Types of speech

One of the means of expressing the author's attitude to the topic of the text is to use a certain type of speech in its creation, which has its own compositional features. The main types of speech are description, narration, and reasoning.

Description is a type of speech, with the help of which a phenomenon of reality is depicted by listing its constant or simultaneously present signs or actions (the content of the description can be conveyed on one frame of the camera). In the description, words are most used that denote qualities, properties of objects (nouns, adjectives, adverbs). Verbs are more often used in the form of the imperfect past tense, and for special clarity, depiction of the description - and in the present tense form. Synonyms are widely used - definitions (agreed and inconsistent) and nominative sentences. For example: The sky was clear, clean, pale blue. Light white clouds, illuminated from one side with a pink glitter, floated lazily in transparent silence. The East was red and flaming, casting in other places with mother-of-pearl and silver. From beyond the horizon, like giant spread fingers, golden stripes stretched up the sky from the rays of the sun that had not yet risen. (AI Kuprin) Description helps to see an object, to imagine it in consciousness.

Storytelling is a type of speech that tells about any events in their temporal sequence; it reports on successively replacing actions or events (the content of the narration can be conveyed only in a few frames of the camera).

In texts of a narrative type, a special role belongs to verbs, especially in the form of the imperfect past tense (arrived, saw, developed, etc.). For example: And all of a sudden ... something inexplicable, almost supernatural happened. The mousey dog \u200b\u200bsuddenly crashed onto its back, and some invisible force pulled him off the sidewalk. Following this, the same invisible force tightly seized the throat of the astonished Jack ... Jack rested his front legs and violently shook his head.

But an invisible "something" gripped his neck so hard that the brown pointer fainted. (A. I. Kuprin)

Storytelling helps to visualize actions, movements of people and phenomena in time and space.

Reasoning is a type of speech with the help of which a proposition, thought is proved or explained; talks about the causes and consequences of events and phenomena, assessments and feelings (about what cannot be photographed).

In text-reasoning, a special role belongs to introductory words indicating the connection of thoughts, the sequence of presentation (firstly, secondly, so, therefore, therefore, on the one hand, on the other), as well as subordinate unions with the meaning of a reason, consequences, concessions (in order to, in consequence of that, since, although, in spite of the fact, etc.). For example: If the writer, while working, does not see behind the words what he is writing about, then the reader will not see anything behind them. But if a writer sees well what he writes about, then the simplest and sometimes even erased words acquire novelty, act on the reader with striking power and evoke in him the thoughts, feelings and states that the writer wanted to convey to him. (K.G. Paustovsky)

Attention! The boundaries between description, narration and reasoning are rather arbitrary. At the same time, not always any one type of speech is presented in the text. Cases of their combination in various versions are much more common: description and narration; description and reasoning; description, narration and reasoning; description with elements of reasoning; narration with elements of reasoning, etc.

Control. 9. Read. Prove that the text is a description. Give reasons for your answer.

In the very center of Moscow, passing along Okhotny Ryad, we see a monument erected in 1909. It is impossible to pass by it and not stop. The authors of the monument are sculptor Volnukhin and architect Mashkov. This monument is small in size, surprisingly harmonious, it fits perfectly into the old urban environment. The sculpture on a low pedestal is the first Moscow printer Ivan Fedorov. He is in the clothes of a townsman. In his right hand he holds a typographical sheet, with his left hand he supports the printing board. In all his appearance, nobility and modesty. Before us is a generalized image of a Russian master and artist, an Orthodox person. The name and title of Ivan Fyodorov and his words are engraved on the polished marble of the pedestal with an ancient half-ustav, and his words: "First we began to print holy books in Moscow ... for the sake of my brothers and my neighbors."

Control. 10. Read it. Prove that the text is narrative. Give reasons for your answer.

It was one of the countless episodes of the Civil War. I drove along a deserted winding road; occasionally I came across small groves that hid some of its curves from me. The sun was high, the air almost rang with heat. There was no more fighting, it was quiet; neither behind nor in front of me did I see anyone. And now, at one of the bends in the road, which was bent in this place almost at a right angle, my horse fell heavily and instantly at full gallop. I fell with her into a soft and dark space, because my eyes were closed, but I managed to free my leg from the stirrup and was almost not injured in the fall. Rising to my feet, I turned around and saw that a rider on a huge white horse was riding very far behind me in a heavy and slow quarry. I remember that I have not had a rifle for a long time, I probably forgot it in the grove when I slept. But I still had a revolver, which I pulled with difficulty from a new and tight holster. I stood for a few seconds, holding it in my hand; it was so quiet that I could clearly hear the dry sobbing of hooves on the earth cracked from the heat. Then I saw the rider throw down the reins and raised the rifle to his shoulder, which he had held at the ready until then. At that moment I fired. He jerked in the saddle, slid off it, and slowly fell to the ground. I remained motionless where I stood for two or three minutes. I still wanted to sleep, and I continued to feel the same agonizing fatigue. (G. Gazdanov)

Control. 11. Read. Prove that this text is reasoning. Give reasons for your answer.

Poetry has one amazing property... She returns the word to its original, virgin freshness. The most worn out words that we have uttered to the end, completely lost their figurative qualities for us, living only as a verbal shell, in poetry begin to sparkle, ring, and smell! How to explain this, I do not know. I suppose the word comes to life in two cases. First, when his phonetic (sound) power is returned to him. And it is much easier to do this in melodious poetry than in prose. Therefore, both in song and in romance, words affect us more than in ordinary speech. Secondly, even the erased word, placed in the verses in the melodic musical row, seems to be saturated with the general melody of the verse and begins to sound in harmony with all the other words. Finally, poetry is rich in alliterations. This is one of her precious qualities. Prose also has the right to alliteration. But this is not the main point. The main point is that prose, when it reaches perfection, is essentially true poetry. (K.G. Paustovsky)

Control. 12. What types of speech are presented in the following texts? When are elements of a different type of speech included?

