The problem of love for the motherland according to the text by Astafiev In the outskirts of our village there was a long room made of boards on stilts (School essays). Write an essay based on this text. Thank you in advance. In the outskirts of our village there was a long room made of boards on stilts.

Silently we climbed up the path to the platform from which there was an open view of Jerusalem. And again, without agreeing, we stopped - these lights on the dark distant hills attracted our attention and did not let go.

“Take a deep breath,” the old man said without moving. - Do you smell the sage? These faded lilac flowers on the bushes are Judas sage. And there, down the slope, grow myrtle bushes interspersed with white cistus. Biblical incense was extracted from this plant. Breathe in, breathe deeply, feel this hot, fragrant darkness...

Imagine, this is exactly what it smelled like here at night, when the monks of Qumran put their scrolls in huge jars and left them in the caves, here, two steps away from us. What were they hoping for? That someday we will read their prayers, feel their anger, their goodness? “He sighed and said with indescribable love in his voice: “Wonderful!”

What's beautiful? - I asked irritably.

And this air, and these hills... Admire life. I waved it off grimly. He paused.

The wind plowed open and plowed the silver olive trees on the hillside. The plump cunts of their hollows gleamed black in the darkness. Diamond chips of fire sprinkled the hills of Jerusalem.

“Know how to enjoy life,” he repeated. “If you only knew how tenderly soap made from human fat smells... Such a subtle and at the same time strong smell,” he continued, “that if I opened a box here - such an elegant ceramic box - then you could smell this delicate smell ten steps away...

I held a box of such soap in my hands when we liberated Ravensbrück... And since then I have not tolerated any perfume smell. For me it is the smell of death. Do you understand? Neither my wife nor my daughter, poor things, ever wear perfume because of me...

So, my friend, learn to enjoy life, no matter how idiotic it may look, no matter how sweaty and vulgar it may reek...

(According to D. Rubina)

INDEPENDENT WORK WITH TEXT

We offer several texts for independent work. Try to write two versions of an essay for each text. To do this, find two different problems and use the proposed algorithm.

Text No.1

If you look at the life of mankind from the heights of history, you can see one paradoxical fact. All the grief and evil on earth, all the streams of shed blood and tears, all disasters and suffering are often the result of the desire to do good, give people happiness, realize some sacred principles by creating a new state, changing political system etc.

This paradox is highlighted in the flames of all revolutions, counter-revolutions, civil wars, and appears in all violent attempts to realize any absolute truths of the socio-political system.

What follows from this? - they will ask us. Do you preach Tolstoy's non-resistance to evil, the negation of the state, all coercion, or even all politics in general?

No, the state political power, coercion - all this is a necessity, without which a person, so to speak, cannot breathe. All this is a prerequisite human life, and therefore - a condition for a good and meaningful life. On the other hand, from the point of view deep meaning life, all this is only secondary. Our life requires some kind of state to regulate it, some kind of legal order to suppress criminal actions. And among these systems and orders there are better and worse, those that are built more firmly and more shaky, more correctly or more erroneously, in greater or lesser accordance with the needs of life and with the spiritual nature of man. But all the details and particulars in them are relative, determined by the conditions of time and place, the way of human life, the habits and way of thinking of people. Therefore, in no particular political order There is neither absolute good nor absolute evil. All this is not the subject that gives the spiritual life of a person genuine truth, which reveals its true meaning. I don't I can live for no political, social, public order. I do not believe that absolute goodness and absolute truth can be found in him, whatever they may be. And attempts to embody the ideals of goodness and truth by changing the state structure, by war, by any political violence in general seem naive to me.

(According to S. L. Frank)

Text No. 2

Does our life have meaning, and if so, what kind of meaning?

Or is life simply a worthless process of natural birth, maturation, withering and death of an organic being? Should a person even look for meaning in own life? These, as they usually say, “damned” questions, or rather, this single question about the “meaning of life,” worries and torments in the depths of the soul of every person. A person can forget about it for a long time. plunge headlong into everyday worries, but life is so arranged that even the most stubborn or spiritually asleep person cannot brush it aside forever.

The iron fact of approaching aging and disappearance is for each of us a constant reminder of the unresolved question about the meaning of life, which was put aside from a young age.

