Dear PE!
Don't be surprised that I address you as you. I’ve been reading your books for years, and that’s why I’ve known you for a long time. You are dear to me, like a good friend who fell on a bad road. No one but me will tell you in a comradely way, honestly and frankly, that I’m about to drink.
Don’t be nervous, be patient a little, read this open letter to the end. Why open? Because you are closed and unavailable. You hid in the snail shell of your self. You don't need anyone, not even friends. You are self-sufficient and avoid annoying admirers of your talent, impudent journalists, envious critics, sweet-voiced singers, fussy Teletubbies and glamorous midges. Such active anti-PR has become a kind of PR for you.
You did not crawl to the top of literary Parnassus, like a snail on Mount Fuji, but took off like the god-like ancient Egyptian riot police Ra. Now you're sitting on top, your butt hanging over, grinning smugly. And at the foot of Parnassus those on whom you relieve your literary needs will applaud you. I wouldn't be surprised if you're soon nominated for a Nobel Prize for modern post-humanism. In principle, you are worthy of even a laurel wreath (one of thorns will not suit you).
Your style is so relaxed, ironic and imaginative that the Master with a capital M himself, M. Bulgakov, would envy it. Why Bulgakov! You have surpassed even V. Nabokov. Not only in the sense that you have as good a command of sophisticated figurative words as he does, but also in the fact that you know how to spit further and more accurately. The intellectual Nabokov spat rarely and not very accurately. For example, he spat at N. Chernyshevsky, but ended up at his beloved dad, whom he tried with all his might to dress with words in snow-white angelic robes.
However, I will not be distracted here by the Russian-American classic, beloved by both of us. Let's talk about you, or rather, about your works, without getting personal.
Your art of caustic parody saliva-poisonous p(e)leftism is something! Your black humor would honor such kings of the genre as O'Henry and M. Zoshchenko. And your ability to sculpt mysticism from reality is generally above all the praise that I could come up with. Even Kafka would not have been able to dig out such a thing from the depths of his cockroach-schizophrenic brain convincing phantasmogorical mysteries like you.
When I read your masterpiece “The Death of Insects,” I admired the lightness of the style, the dynamics of the plot and the realistic-symbolic mysticism. At the same time, in my soul, at the very bottom, after reading it, there remained, among other things, an unpleasant feeling that a little shit had been done to it. Sorry for the rude word, but you yourself used it in some places, and in its natural form. All these scarabs, flies and mosquitoes of yours, while I was reading about them, pooped into my soul imperceptibly, amicably and skillfully.
A similar feeling remained in me after many of your opuses. For example, in “Crystal Cube” two cadets snorting cocaine lazily stop Lenin as he tries to get to Smolny. And this Lenin, not called by you Lenin, but characterized by a burr and a goatee, is disgusting. Actually, this is what you were striving for: to show Lenin as disgusting, shameless and deceitful. Moreover, from a number of “facts” (in quotes, because you always easily invent the necessary “facts” to suit your fantasies) it follows that Lenin is a murderer and robber, who mercilessly killed several respectable people himself on the dank streets of Petrograd. And don’t mind me saying that this is just a visual allegory. It's a lie. And it does not cease to be a lie because you gave it a feuilleton-grotesque look. Shock the reader with incredible lies - that’s Right way to deafening literary success. You are a stunningly convincing hoaxer. At the same time, your irony and humor regarding Lenin’s stubborn persistence in penetrating the cordon is very successful, especially when the beer bottles in the box clinked burly. Why did P.E. Levin jokingly click on V.I. Lenin’s nose? Because historical and literary rudeness has become fashionable these days, and one can do such things with impunity.
What about the bandit Lenin! In “The Creation of Species” you have Darwin as a maniac-pervert, who kills monkeys with his own hands by strangulation or bludgeoning.
What is Chapaev like in your plump novel “Chapaev and Boredom”? There is boredom there. But Chapaev is not there. There is a strange crazy person, in emptiness, without friends, without morality. Maybe your Chapaev is a psychological self-portrait?
In general, you easily use famous historical figures in your works as main characters, oh, not heroes, of course, but bastards. You take a historical brand and wrap your own gloomy ideas and phantasmogorical glitches around it. This is an absolutely sure way to ensure promotion and demand among a readership raised by jokes, the media, the Internet and television. A literary and historical scandal is as essential a prerequisite for rich writer's fees as an ectopic pregnancy is for a successful abortion. Is that rude? So, Victor, this is your style.
However, everyone famous writer– your own style and your own PR hobby. For example, would Antosha Chekhonte have become great if he had not hung around the theater scenes, slept with famous actresses and not disgraced himself (with a loud bang) with his wretched plays that failed at premieres? He would have remained as unknown as, for example, Panteleimon Romanov, who, on the contrary, was an excellent writer, but did not know how to present himself. But Chekhov, cold and calculating, knew how. His heart-warming stories (by the way, written in a rather poor style) were sold in newspapers and magazines like hot cakes. sauerkraut. Hanging around brothels, Anton Palych, in personal correspondence and conversations with friends, savored the details of sexual pleasures with prostitutes, but did not include such plots in his stories. He preferred the most effective PR: vulgarity and nasty word of mouth.
I'm sorry, I got distracted. But in your works you also like to dance the krakovian with a squiggle, to get distracted by various philosophies that are not directly related to the development of the plot. As a matter of fact, by and large, you don’t care about the plot or even reality. The main thing is not about what, but how and why. Reality, whatever one may say, is located in the head. You can concoct any plot, provided you have the talent of a storyteller. And you are an excellent storyteller.
You will object that every author has the right to paint his own literary hero in the form in which he wishes. Yes, it does, but with one caveat: if this hero is not named by the glorious name of a real person. If you have taken on a famous historical person, then please do not distort her biography beyond recognition in your crooked mirror. Don't trivialize someone's life with your joke. Would you like it if, after your death, some shameless writer published the book “P.E. Levin - the illegitimate grandson of V.I. Lenin”? And in it he would have convincingly, elegantly, and in a light style depicted the story about the fact that in Razliv, a Bat flew into the hut of the leader of the proletariat, which he impregnated and from which your father was born, who subsequently slept with the Wild Cat, who gave birth to a baby, who later became the great New Russian writer P.E. Levin. Would this vile tale delight you, Victor? No? This means that even after death, not everything will be the same to you. So, the plot does matter.
The story “Babylonian Criticism of Masonic Thought” is a special milestone in your work. She struck me with a brilliant, figurative description of the transformation of human labor into the emanation of money. An excellent confirmation of the theory of surplus value of Marx’s “Capital”, which, alas, you did not read, but rediscovered.
