zverkov, whose story he had heard about before. Zverkov’s wife kept only unmarried maids, believing that taking care of children would prevent married ones from “properly caring for their mistress.” Arina fell in love with Petrushka the footman and became pregnant by him. The Zverkovs drove her out to the village in disgrace, separating her from Petrushka. Out of grief, he voluntarily became a soldier, and Arina had to marry an unloved miller.

the full text of the story “Ermolai and the Miller’s Wife” and its summary.

I. S. Turgenev. Ermolai and the miller's wife. Audiobook

Turgenev “Raspberry Water” - summary

Tired of hunting, Turgenev sits down to rest at a spring on the banks of the Ista River, which is called “Raspberry Water.” Here he meets two familiar peasants. One of them - old man Mikhailo Savelyev, former butler of the famous Count Pyotr Ilyich in the area - tells what expensive and noisy festivities with music and fireworks he organized “in the old days” for his noble guests. In the middle of the story, an elderly man, Vlas, suddenly approaches Raspberry Water. It turns out that he is walking from Moscow, where he asked his master, the son of that same Pyotr Ilyich, to reduce his rent due to the death of his breadwinner-son. The master rudely drove Vlas away.

On our website you can read the full text of the story “Raspberry Water” and its summary.

I. S. Turgenev. Raspberry water. Audiobook

Turgenev “County Doctor” - summary

County doctor tells Turgenev at the hotel about a strange incident. One day he was summoned to a provincial estate, to a young beautiful girl Alexandra, who fell ill with fever. The doctor spent several days at the patient’s bedside, initially hoping for her recovery, but then realizing that she would die. The patient herself guessed this. In desperate grief that she would have to go to her grave without having experienced love, Alexandra turned the full force of her never-shared passion on the awkward doctor - the only man, who was now nearby. For her, this was the last dying consolation...

On our website you can read the full text of the story “The District Doctor”.

Turgenev “My neighbor Radilov” - summary

While hunting, Turgenev and Ermolai accidentally enter the garden of the landowner Radilov and meet him himself. Hospitable and friendly Radilov invites them to his house for dinner, introduces them to his old mother, to the degraded hanger-on Fyodor Mikheich, to his wife’s serious and beautiful sister Olga. He tries to entertain the guests, but Turgenev notices a sign of some kind of heavy thought in the expression of his new acquaintance. From the conversation it accidentally turns out that Radilov’s beloved wife recently died and this loss shocked him terribly. Comforting Radilov, Turgenev expresses the hope that some turn of fate will bring him out of grief. Suddenly perking up, Radilov hits the table with his hand and says: “Yes, you just have to make up your mind.” Turgenev soon learns that Radilov suddenly left unknown where with Olga, leaving the estate and his mother.

On our website you can read the full text of the story “My Neighbor Radilov”.

Turgenev “Ovsyannikov’s One-Palace” - summary

An elderly man of the same estate (a petty nobleman - “semi-peasant”) Ovsyannikov is reputed to be an intelligent and sedate person. Turgenev loves to talk with him, especially interested in comparing modern times with the previous, Catherine, era. Ovsyannikov believes that before there was more arbitrariness and tyranny, but life flowed calmer and more thoroughly. Now among the nobles there are many who like to talk about “humanism” and “advanced ideas” - but without a clue how to apply them to practical life. “They speak so smoothly that the soul is touched, but they don’t understand the realities of the present, they don’t even feel their own benefit.” They are rushing around with projects for “building factories on the site of drained swamps,” which in reality they don’t even think about taking up. Rich “liberals” refuse to give up a piece of their land for the common good. Hired litigators are proliferating, initiating false legal cases. Among them is Ovsyannikov’s own nephew, Mitya.

On our website you can read the full text of the story “Ovsyannikov’s One-Palace”.

Turgenev “Lgov” - summary

Turgenev and Ermolai go hunting in the village of Lgov, where there is a large pond with many ducks. There they meet two funny and colorful characters. One is the former serf Vladimir, who previously studied music with the landowner and served as a valet, then received his freedom and now behaves like a man of refined manners. The other is the sixty-year-old peasant Suchok, who has changed many bar owners during his life and was used by them for a variety of needs. Suchok was a cook, a “coffee shop”, a coachman, and an actor in the landowner’s theater. Now he is appointed as a “fisherman” on the pond with the responsibility of maintaining a boarding boat. Turgenev, Ermolai, Vladimir and Suchok sail on this boat for game, but in the midst of shooting at ducks, it sinks. The unlucky hunters barely make it to the shore along the ford found by Ermolai.

This work opens the entire cycle of stories, and, consequently, the summary of Turgenev’s “Notes of a Hunter.” On a hot July day, the narrator got lost in the forest. After dark, he managed to go out to the night pasture, where he asked to spend the night next to five shepherd children: Fedya, Ilyusha, Pavlusha, Vanya and Kostya. Sitting by the fire, each of the boys told his own story related to his meeting with one or another fairy-tale creature. Fedya tells that one day, while spending the night at a factory, he met a real brownie. Kostya tells the story of the carpenter Gavrila, who met a mermaid. The Lord inspired the carpenter to cross himself, the mermaid burst into tears and disappeared. However, in the end, she wished that Gavrila would always walk around sad. Ilyusha told how the huntsman Yermil found a white lamb on the grave of a drowned man, which, as darkness fell, bared its teeth and began to speak to him in a human voice. Then the boys talked about how if you sit on the porch of the church, you can see a dead person or one of those who will soon go to their forefathers. At that moment Pavlusha returned and said that things were bad: the brownie had called him. And Fedya added that the drowned Vasyatka had already called Pavel. The hunter fell asleep. When he woke up in the morning, all the boys were asleep. Only Pavlusha woke up and looked intently at the night guest. He silently threw it to him and walked along the river. Pavlushi, unfortunately, died that same year: the boy fell from his horse and was killed.

"Khor and Kalinich"

Continuing to present the brief content of Turgenev’s “Notes of a Hunter,” let’s move on to the next story. This is, in fact, an acquaintance with two completely opposite characters, who, nevertheless, managed to find mutual language and make friends. Khor appears before the narrator - not a dreamy, calculating person who sees through the master they have in common with Kalinich - Polutykin, who knows how to hide his thoughts and be cunning if necessary. Kalinich is his complete opposite: it is important for him to maintain contact with nature, he is a dreamy, trusting person, not very good at understanding people. Kalinich was well acquainted with the secrets of nature: he managed to charm fear and stop bleeding. Khor, more practical and closer “to society, to people,” did not possess these skills. Nevertheless, Khor was attached to Kalinich and patronized him, as he felt himself wiser. In turn, Kalinich loved and respected his friend.

"Yermolai and the miller's wife"

The summary of Turgenev’s “Notes of a Hunter” leads us further. The narrator introduces us to Ermolai - a strange man, carefree, quite talkative, seemingly absent-minded and awkward. However, Ermolai had an excellent sense of hunting and fishing. Having gone on an evening woodcock hunt, the heroes decided to spend the night at a nearby mill. The miller's wife Arina allowed them to spend the night under an open shed and brought them some food for dinner. It turned out that the narrator was familiar with her former master, Mr. Zverkov (Arina was once his wife’s maid). Many years ago, Arina asked the master for permission to marry the footman Petrushka. The master and his wife were offended by such a request, and therefore they exiled the girl to the village, and gave Petrushka as a soldier. Arina later became engaged to a miller, who bought her.

"County doctor"

Another interesting, albeit very simple story that is worth including in the summary of Turgenev’s “Notes of a Hunter.” One autumn, during his travels, the narrator fell ill. He stays at a hotel in a provincial town. Trifon Ivanovich, the district doctor, is brought to him, who prescribes medicine for the hero and shares his story. Once a doctor was called to the house of an impoverished widow - in a note, the hostess said that her daughter was dying and asked the doctor to come as quickly as possible. Arriving at the widow’s house, Trifon Ivanovich began to provide all possible assistance to the sick Alexandra Andreevna, who was suffering from a fever. Over the course of several days, the doctor takes care of the patient and begins to feel “a strong affection for her.” However, despite all his efforts, Alexandra did not recover. One night, feeling that the end was near, the girl confessed her love to Trifon Ivanovich. 3 days later, Alexandra Andreevna died. After this story, the doctor himself married Akulina, a merchant’s daughter who had a bad disposition, but had a dowry of as much as seven thousand.

"Burmeister"

How many amazing, diverse and dissimilar characters I. Turgenev was able to portray! The collection “Notes of a Hunter” can be called one of the best achievements of the writer. The hero of this story is Arkady Pavlovich Penochkin. Penochkin is considered one of the most educated people in the area, one of the most eligible bachelors. His house was built according to the plans of an architect from France, he subscribes to French books (although he hardly reads them), his people are dressed in English fashion. The author does not treat Penochkin too well, but one day he is forced to stay with a nobleman for the night. The next morning they both go to the village of Penochkin - Shipilovka, and stop at the house of Sofron Yakovlevich, the local mayor. Penochkin asks him about business affairs, and the mayor says that everything is going as well as possible - thanks to the wise orders of the master, of course. Having toured the estate, the heroes see that exceptional order reigns everywhere. However, leaving the barn after the hunt, the heroes see two men - one young and the other older. They are on their knees and complain that they are tortured to the limit by the mayor. Sofron has already taken two of the old man’s sons as recruits, and now he wants to take away the third. He took the last cow from the yard and completely beat his wife. The men claim that the mayor is not only ruining them. But Penochkin doesn’t even want to listen to them. A few hours later in Ryabov, the narrator got into a conversation with Anpadist, a local man he knew. The narrator begins to ask his old acquaintance about the Shipilov peasants. In response, he hears that the village only officially belongs to Penochkin, and Sofron owns it as his personal property and does as he pleases. The peasants are forced to work like farm laborers, tirelessly, and Sofron profits from their labor. The men see no point in complaining to the master: Penochkin doesn’t care as long as there are no arrears.

Of course, the above stories are not all of the works from the cycle. However, after reading summary some of his works, you can see how versatile and unusual he was in depicting the life of ordinary people. “Notes of a Hunter” is a cycle of stories that can rightfully be considered one of the most worthy and remarkable in the entire history of Russian literature.