1) Strictly speaking, there are two essential conditions for the life of a highly moral person: the ability to see another, especially another suffering, and the ability to see oneself without embellishment. Attention to oneself is especially characteristic of a young age. Who are we? Similar to each other - we are upset: we want to distinguish ourselves. Differing - also not good, sort of like a white crow. Who to be? How to be? Yourself. This is the only true advice. It is simple, but the road to yourself is through someone else's, false, unnecessary, perhaps the most difficult in the world. Building a personality begins with attention to oneself, and ends with compassion for others, mercy for others, responsibility for others. (According to O. Kuchkina) 2) It was the heyday of Marina's beauty. A flower raised above her shoulders seems to be her golden-haired head, fluffy, with trickles of light curls curling at her temples, with a thick sheen above her eyebrows, trimmed, like children’s hair. The clear green of her eyes, clouded by the shyly shy shyness of her eyes, has something magical in it. This is not the shyness that tormented her in adolescence, when she was ashamed of her appearance, which she did not like. Meeting the admiration of everyone looking at her, she was cured of the torment of that disease. She knows her own worth in external charm, as she knew her from childhood - in internal. But not a shadow of self-confidence and so cherished in themselves by the beauties "ballroom", cheap complacency. Her feminine only glides, only soars. (A. I. Tsvetaeva) 3) Rostov could not believe his eyes, and this doubt lasted more than a second. The wolf - an old beast with a gray back - ran slowly, obviously convinced that no one could see him ... Nikolai shouted in a voice that was not his own, and of its own accord his good horse rushed headlong downhill, jumping over the cisterns, across the wolf ... Nikolai he didn’t hear his cry, didn’t feel that he was galloping, he didn’t see the dogs or the place he was galloping over — he saw only the wolf, which, intensifying its run, galloped without changing direction along the hollow. The first appeared near the beast, black and piebald Milka, and began to approach the beast. Closer, closer ... so she clung to him. But the wolf looked a little sideways at her, and instead of pushing (as she always did), Milka suddenly began to rest on her front legs. (According to Leo Tolstoy) 4) At the beginning of July we reached the bready, spacious Voronezh. There he finally found Zhukovsky a suitable companion. On the very day of the arrival of the heir, the gendarme came to the Koltsov family: the governor calls for a poet. At first, everyone was alarmed. But the challenge was peaceful and even useful by Koltsov: Zhukovsky invited Alexei Vasilyevich to his place. He spent two Voronezh days together with Koltsov - Koltsov and Voronezh were also Russia, its thick, strong infusion. They drank tea in a merchant's house, walked around the city together, admired the wide views, meadows, distant forests - the vastness and power of the Russian one, which is so felt in Voronezh and its region. An old man, a cathedral, Saint Mitrofaniy of Voronezh, Saint Tikhon of Zadonsk ... and below the mountain, the old houses of the Petrovskaya Sloboda: another world, but History, Peter, shipbuilding ... (I. Zaitsev)

Control. 13. In the texts of the works of A. S. Pushkin, M. Yu. Lermontov, H. V. Gogol, I. S. Turgenev, L. N. Tolstoy, A. P. Chekhov find excerpts that are a description, narration, reasoning ... Prove the relevance of the found texts to a particular type of speech.

Speech styles

Style is a historically developed system of linguistic means and methods of their organization, which is used in a certain area of \u200b\u200bhuman communication (public life): the field of science, official business relations, propaganda and mass activities, verbal and artistic creativity, the sphere of everyday communication. Each functional style is characterized by: a) scope; b) main functions; c) leading style features; d) linguistic features; e) specific forms (genres).

Scientific style

The scientific style is divided into three sub-styles: scientific, scientific and educational, and popular science. Each of the named sub-styles has its own characteristics. In scientific-educational and popular-science substyles, it is allowed to use some (individual) linguistic means characteristic of colloquial speech and journalism, including means of linguistic expressiveness (metaphors, comparisons, rhetorical questions, rhetorical exclamations, parcellation and some others). All types of speech can be presented in scientific style texts: description, narration and reasoning (most often: reasoning-proof and reasoning-explanation).

Formal business style

Formal business-style texts usually contain two types of speech: description and narration.

Journalistic style

The journalistic style is divided into two sub-styles: the journalistic proper and the artistic journalistic. The actual journalistic sub-style is characterized by the topicality of the topic, the use of socio-political vocabulary and terminology (deputy, government, patriot, parliament, conservatism), specific journalistic vocabulary and phraseology (reportage, peacekeeping, corridors of power, conflict resolution), the frequency of the use of borrowed words calling new economic, political, everyday, scientific and technical phenomena (distributor, investment, inauguration, killer, croupier, rating, etc.). The artistic and journalistic sub-style in its linguistic characteristics is close to the style of fiction and is characterized by a combination of the functions of influence and persuasion with the function of the aesthetic, as well as the wide use of pictorial and expressive means of language, including tropes and figures. In the texts of the journalistic style, all types of speech can be found: description, narration and reasoning. For the artistic and journalistic sub-style, reasoning-reflection is especially characteristic.

Attention! In the journalistic style, the position of the author is expressed directly and openly.

Art style

In the texts of the artistic style, as in journalism, all types of speech are widely used: description, narration and reasoning. Reasoning in works of art appears in the form of reasoning-reflection and is one of the most important means of revealing the inner state of the hero, the psychological characteristics of the character.

Attention! In the artistic style, the position of the author, as a rule, is expressed not directly, but in the subtext.

Conversational style

Control. 14. Determine which speech styles are these texts. Prove your point of view, taking into account all the main characteristics of a particular style.

I. The concept of atoms as the smallest indivisible particles was questioned by DI Mendeleev, who suggested that the atoms of simple bodies are formed by the addition of some even smaller parts. Direct evidence of the complexity of the structure of the atom was obtained in experiments on passing an electric current through rarefied gases ... Direct evidence of the complexity of the structure of the atom was the discovery of the spontaneous decay of atoms of some elements, called radioactivity. In 1896, the French physicist A. Becquerel discovered that uranium compounds light up a photographic plate in the dark, ionize gases, and cause fluorescent substances to glow. Later it became clear that not only uranium possesses this ability ... ("Fundamentals of General Chemistry") II. Article 75 1. Monetary unit in Russian Federation is the ruble. The emission of money is carried out exclusively by the Central Bank of the Russian Federation. The introduction and issue of other money in the Russian Federation is not allowed. 2. Protecting and ensuring the stability of the ruble is the main function of the Central Bank of the Russian Federation, which it performs independently from other government bodies. 3. The system of taxes levied in the federal budget and the general principles of taxation and levies in the Russian Federation are established by federal law. 4. State loans are issued in the manner prescribed by federal law and are placed on a voluntary basis. (Constitution of the Russian Federation) III. Winter with its whims is not an easy period in the life of our city. Snowfalls and thaws, morning frosts and piercing winds not only bring us discomfort, but also pose serious dangers. We see how the car park of the capital of the Chernozem region has grown noticeably, how much more intensive the traffic flows have become. But it must be remembered that the car is still a source of increased danger. We must, finally, be imbued with the idea of \u200b\u200bthe inadmissibility of the annual death in road accidents and injury of a huge number of people. When we go outside, we should know that 70% of all traffic accidents in the city are pedestrian collisions. Therefore, dear drivers, let pedestrians pass at a pedestrian crossing, in a public transport stop area, give way at a bend. It is especially difficult for them in winter. Yes, they are not as well aware of the rules of the road, not as disciplined as you, but take a step towards them. IV. You know, I visited the steppe last spring. First time. What a beauty! In the summer everything burns out there. But in the spring - another matter! Everywhere you look - a sea of \u200b\u200blush grass and flowers. And the flowers! There are so many! And blue, and blue, and purple, and red, and pink, and yellow. Believe it or not, the eyes are dazzling with different colors. And all the birds - no account! So they are poured in different ways. And there are hawks in the sky. Yes, about ten. The wings will open and look down: how to profit. They will see a hare - bang down, and a hare a skiff. And how many partridges! So they dive in. If I had a gun, I would shoot a lot. Do not carry away. I'm not a hunter. I love birds as I love. V. Misty morning, gray morning, Sad fields, covered with snow, Reluctantly remember the times of the past, Remember and the faces long forgotten. You will remember the abundant passionate speeches, Glances, so greedy, so timidly caught, First meetings, last meetings, Favorite sounds of a quiet voice. You will remember parting with a strange smile, You will remember many things dear, distant, Listening to the incessant murmur of wheels, Looking thoughtfully into the wide sky. (I.S.Turgenev)

Control. 15. 1) Read a comic text from the Literary Gazette. Find stationery and other specifics of a formal business style.