“The Holy Book of the Stupid” also amused and entertained me, like almost all of your works. However, there is no point or time to dwell on them all.
Let's turn to one of the best - “Generation Piz”. Let's start with the title (and end there). Why does it have foreign subtitles? To increase the citation index in Western media (means of mass perversion)? Or are you just showing off? Or both? I think this way: if you give a novel an English title, write the novel in English! Oh, you don’t know Shakespeare’s language enough to write a whole book in it clearly? Then don't pretend to be Nabokov. Alas, you didn’t reach him here. If he gave an English title, then he also wrote the text in English, and in such a way that even stupid Americans could read it.
Now a few words about rudeness and self-censorship. I hope you are familiar with Russian literature Andrey Platonov, A.N. Tolstoy, Arkady Gaidar, Konstantin Simonov, V.P. Astafiev, Chingiz Aitmatov? They are quite courageous, at least their prose is, but unlike you, they never used obscenities, especially directly and rudely. Has anyone seen the word “***” in their works? Nobody has seen. And I wouldn’t see it even if I started looking at the text under a microscope. And you poke this word, like a genital, right in the readers’ noses on your pages, not caring that many, especially female readers, will apparently not be too pleased with it.
In opposing me, you will begin to refer to Henry Miller, a pioneer in literary swearing and mockery. But this is a *** author (sorry for the rude word, but I’m trying to speak to you in your language). Miller's style in the scandalous "Tropic of Cancer" is ragged and poorly connected, the plots are low-grade, and the main character is wretched and smelly. Of course, Miller is great because he boldly spat in the face of disgusting capitalism. His book is more than honest. She was revolutionary in her time. Some of Miller's phrases are sharp and precise, like a striking rapier. But his book as a whole is vile, dirty and corrupting. She is completely saturated with vulgarity and swearing. Following him, of course, you can put forward the argument that swearing and rudeness are widely used in life, no less than stupidity and vulgarity, and that literature simply, like a mirror, reflects what exists, including sewers and sexual sewers.
And I will object to you with your own words from your wonderful book “Uzshku M” (transliterated from your English), that the word has such great power that transforms the world. This idea, of course, is as old as time. But it means, in particular, the following: if a writer spits out verbal filth, then the filth will appear in life. It won’t just appear, it will fill everything and spoil everything. It would be foolish to doubt this. Take, for example, again, your bestseller “The Death of Insects.” Only a dozen years have passed since its publication. And what? The text began to materialize. The process has already begun! Soon people will turn into insects. As soon as scientists introduce the gene of an ant into human DNA, the process will become an avalanche. Researchers (damn their impudent curiosity!) have already inserted the scorpion gene into the DNA of tomatoes so that the fruits will not be gnawed by beetles. And we, anthropoids, eat these transgenic fruits. And something Scorpio begins to manifest itself in us. Now I sting you with criticism, like the warlike Macedonian stings his philosophizing friend, but it’s not my fault, I just ate too much of genetically modified tomatoes. By the way, criticism should be caustic, even, perhaps, biting (this word is quite in your spirit; I’m trying to speak to you in your dialect so that it gets to you).
As for Uzshku M, it is a magnificent satirical pamphlet on the modern Moscow vampire beau monde. This mystical novel of yours, in my opinion, surpassed all others. Although the ending is kind of inconsequential, going nowhere. And you know it yourself. Probably, by the end, “the fighter’s feather has already faded.”
Despite the fact that I am sending this letter in Chekhovian style “to the village of grandfather” - on the Internet - I am confident that you will read it, although you are a writer, not a reader. Sooner or later, someday someone, tormented by envy of your success, will slip it to you and give you a link. He will slip it in maliciously and deftly. But it is not important. It is important that the letter will still reach you, and you will not be able to resist reading it. You're inquisitive. By the way, you could very well become a scientist, a researcher. Analytical thinking is your strong trump card.
What if you still don’t read the letter? It's OK. It itself spontaneously telepathizes to your brain and materializes in it. After all, I put a fair amount of psycho-emotional-logical charge into this letter, piercing not only the skull, but even tank armor. The question is, why? And then, to bring you to some sense.
Now you will be indignant, because you are sure that there is nothing to reason with you, because your mind is strong. Yes, he is strong, but prone to schizophrenic splits and manias. That is why you are a damn talented writer (emphasis on the fourth word in this phrase). If we talk about the far-reaching consequences of your writings, then, unfortunately, they are sad. After your books, people may develop a terrible indifference, gloomy egocentrism and disdain for the human person. In some texts you deliberately provide a code for this. Don't pretend you don't understand what we're talking about. Do you remember, for example, how in “The Tambourine of the Back World” you first organize a hypnotic session of general philosophical reasoning, designed to relax the reader? And then you sharply punch the reader in the gut with code words that trigger illness and death in his body! Cruel and vile technique. How many sensitive natures of readers can suffer!
But this technique was powerless for me. I, like a mirror, reflected your insidious attack and directed it at you. This letter of mine, addressed to you, carries the encoding of your death. If you have read the letter to this point, then that’s it, kerdyk: you only have three months to live. You sowed death. And you will reap it... He who came with a sword will make himself hara-kiri.
Well, Victor, is it a little scary? Did it skip a beat? Do you have goosebumps running down your spine? And when you released poisonous black snakes from your insides and verbally stung everyone with them, sparing no one, did you not think about the consequences? I understand that for you it was a process of self-therapy: you sublimated all the nastiness and rot from the bottom of your soul into texts and thereby, as it were, cured your illness. But the disease still remains in you. It eats away at you like a tumor.
And this will happen until you understand that you need to crush the reptile inside yourself, and not release it into the wild. Only self-purification can heal the soul and body.
I'm giving you one last chance now. So, I remove the encoding, deactivate it. I spared you. I can’t do anything differently, otherwise I’ll become as unhappy and unkind as you. That's it, Vitya. Now everything depends on you...
Live happily ever after. Write as before, ironically, sharply, caustically and figuratively, but carefully weighing the words. And try to become kinder and more generous (I’m trying...).
Well, goodbye. Consider that in my letter I simply speculated (using the example of your work) on a well-worn topic: the role of literature in art and life.
ZY Congratulations on the anniversary!
Dear Ekaterina Sergeevna, hello!
Many thanks to you and Yakov Sokolov for a wonderful book. Now it seems to me that I know everything about Yana. Of course, this is not true, but at least I have my own opinion about her as a person. Previously, I could only evaluate her work in isolation from the very personality of the Author. Now many songs have received a slightly different sound. Unfortunately, I heard Yanka only after her death.