“Death” was published in Sovremennik No. 2 for 1848. The story was included in the series “Notes of a Hunter” and reflected the stories that happened to Turgenev during his hunting wanderings, family legends of the Turgenevs. For example, the Zusha River, mentioned at the beginning, flows not far from Spassky-Lutovinov. The lady who was going to pay the priest for the funeral prayer has a prototype. This is Turgenev’s grandmother Katerina Ivanovna Somova.

Literary direction and genre

Turgenev, as a realist, explores the peculiarities of the Russian character, highlighting a simple and cold attitude towards death as a national trait. The psychological story has the characteristics of a philosophical essay; it is a kind of ode to death and to those who accept it with dignity.

Issues

The story is dedicated to one feature of the Russian people - their attitude towards death as something ordinary and familiar. Turgenev analyzes various cases and comes to a generalization: unusual attitude to death is a feature of the Russian mentality. “The Russian man is dying amazingly... Russian people are dying amazingly.” An attentive reader will see behind the descriptions of various deaths the social reasons for this attitude, but contemporary reviewers did not see them.

Plot and composition

The exposition of the story is the narrator's visit to the forest in which he walked as a child with his French tutor. The forest suffered from frost in 1840. The technique of contrast allows us to compare the former living and cool forest with the current dead one.

The narrator calls the oaks and ash trees old friends and describes them as sick or dead people: “Withered, naked, here and there covered with consumptive greenery... lifeless, broken branches... dead branches... fell down and rotted like corpses, on the ground".

The exposition sets the reader up to talk about human death, as quiet as the death of trees. Turgenev chooses different deaths: accidents (hit by a tree, burned), illness (strained himself, died from consumption) and death from old age. The death of people of different classes and professions is described: contractor, peasant, miller, teacher, landowner.

The death of the landowner is the climax, a kind of parable with a moral: “Yes, Russian people die surprisingly.” This refrain is the main idea of ​​the story.

Heroes of the story

The author of the story is interested in the hero's meeting with death. The reason for reflection was the death of the contractor Maxim, who was killed in the forest by a falling ash tree, cut down by peasants. There is nothing ugly in the death of Maxim (as well as other heroes). Despite the fact that the branches of the falling tree broke Maxim’s arms and legs, he hardly moaned, bit his blue lips, and looked around “as if in surprise.” His trembling chin, hair stuck to his forehead, and unevenly rising chest make him look like romantic hero in great excitement. He is really worried about facing death, which he feels is approaching.

But for Turgenev, what is important is not what the hero looks like, but what he thinks and feels at the moment of death. Maxim’s first thought is that he himself is to blame for his death: God punished him for telling the men to work on Sunday. Then Maxim makes arrangements for the property, not forgetting the horse he bought yesterday, for which he gave a deposit, and asks the men for forgiveness. The narrator described the death of the Russian peasant in this way: “He dies as if he were performing a ritual: coldly and simply,” but not stupidly or indifferently, as it might seem from the outside.

Another man courageously awaiting death is a burnt neighbor’s peasant. The narrator is struck not so much by the man’s behavior as by his wife and daughter, who sit in deathly silence in the hut and are also waiting for death, so the narrator “could not stand it and left.” At the same time, other family members treat the approaching death of a relative as something ordinary, and do not even stop their daily activities.

Lybovshinsky miller Vasily Dmitrich, who suffered a hernia, only came to the paramedic for help on the 10th day: “And should I die because of this kind of rubbish?” The miller utters an almost anecdotal phrase about how to die better at home, where in his absence “God knows what will happen.” The miller does not have any panic in the face of death; on the way home he bows to those he meets, and this is 4 days before his death!

The narrator describes the death of his friend Avenir Sorokoumov, who taught the children of the landowner Gur Krupyanikov. Sorokoumov had an infantilely pure soul. He rejoiced at the successes of his comrades, did not know envy or pride. Avenir enjoys the days allotted to him: reads his favorite poems, remembers Moscow and Pushkin with his guest, talks about literature and theater and feels sorry for his dead friends. Sorokoumov is satisfied with the life he has lived, he does not want to leave and receive treatment, because “it doesn’t matter where you die.” Krupyanikov informed about Sorokoumov’s death in a letter, adding that he died “with the same insensibility, without expressing any signs of regret.” That is, Sorokoumov took death for granted.

The situation of the death of an old landowner who tried to pay the priest for her own waste and was dissatisfied with the fact that the priest shortened the required prayer looks quite anecdotal.

Stylistic features

The story is full of absurdities and paradoxes. The narrator's neighbor's cousin had a great heart, but no hair. In response to a French poem on the occasion of the opening of a Krasnogorsk hospital by a lady in an album, in which someone obsequiously called the hospital a temple, a certain Ivan Kobylyatnikov, thinking that it was about nature, wrote that he also loved it.

The sick are tamed in the hospital by the crazy carver Pavel, a withered woman works as a cook, who is even crazier than Pavel, beats him and forces him to guard the turkeys. The behavior of the dying landowner is absurd at the plot level. But the most absurd thing is the veracity of all the incredible stories.

Here is a complete picture of Russia, illuminated by the author’s loving, poetic attitude towards native land, reflections on the present and future of its talented people. There are no scenes of torture, but it is the everyday pictures of serf life that testify to the anti-human essence of the entire social system.

In this work, the author does not offer us bright plot moves with active action, but pays great attention to the portrait characteristics, manners, habits and tastes of the heroes. Although the overall plot is still present. The narrator is on a voyage across Russia, but its geography is very limited - this is the Oryol region. He meets various types of people along the way, as a result of which a picture of Russian life emerges.

Turgenev attached great importance the location of the story in the book. This is how not a simple selection of thematically homogeneous stories appears, but a single piece of art, within which the patterns of figurative interconnection of essays operate. “Notes of a Hunter” opens with two thematic “phrases”, each of which includes three stories. First, variations on a folk theme are given - “Khor and Kalinich”, “Ermolai and the miller’s wife”, “Raspberry water”. In the next three stories, the theme of the ruined nobility develops - “The District Doctor”, “My Neighbor Radimov”, “Ovsyanikov’s One-Palace”. The following stories: “Lgov”, “Bezhin Meadow”, “Kas-yan with the Beautiful Sword” - again develop the theme of the people, but in them the motifs of the decaying harmful influence of serfdom on the souls of people, especially this is felt in the essay “Lgov”.

In the stories “The Burmister”, “The Office” and “Biryuk” the theme of the nobility is continued, but in a sharply updated version. In "Burmist", for example, a type of landowner of a new formation is presented, and the image of a lordly servant is also given here. The “Office” gives curious results of the transfer of old noble business habits to new forms of public institutions and new types of office servants from the peasants. The essay “Biryuk” describes a strange, mysterious man who personifies the powerful elemental forces that still unconsciously roam in the soul of the Russian person.

In the next eight stories, thematic phrases are mixed, and a kind of thematic diffusion occurs. However, at the very end of the cycle, the elegiac note of the two stories about the nobleman Tchertop-hanov is replaced by folk theme in the essays “Living Relics” and “Knocking”.

“Notes of a Hunter” depicts provincial Russia, but one can feel the deadening pressure of those spheres of life that weigh on the Russian province and dictate their terms and laws to it.

First story of this cycle called “Khor and Kalinich”. The author-narrator meets the landowner Polutykin, a passionate hunter, who invites him to his estate, where he introduces him to his peasants, whom he values ​​quite highly. The first character is Khor, whose image contains a certain type, quite common among the people. Khor was well acquainted with practical side affairs, common sense is visible in his actions and work. He is in the position of a serf, although he has the opportunity to pay off his master.

His friend Kalinich is his complete opposite. He once had a wife, but now lives alone. Hunting became the meaning of his life, giving him the opportunity to contact nature.

The characters look at life differently, perceive different situations, even their manners are completely opposite.

The author does not idealize the peasants. Turgenev saw people in folk types common sense, whose tragedy is that they cannot realize their talents and capabilities. Khor saw a lot, knew and understood the psychology of human relationships well. “While talking with Khorem, for the first time I heard the simple, intelligent speech of a Russian peasant.” But Khor could not read, and Kalinich could, but he was devoid of common sense. These opposites in real life do not contradict each other, but complement each other and thereby find a common language.

Here the author acted as a mature master of folk storytelling, here the peculiar feudal pathos of the entire book was determined, depicting strong, courageous, bright folk characters, whose existence transformed serfdom to the shame and humiliation of Russia, in social phenomenon, incompatible with the national dignity of the Russian person.

In the essay “Khor and Kalinich,” the character of the landowner Polutykin is sketched out with only light strokes; his passions for French cuisine, and also mentions the bar's office. But this element is by no means accidental. In the essay “The Office” similar French passions are presented in the image of the landowner Foam, and the destructive consequences of this element are shown in the story “The Burmister”.

This work mercilessly exposes the destructive economic consequences of the so-called civilizing activities of the elite. Their way of managing undermines the foundations of the peasant’s work on the land. The essay “Two Landowners,” for example, talks about economic activity one important St. Petersburg dignitary who decided to sow all his fields with poppy seeds, “since it costs more than rye, so it is more profitable to sow it.”

The activities of this dignitary echo the management of the land of the landowner Pantelei Eremeevich Chertopkhanov, who began to rebuild peasant huts according to the new plan. In addition, he ordered all his subjects to be numbered and each one to have his number sewn on his collar. In such atrocities of a provincial landowner, other actions of an all-Russian, state scale are visible. Here the author hints at the activities of Arakcheev, the organizer of peasant military settlements.

Gradually, the book develops an artistic idea about the absurdity of the centuries-old serfdom. For example, in the story “Ovsyanikov’s One-Dvorets” the story of the transformation of the illiterate French drummer Lejeune into a music teacher, tutor, and then into a Russian nobleman is given.

In "Notes of a Hunter" there are stories that gravitate toward satire, since they contain an anti-serfdom theme. For example, the story “Lgov” talks about a peasant nicknamed Suchok, who during his life served his masters as a coachman, fisherman, cook, actor in the home theater, and bartender Anton, although his real name was Kuzma. Having several names and nicknames, the personality turned out to be completely impersonal.

Different destinies, combining and echoing others, participate in the creation of a monumental image of the serf yoke, which has a disastrous effect on the life of the nation.