Spoilage of good mood

After returning home from service, I did some work of taking off my hat, raincoat, boots, dressing in pajamas and slippers, and sitting down with a newspaper in a chair. During this period, the wife implemented a number of activities aimed at peeling potatoes, boiling meat, sweeping the floor and washing dishes. After some time, she began to loudly raise the question of the inadmissibility of my non-participation in the named events held by her. To this, on my part, a categorical statement was made about my unwillingness to hear claims on this issue in view of the exercise by me at the moment, after the end of the working day, of my legal right to a well-deserved rest. However, my wife did not draw the appropriate conclusions from my words and did not stop her irresponsible statements, in which, in particular, she reflected such a moment as the absence of a whole series of positive qualities, such as: conscience, decency, shame, etc., and both during her speech and at the end of it she was engaged in assigning me the names of various animals that are in the personal use of workers and collective farmers. After giving mutual assurances on the non-repetition of such phenomena, we began to eat dinner, which had already had a lowered temperature as a result of cooling and had lost its taste. This is how we sometimes still allow spoilage of good mood, as well as appetite.

2) Try to retell this text using neutral or colloquial vocabulary.

Control. 16. Read the text, formulate its theme and idea. Find in the text language features that may be characteristic of: 1) conversational style; 2) artistic style; 3) journalistic style. Make a conclusion about the stylistic relevance of this text, argue your point of view.

Through the care of a dear friend, I received from Russia a small box made of Karelian birch, filled with earth. I belong to people who are not ashamed of feelings and not afraid of crooked smiles. And I am ready to kneel before the box with Russian soil and say out loud, without fear of other people's ears: "I love you, the land that gave birth to me, and I recognize you as my greatest shrine." And no skeptical philosophy will make me ashamed of my sensitivity, because love guides me, and it is not subject to reason and calculation. The earth in the box dried up and turned into lumps of brown dust. I pour it carefully and carefully so as not to spray it in vain on the table, and I think that of all the things of a person, the earth was the most beloved and close. We, people from the earth, are strongly soldered to it. I remember how my grandmother told me: “Ask, granddaughter, father to take you to the estate to see our land, because you came from this land. Maybe when you grow up big, you will return to the earth and become the owner, you need to hold on tightly to the last piece ”. Since then, the love for the mother earth, for her breath and the grain growing in her has remained in me for all my life. But most of all I love the earth because I see in it the personified concept of eternity: in it the past is merged into one with the future. (According to M.A.Osorgin)

Control. 17. Determine what types of speech are used in the texts presented in exercise. 14. When completing the assignment, take into account, first of all, the leading features of description, narration and reasoning (description is peace at rest, narration is a world in motion, reasoning is thoughts about the world), as well as the possibility of combining different types of speech in one text.

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Sergey Fomichev
Heavenly shepherd

© Fomichev S.A., 2016

Lyrics
1980–2016

Poetry has one amazing property. She returns the word to its original, virgin freshness. The most worn out words that we have uttered to the end, completely lost their figurative qualities for us, living only as a verbal shell, in poetry begin to sparkle, ring, and smell!

Konstantin Paustovsky

It was once believed that only sugar cane provides sugar, but now it is mined from almost everywhere. The same is with poetry: we will extract it from anywhere, for it is in everything and everywhere. There is no atom of matter that does not contain poetry.

Gustave Flaubert

"Write poetry that blow up bellows ..."

Write poems that blow bellows.
Burn tirelessly and burn
In currents of air and power.
Dying in doubt, but still singing
As you asked.

"I am waiting for illumination, like a quiet wind ..."

I'm waiting for an illumination like a quiet wind
Like a quiet wind in a scorched desert.
Here the stars fell asleep in a gray web
There is war everywhere for thousands of meters.

And the sky opened only where possible.
That and look, it will fall overnight.
Here everything has changed in the concept of happiness,
And death comes very carefully.

And there are no crazy prophets in the homeland,
There were only crows, swans-birds.
I'm waiting for insight, it seems to me, it seems to me
Trumpet voice coming from the future life.

"There is a lonely bird in that garden ..."

There's a lonely bird in that garden
Breaks down in silence.
Either happy, or angry,
From within wounding my heart.

In that garden, everything is somehow different,
The lilac color is blazing.
In that garden, a dilapidated dacha,
And the owner seems to be gone.

Looks at the spruce in the blue sky
And an airplane is floating in the sky.
To those places where I have not been
And certainly no one is waiting.

And in the south, behind a dug field,
Gilded in the foliage of the dome.
There the priest reads prayers -
Gray-haired head.

And the faces are still changing
Appearing by chance from the outside.
But only that lonely bird
Has disturbed my soul.

1998 year

Prayer

In my wretched cell the light is on
The lamp glows before the image of the Queen.
Among spaces and stars, the Earth flies,
And I want to pray tirelessly.

So the heart feels the movement of the breeze
It is not enveloped in imaginary silence,
And the life that seemed so bitter
Now, in these minutes, holy.

And I pray for the child and for the country,
For those floating somewhere far away.
For peaceful bread, for the silence of the sky.
For those who feel eternity.

Oh, Mother of God, no extra words are needed.
Eyes sparkle with tears sleeplessly
The Earth flies among other worlds,
The mosquito rings monotonously over the ear.

Heavenly shepherd

To be in front of the sky, to look into space.
For some reason I want to sleep, but still see
Bizarre shapes, clouds decoration.

And joy fills the heart
When they sail without knowing grief,
Over forests, fields, forests, cities,
Putting on a play, welcoming the Black Sea

Saluting Persia and Caucasus peaks,
Deeper into the land of wild tribes once,
Passing over the deserts of China to the Pacific Ocean,
Becoming white cotton wool.

The flocks of clouds don't know home
You get tired of chasing them - there is no urine,
Heavenly shepherd is my calling
And there are no other powers yet.

Bakhta 1
Bakhta is a village in the Krasnoyarsk Territory, 1400 km along the Yenisei from Krasnoyarsk.

A little more - and the river will move,
Breaking the edge of the coastal ice
Raising unimaginable tons of lumps,
Buzzing up the hum from afar

A little more - and a solar stream
Fills the heart with joy and glee
And Yenisei - there is a thin lace on the map -
Opens the ice doors.

And the great caravan will rustle
Glittering ice floes, gnawed by water.
And the horizon will be surrendered by fog
Clinging to the skies without a fight

I look into the lives of ordinary people
On the Internet, sitting in a warm place.
And I can’t understand how without fancies
They live, merging with nature.

Bakhtinets knows for sure, every day
Looking at the Yenisei, glaring into the sky,
That there in the Kremlin don't think about him,
That he has neither a show nor bread.

Taiga all around, all around the taiga.
Bears, moose, sable at gunpoint.
The day will come, the snow will fall
Prove hunting with a hunt in practice.

And now he will leave everyone for many days
The gray-haired hunter is a sad fellow.
And he will think about her at night,
Smelling like moss in a wild hut.