But, in spite of everything, the vast majority of people consider it necessary to brush aside this issue, to hide from it. They call this position a “principled refusal” to attempt to resolve “intractable issues.” This makes life easier for people. They strive to “settle in life,” to obtain the blessings of life, to establish themselves and strengthen themselves in the struggle of life. The desire for prosperity, for everyday well-being seems meaningful to them, very important matter, and searching for answers to “abstract” questions is a pointless waste of time. And so life is busy with multi-colored earthly interests and even has luck in their implementation. But I want to ask: will this be enough for a person, will he be happy with this? Perhaps, over the course of our lives, this issue will be resolved for each of us by itself and it is not worth making useless efforts to consider it? It still seems to me that searching for an answer to this question is much more important for a person than searching for a piece of bread to satisfy hunger. The longer we put it off, the deeper the abyss in which our soul will find itself will be.

(According to S. Frank)

Text No. 3

In the outskirts of our village there was a long room made of planks on stilts. I For the first time in my life I heard music here - a violin. Vasya the Pole played it. What was the music telling me? About something very big. What was she complaining about, who was she angry with? I'm worried and sad. I want to cry because I feel sorry for myself, I feel sorry for those who sleep soundly in the cemetery! Vasya, without ceasing to play, said: “This music was written by a man who was deprived of his most precious thing. If a person has no mother, no father, but has a homeland, he is not yet an orphan. Everything passes: love, regret about it, the bitterness of loss, even the pain of wounds. but the longing for the homeland never goes away and does not go away. This music was written by my fellow countryman Oginsky. I wrote it at the border, saying goodbye to my homeland. He sent her his last greetings. The composer has long been gone from the world, but his pain, his melancholy, his love for native land, which no one can take away, is still alive.”

“Thank you, uncle,” I whispered. “For what, boy?” - “Because I’m not an orphan.” With rapturous tears I thanked Vasya, this night world, the sleeping village, and also the sleeping forest behind it. At these moments there was no evil for me. The world was kind and lonely just like me. Music sounded in me about the ineradicable love for the homeland! Yeni-sey, not sleeping even at night, a silent village behind my back, a grasshopper working with its last strength against the autumn in nettles that shimmer with metal - this was my homeland... Many years have passed. And then one day at the end of the war I stood near the cannons in a destroyed Polish city. There was a smell of burning and dust all around. And suddenly, in the house located across the street from me, the sounds of an organ were heard. This music stirred up memories. I once wanted to die from incomprehensible sadness and delight after listening to Oginsky’s polonaise. But now the same music that I listened to as a child has been refracted in me and turned to stone, especially that part of it that once made me cry. The music, just like on that distant night, grabbed the throat, but did not squeeze out tears, did not sprout pity. She called somewhere, forced them to do something so that these fires would go out, so that people would not huddle in burning ruins, so that the sky would not throw up explosions. Music ruled over the city, numb with grief, the same music that, like the sigh of his land, was kept in the heart of a man who had been yearning for it all his life.

(According to V. Astafiev)

Text No. 4

Chekhov once said: “You want me, portraying horse thieves, to say: horse theft is evil, but let the jury judge them, and my job is only to show what they are.” He was right. Moral teachings and assessments of the author can only spoil a work of art, novel or drama. Do you know why?

The reader or viewer often seeks in a work of art a kind of refuge where he can feel free from the obligation to act himself and to judge those who act in art world. The reader wants to see the “flow of life” in the work, and not its smug critical analysis from a moral position, more or less strict. Therefore, there is no obvious morality, otherwise the author will fail.

But this does not mean that a work of art is devoid of moral force and does not contain hidden morality. The author has a certain concept of the world, which is revealed through events and characters. Tolstoy does not say in “War and Peace” or in “Anna Karenina” that such and such a way of life is immoral, but Pierre Bezukhov and Levin say this, but the reader himself often sees the depravity of the actions of certain heroes.

Chekhov himself also had moral principles, which are well known to us. He expressed them directly in his letters, and indirectly in his live plays and stories. Often these principles were expressed not even through the speeches of the heroes, but were pronounced by the very “flow of life” in Chekhov's works. It is a fact that after reading a great novel or watching wonderful play we become better, kinder, more compassionate and feel purified. We have experienced passions: we have realized that time

smooths out, erases everything in the world, we saw how insignificant our everyday misfortunes are in comparison with the immensity of events and the tragedy of great suffering. We have learned to recognize other people as our brothers. Without thinking about morality, we became more moral.