This image complements and enhances nature. A lifeless landscape runs through the entire book as a red thread. For the first time he appears in the essay “Khor and Kalinich”, where the Oryol village located next to the ravine is mentioned. In the story “The Singers,” the village of Kolotovka is dissected by a terrible ravine right in the middle of the street. In the essay “Bezhin Meadow,” a lost hunter experiences a “terrible feeling” when he finds himself in a hollow that looks like a cauldron with sloping glasses. The image of a terrible place cursed by people appears repeatedly in the story. Landscapes of this kind concentrate centuries-old folk troubles and hardships associated with Russian serfdom.

This work is devoid of patriarchal beauty, since it touches on the all-Russian social conflict, and also two national images of the world, two Russias - official, dead life, and folk-peasant, living life - collide and argue with each other. and poetic. In addition, all the heroes gravitate towards two different poles - dead or alive.

Nature also plays an active role in creating a holistic image of living Russia. The best heroes This work is not only depicted against the backdrop of nature, but also acts as its continuation. In this way, the book achieves a poetic feeling of the mutual connection of all living things: man, river, forest, steppe. The soul of this unity is the personality of the author, fused with the life of the people, with the deep layers of Russian culture. Nature here is not indifferent to man, on the contrary, she is very strict in her relations with him, since she takes revenge on him for being too unceremonious and rational intrusion into her secrets, as well as for being excessively bold and self-confident with her.

The peculiarity of the national character is revealed in the story “Death,” which lists tragic stories about the death of the contractor Maxim, the peasant, the miller Vasil, the commoner-intellectual Avenir Sokoloumov, and the old landowner. But all these stories are united by one common motif: in the face of death, heart strings appear in a Russian person. All Russian people “die amazingly,” because in the hour of the last test they think not about themselves, but about others, about loved ones. This is the source of their courage and mental endurance.

There is a lot that attracts the writer in Russian life, but there is also a lot that repels him. However, there is one quality in it that the author ranks very highly - it is democracy, friendliness, a living talent for mutual understanding, which was not exterminated from the people, but only, on the contrary, sharpened by centuries of serfdom, the severe trials of Russian history .

There is another leitmotif in “Notes of a Hunter” - the musical talent of the Russian people, which was first stated in “The Choir and Kalinich”. Kalinich sings, and the businesslike Khor sings along with him. The song unites even such opposite natures in a general mood. The song is the beginning that brings people together in the joys and sorrows of life.

In the essay "Raspberry Water" the characters have common features: They are all losers. And at the end of the essay, on the other side, an unfamiliar singer began to sing a sad song, which brings people together, since through individual destinies it leads to an all-Russian fate and thereby brings the heroes together.

In the story “Kasyan from the Beautiful Sword,” a mournful chant is heard among the fields, which calls for a journey, away from the land where untruth and evil reign, to the promised land, where all people live in contentment and justice.

Jacob’s song from the story “The Singers” calls the heroes to the same country. Here, not only Yakov’s singing is poeticized, but also the spiritual connection that his song establishes in characters very different in position and origin. Yakov sang, but the souls of the people around him sang along with him. The entire Prytynny tavern lives by song.

But Turgenev is a realist writer, so he will show how such an impulse is replaced by mental depression. What follows is a drunken evening, where Yakov and the whole world in the tavern become completely different.

The collection contains stories imbued with special lyricism. For example, “Bezhin Meadow” is sharply different in elegance from other short stories in this cycle. The author pays a lot of attention here to the elements of nature. Towards evening, the traveler lost his way and decided to choose a place to stay for the night. He comes out to a fire burning near the river, near which peasant children are sitting, grazing horses. The hunter witnesses their conversation. He is delighted with the folk stories with which he became acquainted. Kostya’s story about Gavril, a suburban carpenter who encountered a mermaid, is interesting. He went to meet her, but inner strength stopped him, he laid down the cross, after which she stopped laughing and began to cry, saying: “You will kill yourself until the end of your days.” Here the satanic force is defeated by the sign of the cross, but it is capable of introducing sadness into a person. Material from the site

“Notes of a Hunter” ends with the essay “Forest and Steppe.” There are no heroes here, but there is a subtle lyrical description of the natural elements, the beauty of nature and human existence in it. These two opposites do not crowd or interfere, but mutually complement each other. Both the forest and the steppe delight the traveler; he likes them at the same time. Man must also fit harmoniously into nature. The essay is imbued with a life-affirming optimistic mood, since all this is important for the healthy existence of people.

Thus, the central conflict of this book is complex and deep. Undoubtedly, social antagonisms are depicted here quite sharply. Of course, the burden of serfdom falls primarily on the shoulders of the peasant, because it is he who has to endure physical torture, hunger, poverty and spiritual humiliation. However, Turgenev looks at serfdom from a broader, national point of view, as a phenomenon painful at the same time for both the master and the peasant. He sharply condemns the cruel serf owners and sympathizes with those nobles who themselves were victims of the serfdom yoke. It is no coincidence that the singing of Yakov the Turk evokes a “heavy tear” from the eyes of the Wild Master.

In Turgenev, not only the peasants are endowed with national Russian traits; Some landowners who escaped the corrupting influence of serfdom are also Russian by nature. Pyotr Petrovich Karataev is no less a Russian person than a peasant. National character traits are also emphasized in the moral character of Tchertopkhanov. He is a landowner, but not a serf owner. Such is Tatyana Borisovna, a patriarchal landowner, but at the same time a simple creature, with a “straightforward, pure heart.”

The author sees the living forces of the nation in both the peasant and noble environment. Admiring the poetic talent or, conversely, the efficiency of the Russian person, the writer comes to the conclusion that serfdom is contrary to national dignity, and all living Russia, not only peasant, but also noble, must take part in the fight against it.

Plan

1. The theme of folk character and people.
2. The theme of the ruined nobility.
3. Motives for the corrupting influence of serfdom on the souls of people.
4. Plots, characters, situations.
5. The basic artistic principles in the depiction of folk character and life: the contrast of the high and the everyday, the ugly and the beautiful, strength and powerlessness.
6. Special means artistic expression: landscape, light and color scheme.

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On this page there is material on the following topics:

• theme of the work of the hunter's note
• characteristics of heroes raspberry water
• Turgenev, notes of a hunter, analysis of the story
• portrait description of Pantelei Eremeevich
• brief description of the hunter's note, mayor

New poems
* * *

In general, we lived well.
But an era has ended.
Shishel-myshel, get out!

A different eon has arrived.
Looking forward to the end
Lamtsa-dritsa gop tsatsa!

Peasant and snake

No matter how much you feed the wolf -
he wants to go to the forest.
Between good people
like an idiot
I'm kind of crazy
type okhlomone.
The pig finds dirt again
how time it is!

Didn't light up the sea again
feisty tit.
La-la-la and bla-bla-bla -
What is there to be proud of?
Winter is upon us again,
and the dragonfly is crying.
Neither belmes nor aza.
What does all of this mean?

Happy New Year

Against the backdrop of imminent death
let's hug you,
cling with weak hands
in the lap of stupidity and death.
I'm so cold, little Gerda,
in the midst of this brainless eternity,
in the midst of this dank emptiness,
under this unreliable firmament.
Demons are spinning, devils are hovering.

I'm gathering my courage in vain,
to finally spit, blow,
finally renounce death.
Against this background, it is inevitable
in the bosom of the mighty stepmother,
under this hopeless firmament -

let's hug you.
Let's grab onto something.

Our Tanya is crying loudly.
Your Tanya - at least take henna!

I wish it were different...

Pokes and babbles again
population of the country.

We are surprised again.

On the rivers of Babylon we groan,
We beat timbrels and cymbals.
Then we bury the brownie,
then we marry the witch.

Under the whistling of cancer on the mountain
we hang out on TV shows,
and in this vile game
We are marrying the Jew with Makashov.

Here he rushes along our narrow path
Lada-nine. Eh, nine-bird!
Who invented you? What a Russian
what new Russian doesn’t strive
make everything in the world stay away!
But again silence, yes smooth surface, yes wagtail,
Yes, there's a smart guy on a moped,
yes swearing, yes chatter endlessly...
Wary and idle spy,
I hide like a harmless snake and look.
I don't want to seduce anyone here.
Yes, this is probably not necessary.

That's it, uncles, aunties,
godfathers, yes dads,
yes brothers, yes brothers,
Yes, the sons are at the bucket.
All darlings, relatives
both in appearance and to the touch,
all uterine
and Siamese, in general.
And to the fathers-commanders
The grandfathers here cannot be appeased.
All my relatives are here on my mother’s side,
everyone fucked your mother!
Eh, you cousin of the fence,
oh, seventh water,
may the family have its black sheep,
It doesn’t suit us to be proud -
because the grin is family
your mouth is open
worrylessly, helplessly...
Why are you not a native?!

You can't understand Russia with your mind -
as well as France, Spain,
Nigeria, Cambodia, Denmark,
Urartu, Carthage, Britain,
Rome, Austria-Hungary, Albania -
everyone has something special to become.
Can you only believe in Russia?
No, you can only believe in God.
Everything else is hopelessness.
Whatever measure you use -
we still got a lot:

You can just live in Russia.
To serve the Tsar and the Fatherland.

Good for Chesterton - he lived in England!
That's why he was cheerful.

Well, for us, but for us, the sons of Russia,
How can we cope anyway?

Jingle bells! Mr. Pickwick is in a hurry to Dingley Dell.
Sam Weller makes the cook laugh,
and Lancelot will save his queen
from the blind sinister Pew!

Well, in our area, the Orenburg steppes
snow dust covers his tracks.
And Petrushin’s cart won’t find the way.
And the Counselor rises from the snow.

Basically, I don't like to live.
I love to remember.
But I can't remember not by lies,
but I still strive to compose a song,
that is, in essence, to lie.
Lie, make up,
compose a song,
responsibility too.
Oud - for diligence.
Bad - for life.
In singing - with a minus five.

Song of Solveig

Here, fuck, what things happened -
passion tormented and burned my heart -
lyu, fuck, and blue, fuck,
and I can’t fucking live
I can not live without you!
A past matter, but still a fact -
an ordinary act was poetic,
was poetic and metaphysical,
and the ordinary fact is symbolic!
He lost these connotations.
And it turned out to be, in fact, debauchery!
Lu these, blue these,
I can't live with these
das ist phantastisch!
Oh yes!
I can't collect
perfect chord
Grieg and Blok
with shameless oral
and prolongation of frictions. But the chest
still worried - Oh, don’t forget!
Liu, fuck, and blue, fuck,
and I can’t fucking live
I can not live without you,
I can not!
And in fact, I can do more!
Drinking master and eating is not a fool.
Only sometimes my heart is happy,
repeats the main song about the old:
I'm telling you, I'm telling you, I'm telling you,
fuck, I say, languishing and yearning!
Das ist phantastisch!
I swear to you, Solveig,
I can not live without you!