And he will hear the good news in the sky,
That settles on spruce paws
That he is the one keeper of these places
And a faithful guard paired with a clubfoot.

And the wife and Yenisei are waiting at home,
And in children's eyes - also expectation.
The hunter, like a fabulous Perseus,
Will return, abolishing all distances.

And there will be laughter, the house will be full of gifts,
Song feast and fun,
Well, when everything is confused with sleep,
Bakhta will fall asleep in an embrace with the Yenisei.

The thoughts of a philosopher

Time is a terrible enemy
Insignificance before eternity
When everything rots and vibrates with precision.
But everything is beautiful
Disfigured by sinfulness.
But in everything there is beauty that requires a feat.

Escape from slavery is possible only
Through the dead body of the desert
When the doors are closed to the senses
No matter how these snakes climb,
When the doors are closed to the senses
The path of prayer is opening
That road when before death
Quietly say: "It's time to go home."

White snow

White snow. Why are you white?
How long can you lie under the window?
The sparrows are chattering wildly,
Filling the house with joy.

Suddenly it smells of straw, tar,
The astringent smoke of the garden fires.
And the moon will shake its head
From some distant worlds.

And it will go, it will sweep everywhere
Through ravines and through fields,
That the gossip is over
That a ban has been announced for white days.

And the district will drown with water,
The drops will knock monotonously.
And someone will be attracted to each other,
And they will start a gimp.

There will be long songs about love
It doesn't matter what's upside down in the house.
White snow - you are tired, even if you crack,
How long can you lie under the window ?!

"Lunar sail in the darkness of the night ..."

Moon sail in the dark of the night
Floats away into the stellar dregs.
White scattering of ellipses
The Milky Way lies on the side.

You squint a little, you even gasp
From the accumulation of alien worlds.
And you won't say anything -
There is no need for words in heaven.

1992 year

"A bust roams with me - imperishable and deep ..."

M. Yu. Lermontov

(1814–1841)

A bust roams with me - imperishable and deep.
The eyes are brooding, open, lonely.
Courage in a mustache and a broad forehead -
The presence of the mind, there is no doubt about it.
Lermontov's bust is a lonely genius.
At the end - a duel and a lonely coffin.

This is the whole lot of the singer in the field.
He was a fire from heaven, rebellious,
A temper lurked with particular audacity in his chest.
I did not flatter myself before everyone,
In the battle with the Chechens he fought patiently,
Dignity and honor without losing.

Well, everything is in order - the heart asks.
In distant Scotland the winds carry
The medieval smell of sour years
When Thomas Lermont made signs,
Grasping at the mystical decay,
A gloomy ancestor, and a poet too.

The roots of the prophet sprouted in Russia,
In Russia, everything sleeps under the wraps before the deadline.
Along the Moika, Pushkin rolls to a duel.
His wife is blind, the king looks out the windows -
Frozen glass from frost,
There are flakes of darkness and a terrible blizzard.

The poet died, who will judge his death?
The guy in the village is simple and will not judge
Neither the high society, nor the intrigues of enemies.
Who is smarter - threw themselves into condemnation,
Reading poems aloud,
Tickled foundations of the banks.

Caucasus in the distance - dumb mountain chains,
Free air and space for souls.
The flight of the eagle is high and imperceptible.
He looks down without prying eyes,
Mountain peaks shine like a diamond
Not noticing the progress of the gray centuries.

It smells like eternity, the firmament is permeated here
By the rays of the sun, down streams of water
They fly along the rocks, standing by the rapids.
There is fog below, smoke curls a little further,
Scattered houses, where rushes to them
Gray-haired Chechen, half in the shade.

Martynov is only an excuse, a heavy dream,
When the soul grieves, from all sides
Her evil spirit both torments and disturbs.
When the tongue becomes stinging
And the days are painfully running to the draft,
And the thought does not hobble one another.

Killed quietly, and not in war,
Where many times on a war horse
He threw himself on the redoubts as a formidable cloud.
Where there was a massacre, they shot here and there,
People moaned, the air through the fields,
And he seemed strong and mighty.

Now frail, in a thin coffin,
As a fatalist who has tested his fate -
He fell silent and, quietly stepping out onto the road,
What did I ask for a year before this day,
I got everything, like a knight's move.
God is patient, there are no secrets for God.

"Evening quickly, imperceptibly ..."

Evening quickly, imperceptibly
He came to my gate.
Secretly hiding from the rain
A gray thin cape.

The wind raged with foliage,
Carrying away into empty grottoes
Howling on the slope
Placing the song into notes.

Oak, arms outstretched,
Rocked thoroughly
And somewhere along the road
The autumn leaf rushed, rushed.

And then everything was quiet at once,
Only at night, playing with grass,
Passed the windows
Not noticing nothing.

"I am suffocating without love ..."

I suffocate without love
In the desert under the scorching heat.
I'm suffocating without love -
The last warrior before the battle.

And what does tomorrow promise me?
Anxiety-filled pier.
Along the tracks - the wretchedness of the villages,
And the dove is white - in the clear sky.

I'm choking, I'm lost
Without affection, without your participation.
And where is that mountain pass
So that you can wait out the bad weather?

Where is that sip of living water?
Dry lips crave moisture.
I'm suffocating without love
Just spilling on paper.

"I fly in a parabola, in a parabola ..."

A. A. Voznesensky

(1933–2010)

I fly in a parabola, in a parabola,
I send village greetings to the capitals,
So it fell to sing to us on the air,

Let's take away the trajectory and mannerism
Your words, diamonds - downwind.
Fidelity flares up with a bright flame in the pupils
The Peredelkino nightingale sings stupid.

You are already on a long and long journey,
"Lined up" to sit in the fifth row.
The world spins into a web
And follows the redoubt redoubt.

Goya, Marilyn - old lady story
Unfolds his wide ass
You did not climb the beaten path -
They went their own way, through the stubble, at random.

A maddened century - a lot of panic
The clash of deadly forces in the void.
The lobsters got angry, swollen,
Were boys - they were not the same.

They beat women, drink with them the same way.
They are ready at times too
From impotence in the face in every way,
A sharp shoe between the eyes.

All sorts of oddities responded to you,
Vidiomas as anti-worlds.
These are childish, cute pranks
So as not to take up axes.

Your jacket is dirty, worn,
Like a patch in the holes of systems
You hung out in the country as if abandoned
Spilling lines of poems

This is a crisis, almost degradation,
Only a whisper - the tongue is dry.
Like vinyl the night vibration
With roosters up to four.

Zoya, Oza - forever engaged,
Electrocuted wires.
We are frayed but not broken
We are tied forever.

Well, soar in silent space
In the vastness of Moscow and Vienna,
You cannot be thrown out of history: you are a given,
My dear Andrey Voznesensky.

"I'm not the person you know ..."

I am not the person you know.
How many times has I revealed myself to You.
I thought you would recognize it with time.
But alas. You are in a different fate.

In general, what can I say to you,
You, I see, have gone far.
Has ceased to be friends with the head,
Though you hold her high

These days I was firmly convinced
Better not than my friends.
It's scary to be lonely and proud.
Not with You - I will be with them.

1986 year

Greek

Sit down, tell me something goodbye
Give me your hand to spot the curves
They could read by Your hand
Greek wills.

You look different today
Darkness of the skin, the nose is slightly crooked,
Give me kisses for change
I will read them without hesitation.

The blood of the gods of Olympus is in your veins
And the mysteriousness of eastern speech,
Where women begin, there are nymphs
Hair wrapped around the shoulders.

Your silhouette is thin and transparent
In the outlines of the solar circle
And I feel like I'm captured
In Thy nets, and there is no fear.

Don't look so greedily at the road.
I will leave alone without delay.
We in Russia also praise God,
Come at least for a day.

Spring

Spring. It smelled of dampness and fresh streams.
Everything got wet, the space froze.
He watched the sky with deep fields
Childishly at me.

Faster, faster, run, stream, changing course,
Along impassable, untracked roads,
Carry and pour your brown wort
Swirling into a stream of water.

A blond boy, scattering puddles,
In damp trousers, he launched his boat.
And squinted among the shadows and light lace,
He lived his childhood with thawed water.

Rooks sat on branches, plucking throats.
And down there, ironing everything around,
There was an ice drift, and ice floes, like boats,
They arranged their own Cossack circle.

Parting

The sun has a lot of strength
To burn recklessly.
Only in the evening to go
To a fiery sunset.
Burn with a path, and
Air in kisses
From light wine
Saturated and rich.

What songs to sing about
Greek origins?
Everything sank there
Centuries ago.
Now another life
And everything on those piers
Other tribes
Give birth and shout.

The road winds into the distance
Along the bays along the serpentine,
Along the tiled roofs
That look up and down.
In the valleys a dream winds
Olive plantation
In silver hands
The cypress was planted.

Your plane is gone
By becoming a dot on the screen.
Leaving sadness in my heart
And black hair.
I'm looking for You
Among other people's companies
And again, as then,
The rain spares no tears.

Genoese fortress

Evening light melts on the crests of waves
Forgetful and tender.
I wander along the coast, sit on the parapet
With one hope.

To see there in the distance, in the whitish haze,
Dolphins of the back,
Skeletons of masts on a distant ship
Shine of sea mud.

Wind-blown sails
From long wanderings.
And barely audible, dull voices
In a silent space.

And behind a chain of old walls -
One absurdity.
Witness of longstanding formidable changes -
The gray fortress.

A dilapidated, empty, unwashed temple,
Through windows.
Icon cracked in half
Has faded inside.

In the evening twilight she looks
It can be scary
Hands reaching out into oblivion
All eight towers.

Wave with wave argue like then
Casting the gloss
When I came to these shores
An Italian thief.

I'm leaving, the parapet is empty
Fresh and late.
And the fortress looks after me with holes -
Terrible witness.

"Somewhere the sea beats in Tel Aviv ..."

Somewhere the sea beats in Tel Aviv.
The old city of Jaffa is on the way.
Milk and honey in abundance
If only not to pass by.

Simon Peter on the roof prays to God
We languish with hunger and thirst,
And below, at the very threshold,
People argue that they have come for him.

The old port - the same age as Solomon -
Gnawed by waves for a reason,
From these places from the wrath of God Jonah
Escaped into the belly of a formidable whale.

I wander breathing in the dust of centuries
Recognizing the past traits.
An unknown witness of these days
And a participant in the eternal vanity.

January 2014

"I am tormented by emptiness in my head ..."

S. A. Yesenin

(1895–1925)

I am tormented by emptiness in my head.
Write poetry in blood. Where was it?
And strange: some ink was not enough
Somewhere out there, in the city on the Neva.

You were like a hunted animal.
The executioners do not cry or play cleanly.
Well, it becomes clear now:
Staged suicide.

Everyone believed in a wild deception:
They say something happens to drunkards.
So they stole from the Russians
A voice that rushes into eternity.

Last night at Angleterre
Everything is dark and blue outside the window.
Fear of the future, and then
All doubts were gone.

Isadora, Galina, what is this passion for -
Cry under the birches for the whole day.
As before, you can't fall to their knees
And not to see the vastness of their native villages.

I see a dream and my mother's shawl again,
As if the riders met in our garden.
There, on the branches, a nightingale calls trouble,
Life is a moment and an eternal distance.

"I breathe You - I will not breathe ..."

I breathe You - I will not breathe,
That a trembling heart hurts.
My birch Russia -
Villages, rivers, bell towers.

And God's grace is everywhere
Spilled in a blue and white land
So the throat comes up like a lump
Love that will never stop.

And whoever wanted to capture You -
They lie in the ground, their home is a grave.
There is nothing else but truth, strength,
It's time to catch this.

The enemies cannot figure out
Their evil intentions are known.
You can't take it with your bare hands -
Here is the Russian spirit in everything bodily.

What power, what breadth.
Girdled with snow in winter
Eyes - lakes in the clear sky,
And the domes are the monastery.

I breathe You, I will not breathe,
The lamp has been glowing for centuries.
I don't need another homeland,
I am Russian, Russia is in my heart.

Karadag

The edge of an extinct volcano that fell into the sea -
A gloomy giant rose from the abyss,
Twisted with ivy and lightness of fog
The rough cap of the gloomy valleys.

Streams of water gnawed at a strange body,
Leaving grottoes, peaks, cities,
Where are the dead inhabitants wandering herds
Frozen in the stone above the mossy gorge.

The bottomless ocean is buzzing, drooling,
Smelling with iodine, hiding in the looking glass -
Witness to many ancient bacchanals,
A disembodied spirit is a pagan Bayan.

The foreheads of blunt stones are smeared with enamel,
Bird droppings and rain moisture
When the cloak hangs over Karadag
A countless array of whimsical shadows.

Ivan the robber in the robes of a ragamuffin
I stopped looking up,
Where the dark body of slate and slate
Grizzly mountains rose to the sky.

So, reflected by the formidable giant
In the diamond placers of a swirling wave
The lava is frozen. Slowly in the valleys
Tavricheskie dreams float like heat.

July 1996

"There was blazing over the sea ..."

Burning over the sea
Golden Star,
The ripple of water reflected
White light to nowhere.

And the open spaces were black
Cimmerian land
And how someone's reproaches -
There are ships in the semi-darkness.

The smell of bitter wormwood
Spilled and grew.
Suddenly over the watery desert -
Two-winged albatross.

Flashed and fell
Into the impenetrable dregs.
The old cedar has nestled
Relax by the stream.

And she kept trembling
There, in another silence,
And as if she knew
What's going on in me.

2000 year

"What was, it was ..."

What was, what was.
I don’t know what will happen.
By the stars, in the thick, hand - I do not guess.
Sailing along winding rivers
And, it seems, this is the last race.
I wash my clothes once I get dirty
I go on instruments, where not everyone walks.
And I fall again to rise from my knees
And I wait from within in a hurry for change.

"I am silent, I cannot express it in words ..."

I am silent, cannot be expressed in words
All the pain of the last trials
Delight of momentary states
And the feeling of emptiness.

You know, it still seemed to me
That everything goes away like fatigue.
But only love is the strongest
Whatever mixes with it.

Here is hatred next, and what?
Perhaps she needs - in the face,
Forgetting every false shame
And understanding of grievances.