(According to A. Maurois)

Text No. 5

It must be said that in Rus', if we have not yet kept up with foreigners in some other respects, we have far surpassed them in handling skills. It is impossible to count all the shades and subtleties of our appeal. A Frenchman or a German will not understand and will not understand all its features and differences; he will speak with almost the same voice and the same language both to a millionaire and to a small tobacco dealer, although, of course, in his soul he is moderately mean to the former. This is not the case with us: we have such wise men who will speak completely differently to a landowner who has two hundred souls than to one who has three hundred, and again will not speak to one who has three hundred. just as with the one who has five hundred of them, and with the one who has five hundred of them, again it is not the same as with the one who has eight hundred of them - in a word, even if you go up to a million, there will be all shades. Suppose, for example, there is an office, not here, but in a distant country, and in the office, let us suppose, there is a ruler of the office. I ask you to look at him as he sits among his subordinates. - You just can’t utter a word out of fear! pride and nobility, and what does his face not express? just take a brush and paint: Prometheus, determined Prometheus! Looks out like an eagle, acts smoothly, measuredly. The same eagle, as soon as he leaves the room and approaches the office of his boss, scurries like a partridge with papers under his arm that there is no urine. In society and at a party, even if everyone is of low rank, Prometheus will remain Prometheus, and a little higher than him, Prometheus will undergo such a transformation that Ovid would not have imagined: a fly, smaller than even a fly, was destroyed into a grain of sand. “Yes, this is not Ivan Petrovich. - you say, looking at him. - Ivan Petrovich is taller, but this one is short and thin; he speaks loudly, has a deep bass voice and never laughs, but this devil knows what: he squeaks like a bird and keeps laughing.” You come closer and look - exactly Ivan Petrovich! “Ehe-he!” - you think to yourself.

(N. Gogol)

Text No. 6

To be or not to be, that is the question. Is it worthy

Resign yourself to the blows of fate,

Or must we resist

And in mortal combat with a whole sea of ​​troubles

End them? Die. Forget yourself.

And know that this breaks the chain

Heartache and thousands of hardships,

Inherent in the body. Isn't this the goal?

Desired? Die. Lose yourself in sleep.

Fall asleep... and dream? Here is the answer.

What dreams will you have in that mortal sleep?

When is the veil of earthly feelings removed?

That's the solution. That's what lengthens

Our misfortunes last for so many years.

Otherwise, who would bear the humiliation of the century,

The lies of the oppressors, the nobles

Arrogance, feeling of rejection.

Slow judgment and, most of all, mockery of the unworthy at the worthy. When it's so easy to tie up all the loose ends A blow of a dagger! Who would agree, Groaning, to trudge along under the burden of life, If only there was uncertainty after death. The fear of a country from which no one ever returned did not incline the will to put up with a familiar evil, rather than seek flight to the unfamiliar! So thought turns us all into cowards And our resolve withers like a flower In the sterility of a mental dead end. This is how plans on a grand scale, which promised success at the beginning, perish from long delays. But enough!

Ophelia! O joy! Remember My sins in your prayers, nymph.

(U.Shakespeare. Hamlet) Translation by B. Pasternaki

Text No. 7

There are many writers who take a dark pleasure in depicting scenes of violence and shame. Most importantly, they strive to instill in the reader a pessimistic philosophy. “The world is absurd,” they say. But what does it mean?

The world itself is devoid of evil will; it provides us with facts. The role of a person is to understand the facts offered to him by life, organize them and build a more just world. Of course, there are animals in the forests, and cruel people in the cities. Of course, nature often creates chaos rather than order. Leave a piece of land to nature - she will turn it into a jungle; only man can create a garden.

“Black” authors of our era are justifiably reproached for this. that they constantly tell the reader about his wild instincts, about his complexes and lies and never talk about his high moral qualities, about happiness and courage, “It is better to talk to a man about his freedom,” said Spinoza, “than about his slave nature.” Yes, because if you take away all hope from him, you will make him unable to act. Give a person to believe in the power of the will (which is true), and he will use it.

