Writers are better ordinary people feel this world. And great writers are able to say about simple things so piercingly and accurately that tears well up in your eyes.
We have collected the most heartfelt and most magnificent stories about love, death and parental feelings.
Farewell letter from Gabriel Garcia
"If the Lord God forgot for a second that I rag-doll, and gave me a little life, I probably wouldn’t say everything I think; I would think more about what I say.
I would value things not by their cost, but by their significance.
I would sleep less, dream more, aware that every minute with my eyes closed is a loss of sixty seconds of light.
I would walk when others refrained from doing so, I would wake up when others slept, I would listen when others spoke.
And how I would enjoy chocolate ice cream!
If the Lord gave me a little life, I would dress simply, rise with the first ray of sun, exposing not only my body, but also my soul.
My God, if I had a little more time, I would encase my hatred in ice and wait for the sun to appear. I would paint under the stars, like Van Gogh, I would dream while reading Benedetti's poems, and Serra's song would be my lunar serenade. I would wash the roses with my tears to taste the pain of their thorns and the scarlet kiss of their petals.
My God, if I had a little life... I wouldn't let a day go by without telling the people I love that I love them. I would convince every woman and every man that I love them, I would live in love with love.
I would prove to people how wrong they are in thinking that when they grow old they stop loving: on the contrary, they grow old because they stop loving!
I would give a child wings and teach him to fly myself.
I would teach old people that death comes not from old age, but from oblivion.
I also learned a lot from you people.
I learned that everyone wants to live at the top of the mountain, not realizing that true happiness awaits them on the descent.
I realized that when a newborn first grabs his father's finger with his tiny fist, he grabs it forever.
I realized that a person has the right to look down on another only to help him get back on his feet.
I have learned so much from you, but, in truth, it is of little use, because when I fill my chest with it, I die."
These are the farewell words of the master, who once already gave the world such wonderful lines:
"Love as if you were never betrayed.
Work as if you don't need money.
Dance like no one is watching.
Sing like no one can hear you.
Live as if you were living in paradise.."
Letter from Evgeny Leonov to his son
“Andryusha, you love me as I love you. You know, what a wealth this is - love. True, some people think that my love is somehow different and from it, they say, only harm. Or maybe it’s actually mine did love prevent you from being an exemplary schoolboy? After all, I never spanked you in all nine school years.
Do you remember, you made faces at the blackboard, the class laughed, and then the teacher reprimanded me for a long time. I looked thrice guilty, as if I were standing in the corner, and she was scolding me like a boy. I’m ready for any humiliation, but it’s not enough for her: “After all, the lesson was ruined... - after all, we haven’t studied fully for forty-five minutes... - after all, he doesn’t know anything and doesn’t let others learn... - after all, you’ll have to pick up school... - after all, words have no effect on him..."
Her shirt, jacket and moccasins were sweating, but she still didn’t let up. Well, I think I’ll give it a slap today, that’s all! I cross with these thoughts school yard and go out onto Komsomolsky Prospekt. From excitement I can’t get into a taxi or a trolleybus, so I walk...
A woman is dragging a heavy bag, a child cries when he sees me, smiles, I hear my mother say: “So Winnie the Pooh is laughing at you...” stranger greets me... The autumn breeze blows over me. I approach the house with the feeling that I have taken a blow, and okay. I enter the house, completely forgetting about the slap, and when I see you, I ask: “What kind of faces did you make there, what did everyone like, show me.” And we laugh.
And so on until the next call. Mother doesn't go to school. And I’m lying and thinking: if only they’d called me to filming in another city at night or wouldn’t let me leave the rehearsal... But Wanda cries in the morning, and I cancel the flight, ask for time off from the rehearsal, I run to school to take my position in the corner.
What little things are worthy of our worries...
That’s why I write these letters to correct something wrong, and I probably look funny and ridiculous, like some of my characters. But it's me! In essence, my friend, there is nothing simpler than the living anxiety of a father’s heart.
When I'm alone, outside the house, sad, I remember every your word and every question, I want to talk to you endlessly, it seems that life is not enough to talk about everything. But you know, what’s most important is that I realized this after the death of my mother, our grandmother. Eh, Andryusha, is there a person in your life in front of whom you are not afraid to be small, stupid, unarmed, in all the nakedness of your revelation? This person is your protection.