Retreat:
I myself learned about it in the following way. In August 1991, we were traveling on the Moscow-Riga train to international festival on bridge "Wenden"91". Several reserved seat carriages bridge players, everyone, of course, drinks vodka and plays cards. A couple of young punkers were also traveling with us in the carriage. So I started a conversation with the guy. Of course, very soon we started talking about civil defense. It was then that he told me that Yegor had a personal tragedy, he was no longer involved in music, but had gone as a hermit to some commune, either in Altai or Tibet. In response to my question about what happened, my new acquaintance said that Letov’s bride fell into some pond and drowned. “I’m probably drunk,” added the young punker. As a farewell, he took out his passport and took out a photo of Yegor from under the plastic cover: “I give it to you. And his bride’s name was Yanka, and she also sang good songs.” On the way back, I recorded the album “Home!” at Kolokol. (acoustics). I stopped in Moscow with a friend and decided to listen to what I recorded (besides the Yankees, NATE and DIFFERENT PEOPLE were recorded). In general, it turned out that Tim and I listened to only Yanka for half the night.
Someone in this book spoke in the spirit that true lovers of rock music heard it during their lifetime, but the rest did not need to. This is complete nonsense. And this book, maybe, will open Yanka for the first time to someone else. Although, it seems to me, the book is mainly intended for people who have already heard her songs and want to know more about her. I was generally unpleasantly surprised by such a large number of identical opinions on the topic “Don’t spread Yanka!” “Show business”, “my death is sold” and other nonsense. What is this? Desire to possess secret knowledge? Childish selfishness? Hypertrophied jealousy? Or are these ideas driven into their heads (I don’t know who, but I guess) that money and real rock’n’roll are incompatible? Then it becomes clear the attitude that almost everyone has towards those who were able to become popular and relatively prosperous financially. Sometimes even quite serious people (I’m just keeping silent about the snotty ones) cannot resist making completely ugly statements like the fact that, they say, Shevchuk wrote only one song (“I got this role”), and then he lives off it all his life . In the same way, with extraordinary ease they spit in the direction of BG, Makarevich, Kinchev, Butusov. However, such “true” rock music lovers do not evaluate creativity, but all external tinsel, “rootiness” or “nastyness”. And isn’t it clear that by humiliating someone in comparison with Yana, they do not elevate her, but humiliate her in the same way (even more)?
In general, the first part of the book (“Publications”) seemed to me a little drawn out. They wrote about her too much the same way. A memorable article in " Komsomolskaya Pravda" seemed to me much more interesting and important than the lion's share of epitaphs, similar to each other like soldiers digging a ditch. This is the first impression of the book that appears while reading it. And the main reason for this is the strange order: first publications, and then memories. I’m not an expert when it comes to writing such books, but it seems to me that publications (at least posthumous ones) would be better placed after the memoirs. Memories are O Yanke, publications are mainly - around Yankees (mostly they go under the brand name "about to me, How I loved Yanka"). I liked the few analytical articles. Perhaps the original study “Color Painting” occupies a special place. Nonsense, of course, but interesting.
The use of open "a" in Yankee songs has also been widely analyzed. And no matter what theoretical basis was given, it seems to me that everything is much simpler. This is just one version, but it is strange that no one has considered it. Why shouldn’t she use a vowel chant only because there is no solo part of some leading instrument (keyboards, guitar, violin - it doesn’t matter, even a flute) playing this part? Of course, this is not so sublime, but is it worth inventing an extra myth? It seems to me that adding horns to an icon is not much worse than carefully painting a halo to an ordinary person. Just a person...
The second bright line is Nikolai Kuntsevich’s statement about Letov’s responsibility. I didn’t have a clear opinion on this matter. Until I read Glazatov’s defense speech. You have to be able to speak up in defense like that! After his open letter, I gave myself a final verdict to Letov: “Guilty!” And further. What I am about to write may seem seditious, shocking, or even blasphemous. There are two main and one secondary versions of the death of the Yankees. The first is suicide, the second is murder by some kind of criminal (the side line is the secret services). I would like to propose a development on the theme of murder. Try to find at least something in the book that would refute my version. And the version is this: Yana was killed by Letov. Not in the sense of some kind of responsibility, but in the most direct, physical sense.
The discography section pleases with its meticulous punctuality. No confusion, everything is extremely clear and clear.
Let's add to everything else a few more poems that have never been published anywhere before. Yana's letter to her friend. Considering the huge number of photographs, only a video can add something more to the image of the Yankee.
In general, the book (no, it’s a research work!) was a great success. However, for those who are not familiar with her work, I would advise starting the book with the memoirs (i.e., from the second section).
Thank you very much, Ekaterina Sergeevna! You gave me a new Yana. I kneel.
My dear Fabulians!
I repeat once again: I do not write reviews as such. It's not really mine.
What I write can rather be called essay-reflections-associations on the topic of a work.
But, as long as they carry some information and people are interested in reading them, then they probably have a right to exist.
And further.
IN Lately Due to the illness of a loved one and the changed home schedule, I, alas, do not appear on the site so often. I rarely write anything of my own.
Unfortunately, there is practically no time left for writing reviews.
But I noticed this work a long time ago. I shared my thoughts with the author in a letter. It piqued her interest. With the permission and consent of the author, I formulate my thoughts and associations as a review, although, as I have already noted, they do not quite fit the title of “review”.
But there is no other section.
Well, first of all, I really liked it!
This: What's on your mind? In mine there is only you.
An unusually laconic, but very precise, gentle and capacious phrase.
After all, she writes from an oriental girl, bound by centuries-old traditions and prohibitions on female free-thinking.
If you read “Leyli and Majnun” by Fuzuli, then there are lines when Leyli’s mother instructs her:
“You are a girl, don’t be cheap, know your worth!”
This is the key to understanding the character of an oriental girl.
And further. There is such a famous Turkic dastan "DedE-KorkUt". It is considered the most significant and fundamental in the folklore of the Turkic peoples.
There is a phrase that one of the heroines utters: “Better than they say about me “frivolous,” it would be better if they say “unhappy.”
That is, you understand, dear author, an oriental girl, for fear of being considered frivolous, agrees to be unhappy, just to prevent extra words, smile, look. You never know how it will be regarded, including by the beloved himself...
As we say: “Every man has the right to insist, and every woman has the duty to evade!”
Therefore, in order to somehow express her feelings, a woman had to resort to various tricks and allegories, and sometimes resort to secret writing.
Sometimes a girl who wanted to open her feelings to a guy would send him, say, an apple, a pomegranate and a book.