I'm silent, people are walking around
They have no rest, their path is difficult.
What awaits them there at the end of the road?

I'm walking, burning with the spring sun,
Tomorrow is a holiday and no ventures,
Entry of the Lord into Jerusalem,
And "Hosanna", and the joy of children.

And I like what's around
The hubbub of birds, spring is in the yard,
And the trees, like a fright,
Startled from winter sleep.

A letter to a Ryazan friend

Hey.
Fate is not kind to us
You're on the far side
How many years have you kept silence
I'm here, in noisy squares, trying to live
Almost without air
in the dust of passions, in bad exile.

I am writing to You in the hope that you will understand
My doodles,
And more desire is to leave everything
And fly away like a bird
To native lands, to sloping shores,
That they smell like childhood
Not a dream.

I am writing to You, hoping for an answer,
Although we lost our threads long ago
That bound us tightly for many years.
So they are now torn apart by a series of events.

Cain has a long, empty, trembling look:
Live in cities, huddle on a square meter.
Take everything in life, forgetting what shame means,
It's civilized to groan at every wind.

It's so good that you stayed on earth
Even without excess income, but still.
Better to be in the village at zero,
Than here in abundance - like an animal.

How are our people? Everything smokes samosad?
Drinks everything passionately, testing life for strength?
How was your grandfather's garden grown on a hill?
But it seemed that life was power.

It seemed that the most complex mechanism was moving,
The people ate their household plots.
And somewhere there was communism
With very moderate sloppiness for a couple.

Collective farms bloomed slowly and merrily,
The man even drank, but was in business.
And the women took everything from the earth,
And they were with her on "you" in a single body.

And all things went down day after day,
When to plow, when to mow with dew,
When the harvester is sailing in dense stubble,
When cleaning and when a feast.

Now what? Do you remember my arrival?
Around the devastation with black houses.
And it's somehow hard from these places,
And I thought - what will happen to us?

When the land is overgrown with desert
Forgiving everyone for everything who left her,
And what will our people do
Removed from fields, birches and pines?

The earth will endure everything, even forgive everything.
And he will wait his hour at the crossing.
And she will be glad if she visits
Its a visiting resident for fun.
I got loose, the leaf ran out,
I can't write big letters
And somehow I want to not think for the future
About secret plans and behind the scenes.

Goodbye.
Fate is not kind to us.
You're on the far side
You have been silent for a year.
I'm here in the dusty squares trying
Live…

Attention! This is an introductory excerpt from the book.

If you like the beginning of the book, then full version can be purchased from our partner - distributor of legal content LLC "Liters".

Poetry has one amazing property. She returns to his word
original, virgin freshness. The most erased, to the end
The words "spoken" by us, which have completely lost their figurative
qualities that live only as a shell of words in poetry begin
sparkle, ring, smell!

Poetic perception of life, everything around us is the greatest gift,
inherited from our childhood. If a person does not lose this gift for
long sober years, he is a poet or writer.

In any area of \u200b\u200bhuman knowledge there is an abyss of poetry.

Paustovsky K. G "Poet and poetry"

Definition of poetry

This is a cool whistle
It is the clicking of crushed pieces of ice.
It's a leaf-freezing night
This is a duel of two nightingales.

These are sweet stale peas
These are the tears of the universe in the shoulder blades,
This is from remotes and flutes - Figaro
Hail falls down on the garden bed.

All. that the night is so important to find
On deep bathing bottoms,
And bring the star to the garden
On trembling wet palms.

The water is thicker than the boards.
The firmament is covered with alder,
These stars should be laughing,
An universe is a deaf place.

Boris Pasternak

Tenderness

Blinding with glitter
It was evening at seven.
From the streets to the curtains
Darkness was approaching.
People are mannequins
Only passion with longing
Leads the universe
With a groping hand.
Heart under the palm
Give out trembling
Flight and chase
Awe and flight.
Feeling free
Freely light
Likely tears the reins
Horse in a mouthpiece.

Boris Pasternak

My, Madame, words are not heard ...

... How wondrous is that alexandrite,
What's the purple edge
Shines in the sun and beckons
To ignorance, to easy breathing,
Almost trampled snow
Where the bird track is the link of the bracelet ...
So you, with the negligence of the stanza,
Will you remember me
Not in vain ..
The way only you can ...
How gentle are the blizzards kisses !.
And there are no words in it, madame.
And I will not say anything - not about that
And in the caress of the gentle winds
You will suddenly hear the Poet
And it will be from scratch
My last confession
Yes, the one in which the height
And the clouds shine through ...

Madame d ~ Ash, lady Laiht

Other articles in the literary diary:

• 28.03.2015. March syndrome
• 26.03.2015. ***
• 23.03.2015. ***
• 21.03.2015. Poetry day
• 20.03.2015. ***
• 18.03.2015. two years already...
• 14.03.2015. ***
• 09.03.2015. The woman laughed ...
• 03/08/2015. A woman is always a game ...
• 03/07/2015. The woman laughed ...
• 03/05/2015. Notes...
• 03.03.2015. Today is World Writers Day

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Looking at these buildings, you understand that good taste is, first of all, a sense of proportion.
I am sure that the same laws of proportionality of parts, the absence of everything superfluous, a small number of decorations, simplicity, in which each line is visible and delivers true pleasure - all this has something to do with prose.
A writer who fell in love with the perfection of classical architectural forms will not allow a heavy and awkward composition in his prose. He will seek the proportionality of the parts and the severity of the verbal drawing. He will avoid an abundance of prose-thinning ornamentation - the so-called ornamental style.
The composition of a prosaic thing must be brought to such a state that nothing can be thrown away and nothing added without breaking the meaning of the narrative and the regular course of events.

As always in Leningrad, I spent most of my time in the Russian Museum and the Hermitage.
The light twilight of the Hermitage Hall, touched by dark gilding, seemed sacred to me. I entered the Hermitage as a repository of human genius. In the Hermitage, for the first time, as a young man, I felt the happiness of being a human being. And I realized how a person can be great and good.
At first I was lost among the magnificent procession of artists. My head was spinning from the abundance and density of colors, and in order to rest, I went to the hall where the sculpture was exhibited.
I sat there for a very long time. And the more I looked at the statues of unknown Hellenic sculptors or at the barely perceptibly smiling women of What, the clearer I understood that all this sculpture is a call to beauty in itself, that it is a harbinger of the purest morning dawn of humanity. Then poetry will rule over hearts and the social order - the order to which we go through years of work, cares and mental stress - will be based on the beauty of justice, the beauty of the mind, heart, human relations and the human body.
Our road is to the golden age. He will. It's a shame, of course, that we won't live to see him. But we should be happy that the wind of this century is already rustling around us and makes our hearts beat faster.
No wonder Heine came to the Louvre, sat for hours near the statue of Venus de Milo and cried.
About what? About the abused perfection of man. The fact that the path to perfection is difficult and distant, and he, Heine, who gave people poison and the brilliance of his mind, will, of course, never reach that promised land where his restless heart called all his life.
This is the power of sculpture, that power, without the inner fire of which advanced art is inconceivable, especially the art of our country. And thus, full-fledged prose is inconceivable.

Before turning to the influence of poetry on prose, I want to say a few words about music, especially since music and poetry are sometimes inseparable.
The topic of this short talk about music will have to be limited to only what we call the rhythm and musicality of prose.
Genuine prose always has its own rhythm.
First of all, the rhythm of prose requires such an arrangement of words so that the phrase is perceived by the reader without tension, all at once. Chekhov told Gorky about this when he wrote to him that "fiction should fit (in the mind of the reader) at once, in a second."
The reader should not stop at the book in order to restore the correct movement of words, corresponding to the nature of this or that piece of prose.
In general, the writer should keep the reader in suspense, lead him along and not allow dark or irregular places in his text, so as not to give the reader the opportunity to stumble over these places and thereby get out of the writer's authority.
In this tension, in capturing the reader, in making him think and feel in the same way with the author, is the task of the writer and the effectiveness of prose.
I think that the rhythm of prose is never achieved artificially. The rhythm of prose depends on talent, on a sense of language, on a good "writer's ear". This good ear is to some extent in contact with musical ear.
But most of all, the knowledge of poetry enriches the language of the prose writer.
Poetry has one amazing property. It returns the word to its original virgin freshness. The most worn-out words that we have uttered to the end, which have completely lost their figurative qualities, which live only as a verbal shell, begin to sparkle, ring, and smell in poetry!
How to explain this, I do not know. I guess the word comes to life on two occasions.
First, when his phonetic (sound) power is returned to him. And this is much easier to do in melodious poetry than in prose. Therefore, both in song and in romance, words have a stronger effect on us than in ordinary speech.
Secondly, even the erased word, placed in the verses in the melodic musical row, seems to be saturated with the general melody of the verse and begins to sound in harmony with all the other words.
Finally, poetry is rich in alliterations. This is one of her precious qualities. Prose also has the right to alliteration.
But this is not the main point.
The main point is that prose, when it reaches perfection, is, in essence, genuine poetry.
Chekhov believed that Lermontov's "Taman" and Pushkin's "The Captain's Daughter" prove the affinity of prose with juicy Russian verse.
Prishvin once wrote about himself (in a private letter) that he was "a poet crucified on the cross of prose."
"Where is the border between prose and poetry," wrote Leo Tolstoy, "I will never understand." With a vehemence rare for him, he asks in his "Diary of Youth":

“Why is poetry so closely related to prose, happiness to unhappiness? How should you live? Try to suddenly combine poetry with prose or enjoy one and then indulge in the other? There is a side to the dream that is higher than reality. In reality, there is a side above the dream. Complete happiness would be a combination of both. "

IN THE BODY OF A TRUCK

In July 1941, I was driving a military truck from Rybnitsa-on-Dniester to Tiraspol. I sat in the cab next to the silent driver.
The brown dust, scorched by the sun, exploded in clouds under the wheels of the car. Everything around - huts, sunflowers, acacias and dry grass - was covered with this rough dust.
The sun was smoking in the discolored sky. The water in the aluminum jar was hot and smelled like rubber. A cannonade thundered across the Dniester.
Several young lieutenants rode in the back. Sometimes they started banging their fists on the roof of the cab and shouted: "Air!" The driver stopped the car, we jumped out, ran away from the road and lay down. Immediately, with a malicious howl, black German Messers dived into the road.
Sometimes they noticed us and hit us with machine guns. But, fortunately, no one was hurt. The bullets kicked up dust storms. "Messers" disappeared, and there was only heat in the whole body from the hot earth, a rumble in the head and thirst.
After one of these raids, the driver unexpectedly asked me:
- What do you think about when you lie under the bullets? Do you remember?
“I remember,” I replied.
- And I remember, - the driver said after a pause. - I remember our forests in Kostroma. I will stay alive, return to my homeland - I will ask to join the foresters. I’ll take my wife with me — she’s calm, beautiful — and a girl, and we will live in the gatehouse. Believe me, as I think about it, interruptions are made with my heart. And drivers are not supposed to.
“Me too,” I replied. - I remember my forests.
- Are yours good? The driver asked.
- Good.
The driver pulled the cap over his forehead and turned on the gas. We didn't talk anymore.
Perhaps I have never remembered my favorite places so sharply as in the war. I caught myself impatiently waiting for the night when somewhere in a dry steppe gully, lying in the back of a truck and covered by an overcoat, one could return in thought to these places and walk along them slowly and calmly, breathing in the pine air. I said to myself: "Today I will go to Black Lake, and tomorrow, if I am alive, to the banks of the Pra or Trebutino." And my heart sank in anticipation of these imaginary campaigns.
So once I lay under my greatcoat and imagined in great detail the path to the Black Lake. It seemed to me that there can be no greater happiness in life than to see these places again and walk through them, forgetting about all the worries and hardships, listening to how easily the heart pounds in my chest.
In these dreams, in the back of a car, I always left the village house in the early morning and walked along the sandy street past the old huts. Fire balsam bloomed on the windowsills in canned food cans. He is called "Vanya wet" in the local area. It must be because the thick trunk of the balsam shines through against the sun with green juice, and sometimes even air bubbles are visible in this juice.
Near the well, where barefooted talkative girls in burnt-out calico dresses are thundering with buckets all day, you need to turn into a side street, or, in local terms, into a "burn-through". In this alley, in the extreme hut, lives a handsome rooster known throughout the district. He often stands on one leg in the very sun and glows with his plumage, like a heap of glowing coals.
After the rooster, the huts end, and the toy canvas of the narrow-gauge railway stretches, wrapping in a smooth arc into the distant forests. It is surprising that on the slopes of this canvas are not the same flowers that grow around. Nowhere are there such thickets of chicory as near the narrow rails hot from the sun.
A young pine forest stands behind the narrow-gauge railway with an impassable palisade. It seems impassable only from afar. You can always wade through it, but, of course, small pines will stab you with needles and leave sticky tar spots on your fingers.
Tall dry grass grows between the pines on the sandy ground. The middle of each blade is gray and the edges are dark green. This herb cuts hands. There are also many yellow scaly immortelles rustling under the fingers and a white fragrant carnation with reddish specks on disheveled petals. And under the pines is full of dairy butter. Their legs are covered with clean gray sand.
A high forest begins behind the pine forest. An overgrown road runs along its edge.
Under the first spreading pine tree it is good to lie down and take a break from the stuffiness of a young bowl. Lie on your back, feel the cool earth through your thin shirt and look at the sky. And maybe even fall asleep, because the white clouds shining with their edges make you drowsy.
There is good russian word "languor". Lately we have completely forgotten about it and for some reason we are even ashamed to pronounce it. No other word can better define the calm and slightly sleepy state that overtakes you when you lie in the warm morning forest and look at the endless chains of clouds. They are born somewhere in the bluish distance and constantly float away to no one knows where.
Lying on this forest edge, I often recalled Bryusov's verses:

... Be free, lonely,
In the solemn silence of the open fields
Go your own way, free and wide,
Without future and past days.
Pick flowers, instant like poppies
To suck in the rays like first love
Fall and die and drown in the darkness
Without the bitter joy to rise again and again ...