How Nabokov and Byron wander,
never be afraid of anything
and you should always make fun of everyone -
that's what I wanted to be then.
Yes, and now I want to sometimes.
But it scares me more and more
coarseness,
and stupidity hardly makes me laugh,
and in vain the trains sing -
I won't run away anywhere anymore.
For years and centuries have passed,
and I managed to calm down forever.
And finally I have already tamed,
Finally, I forgot how to despise.
The glib critic was apparently right,
calling me old Lensky.

A pale young man about to go into print!
I want to give you two or three pieces of advice:
first thing - live in the present,
You are not a prophet, kill yourself!
And there is no need to worship Art!
This is the last thing.
Exupery and Bataille with de Sade
After re-reading, you can safely throw it away.

Poetry! - big fucking deal!
Brocade, worn to holes!
But only through these holes
we distinguish everything in the world,
because the eye is designed like this:
without tricks - pitch darkness!
Look, boy, through this rags.
Through this tinsel and lies,
maybe you'll notice something,
Look, at least you'll understand something.

For the sake of objectivity, we will write down in our notebooks:
People are bastards and death is inevitable.
It’s in vain that the vastness beckons us,
or maiden crotch.
Hopelessness all around, hopelessness.

However, in the same notebook I write for Christ’s sake:
Well, no need, my dear friend!
A centrifugal vortex swirls,
pitch darkness swirls...

My tender angel, my tender angel!

Where should we go? Baudelaire with the frantic Marina
they showed us the way. But, friends, die
I don't want something. Here is the cat Katerina
The gray-haired shepherd is trying to play.
It's funny, isn't it? Here's a book about Shakespeare
proves to me that it's not Shakespeare at all
(especially not the stupid singer Biser Kirov)
“to be or not to be?” once asked
and a certain Rutland Earl. It's interesting, isn't it?
But look, Chubais!! But - wow! -
“Pravda” congratulates us on a Merry Christmas!
No, I’d rather wait - so I can think and suffer.
Isn’t that right, my young friend? Here's the chubby presenter
“Smak” program gives me the right advice
Don’t give in to this evil world in the future.
Well, smile, my friend! It's funny, isn't it?
And it’s scary, isn’t it? Is it really dangerous?
Not boring at all! Mysterious, hurry up.
Not that good, not that great -
everything is incredible and stranger every day.
“Dahin, dahin!” - Quiet! By God I'm tired of it.
Here, here, my friend! Here, admire it for yourself
How complex, refracted, and colorful this white light is!
And what that one is, we’ll have to find out anyway!
Mother laziness will save you. Hops-father will console.
The sister-hostess will spread out a sheet for us.
What a picture! Everything is the same and everything is the same.
The plot is neither this nor that. Pegasus - no way, no way.
But - don’t take your eyes off! But how many nuances
We didn’t know before, we don’t know yet!
Of course to be! How big is the space!
How little time there is. Please calm down!
And since our life is like a station restaurant,
given to us for a while - why rush the calculation?
I'll get drunk and drink myself with a farewell smile,
And I’ll look like grandma, and I’ll order more.
And someone will inevitably share the flame.
But no, it will do. What is there to talk about?..
There is happiness in the world. But peace with will
I haven't seen anything. Where the hell should we go!

Timur Kibirov
HISTORICAL ROMANCE
. . .
The kettle is boiling. The TV is humming.
So life will fly by unnoticed.

Life will fly by, and it will come closer
what an atheist calls Nothing,

What Baratynsky does not want to name
daughter of darkness, for who then is the mother?

The kettle will boil over. Copper will oxidize.
The concrete solid will rise like smoke.

The table and bed will be scattered with smoke,
this wallpaper and this notebook.
So have some tea for now, friend.
Time to think, but there’s still no time.

It's time to think about the soul,
and about the other it’s already too late.

Think. Lying in the dark. Recall.
Just don't lie. If only I didn’t lie!

Remember how the halva smelled in the cupboard
and choose words for the sideboard.

Remember how grandfather shaved his head.
He sharpened his razor on his belt.

With this belt in the dorm at night
I walked staggering. And remember which one

Color, and what texture, and how
the sun, setting, illuminated the attic.

The kettle was boiling. The Primus hummed.
Tolik Shmelev was making a crossbow.

. . .
To the words, in my opinion, Kirsanova
song by composer Tukhmanov
"Summer Rains"
Do you remember? They make me feel better
tra-ta-ta-ta rainbows and clouds,
as if tra-ta-ta-ta is ahead.

I remembered this while watching
like young water flows.
Rain, rain, don't stop!
Lean on the balding crown,
claim that it’s not time for me yet,
wash away the sweat and lust.
After all, it’s not just me who seems to feel better,
and, for example, the weeping willow
and cauliflower, for example.
Here it is rain. Perhaps acidic.
Rejoicing on the shining hundred
A pensioner looks out the window.

Here is the sun between the beautiful clouds.
Someone's Niva is skidding in a puddle.
That's all. Just wait.
Smoke quietly on the porch,
look, freeze, my heart.
What if there really is a tra-ta-ta ahead?

That's all I wanted to remind you.
That's all I wanted to do.
A rainbow hangs over Slate.
The rainbow of the Covenant unfolded.
The sad summer has ended.
Distant thunder speaks to the soul.

HISTORICAL ROMANCE
Why are you looking greedily at the peasant woman?
akimbo, young cornet,
moonshine to the sobs of Talyanka
sipping with a beardless lip?

Why are you standing there, watching?
dancing, whistling, clicking of heels?
No matter how sideways it turns out like this
ethnography, dear little fellow.

You better go to the mamzels
or go to the gypsies in a troika.
Love cloudy potion
spit three times and cross yourself.
Ah, mon cher, ah, mon ange, you are cold!
How far is it, your wandering, from trouble,
to the point of sin, to shame, to the point of affront,
At least you would remember about your mother!

Why are you wearing a shirt?
Admire yourself, mon cher!
This vodka will burn your throat
will entangle and strangle you!

Where is your mentik, reckless hussar?
Where's Moeta's sparkling glass?
Who the hell is driving you to the arable land,
What have you lost in this hut?

Give them a Lancaster school
and cancel the usual rent,
have fun with the cheerful little white,
just don’t need to get any closer, no, no!

Listen, the riddle is this:
What does a man throw to the ground?
Well, does the master carry it around in his pocket?
What? Do not you know? Tell me directly.

This is snot, my dear, snot!
So it’s better not to, cornet.
First class cozy and warm
go to your brilliant light!

To hell with Rousseau and Tolstoy!
Paul de Kock awaits uncut.
And the actors are ready for the cancan.
Offenbach stands in front of the orchestra.

Boxes, diamonds, uniforms shine.
What are you waiting for? Why are you asking for trouble?
Apparently you're really mad about fat,
Captured by the broken paisanka.
Patterned dress, harvesting sunflowers,
black eyebrows and scarlet lips,
oh you canopy, maple canopy,
ah, naturalness, ah, simplicity!

Still, he won’t love you, he’ll deceive you,
she will laugh at you
will fog, entice, entice,
the evil one will turn into destruction!

If he doesn’t love you anyway, he’ll ruin you!
My friend will return from prison.
The lips curl into a smile.
The boot will flash with ardent heat.

What's puffing up behind the boot?
Why is he whistling so strangely and scary?
He calls himself the Third Peter.
Your sheepskin coat has fallen apart on him.

From the poem “HISTORY OF THE VILLAGE OF PERKHUROV”
Still the same decoration. But no
no curtains, no pictures on the walls.
It's getting dark. They don't turn on the lights.

And strange swirling shadows
aggravate the feeling of emptiness,
melancholy and unaccountable confusion.

How canvases are folded for sale
and the remains of furniture in the far corner.
But on the piano there are sheet music

They still turn white in the sad semi-darkness.
Already at the side doors lie
bundles, trunks, suitcases. To the bedroom
the doors are wide open. Old Garden
It’s dark outside the windows, naked.
Voices sound muffled behind the scenes.

The merchant stands, a little surprised,
in front of the hastily forgotten one on the wall
Landmap of Africa. Sleepy clerk

Tied the box to the side.
And next to him the young footman is bored
with a tray. Suddenly at the window

An infernal vision arises,
Someone flashes in a red domino.
And again everything fades, calms down,

It's getting dark. It's almost dark.
Here the former owner comes in with her brother.
She is not crying, but she is pale. Wine

The footman drawls furtively. Speech comes
about Maupassant's new book. Brother
whistles and winds the clock.

The baron and the excise man are talking at the door
about forestry. The owner's daughter is in the chair
The receptionist sits with her eyes downcast.

A student is looking for galoshes. In a white husky
the hand stands out effectively
staff captain. Seagulls can be heard screaming

Behind the scenes. Coming into the wake is easy
plump daughter-in-law in green
inappropriate belt. Close

Minute of parting. With the Baron
some wanderer whispers. Again
Domino flashed. Lackey with a ringing sound
the tray drops. Zemstvo doctor screaming
trying. And the fiction writer is tired
orders to untie for the night

A dog. Operating a guitar
configures. The governess is waiting
answer. An old man comes in from the front

Footman in a tall hat. It is raining.
Entering, the landowner makes a movement
hands, as if putting something clean

Ball from two sides. And in the distance
The axes are barely audible. And again
a red vision looms in the window,

He makes faces. It's been ready for a long time
and the crew arrived. To the forefront
the hero comes out. Two men

They take out the furniture. They are dismantling the walls.
They leave and enter in complete darkness.
Everything is wordless and ineffable

It becomes sudden. They are waiting for news.
They turn pale. They see the signs. They listen carefully.
And they expect guests to appear

Unknown, coming. Sweet, creepy.
Not very sober. Variety theater
makes jokes about censorship.

The magician draws a pentagram. About Christ
tramps chatter. The masks are spinning
Pierrot, crouched in the lunar nakedness,

Marquises, arapchat, dance winding
cutesy death. Domino is rushing
takes off like a scarlet whirlwind, makes eyes,
laughs and tumbles. Out the window
All new ones fit in. Here without an ear
some kind, still without eyes and legs.