This meant that she had read hundreds of books and was very smart, but her heart yearned and languished without love, like a juicy apple, and she hoped that the guy would share her feelings and soon they would become a single family, like a pomegranate that unites dozens of little ones. seeds, and will be a blessed family, since the pomegranate is the only fruit that has a small crown of teeth at the top!
Or I sent the guy, say, two jugs, empty and filled with something. It had to be understood this way: her mind is full, like a full jug, and her heart is empty, like an empty one, and she is waiting for love to fill it...
Therefore your phrase: " in mine - only you" - I really liked it. Unusually piercing, lapidary and capacious!
Thank you!
Mountains of time sand- also a very beautiful metaphor. Sad and wise.
Garlic?..
Here I am, thinking...
You most likely took as a model Leili’s letter to Majnun from Nizami’s poem translated by Pavel Antokolsky.
Pavel Antokolsky - wonderful poet. I really love his poem “Son” and the poem “She hasn’t slept in the wooden house for a long time”
But this translation still confused me...
Garlic, it seems to me, is out of whack...
Why?
Yes, because garlic was a cure for many troubles and ailments, the favorite seasoning of the poor. And the rich did not disdain them.
There is even a proverb about it: SarymsAg (garlic) - janYm sag (my soul is healthy)!
Now, if instead of garlic, you would have, for example, a gangue thorn A l, then this is a more traditional opposition. Love is a lily, a rose and separation, pain is a thorn.
Even in the famous dastan “Asli and Kerem” there is an episode when two beautiful roses grow on the grave of their lovers, and on the grave of their enemy there is a thorn, and this thorn reaches the roses and separates them!
But garlic is still a respected plant.
Although, I have my doubts.
If you give the name of the thorn - gangal, then you will have to give a footnote, explain that gangal is a thistle. Maybe wormwood is better?
You know, wormwood A Since ancient times it has been considered a Turkic herb. And Murad Adji, in his studies about the history of the Great Steppe and the Turks, mentions it. Moreover, this herb is believed to be capable of awakening memories of the Motherland and people dear to the heart.
Maybe in in this case, how would wormwood be legal? After all, a woman writes to her beloved from her homeland, trying to remind her of herself and that she was nice to him.
Although, of course, the author knows better...
There were no flower beds in the medieval East. Only the garden. Of course, roses, tulips, lilies, and hyacinths were planted in rows, but there were no flower beds as such. More like discounts. But in the poem, I think it’s better to just use the word “garden.”
But this is not the main thing.
One thought bothers me.
Who is the author of the letter? Girl or woman? By physical and social status?
If the poem is intended as a stylization of "Leyla and Majnun",
It is clear from everything that this is a letter from the married Leyla Majnun.
Not girls!!!. For medieval Muslim girl it's too explicit:
(Every hair in you is dear to me,
And the tenderness of the mole on the chin
It will shine like a precious find
For the traveler with weary legs.
I want to live a century alone with you,
Sharing bread and bed with you alone,)
This letter women. And she says goodbye to her love, Tatyana. This is a scary step. She understands that her life is already over, she is the wife of Ibn Salam - a good, but not loved person.
And if an oriental married woman decided to write a letter to a virtually stranger, then this says a lot. This is goodbye.
This definitely needs to be emphasized. This thought of farewell should permeate the entire letter.
This is not just a love letter from a girl who may still be fine, and not a spoiled young girl. eastern woman who wants to have fun.
This letter is tragic in its essence, the last letter. This certainly needs to be emphasized, it seems to me.
And the last, but very important note.
Tanya, here is Antokolsky’s phrase: “ Remember: God is close to the lonely."
And here's yours: Know that whoever suffers, God is with those.
Tanya, a huge, colossal difference!!! Colossal!!! In philosophy!!!
We have a proverb. When a person, for example, says that he is alone, that is, he has no relatives, they are dead or far away, then they answer him, wanting to console him: “Allah is also one.” That is - “God is with you, you are not alone!
But suffering is precisely a sign of something not entirely good in Eastern philosophy and worldview. It is believed that if a person undergoes a lot of suffering and hardship, then, on the contrary, God does not love him, and therefore sends him hardship.
Tanya, suffering as a sign of purification, catharsis, this is more characteristic of Christian philosophy. Remember from Dostoevsky: “I want to suffer, and through suffering I will be cleansed!”
Never, never will any sane Eastern person say about himself: “I want to suffer, for through suffering I will be cleansed!”
They will simply twist a finger at his temple. They won't understand. This is not in Eastern philosophy.
Shaheeds don't count. They do not regard death as suffering. In their minds, they immediately go to heaven. That is, they do not suffer. Suffering - whether it exists or not - is on earth.
It is considered, on the contrary, than more people beloved by Allah, the more his life is serene.
Well, at the beginning I mentioned the dastan “DedE-KorkUt”. There is also such an episode
The Shah gathers guests for a feast. There are white and gold tents everywhere. And one is black.
He gives the order to the servants to greet the guests, and depending on who has a son or daughter, or more sons or daughters, to lead them accordingly: if a person has a son, then to a white tent, and if a daughter, then to a golden one.
The vizier of the Shah Alp ArUz also comes to the feast. He is taken to a black tent.
He asks about the reason for such disfavor.
They answer him: “You have neither a son nor a daughter, the Creator did not love you, and we will not love you. Therefore, your place is in the black tent.”
Cruel?
Yes, Tanechka.
But it is so.
This is the ancient philosophy of Eastern man, his worldview. It hasn't changed much since then...
That’s why your phrase “Know that those who suffer, God is with them.” incorrect from the point of view of an Eastern person. An Eastern person will never say that.
“God is close to the lonely,” he will say. This is true, this is in the worldview of an Eastern person.
But “those who suffer, God is with them.” - No.
And so, I really liked everything, Tatyana.
Thank you for the gentle and subtle charm of your poem!
We remember what Fitzgerald wrote to his daughter Scottie, what Vonnegut decided to draw the attention of his descendants to, and what facts Petrarch told future generations about himself
Mark Zuckerberg published a letter dedicating it to his newborn daughter, and on occasion we re-read three other letters written by two writers and one poet and addressed not only to children, but also to descendants. We give the floor to Francis Scott Fitzgerald, Francesco Petrarca and Kurt Vonnegut.
“Dear chicken, I will be very strict in making sure that you do everything that needs to be done. Please write to me in detail what you read in French. It’s very good that you feel completely happy, but you know that I don’t particularly believe in happiness. And in misfortune too. Both of these things only happen in plays, in movies, and in books, but in life, none of this really exists.