It’s true, they lived through a truly inhumane time, when people admired barbarity, when feelings were stifled by cruelty. It is true that their literature tells the truth about this era, but is this the whole truth?

We have indeed seen disgusting monsters, but next to them there are many heroes, courageous and kind, selflessly devoted to the most human ideals.

We see how much has already been done to make people happier and more equal. If you keep silent about this, if our palette does not contain lively and cheerful colors along with the gloomy colors, then you will give a distorted picture of life and cause a lot of harm.

(According to A. Maurois)

ESSAY OPTIONS

Compare your work with these samples. Follow the logic and structure of the texts. Check whether there are any logical violations in your works, whether you used sufficiently convincing and meaningful arguments, and whether the conclusion corresponds to the content.

Text No. 1

Motherland, motherland, motherland, Mother country is an irreplaceable part of any person’s life. While living his life, a person often thinks about his native place. Memories of the beauty of one’s native places, the breathtaking smell of native fields, and the taste of native, familiar, beloved food will never disappear from a person’s memory. Many people admire the beauty of their country and are ready to give everything for it. Including life there.

It seems to me that Astafiev raises precisely this problem in his text. The problem of patriotism, love for the motherland.

But despite all the beauty and mystery of Russia, there is always a percentage of people who are not happy with their Motherland and they very often leave its aisles, and this is very sad. And it is especially sad if a person leaves his homeland not of his own free will, but under duress, he is forced: to leave his native places, to forcibly forget his homeland, although the majority of everyone who leaves Russia misses it immensely.

I can give many examples different writers, but I would especially like to highlight Bunin, he, having lost his home, in the person of his homeland, always dreamed of returning to it, but he never died before reaching its aisles. The poem “TO THE MOTHERLAND” describes the writer’s state, his boredom and his desire to return home. It speaks of how Bunin values ​​and loves his homeland, no matter what, he was faithful to his homeland and until his last breath he worshiped its simpletons, its beauty and the people who lived on this earth. I consider him a true patriot.

But to be a true patriot it is not at all necessary, like Bunin, to leave her and love her from afar. It's retarded to just love her. They will admire its beauty, and drinking it is not available to many, we are very lucky that we shared in this beautiful, beautiful country, nowhere in the world are there such beautiful foxes as we have. But not all people understand this. Remember in what I wrote above about the percentage of those who are always dissatisfied? So, now we will talk strictly about them. People who believe that the Motherland owes them something, or are convinced that it is not worthy of them, are wrong. It seems to me that the Motherland gives us a lot and it is our duty to protect, cherish, and love it. Although I personally know the guys that they would happily leave her if opportunity Having completely forgotten about all the good things that their homeland gave them, they will happily throw away these memories and will never remember them.

In conclusion, I would like to add that patriotism is embedded in each of us throughout our entire lives. Now you can hate your country and the people who live in it. But tomorrow something may happen and you will understand why you should love her. For this reason, I think there is no need to give up on people who are lost in the search for the truth. They will still find something to love their bright, dear, beloved Motherland.

Source text #1:

(1) In the outskirts of our village there was a long room made of boards on stilts. (2) For the first time in my life I heard here music - violin. (3) Vasya the Pole played it. (4) What did the music tell me? (5) About something very big, (6) What was she complaining about, who was she angry with? (7) I feel anxious and bitter, (8) I want to cry, because I feel sorry for myself, I feel sorry for those who sleep soundly in the cemetery!

(9) Vasya, without ceasing to play, said: “(10) This music was written by a man who was deprived of the most precious thing. (11) If a person has no mother, no father, no homeland, he is not yet an orphan. (12) Everything passes: love, regret for it, the bitterness of loss, even the pain from wounds - but the longing for the homeland never goes away and does not go away. (13) This music was written by my fellow countryman Oginsky. (14) I wrote at the border, saying goodbye to my homeland. (15) He sent her his last greetings. (16) The composer has long been gone from the world, but his pain, his melancholy, his love for his native land, which no one can take away, is still alive.”