General squealing and grinding. It's blazing
Someone laughs at dominoes. And the mystagogue
conjures, summons the god Bacchus.

And finally the whole stage is filled
and tongues of fire lick the sky...

EVENING REFLECTION
In fact, everything is much simpler.
Isn't that right, Wolfgang? Let's keep quiet.
There Philomela is gargling her throat
in the lilacs behind my picket fence.

And not even in lilac, but in chenille,
pouring incense into a sensitive nose.
It's much more complicated in reality.
The state farm has quieted down. The electric locomotive sang

On Shifernaya - painful and strange -
as if saying goodbye forever. Believe me,
everything froze in the fragrant darkness,
The fire will no longer flare up, the door will not creak.

And maybe our joy is not far away
and wanders alone among the shadows.
In fact, everything is much easier
shorter than a sigh, softer air!

And there, in the distance, is a famous chemical plant
smokes some kind of poison into three chimneys.
He is scary and beautiful in the surrounding darkness,
but also the common fate will not go away,

Like you and me. And also praises God
frogs chorus in a darkening pond.

Isn't this all too much? Isn't it too much?
ultimately mean?

Everything is wrong. Yes, I myself am unfaithful.
Either this way, or that way, or not at all.
Everything is shaking. But here's what's typical -
and the beast, and the grain, and every man,

Being a mystery and a symbol,
actually breathes and lives,
how frantically it asks for freedom!
How it gets into your soul and clings to your window!

What it smells like! How noisy! And how it’s a callus
eyes! As it touches with a finger,
caught in the sky! There he is, Uncle Kolya,
and there’s Trofim Yegorovich with a bucket!

And there's a star! And there - the dawn of evening
The greenhouse is lit!.. The earth is still warm.
But it is already wavering in the unfaithful darkness,
A willow sways above the surface of the waves.

In fact, simplicity is fraught,
and complexity is defenseless and pure,
and at sunset the smoke of a chemical plant
will tell us what Beauty means.

Everything is wrong. Everything is beautiful. Commendable
almost everything. Tired soul
swings hopelessly and impudently,
goes wild and savors it slowly.

Shimmering already covered with film
plants of tender beds until the morning.
And the mice are running behind the thin wall.
And the wind is humming. And the singing of a mosquito.

Let's turn on the light. Cold water body
buzzing, let's wash it somehow...
But is this really all true?
And what should you do if this is the case?

Timur Kibirov

Greek and Roman Catholic songs and nursery rhymes

N.L. Trauberg

JESUS, if, against my will,
I have wrought Thee any ill,
And, seeking but to do Thee grace,
Have smitten Thee upon the face,
If my kiss for Thee be not
Of John, but of Iscariot,
Prithee then, good Jesus, pardon
As Thou once didst in the garden,
Call me “Friend,” and with my crime
Build Thou Thy passion more sublime.

Dorothy Sayers “CATHOLIC TALES”

AND CHRISTIAN SONGS”

Their Lord is like that!
He really is a real hero!
Without fear and trembling in mortal combat
Leads the faithful!
And a sword with a crescent moon above your head,
And his horse rushes like an arrow!
And ours, ours - look, son -

Towards my death.

And for those, the Lord is what he is!
He really does give peace,
Grants and tastes eternal peace
Among the pandemonium of the world!
Waving his hand at the passion-face,
In the lotus position he is overshadowed by silence,
Shining with holy emptiness.
And ours, ours - alas, son, -
And ours is on a donkey - clack and clack -
Towards my death.

And these Lord - wow!
He is truly the ruler of the earth!
This world, this age, this brain
For a long time under his heel.
Around his throne in a cheerful crowd
- Evan evoe! - the human race dances.
Perhaps you and I too.

But ours, ours - don’t cry, son, -
But ours is on a donkey - clack and clack -
Towards my death.
To meet the terrible by his death,
To meet your death and mine!
Don't cry, she won't leave Him,
She can't hide anywhere!

SMS dialogue

-...Thank you, I’m very flattered.
But I'm afraid the poems I'm writing now
You will be disappointed -
They are very Orthodox.
And you are a famous infidel (smiley)

Not at all. I'm a deist.
And how it will press,
So I immediately remember “Our Father”
And even the “Desert Fathers” (smiley)

Well done! (smiley)
But in general, a deist means non-Christ.
Robespierre, for example.

Yes. And Wallenberg.

Yeah, and Hitler.
Yes, you can pile up as many examples as you like!
We are talking about the morality of the Creator,
not creatures.
Trust in God
“crucified for us under Pontius Pilate”
almost impossible.
But He can be loved.
And God is not crucified,
Every Supreme Mind of yours,
Upon closer inspection
A cruel and cynical tyrant.
Yes I'm better then
Like an honest staff captain
I will rebel
with Lord Byron (smiley)

It's a pointless argument.

Deism has a lot of reasons,
With theism - not at all!
But through the darkness of these reasons
The light is barely visible!

One dot shines,
The bush does not burn!
(smiley)

From Dorothy Sayers

A dumb ox mooed in the night:
“Do you hear the ringing in the valley, my brother is a donkey,
The ringing of horseshoes and the neighing of horses?
From magical lands, from the ends of the earth
Magi rush to us, Kings gallop to us
Bow to the King of Kings!
Only before them all I, the slow ox,
I will bow to Him who lies in the manger!

The lop-eared donkey cried out in the night:
How many angels are there in the sky, oh my brother,
Illuminated the blue darkness!
This joyful, this only time
All the Power of Heaven gathered there
To sing His glory!
Only before them all, I, a stubborn donkey,
I will sing praises to Him who lies in the manger!

Gloria! Eeyore!
Glory, glory to Our Boy!

Cockerel, cockerel,
golden comb,
Don't wait until the morning, cockerel.
Through pitch darkness
Crow for him
Have pity on poor Peter!

Cockerel, cockerel,
He was completely exhausted.
Darkness has enveloped the earthly paths.
It's time to crow
For even Peter
Only shame can still save.

“I don't argue, God, You are holy, holy, holy,
Man spoke to the Creator, -
Only You are immortal and omnipotent,
You chill forever in the midst of paradise,
Well, for me, a weakling, in my short life,
I'm heading straight to hell!
I would look, O God, at You
Be like you, and you be like me!
I would also, of course, become a saint,
You would go to hell too!”

He answered, after thinking, the Creator answered him -
“You are right in many ways, son.
Well, let me become like you
And I will show an example of such beauty,
Voluntarily giving up both immortality and power<
And descending into the darkness of the grave,
That, of course, you will take an example from me!
I became like you, you will become like me
Just believe my Word!
You, Adam, will become as holy as you once were!
The powerless hell will howl in fear!”

But looking at His mortal pangs
Man answered the Creator -
“I don’t want to be such a person!
I want to be a better god of the living,
Who conquered this world, who extended this century
Almighty ruler of everything!
I've seen enough of You, my God!
I won’t be like You, You won’t become like me!”
And the man went back from the Cross,
And the Savior descended into hell.

Theodicy

Ivan Karamazov, having returned the ticket,
At the right time he went to the other world.

Vanya is heading straight to hell,
But his old acquaintance is not happy with him.

The old demon says to Karamazov:
“Unfortunately, your place is not here.

I'd show you how to turn up your nose,
But we are not ordered to let you in.

Quel scandale, Ivan Fedorych, quelle surprise!
The Atheist goes to Paradise!”

And the angels carry him to God in heaven,
And Peter says: “Well, come in, come on!”

But, with the pince-nez glasses flashing,
Karamazov says: “Let me

It’s up to me to decide where to go!
I hate to enter the abode of bliss,

When there, on earth, there is only torment,
When they die in fear, in fire, in shit

Okay, adults! - Children! What are they for?!
How do you look at this, Jesus Christ?

How dare you look us in the eye?!”
And then Magdalene, unable to bear it,

She screamed: “Are you completely crazy?!”
Who are you talking to?! How dare you?!

How can you not understand anything like that?!
Look, little white-handed one, at His hands!”

And for a long time I could not pacify her
God crucified for Vanya.

Has he left the kingdom?
The impostor seized the ancient throne
A long time ago.
But it doesn't matter


And He will not deceive me!

So what if it was a long time ago
Has everyone gotten used to it without Him?
And His paladins fell in battle
A long time ago.
But it doesn't matter
He will return, my glorious King!
He will return, of course. He promised me.
And He will not deceive me!

So what if it was a long time ago
Have I betrayed my king?
And since then I have become disgusted with my native land
A long time ago.
But it doesn't matter
He will return, my glorious King!
He will return, he will return! He promised me.
And He will not deceive me!

Prodigal son

Oh, how delicious the well-fed calf was!
And the father wiped away the happy tears.
And now my son finally got some sleep,
I washed myself of the ingrained stench.

And life gradually returned to a rut.
And the sun rose, darkness fell
Under the creaking of millstones, the lowing of an ox,
Dogs barking and psalms ringing.

So he began to forget the shame and pain,
And under his father's roof he again
It became boring to live and painful to sleep...
Oh, expanse, open field!

Oh, you gave me blue ones, oh, taverns!
Oh, you red girls, dashing friends!
It’s not a good idea for a boy to die of boredom,
Oh, you're a free will!

Well, forgive me, goodbye, my native land!
Dear Father, don’t remember it badly!
Don't hesitate, come on! Pour it, come on!
Your son has been on a spree again!

And - look for the wind in the field! And there was no trace.
The older brother itches: “But I told you so!”
This is how he repaid you, daddy!
You, dad, are very kind!

No matter how much you feed the wolf, he looks into the forest!
The pig will find the dirt! The demon won't stop!
And God bless him - why do we need him here?..
Dad, well dad, why are you crying?”

And really, why do you need him like that?
To hell with him, God Almighty!
To hell with us all, my God!
We can't seem to do otherwise.

The Desert Father, Abba Xaphius, once said:
“A dog is more valuable than a person!
In any case, I am worth a hundred times more
Tail wagging at the gate kennel
Flea-filled dog, he's completely in control of it
Love for the Master. Oh if only with little sim
I wish I could, God, be even a little bit comparable!”