I believe that a person lives the way he deserves (according to his talents and qualities), and if he doesn’t do what he needs to do, then he has to pay for it, and not just, but doubly. If you have a library at camp, ask Mrs. Tyson to find Shakespeare's sonnets, and read the sonnet with the following lines:
Thistle is sweeter and dearer to us
corrupted roses, poisoned lilies.
Today I didn’t think about anything all day, I just wrote a story for the Saturday Evening Post from morning to night. I remember you, and it always makes me feel good, but if you call me “dad” again, I will take your white cat out of the toy box and give him a good spanking, six spanks every time you are rude to me. Have you clearly understood this?
Let them send me the bill from the camp, I will pay.
So, here's your stupid father's advice.
What you need to achieve:
Try to be brave
Clean,
Able to work well
And also good on horseback,
And so on...
What not to achieve:
Don't try to make everyone like you
And so that your dolls don’t get sick,
And don't think about the past,
And also about the future,
And about what will happen to you when you grow up,
And about how no one gets ahead of you,
And about your successes,
And also about failures, if they are not your fault,
And how painful mosquitoes sting,
And also flies
And other insects
Don't think about your parents
And about the boys
And about your disappointments,
As well as about your joys
Or just a pleasant feeling.
Things to think about:
What do I strive for in life?
Am I better or worse than others?
a) in studies,
b) the ability to understand people and get along with them,
c) the ability to control one’s own body.
Love you.
Father
P.S. If you call me “folder”, I will call you Protoplasm, because you are at the most primitive stage of life, and therefore I can throw you into the trash can if I want, and even better - I’m just everyone I’ll tell you that you are Protoplasm. How do you like it - Protoplasm Fitzgerald, or just Plasma, or Marasma, or something else like that? You'll see, address me like that just one more time, and then the nickname I'll come up with will haunt you all your life. Maybe it's not worth it?
I still kiss you."
“I believe that a person lives the way he deserves (according to his talents and qualities), and if he doesn’t do what he needs to do, then he has to pay for it, and not just, but doubly.”
Francesco Petrarca. Letter to descendants
“If you hear something about me - although it is doubtful that my insignificant and dark name will penetrate far through space and time - then perhaps you will want to know what kind of person I was and what was the fate of my writings, especially those about whom rumor or at least a faint rumor has reached you. People's judgments about me will be many different, for almost everyone speaks as he is inspired not by the truth, but by whim, and there is no measure for either praise or blasphemy. I was one of your herd, a pitiful mortal man, neither too high nor low in origin. My family (as Caesar Augustus said about himself) is ancient. And by nature my soul was not devoid of either frankness or modesty, unless it was spoiled by an infectious habit. Youth deceived me, youth carried me away, but old age corrected me and through experience convinced me of the truth of what I had read long before, namely, that youth and lust are vanity; or rather, this was taught to me by the Creator of all ages and times, who sometimes allows poor mortals in their empty pride to go astray, so that, having realized at least late their sins, they would know themselves. In my youth my body was not very strong, but extremely dexterous; my appearance did not stand out as beautiful, but I could like it in my blossoming years; my complexion was fresh, between white and dark, my eyes were lively and my vision was unusually sharp for a long time, but after my sixtieth year it, contrary to expectation, became so weakened that I was forced, albeit with disgust, to resort to glasses. My body, completely healthy all my life, was overcome by old age and besieged by the usual army of ailments. I have always deeply despised wealth, not because I did not want it, but out of disgust for the labors and worries that are its inseparable companions. I did not seek with wealth to acquire the opportunity for luxurious meals, but, eating meager food and simple dishes, I lived more cheerfully than all the followers of Apicius with their exquisite dinners. I have always disliked so-called feasts (and in essence drinking bouts, hostile to modesty and good morals); It seemed to me burdensome and useless to convene others for this purpose, and no less to accept invitations myself. But it was so pleasant for me to eat a meal with friends that no thing could give me greater pleasure than their unexpected arrival, and I never ate food with pleasure without a companion. Most of all, I hated pomp, not only because it is bad and contrary to humility, but also because it is shy and hostile to peace. I have always kept my distance from all kinds of temptations, not only because they are harmful in themselves and do not agree with modesty, but also because they are hostile to a measured and calm life. In my youth I suffered from a burning, but united and decent love, and would have suffered from it even longer if a cruel but useful death had not extinguished the already dying flame. I would like to have the right to say that I was completely alien to carnal passions, but if I said so, I would be lying; However, I will say with confidence that, although the ardor of youth and temperament carried me towards this baseness, in my soul I always cursed it. Moreover, soon, approaching the age of forty, when I still had enough heat and strength, I completely abandoned not only this vile business, but also any memory of it, as if I had never looked at a woman; and I consider this perhaps my greatest happiness and thank the Lord, who delivered me, while still in the bloom of health and strength, from slavery so despicable and always hated by me.
“I did not seek with wealth to acquire the opportunity for luxurious meals, but, eating meager food and simple dishes, I lived more cheerfully than all the followers of Apicius with their exquisite dinners.”