And I'll be home soon. Your father."
Letter from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry to his mother
"Mommy!
I just re-read your letter yesterday, filled with such love. My little mother, how I would like to be with you! You don’t even know that every day I love you stronger and stronger... What are you doing, mom? Write. I feel so good after your letters, as if some breath of freshness reaches me.
Mommy, where do you get all those captivating words with which your letters are full? After them you walk around all day touched. I need you now, as in the days of infancy... How could I make you cry?
I suffer so much when I think about it. And I could give you a reason to doubt my love! If you only knew how much I love you, mom! You are the best thing I have in life. Today I, like a boy, feel homesick! Just think that you are walking and talking there somewhere and that we could be together, but I am deprived of your affection and cannot be a support! Today I'm sad to the point of tears. And when I'm sad, you are the only consolation.
When I returned home as a boy, sobbing after punishment, with one kiss they made me forget my hardships. You were an all-powerful protection... In your house I felt safe, and I really was safe with you, I belonged only to you alone, and how good it was. And now, just like then, you are my only refuge, you know everything, you know how to make me forget about everything, and under your wing, willy-nilly, I again feel like a little boy...
I kiss you tenderly.
Your big son Antoine."
“There was not a day that I did not love you; there was not a night that I did not squeeze you in my arms. I do not drink a cup of tea, so as not to curse my pride and ambition, which force me to remain far from you, my soul. In the midst of service, standing at the head of the army or checking the camps, I feel that my heart is occupied only by my beloved Josephine. She deprives me of reason, fills my thoughts.
If I move away from you at the speed of the Rhone, it only means that I may soon see you. If I get up in the middle of the night to sit down to work, it’s because this way I can bring the moment of returning to you closer, my love. In your letter dated 23 and 26 vantose, you address me as “you”. "You"? Oh, damn! How could you write something like that? How cold it is!..
Josephine! Josephine! Do you remember what I once told you: nature has rewarded me with a strong, unshakable soul. And she sculpted you from lace and air. Have you stopped loving me? Forgive me, love of my life, my soul is breaking.
My heart, which belongs to you, is full of fear and longing...
It hurts me that you don't call me by name. I'll be waiting for you to write it. Goodbye! Ah, if you stopped loving me, then you never loved me! And I will have something to regret!”
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 one more thing.
IN lately due to illness loved one and the changed home regime, 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!
Here it is: 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 one more thing. 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 research on 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 he was nice.
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 eastern married woman decided to write a letter to a virtual 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 that's true.
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. Oriental man 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!
Alexey Ustinov, 6th grade student
(head - Ustinova Elena Mikhailovna)
MBOU Vyshkovskaya Secondary School
September 2015, Vyshkov village Essay on the topic
"Letter to a Favorite Writer"
Hello, dear Albert Anatolyevich!
Lesha Ustinov writes to you. Unfortunately, we don't know each other. And you, most likely, have never heard of me or our small village of Vyshkov. Yes, this is not surprising! After all, our country is huge, and there are so many boys like me in it.
Recently, a Russian language teacher told us that you can write a letter to your favorite writer. And I immediately decided to contact you.
Albert Anatolyevich, do you know how I met you, or rather, your works? This happened two years ago. I was in a hospital in Moscow, I was there for a long time, more than a month. Everything is terribly boring! I had an operation ahead of me, and I (I’ll tell you a secret) was afraid. My mother constantly supported me, and then one day she brought a book to my room. It was unusual book. No matter which way you turn it, you can read it! Great idea! But what struck me most were the titles of the works: “The Boy Who Doesn’t Hurt” and “The Girl Who Doesn’t Care.” I was intrigued and started reading about The Boy. Albert Anatolyevich, you have no idea how much I liked the book! Thank you for such a wonderful piece. I was very worried about the Boy. It always seemed to me that if a person is not in pain, it is good. But it turns out that not always! The boy couldn't feel his legs, so he remained motionless. And how dad and grandmother wanted the Boy to say: “I feel it!” Hurt!". The most interesting thing is that now I am no longer afraid of pain. Can you imagine, Albert Anatolyevich, the doctor after the operation asks: “How are you? Hurts?". And I joyfully said: “It hurts!” He was even surprised, and then he noticed your book on the nightstand and smiled: “Well done! Keep it up!".