And Clive Staples Lewis also did not spare people,
Comparing Adam's race and sons of bitches.
In a brochure about the psalms he writes how similar
Human speculation about God's providences
To the retriever's thoughts about
What is Lewis doing at his desk?
Instead of going and taking a walk together!

Hey, Lord! Hey, hey! My late Tomik
Sometimes he reminded me so vividly of me,
When I was senselessly cunning and pretending,
That he didn’t hear the commands and was racing
Behind the flowing bitch, raging and frolicking!..
And if this metaphor is for the proud of you
It seems offensive, but that means a thousand times

You are stupider than stupid dogs and meaner than evil dogs!
Our good dog handler will not save you in any way!
Az, son of a bitch, ready without meaning and without measure
On the spawn of vipers, on the Beast
Crimson will rage and lie again
The last pug, and bark and squeal,
And then - my God! - it’s shameful to tuck your tail between your legs!

The madman says in his heart: “There is no God!”
This dogma is actually not so bad!
What the hell will you find in a crazy heart!
You'll find a bald devil there!
Oh, poor madman, He is not there,
My good Shepherd is gone,
There is not a bit of Him there!

The philosopher said in his heart: “God is dead!”
This thesis is actually not that bad!
Oddly enough, but here you’re not lying -
No matter how scary it is, it’s not a lie!
Poor Friedrich, we really killed Him,
They buried my Shepherd,
And for three days the world was without Him!

The sergeant major said in his heart: “God is with us!”
This slogan is actually not that bad!
Next to us, here, like it or not,
You can't escape Him anywhere!
Poor Caesar, from His angry gaze,
From the right hand of my Shepherd
You can't hide anything!
Let every poor man in his heart
He will cry out in the darkness something like this:

Don't judge, don't judge by my sins!
Don't judge by stupid words!
Good Shepherd, bring it to your Father
Mad sheep!
And even a tuft of wool - nothing at all -
Save Him for the eternal yarn
From your bad servant,

Corporate party

But the vinedressers, seeing their son, said to each other:
this is the heir; Let's go, kill him and take possession of his inheritance.

Matthew 21:38

Grape growers and winemakers!
Free workers of free Vertograd!
Evan - ew!
Over the past period, the yield, unfortunately, has decreased somewhat.
It is impossible to deny some deterioration in quality characteristics
Products supplied by us.
Negative dynamics cannot but worry us, but -
Evan-evoe! -
The question of the right to land and the question of the form of ownership
Finally positively resolved and properly legally formalized,
There is every reason to hope -
Evan-evoe! -
To overcome negative trends in the very near future!
Now we can finally install the farm
On a scientific basis, using the most advanced technologies!
The Innovation Department has already prepared a number of -
Evan-evoe! -
The most interesting offers! To implement them
We need, of course, large investments,
But, ladies and gentlemen, but dear comrades,
An agreement has already been reached on the sale of a controlling stake
To one very strong business executive,
The strongest
To the real owner!
And now -
Evan ewoe! -

tease

Radiant Lucifer
Completely insolent!

But Archangel Michael
The hooliganism stopped.

I imagined my tail between my legs
She ran away to our land!

From the supermundane mountain spheres.
Lucifer fell upon us.

But he is with us again
I started playing king of the hill!

He pushed everyone and took over
The very, very highest throne.

Shishel-myshel became a rich man!
“Who is stronger and taller than me?!

I sit high
I'm looking far away
Not a single one
I don’t find anything higher!”

But there was one
Son of Man,
He rose higher than him!
So high, high
So high,
What is higher and there is nothing!

He got up
To the height of the Cross,
And you can't jump above your tail,
Radiant, rebellious spirit,
Lord of dung flies!

Flew
Lucifer
Upside down
Into the garbage pit
with poop!

And who hangs out with him?
That's what he calls himself!

For the first time, a child sucked a tit.


And the baby sucked the tit.

But dad couldn’t put his mind to it

And the slow ox chewed the cud,
And the donkey spun his funny ears,
And the baby sucked the tit.

But Mom didn’t see anything
Besides his own Son,


And the slow ox chewed the cud,
And the donkey spun his funny ears,
And the baby sucked the tit.

Shaggy hats clutched in hands,

But Mom didn’t see anything
Besides his own Son,
But dad couldn’t put his mind to it,
What to treat everyone with, where to seat everyone.
And the slow ox chewed the cud,
And the donkey spun his funny ears,
And the baby sucked the tit.

And the wise men entered with clouds of steam,


The men were awkwardly pushing at the door,
But Mom didn’t see anything
Besides his own Son,
But dad couldn’t put his mind to it,
What to treat everyone with, where to seat them,
And the slow ox chewed the cud,
And the donkey spun his funny ears,
And the baby sucked the tit.

A choir of angels sang in the heavenly distance:

And in humans there is no longer any
other than good will!”

The Christmas gifts were brought in,
And, clutching shaggy hats in my hands,
The men were awkwardly pushing at the door,
But Mom didn’t see anything
Besides his own Son,
But dad couldn’t put his mind to it,
What to treat everyone with, where to seat them,
And the slow ox chewed the cud,
And the donkey spun his funny ears,
And the baby sucked the tit.

Happy Birthday Star congratulated everyone,
But no one looked up then,
Though the angels sang in the heavenly distance:
“Glory to God in the highest and peace on earth!
And in humans there is no longer any
Anything other than good will!”
And the wise men entered with clouds of steam,
The Christmas gifts were brought in,
And, clutching shaggy hats in my hands,
The men were awkwardly pushing at the door,
But Mom didn’t see anything
Besides his own Son,
But dad couldn’t put his mind to it,
What to treat everyone with, where to seat them,
And the slow ox chewed the cud,
And the donkey spun his funny ears,
And the baby sucked the tit.

And there, in Kariot, there is a different baby
He grabbed the tight nipple with his lips,
And beyond the sea there, far, far away
Swallowed mother's milk
The one who, having nailed a tablet over the cross,
Will declare Him King!

TIMUR KIBIROV
<Сапгир о Кибирове>
TO THE ARTIST SEMYON FAIBISOVICH

All is our amusement and all is our joy.