But I move on to other things. I knew pride only in others, but not in myself; no matter how small I was, I always valued myself even lower. My anger has very often harmed myself, but never others. I can safely say - because I know that I am telling the truth - that, despite the extreme irritability of my disposition, I quickly forgot insults and firmly remembered blessings. I was in highest degree greedy for noble friendship and cherished it with the greatest fidelity. But such is the sad fate of the aged that they often have to mourn the death of their friends. I was honored by the favor of princes and kings and the friendship of nobles to an extent that even aroused envy. However, I withdrew from many of their number, whom I loved very much; The love of freedom was so strong in me that I did my best to avoid those whose very name seemed to me contrary to this freedom. The greatest crown-bearers of my time, competing with each other, loved and honored me, and why - I don’t know: they themselves didn’t know; I only know that some of them valued my attention more than I valued theirs, as a result of which they high position brought me only many conveniences, but not the slightest bother. I was gifted with a mind that was more even than insightful, capable of assimilating all good and saving knowledge, but predominantly inclined towards moral philosophy and poetry. Over time, I lost interest in the latter, carried away by sacred science, in which I now felt a secret sweetness that I had previously neglected, and poetry remained for me only a means of decoration. With the greatest zeal I devoted myself to the study of antiquity, for the time in which I lived was always so disliked to me that if my attachment to my loved ones had not prevented it, I would always have wished to be born in any other century and, in order to forget this one constantly tried to live with his soul in other centuries. Therefore, I read historians with enthusiasm, although their disagreements confused me a lot; in doubtful cases I was guided either by the probability of the facts or by the authority of the narrator. My speech was, as some said, clear and strong; as it seemed to me - weak and dark. And even in everyday conversation with friends and acquaintances, I never cared about eloquence, and therefore I am sincerely amazed that Caesar Augustus adopted this concern for himself. But where, as it seemed to me, the matter or the place, or the listener required something different, I made some effort to succeed; let those to whom I spoke judge this. It is important to live a good life, and as I said, I attached little importance, the glory acquired by the mere brilliance of a word is vain. I was born of respectable, not rich, or, to tell the truth, almost poor parents, Florentines by birth, but exiled from their homeland - in Arezzo, in exile, in the year of this last era, which began with the birth of Christ, 1304, at dawn on Monday 20 July. This is how partly fate, partly my will, have distributed my life to this day. I spent the first year of my life, and not all of it, in Arezzo, where nature brought me into the world, the next six in Excise, on my father’s estate, fourteen thousand paces from Florence. Upon my mother's return from exile, I spent the eighth year in Pisa, the ninth and subsequent years in Transalpine Gaul, on the left bank of the Rhone; Avignon is the name of this city, where the Roman high priest holds and has long kept the Church of Christ in shameful exile. True, a few years ago Urban V seemed to have returned it to its rightful place, but this matter, as we know, ended in nothing - and what especially pains me is that during his lifetime he definitely repented of this good deed. Had he lived a little longer, he would, no doubt, have heard my reproaches, for I was already holding the pen in my hand when he suddenly abandoned his glorious intention along with his life. Unhappy! How happily he could have died before the altar of Peter and in own home! For one of two things: either his successors would have remained in Rome, and then the initiative of a good deed would have belonged to him, or they would have left there - then his merit would have been all the more visible, the more striking their guilt. But this complaint is too broad and out of place here. So, here, on the banks of a wind-swept river, I spent my childhood under the supervision of my parents and then all my youth under the rule of my vanity. However, not without long absences, for during this time I lived for four full years in Carpentras, a small town closest to the east of Avignon, and in these two cities I learned the rudiments of grammar, dialectics and rhetoric, as much as my age, or rather, my age, allowed. how much is usually taught in schools - which, as you understand, dear reader, is not much. From there I moved to study laws in Montpellier, where I spent another four years, then to Bologna, where I attended the entire course for three years. civil law. Many thought that, despite my youth, I would achieve great success in this matter if I continued what I started. But I completely abandoned these studies as soon as I was freed from the guardianship of my parents, not because the power of the laws was not to my liking - for their significance is undoubtedly very great and they are replete with Roman antiquity, which I admire - but because they application is distorted by human dishonesty. I hated to delve into the study of something that I did not want to use dishonestly, but honestly could not, and even if I wanted to, the purity of my intentions would inevitably be attributed to ignorance. So, at the age of twenty-two, I returned home, that is, to exile in Avignon, where I had lived since the end of my childhood. There I had already begun to gain fame, and prominent people began to seek my acquaintance - why, I admit, now I don’t know and am amazed at it, but then I was not surprised at this, since, according to the custom of my youth, I considered myself fully worthy of any honor. I was especially sought after by the glorious and noble Colonna family, which then often visited, or rather, adorned the Roman Curia with its presence; they caressed me and showed me honor, which is unlikely even now, and then, without a doubt, I did not deserve. The famous and incomparable Giacomo Colonna, at that time Bishop of Lombez, a man whose equal I have hardly seen and will hardly ever see, took me to Gascony, where, at the foot of the Pyrenees, in the charming company of the owner and his entourage, I spent an almost unearthly summer, so that To this day I cannot remember that time without sighing. After returning from there, I lived for many years with his brother, Cardinal Giovanni Colonna, not as a master, but as a father, even more, as if with a dearly beloved brother, or rather, as if with myself and in my own home.
“I hated to delve into the study of something that I did not want to use dishonestly, but honestly could not, and even if I wanted to, the purity of my intentions would inevitably be attributed to ignorance.”
At this time, I was overcome by a youthful passion to travel around France and Germany, and although I put forward other reasons to justify my departure in the eyes of my patrons, the real reason there was a passionate desire to see many things. On this trip I saw Paris for the first time, and it was fun for me to explore what was true and what was false in the current stories about this city. Returning from there, I went to Rome, which had been my ardent desire since childhood, and here I fell so in love with the magnanimous head of that family, Stefano Colonna, equal to any of the ancients, and was so dear to him that it seemed there was no difference between me and any of his sons. This excellent man's love and affection for me remained unchanged until the end of his days; my love for him lives in me to this day and will never fade away until I myself fade away. Upon returning from there, being unable to bear any longer the disgust and hatred inherent in my soul from time immemorial towards everything, especially this most vile Avignon, I began to look for some kind of refuge, like a pier, and found a tiny, but secluded and cozy valley, which called Locked, fifteen thousand steps from Avignon, where the queen of all springs, Sorga, is born. Enchanted by the charm of this place, I moved there with my dear books when I was already thirty-four years old. My story would be too long if I began to explain what I did there for many, many years. In short, almost all the works I published were either written, started, or conceived there - and there were so many of them that some of them still occupy and disturb me. For my spirit, like my body, was distinguished by dexterity rather than strength; Therefore, I abandoned many works that seemed easy to me in concept but turned out to be difficult in execution. Here the very character of the place inspired me with the idea of composing a “Bucolic Song” of a shepherd’s content, as well as two books “on a solitary life” dedicated to Philip, an always great man, who was then the minor bishop of Cavallion, and now occupies the high post of cardinal-bishop of Sabina; he is the only one still alive of all my old friends, and he loved and loves me not out of the duty of a bishop, like Ambrose Augustine, but brotherly. One day, wandering in those mountains, on Friday of Holy Week, I was seized by an irresistible desire to write a poem in the heroic style about the elder Scipio Africanus, whose name, for some unknown reason, had been dear to me since childhood. Having already begun this work with great enthusiasm, I soon put it aside, distracted by other concerns; nevertheless, the poem, which I, in accordance with its subject, called “Africa,” was loved by many even