(17) “Thank you, uncle,” I whispered. (18) “What, boy?” -(19) “The only thing is that I’m not an orphan.” (20) With ecstatic tears I thanked Vasya, this night world, the sleeping village, and also the sleeping forest behind it. (21) At those moments there was no evil for me. (22) The world was kind and lonely just like me. (23) Music sounded within me about the ineradicable love for the homeland. (24) And the Yenisei, not sleeping even at night, a silent village behind my back, a grasshopper, from last bit of strength working against the autumn in the nettles, it seems to be the only one in the whole world, grass cast as if from metal - this was my homeland.

(25)...Many years have passed. (26) And then one day at the end of the war I stood near the cannons in a destroyed Polish city. (27) There was a smell of burning and dust all around. (28)1 suddenly, in the house across the street from me, the sounds of an organ were heard. (29) This music stirred up the memories. (30) Once I wanted to die from incomprehensible sadness and delight after I listened to Oginsky’s polonaise, (31) But now the same music that I listened to in childhood was refracted in me and petrified, especially that part of it, from which I once cried. (32) The music, just like on that distant night, grabbed the throat, but did not squeeze out tears, did not sprout pity. (33) She called somewhere, forced them to do something so that these fires would go out, so that people would not huddle in burning ruins, so that the sky would not throw up explosions. (34) Music ruled over the city, numb with grief, the same music that, like the sigh of his land, was kept in the heart of a man who had never seen his homeland and had been yearning for it all his life. (According to V. Astafiev)

Essay-reasoning

Original text:

(1) It’s been eleven years since I returned to my homeland, I bought a hut in Ovsyanka, in my native lane, opposite my grandparents’ house. (2) In the first years, when there were still many old-timers in my village and it had not turned into an appendage of suburban dacha settlements, I loved late in the evening, “after TV,” to walk along the sleeping streets, make a circle, look, remember, think, sum up the results of the life of this village, in which only the name will soon remain from the past.

(3) From Ovsyanka came an academician, two majors and one colonel, several decent teachers and doctors, two or three engineers, many drivers, tractor drivers, mechanics, mechanics and many, many soldiers who died on the wrong side.

(4) What kind of memory does my native village leave behind? (5) What and who does it remember?

(6) In the village council there is no chronicle, no documents, no metrics, no papers about where the village came from, who founded it and how, and why it was named that way. (7) My old fellow villagers who are still alive remember their grandparents, and rarely their great-grandfather and great-grandmother. (8) New residents do not remember, do not know and do not want to know anyone or anything; they live only for today. (9) I think that they are not interested in anything other than profit.

(10) A spruce tree grew on the outskirts, crookedly planted and therefore sitting crookedly, spreading its hem along the ground, free, full-bodied. (11) And next to it is a bush of rare beauty. (12) Tall, with a trunk as thick as an arm, she was always thickly hung with earrings in the middle of summer. (13) “It is the soul of all the destroyed babies that has risen as a single flower,” (14) our already ancient neighbor told me.

(15) And I thought that my two little sisters, who died in the house of my grandfather and great-grandfather, also bloomed with two earrings on a lush stem.

(16) A quick-witted man from the modern masters of life came with a chainsaw and a bulldozer, tore out a bush, felled a spruce, cut it down for firewood, and planted potatoes everywhere.

(17) Berries and delicate flowers have degenerated; Because of the acid rain falling from the sky, forty of the most common and tender plants disappeared from the forest and from the clearings just around the village. (18) Our wonderful village and forest glades have disappeared. (19) The forests around the village were burned out and cut down for summer cottages. (20) Russian man, unable to bear the city and its industrial hell, in panicked haste he returns to the land, develops his own patch of land, fashions a hut from stolen building materials with a claim to a foreign villa. (21) Yesterday’s peasant, he becomes an insignificant owner of a tiny kingdom, ready to snatch even a tuft of wool from a black sheep, that is, from the state.

(22) Memories of a past life close to my heart disturb me, giving rise to a painful longing for something irretrievably lost. (23) What will happen to this small, familiar and dear world to me, who will preserve my village and the memory of the people who lived here?

Essay – reasoning:

Victor Astafiev is a famous Russian writer, author of books about village people and war, about love and death. This text is a fragment from the story “The Last Bow”. What does memory of the past mean to a person? This question, in my opinion, worries the author most.