What is this place, from which the heart contracts? The most inconspicuous and simple. Behind a birch copse, the road rises steeply to a sandy cliff. The damp lowland remains behind, but a light wind occasionally carries here, into the dry and hot forest, the iodine air of these lowlands.
The second halt on the hillock. I sit down on hot needles. Everything you touch is dry and warm: old and long-empty pine cones, yellow, transparent and crackling like parchment, films of young pine bark, stumps heated to the core, each branch is rough and fragrant. Even the strawberry leaves are warm.
You can break an old stump with your hands and pour a handful of brown hot dust on your palm.
Heat, silence. A serene day of summer ripe with straw ripeness.
Small dragonflies with red wings sleep on stumps. And bumblebees sit on lilac and hard umbrella flowers. They bend these flowers with their weight to the very ground.
I check on a homemade map - there are still eight kilometers to Black Lake. This map contains all the signs - a dry pine tree by the road, a boundary pillar, thickets of euonymus, an ant heap, again a lowland where forget-me-nots always bloom, and behind it a pine tree with the letter "O" carved on the bark - a lake. From this pine you have to turn right into the forest and follow the notches made back in 1932. Every year, they overgrow and float with resin. They need to be updated.
When you find a notch, you will definitely stop and run your hand over it, over the amber frozen on it. And sometimes you break off a hardened drop of resin and look at the conch-like fracture. Sunlight plays in it with yellowish lights; closer to the lake, deaf, deep depressions begin among the forest, so strongly overgrown with alder that there is no need to think of getting into the depths of these depressions. These must be the former small lakes.
Then again we ascend in the thickets of juniper with dry black berries. And, finally, the last sign - shriveled bast shoes, hung on a pine branch. A narrow grassy clearing stretches behind the bast shoes, and behind it is a steep cliff.
The forest ends. Below there are dried up bogs - mosshars, overgrown with small forests: birch, aspen and alder.
Here is the last rest. The day has already passed halfway. It rings thickly like a swarm of invisible bees. A dim shine waves through the small forest from every, even the weakest breeze.
Somewhere out there, two kilometers from here, among the mscars, the Black Lake is hidden - the state of dark waters, snags and huge yellow water lilies.
It is necessary to walk carefully along the moss: in the deep moss, the trunks of birch trees - pegs, broken off and sharpened by time, like peaks, stick out. You can severely injure your legs about them.
It is stuffy in the small forest, it smells of delight, black peat water squishes underfoot. Trees sway and tremble with every step. You need to go and not think about the fact that under your feet, under a layer of peat and humus only a meter thick, is deep water, an underground lake. They say that swamp pikes, completely black as coal, live in it.
The shore of the lake is slightly higher and therefore more dry, but even on it you cannot stand in one place for a long time - the trail will surely be filled with water.
It is best to go to the lake in late twilight, when everything around - the faint shine of the water and the first stars, the glow of the dying sky, the motionless tops of the trees - all this merges so firmly with the wary silence that it seems born of it.
Sit by the fire, listen to the crackling of branches and think that life is unusually good if you are not afraid of it and accept it with an open mind ...
So I wandered in memories through the forests, then - along the embankments of the Neva or along the hills blue with flax in the harsh Pskov land.
I thought of all these places with such a sore pain, as if I had lost them forever, as if I would never see them again in my life. And, obviously, from this feeling they acquired an extraordinary charm in my mind.
I asked myself why I had not noticed this before, and immediately guessed that, of course, I saw and felt all this, but only in separation did all these features of my native landscape appear before my inner gaze in all their heart-capturing beauty. Obviously, one must enter into nature, as everyone, even the faintest sound, enters into the general sound of music.
Nature will act on us with all its power only when we bring into the sensation of her humanity, when our state of mind, our love, our joy or sorrow come in full accordance with it and it will no longer be possible to separate the freshness of the morning from the light of our loved ones the eye and the measured noise of the forest from reflections on the life lived.
The landscape is not a pendant to prose and not a decoration. You need to plunge into it, as if you plunged your face into a pile of leaves wet from the rain and felt their luxurious coolness, their smell, their breath.
Simply put - nature must be loved, and this love, like any love, will find the right ways to express itself with the greatest strength.

PASSING TO YOURSELF

This is where I end the first book of my notes on writing with a clear feeling that work has just begun and there is an endless edge ahead of it.There is still a lot to be said about the aesthetics of our literature, its deepest significance as a teacher of a new person with his rich and lofty mindset. and feelings, about the plot, humor, image, modeling of human characters, changes in the Russian language, the nationality of literature, romanticism, good taste, editing of manuscripts - you cannot read everything.
The work on this book resembles a journey through a little-known country, when new distances and roads are opening at every step. They lead you no one knows where, but they promise a lot of the unexpected, giving food for thought. Therefore, it is tempting and simply necessary, even if incompletely, as they say, roughly, but still understand the interweaving of these roads.

You should write either about what you know very well, or about what no one knows.
Strugatsky Arkady Natanovich and Boris Natanovich

Poems work well if they are created with spiritual clarity.
Ovid

A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn along the sonorous fibers of our being. Not our own - our thoughts make the poet sing within us. As he tells us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens our love and our sorrow in our souls. He's a magician. By understanding him, we become poets like him.
Anatole France

Philosophy is not poetry, but poetry in its highest manifestation is philosophy.
Ilya Shevelev

Only that poetry that makes me purer and more courageous.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

A true poet dreams in reality, only it is not the object of dreams that owns him, but he - the object of dreams.
Charles Lam

The source of poetry is beauty.
Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol

Poetry has one amazing property. It returns the word to its original, virgin freshness. The most worn out words that we have uttered to the end, which have completely lost their figurative qualities for us, who live only as a verbal shell, begin to sparkle, ring, and smell in poetry!
Konstantin Georgievich Paustovsky

Our sacred craft There are thousands of years ... With it and without light, the world is light. But not a single poet has yet said, That there is no wisdom, and no old age, Or maybe there is no death.
Anna Andreevna Akhmatova

A poet is a philosopher of the concrete and a painter of the abstract.
Victor Hugo

Those who write in the dark either unwittingly betray their ignorance or deliberately hide it. They write vaguely about what they vaguely imagine.
Mikhail Vasilievich Lomonosov

Young poets pour a lot of water into their ink.
Johann Goethe

For many people, writing poetry is a mental growth disease.
Georg Lichtenberg

Poetry is like painting: another work will captivate you more if you look at it up close, and another if you go further away.
Horace

Poetry is not in verses alone: \u200b\u200bit is spread everywhere, it is around us. Take a look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life blows from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.
Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

Not everyone who can write poetry is a poet.
Ben Johnson

The historian and the poet do not differ from each other in speech - rhymed or non-rhymed; they are distinguished by what one says about what happened, the other about what might have happened. Therefore, poetry is more philosophical and serious than history, because it shows the general, while history is only a single one.
Aristotle

Analysis is not a poet's business. His calling is to reproduce, not dismember.
Thomas Macaulay

Not a poet who knows how to weave rhymes.
Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

Poetry is a play of feelings, into which reason brings a system; eloquence is a matter of reason, which is animated by feeling.
Immanuel Kant

The poetic perception of life, everything around us is the greatest gift we inherited from childhood. If a person does not lose this gift over the course of long sober years, then he is a poet or writer.