before it became known. I don't know whether I should attribute this to my luck or hers. While I was living calmly in these places, strangely, on the same day I received two letters - from the Roman Senate and from the Chancellor of the University of Paris, which vied with each other inviting me, one to Rome, the other to Paris, to crown me with laurel wreath Rejoicing in youthful vanity, weighing not my own merits, but the evidence of others, I considered myself worthy of what such outstanding people recognized me as worthy of, and only hesitated a short time who to give preference to? I asked the above-mentioned Cardinal Giovanni Colonna for advice by letter on this matter, because he lived so close that, by writing to him late in the evening, I could receive his answer the next day before three o'clock in the afternoon. Following his advice, I decided to prefer the authority of Rome to any other, and my two letters to him, in which I expressed my agreement with his advice, have been preserved. So I set out on my journey, and although I, according to the custom of a young man, judged my labors with an extremely lenient court, I was ashamed to rely on my own testimony about myself or on the testimony of those who invited me and who, no doubt, would not have done so. this, if they did not consider me worthy of the proposed honor. Therefore, I decided to go first to Naples and went to the great king and philosopher Robert, as famous for his learning as for his government, so that he, who alone among the princes of our century can be called a friend of science and virtue, expressed his opinion about me. To this day I am amazed at how highly he assessed me and how warmly he gave me a welcome, and you, reader, I think, would be amazed if you knew. Having learned about the purpose of my visit, he was unusually happy, partly flattered by my trust. young man, partly, perhaps, in the hope that the honor that I sought would add a grain to his glory, since I chose him alone among all mortals as a worthy judge. In a word, after numerous interviews on various subjects and after I showed him my “Africa”, which delighted him so much that he, as a great reward, begged for its dedication, which I, of course, could not and did not I wanted to refuse him, he finally appointed me a specific day for the business for which I came. That day he kept me from noon until evening; but since the circle of the test was expanding and there was not enough time, he continued the same for the next two days. So he examined my ignorance for three days and on the third day he declared me worthy of a laurel wreath. He offered it to me in Naples and with many requests he tried to force my consent. But my love for Rome prevailed over the flattering insistence of the great king. So, seeing my unyielding determination, he gave me a letter and escorts to the Roman Senate, through whom they expressed their opinion of me with great favor. This royal assessment at that time coincided with the assessment of many and especially with my own; now I do not approve of his, or my judgment, or the judgment of everyone who thinks like that; he was guided not so much by the desire to observe the truth as by his love for me and condescension for my youth. Still, I went to Rome and there, although unworthy, but firmly relying on such an authoritative assessment, I accepted, as an ignorant student, the poet’s laurel wreath amid the great rejoicing of the Romans who happened to be present at this solemn ceremony. There are also my letters about this event, both in poetry and in prose. Laurel wreath did not give me any knowledge, but brought upon me the envy of many; but even this story would be longer than the space here allows. So, from there I went to Parma, where I lived for some time with the sovereign lords of Correggio, who did not get along with each other, but treated me with the utmost mercy and kindness. It has never known such a government as this principality enjoyed under their rule in the memory of people and, I believe, will never know in our century. I did not forget about the honor that had befallen me, and I was worried that they would think that it had been given to an unworthy person. And then one day, having climbed the mountains, I accidentally reached Selvapiana across the Enza River in the region of Reggio, and here, struck by the extraordinary appearance of the area, I again took up the interrupted “Africa”; the spiritual fervor that seemed to have died down flared up again; I wrote a little that day and in the days that followed I wrote a little every day until, returning to Parma and finding myself a secluded and quiet house, which I later bought and still belongs to me, in a short time: with such ardor I brought this work to end, which I myself am now amazed at. From there I returned to the Sorghi spring, to my trans-Alpine solitude. A long time later, thanks to the rumor that spread my fame, I gained the favor of Giacomo Carrara the younger, a man of rare virtues, to whom hardly any of the Italian sovereigns of his time was like, or rather, I am sure, no one. Sending me ambassadors and letters even beyond the Alps, when I lived there, and everywhere in Italy, wherever I was, for many years he did not tire of besieging me with his persistent requests and offers of his friendship, which, although I did not expect anything from the greats of this world, I finally decided to visit him and see what this extraordinary persistence of such a significant, although unfamiliar, person means. So, although it was late, and having been delayed on the way in Parma and Verona, I went to Padua, where this man of most glorious memory received me not only with human cordiality, but as blessed souls are received in heaven, with such joy, with such invaluable love and tenderness, which, not hoping to fully express them in words, I am forced to hide them in silence. By the way, knowing that from my early youth I was committed to church life, he, in order to more closely connect me not only with himself, but also with his city, ordered me to be appointed canon of Padua. And if his life had been destined to last, my wanderings and wanderings would have come to an end. But alas! Nothing lasts between mortals, and if anything sweet happens, it soon ends in a bitter end. After leaving him to me, the fatherland and the world for less than two years, the Lord called him to himself, because neither I, nor the fatherland, nor the world - I say this, not blinded by love - were worth him. And although he was succeeded by his son, a man of rare intelligence and nobility, who, following the example of his father, always showed me love and honor, but I, having lost the one with whom I was more closely related especially by equality of years, returned again to France, unable to stay in one place, not so much trying to see again what I have seen thousands of times, but with the goal, following the example of the sick, to calm my melancholy by changing places.”
Kurt Vonnegut. Ladies and gentlemen of 2088
“It is believed that people should appreciate words of wisdom from our past, and some of us from the 20th century should send you a few. Remember Polonius’s advice from Shakespeare’s Hamlet: “Be true to yourself above all things”? Or at least the parting words of John the Theologian: “Fear God and give glory to Him, for His hour has come”? Best advice from my era to you and in general to everyone at any time, I believe this is a prayer that was first used by alcoholics who hoped never to drink again: “God, give me the peace of mind to accept the things I cannot change, the power to change the things I I can, and wisdom, to distinguish one from another.”
Our age cannot boast as much wisdom as any other, I think, because we were the first to be able to get to reliable information about the position of man in the world: how many of us there are, how much food we can grow or collect, how quickly we reproduce, what we get sick from, what we die from, how much harm we do to our atmosphere, soil, waters on which Life on the planet depends, how cruel and heartless our planet can be, and so on and so forth. So who will decide to “freeze” wisdom with such disappointing news breaking out from everywhere? What was truly shocking for me was the news that Nature is far from being an expert in the protection and rational use of its own resources. She absolutely does not need our help to destroy the planet piece by piece, and then put it back together in a new form, without necessarily improving the living conditions on it. Nature burns forests with one flash of lightning. It floods huge areas of arable land with lava, after which they become completely unsuitable for anything except urban parking areas. In the past, it brought down glaciers from the North Pole, which swallowed up much of Asia, Europe and North America. And we don't have any single reason make sure she doesn't do it again. At this very moment it is turning African farms into deserts.<...>Today, of course, we need leaders not those who promise unconditional victory over nature through their own perseverance, as we do now, but those who have the courage and ability to present the world with the severity of nature and reasonable ways solutions:
1. Reduce and stabilize the population.
2. Stop air, water and soil pollution.
3. Stop the military race and begin to solve real existing problems.
4. Teach your children and yourself how to live on a small planet without participating in its destruction.
5. Stop hoping for science, which can solve all problems for a trillion dollars.
6. Stop believing that your grandchildren will be fine, no matter how wasteful and destructive your actions are, even if they can go live on a new planet on spaceship. This is truly disgusting and stupid. And so on and so forth.
Am I too pessimistic about life in 100 years? Perhaps I spent too much time with scientists and not enough with those who write speeches for politicians. As far as I know, even homeless people and homeless people will have their own helicopters or rockets in 2088. No one will have to leave the house even to go to school or work, let alone just stop watching TV. Everyone will sit for days on end, connected to the world's computer terminals, drinking orange juice through a straw like astronauts."
“Our age cannot boast of as much wisdom as any other, I think, because we were the first who were able to get to reliable information about the position of man in the world.”
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Hello, Alexey Maksimovich!
For us, you are not just one of the famous Russian writers, your life is part of the history of Nizhny Novgorod. We study biography, creativity, and memorable places with special warmth.
My acquaintance with creativity began a long time ago, and this summer I read the story “Childhood.” From the work I learned that it is based on real facts biographies. Main character story - Alyosha Peshkov. Events are conveyed in great detail. I think this is important, because every episode in the hero’s life has an impact on the formation of character. Childhood became a real school of life.
While reading the story, I wondered why you talk in such detail about all the suffering of the little man? Probably so that, as an adult, he sympathizes and helps people in trouble.
The image of the grandmother was especially filled. Akulina Ivanovna Kashirina is a ray of light: affectionate, kind, wise, ready to help and support. You speak very soulfully about your grandmother’s eyes, which seemed to “shine from within... with an unquenchable, cheerful and warm light.” And when she smiled, this light became inexpressibly pleasant. You emphasize that it was she who had a huge influence on the formation of Alyosha’s character, his perception of the world around him, and his attitude towards people. And he grew up honest, kind, merciful, cheerful and resistant to difficulties. I very much understand, Alexey Maksimovich, the words of gratitude of an already grown man, a mature writer, to his grandmother, Akulina Ivanovna: “Before her, it was as if I was sleeping, hidden in the dark, but she appeared, woke me up, brought me into the light, connected everything around me into a continuous thread, wove everything into multi-colored lace and immediately became a friend for life, the closest to my heart, the most understandable and dear person, - it is her selfless love to the world enriched me, filling me with strong strength for a difficult life.”
Dear Alexey Maksimovich! I know that you loved Mr. Nizhny Novgorod and Nizhny Novgorod residents and wrote more than once: “I love Nizhny Novgorod residents,” good people!”, “I'm glad I live here.” A lot of time has passed, and my hometown has changed. Nizhny Novgorod residents cherish and protect everything connected with your name. Almost all the houses where they lived in different time. Imagine, that house number 33 on Kovalikhinskaya Street remains in the city, where grandfather Kashirin’s family lived and where you were born in a wooden outbuilding.
Of course, the most interesting for me is the house-museum “Kashirin’s House”. He is like a living illustration for the story “Childhood”. The museum was opened in 1938. The initiator and author of the creation is Fyodor Pavlovich Khitrovsky, an excellent expert on the life of old Nizhny Novgorod, a local historian, a journalist who worked in the past with you in the newspaper “Nizhny Novgorod Listok”. He became the first director of the museum.
I, my parents and class, went on an excursion to your childhood home more than once. The authentic atmosphere was reproduced there. You immediately find yourself in the kitchen, there is a large dining table covered with a tablecloth, along the wall there is a large white stove, icons in the corner. You can immediately imagine the picture of an evening tea party big family. Opposite is a wooden bench on which grandfather Vasily often flogged his grandchildren, and near the stove under the washstand I noticed rods. It seems that now the grandfather will appear and say: “Well, who’s next?”
I remember my grandmother's room. She is the smallest and most comfortable in the house. Along the wall is a wide bed with a feather bed, and on top is a mountain of pillows in white pillowcases. Behind the bed, in the corner, is a large wooden chest. I think that it was here that the boy was saved more than once from many cruel insults and tortures, and listened for hours, enchanted, to wonderful fairy tales and stories.
Through the entryway you can go out into the courtyard where there are outbuildings: a dyehouse, a barn and a carriage house. And the famous cross that crushed Vanya the Gypsy is still preserved.
This unprepossessing old house is an integral part of modern Nizhny Novgorod. Thousands of Nizhny Novgorod residents and city guests visit it. The realization that this is where he lived great writer, makes this place especially interesting for everyone.
Alexey Maksimovich, you can’t even imagine how the outskirts of the city have changed, where there were swamps and ravines, frogs croaked, and there was a smell of mud and reeds.
Now there is a beautiful square here, one of the sights of Nizhny Novgorod, it bears your name. Today, not a single tourist can ignore this majestic square.
The Russian architect of the 19th century, Georg Ivanovich Kiesewetter, had a hand in the historical project. The ravines were filled in, the swamps were drained, and in 1842 the boundaries of the development were determined. The square was called differently, and in 1950 it received modern name- Maxim Gorky Square. Its decoration is a square in which more than fifty species of trees were planted, brought from the places you have ever visited. There is also a monument there. It is 14 meters high, looks solid, and is very clearly visible from all sides. You are depicted on it as a young person, during your life in hometown When the famous “Song of the Petrel” was created, stand straight with your hands behind your back. The cloak thrown over the shoulders, as if the wind is moving, the gaze is directed forward! It seems to me that you are thinking about the future of Russia, about its young generation. When you are near the monument, you involuntarily recall the lines from the “Song of the Petrel”: “Between the clouds and the sea the Petrel proudly soars” and “...in the bold cry of the bird there is the thirst for the storm, the power of anger, the flame of passion and confidence in victory...”.
According to the landscaping design project for 2018-2022, developed by the architectural studio of Sergei Tumanin, Gorky Square will soon change beyond recognition - it will flourish and will be used for entertaining events and a relaxing holiday for Nizhny Novgorod residents. The square will be paved with granite, additional alleys will be planted, lighting will be replaced, many lanterns, benches, and stands with information about outstanding Nizhny Novgorod residents will be installed. The highlight of the square will be a large beautiful fountain, like at the Nizhny Novgorod Fair. U central entrance the architectural composition “I love Nizhny Novgorod”, which already exists today, will remain. I can imagine how interesting and beautiful it will be here!
How I wish, Alexey Maksimovich, that a miracle would happen and you would be able to see your native Nizhny Novgorod. I think I liked everything.
Goodbye! Sincerely, student Grafova Anastasia. 2017