The problem raised by V. Astafiev has a long history, but, nevertheless, it is losing its relevance and will remain topical as long as there is life on earth. The narrator’s reflections on how he returns to his native village, thinks about the changes that have occurred during his absence and that are happening at the present time, are surprising in their insight. For the narrator, the oatmeal is a place where one can “remember, think, take stock of life.”

“What kind of memory does my native village leave behind? “What and who does it remember?” the narrator asks bitterly. He is sincerely concerned that people live “only for today”, live “for profit”, that the threads between the past and the future are irrevocably collapsing. Thus, the author's position emerges. V. Astafiev, of course, believes that the memory of his homeland, his roots, grandfathers and great-grandfathers is sacred.

It is impossible not to agree with the writer’s thoughts. Truly noble people can be called those who, despite life's adversities, maintain an invisible connection with their small homeland and respect their past. Such people include Nikolai Nikolaevich Bessoltsev from V. Zheleznikov’s story “Scarecrow,” Lena’s grandfather. Thirty years later he returns to hometown, restores his father’s house, collects paintings inherited from his great-grandfather, the artist, and then donates the collection to the city.

Small Motherland– this is the cradle of childhood, the place where a person is formed as a person, where the foundations are laid moral education. And if a person remembers this, then neither time, nor fashion, nor the people around him will change him. Thus, Tatyana Larina from A.S. Pushkin’s novel “Eugene Onegin” gets married and becomes a brilliant society lady, but behind the external gloss one can easily discern in her that former provincial young lady who is ready to give everything “for a shelf of books, for a wild garden.”

The narrator’s disturbing thoughts, his “painful longing for something irretrievably lost” cannot leave us indifferent. After reading the text by V. Astafiev, I Once again I thought about the fact that a person remains a real person as long as he maintains his blood connection with his home, with his childhood, while he is alive in it bright memory about the past. Having lost the connecting thread between the past and the present, we turn into Ivans who do not remember their kinship.

Essay-discussion based on the text by I.S. Turgenev

Original text:

(1) I was returning from hunting and walking along the garden alley. (2) The dog ran ahead of me. (3) Suddenly she slowed down her steps and began to sneak, as if sensing game in front of her. (4) I looked along the alley and saw a young sparrow with yellowness around its beak and down on its head. (5) He fell from the nest (the wind strongly shook the birch trees of the alley) and sat motionless, helplessly spreading his barely sprouted wings. (6) My dog ​​was slowly approaching him, when suddenly, falling from a nearby tree, an old black-breasted sparrow fell like a stone in front of her muzzle - and, all disheveled, distorted, with a desperate and pitiful squeak, he jumped twice in the direction of the toothy open mouth.

(7) He rushed to save, he shielded his brainchild... but his whole small body trembled with horror, his voice grew wild and hoarse, he froze, he sacrificed himself!

(8) What a huge monster the dog must have seemed to him! (9) and yet he could not sit on his high, safe branch... (10) A force stronger than his will threw him out of there. (11) My Trezor stopped, backed away... (12) Apparently he, too, recognized this power. (13) I hastened to call the embarrassed dog away - and left in awe. (14) Yes, don't laugh. (15) I was in awe of this little heroic bird, of its loving impulse. (16) Love, I thought, stronger than death and fear of death. (17) Only by it, only by love does life hold and move. (According to I.S. Turgenev)

Essay – reasoning:

Before me is the famous prose poem “Sparrow”, written by I.S. Turgenev.

In this miniature, the author talks about how an old black-breasted sparrow saves its offspring from a hunter’s dog. Epithets (“disheveled”, “distorted”, “desperate and pathetic squeak”) and verbs “fell like a stone”, “rushed”, “screened”, “trembled with horror”, “froze, sacrificed himself”) convey the selflessness and heroism of the sparrow . Thus, in my opinion, the writer raises the problem of parental love.

This is relevant the problem is eternal, since the relationship between fathers and children worries every caring person. The issue of parental love often becomes the subject of discussion on radio and television; it worries writers, psychologists, politicians, and teachers. In the work of I.S. Turgenev, this problem sounds especially lyrical, since the author seems to compare the world of human relations and the world of nature.

The narration is told in the first person, and the narrator’s attitude to what is happening is clearly expressed in the words “reverent”, “awestruck”. Thus, the author’s position emerges: parents are ready to make any sacrifice for the well-being of their children, their love is “stronger than death and the fear of death.”