only in a dumpling shop on a sticky table
the sun was burning and pure joy
sang and played in the eye crystal,
sang and played
and remembered
the sun on the sticky nearby table.
In vinegar slurry, in muddy water,
in dumpling soup, in your glass
everything is reflected, everything is golden...
Oh, these faces... And there, behind the glass,
the street moves, the capital breathes.
Oh, these faces
oh these faces
rabbit hats, buttonholes with coat of arms.
February sun, evil cashier,
for piano and orchestra concert
from the loudspeaker. Long and red
student looking for free space.
How hesitantly he freezes
with a blue tray and squinting his eyes
Here is his fat aunt pushing him.
So he spills compote on her.
The sun is shining. Mozart plays.
Pure joy, golden tear.
Our happiness, goat-dereza.
Dirty granny with a dirty rag
wiped the table. Come on, finish your drink.
Well, Semushka’s hat is funny!
What are you hanging on to? A hat is like a hat.
The hat is good, a warm hat...
The street is moving, the tram is breathing.
There is a shine in the air from frost and steam,
There is beautiful frost on the urn.
Gastronome has cardboard containers.
The woman at the bus stop grumbles.
Something in her face, something in her gaze,
in sharp wrinkles and scarlet lipstick,
in a green bag, in graying strands
there is something creepy. The stop is silent.
Only one youth couple
choking on laughter and sunny steam.
Levka stares. The tram rattles.
How funny and photogenic everything is -
chilly Uzbek, pimply cadet,
The cop in the sheepskin coat is quite handsome,
striped wand, strawberry blush,
white leggings, energetic whistle.
Nice frost, Comrade Sergeant!
How funny everything is and how typical everything is!
Too typical. Almost symbolic.
Profile on plaque
important. And with a similar profile
an old woman wanders past asthmatically
with a fat dog on a leash.
How funny and ordinary everything is.
Moscow invites guests everywhere.
Advertisements decorated the walls everywhere:
film "Repentance" and Small Stage,
next to the folklore ensemble "Berendey"
under the direction of S.S. Pedersen...
In general, to be frank, we
this is quite enough. Gradually
We are getting used to our Fatherland.
How many wonderful discoveries are in store for us?
midday in February. Tram, for example.
Black crowns and traffic lights.
A girl with a cup in the office window.
A pioneer glides with his backpack open
wearing a soldier's hat, slightly cross-eyed.
A random phrase from a conversation.
The back of a pollock in the order department.
With a “Moskvichka” cake, a naval officer...
And the Saturday construction site is dozing.
Broken brick, glass wool, tar.
And cinder blocks. And a pale asshole
next to the cabin. And into the frozen ground
A rusty crowbar has been driven in since the fall.
Cable, posters... A house with columns.
House of Officers. Parquet shine
and the distant sounds of a button accordion.
They are rehearsing the “Date” dance there.
Stern stands look out from the walls.
The letters are white, made of polystyrene foam.
Uncle Sam with a toothy Zionist.
Politburo with traces of replacements.
And the electric trains of the Kalinin vestibule
with a dark empty bottle in the corner,
with my aunt and with the master of sports in sambo,
with the sun setting in the red haze
in a clean circle, breathed by me.
It's cold, it's cold. My dear sky.
Some kind of sky, Syoma, is like this -
as if a needle was sewn into the heart,
like a drunkard sewing up a torpedo,
so that she always torments us,
so that in the confusion of my birthright delirium
I saw the harmony of the eye-spirit level,
so that from this poor light
angry, our diamond's eyes would water.
Kitchen in Konkovo. The evening has already thickened.
We didn’t turn on the light, and the sunset is freezing.
How it reflected in Lena’s glasses!
Each piece of glass contains a window and a sunset.
My silhouette with the light of a cigarette.
The sky is such a lemon color.
Who is this? Apparently these are pigeons
They fly past the crane.
And on Vvedensky the cemetery is quiet.
There is snow on the crosses and on the stars.
Shadows fall. The watchman grumbles...
And at the Kazansky station there is a dude
demobilization of the construction battalion is in vain.
He tells her quietly about Afghanistan.
The cheeky girl is gloomily silent.
The smell is coming from the toilet.
Nearby, gypsy women are chewing creme brulee.
A plump man, decently dressed,
in Pravda he reads about the meeting in the Kremlin.
How can we get used to our native land?..
There is no forgiveness for us. And there is no Pomorin.
You see, the Marlens are standing, the Oktyabrins
dense crowd at the newspaper window
and they read about the thirties.
Georgians shine with golden teeth.
Mothers bring oranges to Kaluga.
The flag burned almost white
in distant Kabul. And in drunken tears
A gap-toothed man climbs up to the counter.
And we, buddy, can’t escape.
We are doomed to eternal childhood,
to a scrofulous eternal childhood!
How charming - the poet mumbles -
all our stupidities, even our crimes...
How charming is the darling poet!
It was in vain that he chose Pushkin as the background!
It would be better if Beria was better, it would be better if the zone
Brezhnev in Helsinki, thief in law!
Here on such and such a background, honey
We've been charming for 70 years!
Oligophrenics beat a schizophrenic,
schizophrenics lie to mental retards -
here it is, the formula of our priceless
Motherland, our special status!
You're wasting your brains, buddy.
There's no point in smiling so openly!
Do you hear, Semushka, the cat is rushing?
straight from childhood, and the cans are rattling!
Like turpentine burns under her tail,
How the hooligans whistle after you!
Her cry, mixed with Ots's singing,
my ears keep cowardly.
And the thick-lipped face of the sergeant,
who gave me a good-natured kick,
Kant's Critique of Pure Reason
in poor Marashchuk’s bedside table,
and the darkened private room is melancholy,
political studies of the century and century,
fat ass of the lieutenant's wife...
Cowardly anger beats in my temples...
In general, we don’t need anything...
The blond cop is flipping through my passport.
Looks you in the eyes and then lets go.
Everything is fine. There is not enough evil.
It's cold, it's cold. And on earth
someone is lying around in a dirty peacoat.
Drunk, probably. Today is Saturday.
Drunk, of course. And people from work.
It's cold for people in the neon darkness.
Is he dead or drunk lying on the ground?
A Jew who served his time
the scar from the lips stretched to the cheekbone.
Thin neck
thin neck,
there, under the muffler, is my thin neck.
How was I born in February like this?
How was I born and managed to
how I rolled down Spasskaya like a sausage
lying dead and drunk on the ground?
Apparently, we cannot understand our homeland with our minds.
It is even more impossible to believe in her.
Immaculately scary lives
They get into your eyes, they open your eyes!
Hey, barracks dry wank, spray!
Lay over the zinc, civil funeral feast!
Our happiness, dereza goat,
Vsha-VPSha and tarpaulin-turquoise,
and not a shisha, not a penny, not a single
at the animal farm “Dawn of Communism”...
This is life! So why, why?
Listen, why, can you say?
Somewhere near Penza, or even on the Thames,
anywhere - but why?
Hello please! What's there to lose?
Here she is, here she is. So what's wrong with that?
What's so catchy? Well, look!
Here, admire it! Again - great!
Ours for you with a brush! Honestly,
what the hell, what the hell
we are looking for, Sema,
Let us whistle, Sema?
What will we find, judge for yourself?
Why are we staring at sleepless eyes?
in the windows of Khrushchev, in the February dregs,
Why are we bending over the one lying
dead, drunk, flying under the snow,
to look into the fatal eyes.
This way, Sema, we will find this...
It would be better to take cover. It would be better to sleep.
It would be better for us to hide our heads,
It would be better to drink tea with jam,
It would be better to get away on time, Semushka...
Oh, these faces... On the night tram
tattooed grandfather swears.
The pet boy is sleeping. "Gastronom" is on.
It's cold, it's cold. The police are wandering around.
This is life. So why, why?
Listen, why, you can say
in a zinc bath with light pumice
naked boy, think about it, why,
does everyone continue to play and splash?
In the sunshine
far, far away...
How would you like to understand this?
It's the feet sinking again
into warm, warm, soft dust...
Why are you sneaking around, roaring cow?
Why did you forget about it?
What's wrong with that?
Not a bit of that.
Some kind of fable, warm gil.
Heaven and pain turn into a courtyard
in the small, sunny Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic,
into roof tiles, into fence pickets,
into the fat mulberry tree, tasteless now,
into the black mulberry tree,
green gooseberry,
open the door with fly gauze.
This is a blue and red tossed ball
fell right into the neighbors flowerbed,
this is in beautiful Chinese pajamas
Aunt Tasya's husband yelled at us.
This is a wooden toilet, translucent
the July sun, and the flies are buzzing.
This is in a plywood gazebo in the evening
terrible stories sound in whispers.
These are drawings in an envelope for dad,
drunken uncle Seryozha-neighbor,
unattainable until death, until death,
unattainable, desired to death
Sashka Khvalkovsky bicycle...
Here she is, here she is. There's no escape here.
You'll love it so dearly!
You'll look at it like damn,
you will try to warm and keep warm,
catch this poor ray, save it!
Click to remind me of this Motherland,
all this unrequited love,
music, music, this music,
Zykinu this in any window!
Stupid, bastard, this is greatness:
Lenin in Razliv,
Gagarin in a rocket
Eisenberg in line for wine!
Pity, and pettiness, and this hatred:
Christmas tree skeleton in the entrance yard,
wall newspaper for international day,
monument to the fallen with raised hands,
morning ray over the garbage can,
gray astrakhan of my father's hat,
uncle's portrait in a dashing cap,
State Insurance papers in an old box
and bonds that have become dust,
watchman's kettle, fog over the river.
In general, we don’t need anything.
In general, we don’t need anything!
In general, we don’t need anything -
If only, Lord, I could capture
this deathly light over the highway,
elderberry bush behind the kindergarten fence,
three drunks over the coolness of the river,
white bra, lipstick
and thus defeat Death!

“Friendship of Peoples” 2000, No. 2

Book collapse

Nikolay ALEXANDROV

Timid Kibirov, or “Notations”

“Notations” is a new book of poems by Timur Kibirov. Thin. It can be read in half an hour. But even this half hour of reading can cause confusion in the reader. It seems that primitivism in it reaches the point of muttering, to interjections. Which is partly true and coincides with the author’s attitude: “... And with the Verb we burn hearts - / I’m cool, you’re lazy / ... Not even with a verb, Yul, / with interjections rather...”

So the most adequate assessment of the collection could also be considered an interjection. And the author himself, as if repeating Blok, warned against a “conceptual” reading:

No, just look at how they swagger!
It's better for us to get around them, these young people,
They will interpret it - it won’t seem enough!
This is how they deconstruct - you can’t collect the bones.

Fashionable fads are not always to my liking, but I liked Kibirov’s poems. All that remains is to simply write, without worrying about conceptuality and without thinking about the danger of falling into banality.

Let's start with the title. First of all, it indicates the genre. “Notations” in this case are not only moral teachings, but also – rather – “notes”. The collection equally brings to mind both “maxims” and diary entries, although still to a greater extent it is a lyrical diary.

The island is an important and specific “locus”, immediately implying isolation, detachment, idleness, lack of fuss, relaxation, a free lifestyle and, as a consequence of this, the opportunity to look around the universe with an unclouded gaze. Finding himself on the outside as a stranger, the author looks at his life from the outside. He uses the pause provided by chance to understand: who am I, why am I, what does time mean, life and what is the meaning of it. Little Last Judgment. Preliminary hearing of the case. Time to collect stones.

This is where it all begins. “Inventory sonnet” (accounting check of personal life) opens the book:
Time to sum up what I've lived
And shake up what you have acquired...

Let’s pay tribute to the original reading of Mayakovsky, who will become one of the heroes of “Notations,” and move on. Kibirov’s relationship between debit and credit is clearly not in favor of accumulation:
I didn't increase anything.
And he even squandered something -

we are talking about the gifts of God, the gifts of life. The famous gospel parable about talents takes on an unexpectedly exaggerated sound from Kibirov: he failed to manage his wealth - not only to invest in business, but even to save it. But unlike the evangelical worker who buried his talent in the ground, Kibirov does not say to the Master: “You reap where you did not sow...” On the contrary, he is humble and sad because he carelessly treated what was given to him:

You've given me too much, God.
I saved some things from being stolen.
There are a lot of moths though.
Recoveries will be made for all losses.

Kibirov is generally a special worker, his activity is unique and its fruits are specific:
I honestly hung around pears -
Here are the dried fruits! They are no worse
than the fruits of enlightenment are the same...

We can say that the fruits of idleness (if we easily translate the expression “poaching pears”) are the concentrated result of activity (that is, poetic work, dried, compressed into “notations”). This is what the poet has “earned,” what has been acquired, what is no worse than experience and school knowledge. Even better: “they are stored better, too.” And the ending is like the last justification for oneself:

Even if I was negligent and careless -
still careful and even gentle.

Nice lines. Wasting life's gifts still turns out to be frugality (albeit with some flaws: negligence and negligence). Added to this is another touching feature - tenderness. In other words, a careful and tender attitude towards the world and life justifies “pear-hunting” and existential carelessness.

The sonnet was worth reading carefully. Firstly, because it can be regarded as a preface, an introduction, the beginning of a plot, themes and motives (“shaking up” one’s own life, a sad realization of quickly and aimlessly wasted years, an apology for poetic work, etc.), which will develop in the future and draw followed by others: the end of the century, the meaning of life, love, death, etc. Secondly, the sonnet shows the features of the new Kibirov poetics, where deliberate negligence is intended to camouflage shy significance and seriousness; the deliberate rejection of pathos, the “negligence” of the form turns out to be a way of talking about the important and “high”.

The beginning, despite the relaxed, “homey” tone, turned out to be serious. At least because of the strict sonnet form. Kibirov is frightened by the severity (he said - and he was frightened, he became afraid). And in the next poem he immediately tried to apologize, hide, and leave in embarrassment. It seems like he has nothing to do with it, and is not speaking himself, but only helping the words of others to sound: “... I am not a writer, but a performer, / not even a labukh, but a modest amateur...”

Kibirov assigns himself the role of accompanist. Others sing, and he whistles. But this is all out of modesty. And so that quotes and allusions do not confuse.

Go ahead. The reader is already prepared for the scenery - this is the Swedish island of Gotland. Now it takes on visible outlines, but remains a decoration, that is, a frame, a frame. Alien, distant, island - shading the personal, intimate, homely. A beautiful distance, from which it is easier to look at your native land. In short, Gogol's situation. And an appeal to one’s native land (together with Italy and Gogol, which has been left out of brackets) is not slow to appear. “Letter to Sasha from Gotland Island.” Epigraph: “Dad, I love Russia... but it would be better if it were like Italy. A. T. Zapoeva.”

The title of the poem, together with the epigraph, sets a rich context. Firstly, they once again force us to remember Nikolai Vasilyevich. Secondly (which is connected with the first), they are preparing an edifying ending (“You want Russia / to be like Italy - / I want you not to grow up arrogant / Russophobic”) - after all, the father writes to his daughter. Thirdly, they refer the reader to the title of the book “Notations”. Fourthly, they outline a children's theme (childhood, children's literature, children's perception, child's speech or baby talk, etc., right down to “be like children”). Fifthly, they develop motives, partly already mentioned: the island (and therefore the sea), foreign land, loneliness or isolation, writing (the epistolary genre as such, writing itself, writing, creativity). And all this sounds and shimmers in different combinations:
Late night. Can't sleep.
I tear up the draft in frustration.

This means it is not written. However, what is important is not this, but the very fact of mentioning the draft (primitivism is achieved with effort). Having written these lines, Kibirov, of course, could not help but feel embarrassed. And he balanced the creative night with a graphomaniac (Prigov) day (“and, like Dmitry Aleksanych, I write poems every day”). By the way, the draft will also appear in the book, embodied in the “Draft reply to Yu. F. Gugolev” (intermediate finale of the book):
For a whole month, like a tit,
I live quietly across the sea.

How good! And the sea, and a foreign land, and silence, and solitude. And Pushkin, of course, what would we do without him!

Further, leaving aside Russian relevance, ORT, NTV, Chubais and Bardyuzha, we note the persistent signs of Gotland: pine trees, swans, naked cliffs, which will then evoke the shadow of Freud:
...I'm afraid to open my eyes -
wherever you look - it stands and sticks out,
puffs up, towers!.. Or on the contrary -
now a hole, now a hole, now an abyss!

Nightmare.

In my opinion, a rather convincingly drawn world - through the eyes of the “Viennese charlatan”. Kibirov's Freud, by the way, is almost Nietzsche's twin. In any case, it goes hand in hand with him. But this is true, by the way.

Returning to the “Letter...”, let us note Snufkin as a sign of the “Moomins”, which the reader will encounter in the future, and a tribute to the “Gray Baltic” (that is, Scandinavia). In the meantime, Snufkin is contrasted with Childe Harold, who appeared seemingly by accident, but is quite (thematically and associatively) justified. And after a few stanzas, Kibirov admits that he is reading “an old English novel.” Reads with a dictionary. This is not so much honesty as the same Cybirov timidity and embarrassment.

The exposition is completed, and then the narrative of “Notations” is built from poem to poem. The subject of the collection is the lyrical development of thought, or rather even reflection. The constant roll call of themes and motifs creates narrative unity; the poems, without losing their independence, form a single text. However, the autonomy, isolation, and self-sufficiency of individual poems is precisely weakened. Their dependence on the general context increases. And from the immediate neighborhood. The poems seem to comment, complement each other, and clarify the meaning. For example, under the title “News” Kibirov places the following quatrain:

Soar, falcons, like eagles!
It's enough to grieve!!
Namibia is with us!!!
Again.

It is, of course, remarkable in itself (just look at the build-up of exclamation marks, ending with a period, the change from one intonation to another). However, the meaning of this laconic poetic reaction to political relevance becomes even more obvious from the poem that follows “News”:

I would disperse all the nations,
so that only people remain,
let the bastards and freaks,
but without these verbiage,

but without these greatness,
without rattling or exclamation.
Maybe it's more decent to lead
will we become ourselves a little?

It's scary and lonely
let it be deserted and hateful -
if only without the feeling of an elbow,
without breathing into the back of my head.

Thought (thought-feeling) makes a circle, a loop. At first (in “News”) he parodies and mimics the sovereign rhetoric. Then, in two quatrains of the next poem, an emotional assessment is given: first of a general nature, that is, addressed to the whole world (“disperse all nations...”), then closer to oneself (and therefore “We” appears). Finally, the final four lines are simply the experiences of a lonely self, not feeling too comfortable in the world, afraid of the enthusiasm of the crowd. This is already a new topic: a person protecting himself from the darkness and vulgarity of the outside world - and the transition to the next poem “From Walter Scott”:
Cigarette smoke billows.
Outside the window - no change...
My common sense, poor knight,
don't leave me in the dark!..

The flow of thoughts determines the development of the plot. Each poem records an observation, an impression, a thought. Poems are like points, “islands,” and a chain of associations spreads from island to island. This achieves continuity of movement, not linear, but very whimsical, with repetitions, returns, rehashes of what has already been said. The reader follows the change of impressions, the play of associations, the creation of an intricate pattern of poetic thought. But at the same time it is in a closed thematic circle.

Let's say the author contemplates a seascape. How to describe the sea? God knows! Some words, sounds, rhymes are spinning (“Arguing, and echoing, and with something in his gaze? / Soon? Not soon?.. What kind of Borya?!”). A list of familiar cliches and platitudes, a regurgitation of the poetic experience of generations. The search for a word ends in nothing, that is, a fundamental rejection of the image:

It's a pity we can't describe it.
Forbidden.

However, despite such a categorical statement, the topic is not exhausted and arises again after some time:
The sea sparkles.
Seagulls are flying.
And I'm talking about metaphors.

Kibirov seems to be explaining why depictions of the sea are “forbidden.” Metaphors are either false and pretentious:

I remember Voznesensky A.A. wrote,
that the seagull is God's swimming trunks.
Wow!..
And I’m looking specifically -
doesn't look like it at all...

Just like
and the sea doesn’t look like a “bike dump”
rudders”,

how Parshchikov sold us... -

or the textbook vulgarity - “the sea laughed.”

But that's not all. Having justified the ban, Kibirov timidly tries to break it, abandoning poetic description, metaphors and poetic eccentricity:

It’s possible, I’ll still say -
On the Sunset
quiet in the shimmering sea
frozen swans.
A whole flock.
I know,
it went, of course! -
but just imagine -
the sun is setting,
the sea splashes softly,
and a whole flock!!

Sunset, sea, swans. Beautiful picture. How to draw it without ruining it with banality and pretentiousness. Just say - the sea, sunset and a flock of swans, apologizing in advance (“I can say it anyway”) and even admitting the vulgarity of the picture (in words). But the impression from this does not become vulgar. On the contrary, only then - taking into account the ironic grin and not objecting - can you break through to pure perception.

This is only one, but far from the only one, of the cross-cutting motifs of “Notations”. The reader follows the associative transition of one poem to another and, in addition, sees how, as the plot progresses, overlapping each other, becoming more complex, acquiring a different sound, the intended themes develop. At the end of the book, their bizarre interweaving is again tied into a single knot, collected in one poem, a kind of epilogue - “Answer to Yu. F. Gugolev”:

Topics already set:
- sex life of men
at the last line
- Deity or absolute,
what is his name sometimes?
- what is the meaning of life, i.e. How
you and I will have a trick
slip through this darkness
to this blue abyss
- friendship, service, this and that,
in a word, everything else...

Let’s add to this quotes and allusions (by the way, having opened with Mayakovsky: “it’s time to sum up what you’ve lived,” the book ends with Mayakovsky: “Live!” - and no nails! - / that’s our slogan! And let the light / Mayakovsky-fools / let him shine it will be, so be it”), the use of textbook rhythms and images, the entire Russian poetic tradition, the latent development of the Scandinavian theme (Tove Janson, Selma Lagerlöf) and so on and so forth. As a result - with external simplicity, sometimes banality of language and deliberate primitivism in the construction of poems, external unpretentiousness and frank refusal of pretensions - a bizarre building is erected before the reader. Only at the first, cursory and inattentive glance, it may seem like a hastily and sloppily hewn hut. But if you take a closer look, the intricate decor and fine carvings will become noticeable.

Kibirov's certainty is deceptive. She only tries to be childishly spontaneous, or rather, the author dreams of naivety: “Only read children's books! / No, literally - not “Hell” with “Ulysses”, / but, for example, “The Magical Winter in Moominvalley”... / And if only I could write it!..” The author, of course, can portray himself as Snufkin , but it is significant that children's books are born from Mandelstam, and even surrounded by Joyce and Nabokov. The last line is also significant - a sweet, dreamy sigh about naivety in creativity, which has overcome complexity, as well as “intellectualism”, “postmodernism” and “destructivism”, Nietzscheanism and Freudianism, irony and skepticism, criminal and official vulgarity, which are somehow mentioned in “Notations”.

This is the paradox that a simple and naive look at Kibirov’s seemingly simply and naively written book is impossible. Precisely, it seems. Kibirov is pseudo-available. This is not a simplification, not Rousseauism, not a stylization of fairy tales and stories for the children of Count L.N. Tolstoy, from whom Kibirov is as far away as Filippok is from Snusmumrik. Kibirov does not cross out the cultural tradition, but tries to free himself from cliches and commonplaces, which have not only ceased to be revelations, but have turned from supports into blinders. A culture of this kind does not clarify, but darkens the view of the world, coarsens the ear, that is, it becomes akin to ignorance. Mental rudeness and deafness allow you to live in a serene but dangerous illusion. But a sensitive ear and a “tender” soul clearly distinguish the “metaphysical horror” growing in the world:
Badly. Everything is very bad.
But in general it’s even worse.
But you don’t hear it, you fools,
metaphysical horror.

Existential fear
transcendental cold -
you don't give a damn,
Everything is fine for you assholes.

I'm so gentle
I’m so inconsolable -
I'm vibrating just looking
how the abysses open...

True, the poem is called “The Crow and the Goats,” so the prophetic revelations partly sound like crows cawing. As already noted, Kibirov avoids being categorical.

If you like, this is the leading feature of his poetics - declared shyness, tenderness, sensitivity and vulnerability, almost fear of a word in which there are so many dangers, which have been in so many mouths, acquired so many meanings. It’s better to say almost nothing. “Almost”, since silence and mooing, whispering and timid breathing are also mastered by culture. There remains a narrow path along which, complaining about laziness and aimlessly lived years, Kibirov walks quietly and carefully, frightened, embarrassed and closing his eyes, but at the same time with amazing dexterity.

Timur Kibirov. Notations. Book of new poems. St. Petersburg: Pushkin Foundation, 1999.

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