Albert Anatolyevich, it seems to me that you are not entirely right in calling the book that. Well, how come the Boy isn’t in pain?! I think his soul hurts because his mother abandoned him, she will now have another husband and a healthy child. It seems to me that the Boy understands everything. My mother was also left alone, but did not abandon me; on the contrary, she is always with me, supports me and loves me very much, and also says that everything will definitely work out. I also hope that everything will be fine for the Boy, because he finally felt pain in his legs, which means he will be able to walk.
Albert Anatolyevich, thank you for the book! She taught me perseverance, helped me deal with problems courageously, and I also realized how much I love my mother, and she loves me. Now I will try not to offend her and protect her, because in our family I am the man!
Goodbye, dear Albert Anatolyevich! Hope to see you someday!
Attached files
Early in the morning, coming out of the bath, Sergei Ivanovich immediately went to the computer, shuffling with his slippers and wiping his face. He urgently needed to send management the report he had been working on the entire previous evening. He sent the report, but what was his surprise when he found a strange letter in his inbox.
“Sergey, your story is an amazing thing. Thanks for your creativity. Sincerely."
My story?! – Sergei exclaimed and heard the smell of burning - his eggs were burning.
“How could I write a story if I only knew how to write reports all the way there?” The man was sincerely perplexed as he got ready for work. He said with annoyance: “I’m not a writer, but a simple manager.”
“Low level,” added an inner voice.
“Low-level,” Segrey reluctantly confirmed.
While putting on socks, trousers and a shirt, he looked at the computer with intrigue:
- When did I have time? Can't wait to read it! “But as soon as I reached out to click the link to my work, I saw a clock in the lower right corner. They showed that if he didn’t come out right away, he would be late for work.
“Fine for being late,” warned an inner voice, and Sergei, quietly swearing, turned off the computer.
On the way to work, he began to realize that he had actually written a story, but he didn’t remember it at all. It’s very interesting to read yourself from the outside. “What did I write about?” - Sergei Ivanovich asked himself and smiled. He felt as if magic had happened in his life. The whole working day I searched in my memory for traces, clues of some plot, but nothing was found. This intrigued him even more.
And when I was returning from work, I got caught in a downpour, got wet to the skin, and froze. In the apartment, he took off his wet clothes and, contrary to his plans, went to the bath rather than read his masterpiece. The hot water relaxed our hero, and he dozed off.
Phew, finally! – The controller in his head rejoiced. “I thought he would never calm down.” Not a single thought...What do we have here. - The controller looked around. Cabinets, bedside tables, tables. He took a pack of sticky notes and a pen from his pocket.
“This is for your inner voice,” the controller groaned, pasting stickers on the most prominent places on Sergei Ivanovich’s “head.” – These are fines, so you don’t forget. There are all sorts of fines, I won’t specify,” I stuck a piece of paper with the large word “Fines.” He hung about ten of them with the word “Work” on them, pulled out a stack of report forms from the nightstand and solemnly laid them out on the desk. - Here. Let the guy do it. What is this?! – The controller noticed a small shining piece of paper on the table, “Come on! Let’s read it!”
Suddenly the wind blew straight at the controller. The controller fell to the floor, covered his head with his hands and held his breath, he knew perfectly well what this meant: thought. He couldn't let thought notice him. The wind picked up the leaf and rushed with it back and forth, and it even seemed to the peeping inspector that the wind was shaking the leaf like a small child. Later the wind calmed down, leaving the leaf on the table, where it picked it up.
- I fell asleep again. – The Controller commented ironically. - So what kind of note is this?
- “...Thank you for your creativity. With respect...”, - Having read it, the Controller even covered his mouth in surprise. - What a bug! I managed to write. Well now I'm here for you! – He shouted and tore the letter into small pieces. Out of anger, he pushed the table and walked out. For a while.
And Sergei Ivanovich woke up, leisurely left the bath, remembering that he had to spend the whole evening writing a report the next day, but he felt that he was angry with someone, but he didn’t know who.
-I’m probably angry with myself – I spent so much time sleeping in the bath! Who will write the report...
Dear Ekaterina Sergeevna, hello!
Thanks a lot 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 Janke, 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’m about to write may seem seditious, shocking, or even downright sacrilege. There are two main and one secondary versions of the death of the Yankees. The first is suicide, the second is murder by some urla (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 huge amount photographs, only a video can add something else 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.