It is impossible not to agree with the thoughts of I.S. Turgenev. Good parents can give up their careers, risk their lives, they will always come to the rescue, warm them with affection and kindness, understand and forgive. Thus, Nikolai Rostov from Leo Tolstoy’s novel “War and Peace”, having lost a large amount money to Dolokhov, seeks support from his almost bankrupt father, and Count Rostov understands that a gambling debt is a matter of honor for the whole family.

Parents, it seems to them, try to do everything for the benefit of their children. Marfa Ignatievna Kabanova from A. Ostrovsky’s play “The Thunderstorm” says that children should honor their parents, but in fact she is trying to force her household to live according to her rough laws, suppresses the will of Tikhon, Katerina, controls their every step, which leads To tragic death Katerina and the destruction of the entire family.

In conclusion, I would like to say that the work of I.S. Turgenev makes us, our readers, think about what parental love, on the one hand, can be selfless, heroic, bringing goodness to her children. On the other hand, blind love and rash actions of adults ruin the best that can exist in the relationship between fathers and children.

Essay-discussion based on the text by N.S. Gumilyov

Original text:

(1) The whole end of this summer for me is associated with memories of the liberated and triumphant flame. (2) We covered the general retreat and, under the very noses of the Germans, set fire to everything that could burn: bread, barns, empty villages, manorial estates and palaces. (3) Yes, and palaces. (4) One day we were transferred about thirty miles to the bank of the Bug. (5) There were no our troops there at all, but there were no Germans either, and they could appear at any minute.

(6) We looked with admiration at the area that had not yet been affected by the war. (7) From the wooded hillock we had a clear view of the village on the other side of the river. (8) Our patrols were already circling in front of her. (9) But then frequent shooting was heard from there, and the horsemen rushed back across the river like a quarry, so that the water rose in a white club from the pressure of the horses. (10) That edge of the village was occupied; we needed to find out if this edge was free.

(11) We found a ford, marked with milestones, and crossed the river, only getting the soles of our boots slightly wet. (12) They scattered in a chain and slowly drove forward, inspecting every hollow and barn. (13) In front of me, in a shady park, stood a magnificent manor house with towers, a veranda, and huge Venetian windows. (14) I drove up and out of good faith, and even more out of curiosity, I decided to examine it from the inside.

(15) It was good in this house! (16) On the shiny parquet floor of the hall I did a waltz with a chair - no one could see me - in the small living room I sat on an easy chair and stroked the skin polar bear, in the office, he tore off a corner of the muslin covering a picture, some kind of Susanna with the elders, an ancient work. (17) For a moment the thought flashed through to take this and other paintings with me. (18) Without stretchers they would take up little space. (19) But I could not guess the plans of the higher authorities; It was decided not to give this area to the enemy under any circumstances.

(20) What would the returning owner think of the lancers then? (21) I went out, picked an apple in the garden and, chewing it, drove on.

(22) We were not fired upon, and we returned back. (23) And a few hours later I saw a big pink glow and found out that it was that same landowner’s house that was set on fire, because it blocked the shelling from our trenches. (24) That’s when I bitterly regretted that there was a war going on. (According to N.S. Gumilev)

Essay – reasoning:

Before me is the text of the famous Russian writer, poet N.S. Gumilyov. In my opinion, this fragment is dedicated to the problem of preserving human dignity.

The identified problem is relevant because it is eternal, traditional in Russian literature. In addition, this question cannot but concern everyone, regardless of their age, social status. How to remain Human? How not to break down, keep it in yourself best qualities? We read about this in the works of L. Tolstoy, M. Sholokhov, M. Bulgakov, V. Shalamov, A. Solzhenitsyn and many other writers. Of course, the issue that concerns N.S. Gumilev belongs to the category of moral ones, since it is closely related to such concepts as cruelty and kindness, duty and conscience.

The hero-narrator admires the “magnificent manor’s house.” He has the idea of ​​taking advantage of the absence of the owners and taking the paintings with him. But an internal moral barrier stops the hero. A few hours later the house is burned down, and the narrator regrets not about the burnt paintings, but about the fact that “there is a war going on.” So, in the “triumphant” flames of war, which consumes everything in its path, the hero remains decent, honest, he does not lose his human dignity in these cruel conditions. Thus, the author’s position emerges: N.S. Gumilyov emphasizes the inhumane essence of war and believes that one must always remain human, no matter what.

It is impossible not to agree with the writer’s thoughts. Wars, revolutions, conflicts are extreme situations that expose the moral essence of everyone. They are the ones who give rise to evil, cruelty, and indifference towards one’s neighbor. Let us remember the heroes of A. Blok’s poem “The Twelve”. The symbolic revolutionary detachment is filled with hatred, ready to fight the enemy, and nothing is sacred to these people. The “Twelve” are allowed everything: bloody massacres and freedom “without a cross.”

When there is death and war around, the hardest thing is to remain kind and fair, the hardest thing is not to stumble, not to kill in oneself honest man. Fortunately, such people do exist. For example, a simple Russian soldier Sashka, the hero of the story by Vyacheslav Kondratiev. He did not even become embittered against his enemies, despite the dirt, explosions, blood, bullets, and corpses. The hero was unable to carry out the order and did not shoot the captured German. “We are people, not fascists,” he says. For Sashka, killing an unarmed person means losing his sense of self-worth, righteousness and morality.

In conclusion, I would like to say that reading the text by N.S. Gumilyov made me think about the main and eternal thing, that to be a Man on earth is, in the words of M. Gorky, “an excellent position.”

l music - violin. Vasya the Pole played it. What was the music telling me? What was she complaining about, who was she angry with? I feel anxious and bitter, I want to cry, because I feel sorry for myself, I feel sorry for those who sleep soundly in the cemetery! Vasya, without ceasing to play, said: This music was written by a man who was deprived of the most precious thing. If a person has no mother, no father, but has a homeland, he is not yet an orphan. Everything passes: love, regret about it, the bitterness of loss, even the pain from wounds, but it never goes away and the dot in the homeland never goes out. This music was written by my fellow countryman Oginsky. Wrote at the border, love for his native land, which no one could take away, is still alive Vasya fell silent, the violin spoke, the violin sang, the violin faded away. Her voice became quieter, quieter, it stretched out in the darkness like a thin light web. The web trembled, swayed and broke off almost silently. I removed my hand from my throat and exhaled the breath that I was holding in my chest with my hand because I was afraid of breaking the light web. But it all ended. The stove went out. Layering, the coals fell asleep in it. Silence. Tyumen. Sadness. “It’s already late,” Vasya said from the darkness. “Go home.” Grandma will be worried. Thank you, uncle,” I whispered. Vasya stirred in the corner, laughed embarrassedly and asked: “For what?” I don't know why. And he jumped out of the hut. With touched tears I thanked Vasya, this night world, the sleeping village, the sleeping forest behind it. I wasn’t even afraid to walk past the cemetery. Nothing is scary now. At those moments there was no evil around me. The world was kind and lonely - there was nothing, nothing bad in it. Music sounded in me about the ineradicable love for the homeland. And the Yenisei, not sleeping even at night, the silent village behind me, the grasshopper working with all his might against the autumn in the nettles, it seems like he is the only one in the whole world, the grass cast as if from metal - this was my homeland. ...Many years later. And then one day, at the end of the war, I stood near the cannons in a destroyed Polish city. There was a smell of burning and bullets all around. And suddenly, in the house across the street from me, the sounds of an organ were heard. This music stirred up the memory. I once wanted to die from incomprehensible sadness and delight after I listened to Oginsky’s polonaise. But now, just like that distant night, she grabbed her by the throat, but did not squeeze out tears, did not sprout pity. She called somewhere, forced her to do something so that these fires would go out, so that people would not huddle in the burning ruins, so that the sky would not throw up explosions. Music ruled over the city, numb with grief, the same music that, like the sigh of his land, was kept in the heart of a man who had never seen his homeland and had been yearning for it all his life.

Essay - reasoning

Introduction: “Music is an art that acts directly on the heart of the listener,” said one of the greats. The magical power of music can make a person dream, remember the past, think about himself and reconsider his life, correct mistakes and act as his heart tells him; music can, on the contrary, lead to despair and cause negative emotions.
Problem formulation: