(1) My yard last years The empty grass will become more and more full. (2) Either the strength to fight it off has become less, but rather the hunt: it grows... and let it grow. (H) There is a lot of space. (4) And the garden was poisoned. (5) And what a garden this is now! (6) Only a name. (7) A bed of onions, a bed of garlic, fifty tomato bushes and some greens. (8) Lots and lots of land is empty, but the flowers remain.
(9) Flowers... (10) They may be simple, ours, but we plant them, weed them, water them, and take care of them. (11) You can’t live without flowers.
(12) In the neighboring courtyard old Mikolavna lives out her century. (13) He barely crawls around the house, doesn’t go out into the yard, only sometimes sits on the porch. (14) He can’t go out into the yard, but every year he orders his young helpers: (15) “Plant a dahlia for me near the thresholds.” (16) They listen to her and put her in jail. (17) The dahlia bush is blooming. (18) Mikolavna looks at him, sitting on the steps in the evenings.
(19) Across the street, on the contrary, old Gordeevna lives. (20) She has shortness of breath and a bad heart. (21) She can’t bend over at all. (22) But every summer “dawns” bloom in her front garden. (23) “This is our flower, from the farm...” she explains. (24) - I love him...”
(25) Neighbor Yuri. (26) The person is unhealthy, sick. (27) What a demand from him! (28) But in the summer, a mighty bush of pink peonies blooms in the middle of a completely neglected yard. (29) “Mom planted... - he explains. (30) - I’m watering.” (31) His mother died a long time ago. (32) And this flower bush is like a distant hello.
(33) Aunt Lida has little land near her house. (34) “In the palm of your hand...” she complains. (35) - But we need to plant potatoes, and beets, and tomatoes, both of them. (36) And the lands - in the palm of your hand." (37) But pansies bloom near the house, “royal curls” turn golden. (38) It’s impossible without this.
(39) Ivan Alexandrovich and his wife also lack land. (40) In their yard, every millimeter is calculated with mathematical precision. (41) You have to get creative. (42) After the potatoes, the cabbage also has time to ripen before frost. (43) The onions have been removed, the late tomatoes are growing. (44) But they also have a couple of “dawn” bushes, several dahlias, and the “sun” creeps and blooms.
(45) Where the owners are young and able, there are roses, there are lilies, there is a lot of things in the courtyards, in the palisades.
(46) But with flowers there are so many worries. (47) They will not grow by themselves. (48) Plant them, look after them, loosen them, weed them, feed them with mullein. (49) Try not to water for at least a day in our heat! (50) They will dry up immediately. (51) Not to mention the colors, you won’t see the leaves. (52) Growing flowers is a lot of work. (53) But there is more joy.
(54) Early morning in August. (55)3 breakfast in the wild. (56) The sun is behind. (57) There are flowers before my eyes. (58) How many of them... (59) Tens, hundreds, thousands... (60) Scarlet, blue, azure, golden-honey... (61) Everyone is looking at me. (62) Or rather, over my shoulder, into the morning rising sun. (bZ) Yellowness and whiteness, delicate cornflower blue, greenery, scarlet, heavenly blue shine before my eyes. (64) Our simple flowers look and breathe into my face.
(65) Summer morning. (66) Long day ahead...
(67) Sometimes, when they start saying bad things about people: they say, the people are worthless, lazy... - during such conversations I always remember flowers. (68) They are in every yard. (69) So, it’s not all that bad. (70) Because a flower is not just a look and a sniff... (71) Tell, whisper to a woman, a girl: (72) “You are my azure color...” - and you will see what happiness will splash into her eyes.
(According to B. Ekimov *)
* Boris Petrovich Ekimov (born in 1938) is a Russian prose writer and publicist, laureate of the State Prize of the Russian Federation (1998), laureate of the Alexander Solzhenitsyn Prize (2008). Boris Ekimov is often called the conductor of the literary traditions of the Don region. The leitmotif of his works is the real life everyday life of a common man. The collections of stories “3a with Warm Bread”, “Night of Healing”, “The Shepherd’s Star”, and the novel “Parental Home” became widely known.
Literary example: poems by A. Blok; S. Exupery “The Little Prince”
(1) This started a long time ago. (2) At first, mild, even pleasant deafness - it makes it easier to concentrate. (3) Only often you have to ask again people who speak inaudibly. (4)Then you ask again more and more often. (5) And then you start pretending that you hear, although you don’t hear anything...
(6) That night Beethoven slept poorly. (7) He woke up from unexpected jolts, as if someone was pushing him in the stomach. (8) He sat down on the bed and whispered: (9) “My God, this is not a dream, this is reality! (10) I am deaf, there is no place for me under these empty skies...”
(11) The rain poured outside the window, and this gradually calmed him down. (12) The most best time day is night. (13) When you sleep, you are not deaf.
(14) Then he left for Vienna. (15) In 1803, the sonata in A minor for violin and piano was written - the famous sonata, which later received the name “Kreutzer”.
(16) He went on a rampage at rehearsals, quarreled with the management and orchestra, changed apartments, covered hundreds of sheets of paper with intricate icons that the note takers could barely figure out.
(17) This was not the music that comforted the people of the previous century. (18) This was painful, complex music, deviating from the main theme and main tonality - the music of human doubts, suffering, defeats, victories and dreams.
(19) Vienna was buzzing with news. (20) Have you heard about the antics of General Bonaparte? (21) Who could have foreseen that he would be the first consul of the republic and the winner on all battlefields! (22) This cunning atheist, this general of tramps! (23) War may someday reach the gates of Vienna! (24) What will happen then? (25) However, the troops of His Apostolic Majesty are still strong enough to defend good, old, faithful Vienna...
(26) Throughout the summer of 1803, he wrote down variations of themes, phrases, expositions and endings on pieces of paper. (27) By autumn the first part of the new symphony was ready in rough form. (28) Beethoven did not show it to anyone. (29) He knew that his friends would shrug their shoulders, as had often happened. (Z0) They are used to looking at the symphony as large building, which has a lot beautiful rooms and galleries. (31) But Beethoven did not create a building, but a mountain range. (32) Maybe he even created the sky!
(33)On title page it was written: “Great Symphony composed by Ludwig van Beethoven in 1804.” (34) At the top there was a dedication to Bonaparte.
(35) In May 1804, Ferdinand Ries found Beethoven at a music stand, wearing a hat, and holding a pen. (Z6) He probably came up with something during a walk and, returning home, began to write it down without taking off his hat. (37) There was the usual chaos in the room - books and sheet music lay on the floor, a coffee pot stood on the bookshelf, a cane was placed on the piano, next to the inkwell and pipe, and a pouch of tobacco lay under the piano.
(38) “My respect,” Beethoven muttered, without looking at Rhys. (39) - What can you hear in the capital?
(40) “Meister Ludwig,” said Rhys, coming closer to the owner. (41) Do you know the news? (42) Bonaparte declared himself emperor!
(43) Beethoven suddenly tore off his hat and threw it into the corner.
(44) - Damn it! - he shouted.
(45) He ran from corner to corner, turning his head and kicking the furniture.
(46) - Bonaparte is also an ordinary person! (47) Now he will trample underfoot all human rights, follow only his ambition! (48) He will put himself above all others and become a tyrant!
(49) Beethoven ran to the closet, rummaged around and pulled out the title page of the new symphony with the inscription: “To Bonaparte.” (50) With a crash, he tore this sheet from top to bottom and threw the pieces out the window. (51) - That's all! - he shouted. (52) - Let Napoleon conquer all of Europe, but he does not dare to encroach on my possessions!
(53)...Beethoven's life was full of work, torment, hopes, ups and disappointments. (54) Deafness was only one of the blows that constantly rained down on him. (55) And perhaps the most serious of his misfortunes was eternal loneliness.
(56) “You can no longer live for yourself,” he wrote, “you must live only for others. (57) There is no more happiness for you anywhere except in your art. (58) Oh Lord, help me overcome myself!..”
(59) He overcame himself. (60) He did not hear how his best works were performed. (61) He knew that much of what he created would become clear only to future, distant generations. (62) They will hear and appreciate.
(According to L. Rubenstein)
* Lev Semyonovich Rubinstein (born in 1947) - Russian poet, literary critic, publicist and essayist. Winner of the literary award "NOS-2012" for the book "Signs of Attention".
| Approximate range of problems | Author's position |
| 1. The problem of genius. (What is the characteristic of a genius person?) | 1. A brilliant person sacrifices his personal life for the sake of creativity, so he is most often lonely. He, as an extraordinary person, may have strange habits. |
| 2. The problem of society’s perception of the work of a brilliant contemporary. (Are contemporaries always able to comprehend and appreciate the brilliant works of the creator?) | 2. Contemporaries are sometimes unable to comprehend works of genius; this is the lot of descendants. |
| 3. The problem of power. (What is the relationship between power and tyranny?) | 3. History shows that most often a person who gets to the very top of power becomes a tyrant, as happened with Napoleon. |
L Literary example: A.S. Pushkin “Mozart and Salieri”, Leskov “Lefty”
CAUTION: WORD!
(1) How, alas, wounds are often inflicted by words.
(2)You dial a phone number. (3) They answer you:
(4) - I’m listening. (5) You say:
(6) - Please ask Alexey Petrovich.
(7) You made a mistake and ended up in another apartment. (8) What should a normal answer sound like in this case? (9) “You have the wrong number.” (10) This is how polite people answer. (11) Very polite: (12) “Unfortunately, you have the wrong number.” (13) But often you hear: (14) “There are no such people here!” (15) I’m tempted to ask: “Which ones are there?” (16) And a rude continuation in response: (17) “You have to watch when you type!” (18) It’s a trifle, of course, but it could very well ruin your mood.
(19) Wounds from words are caused not only by rudeness, but often by thoughtless handling of words. (20) Once in my life I myself suffered in a similar way.
(21) As a child, I was plump and remained that way. (22) As adults, I can bear this easily, but when I was a schoolboy, I was teased and I suffered terribly. (23) It took a lot of endurance and the ability to stand up for oneself to stop teasing. (24) And so we, a group of schoolchildren, were invited to the editorial office of a large newspaper by a famous writer. (25) They gave us tea and treated us to cakes. (26) The writer talked with us about school. (27) I was preparing to write an essay. (28) I also answered his questions. (29) The essay appeared. (30) I unfolded the newspaper and felt cold: he, indicating my first name, last name and school, called me in the essay “tongued fat man Seryozha”! (31) Is there much joy in the fact that he praised my answers? (32) He made me famous all over the country - a big-tongued fat man! (33) It was said aptly, no matter how much I fought back, nothing helped, this new nickname stuck to me for a long time. (34) There was only one answer: (35) “They published it in the newspaper!” (Z6) So, that’s how it is.”
(37) Many years have passed. (38) We met with this writer in a rest house. (39) We talked, and I asked him:
(40) - Do you know what grief you once caused me?
(41) He was terribly surprised.
(42) I told him this story. (43) He said:
(44) - I forgot. (45) Excuse me!
(46) An adult, I excused him, but as a boy I hated him. (47) Children are especially sensitive to words, especially vulnerable. (48) Parents, teachers, journalists writing about children, doctors, do not forget about this.
(49) Be careful with your words! (50) It can seriously hurt!
(51) But there are simple ways avoid this, even if we are forced to say unpleasant things to people.
(52) There are people for whom a sense of tact, including tact in choosing words, is given by nature or developed by upbringing. (53) There are those to whom it is not given by nature and not brought up in them, but due to the nature of their work it is necessary. (54) Verbal tact should be taught to everyone who is associated with other people. (55) And for neglecting it - punish.
(56) “Don’t you see, or something!”; “How many times to repeat!”; “You don’t understand Russian!”; “What did they become” or “What did they sit down”; “What do you (and you) want!”; “Everyone has become so smart!”; “Scientists have become sick!”; “Well, well, nothing”; “Look, how tender”, “And it will be so good”; “I’ll tell you twenty times!” (57) But you can say: (58) “Good morning!”; "Good afternoon!"; "Good evening!"; "Please come in"; “Please sit down”; “Please, please pass it on”; “I will pass after you”; "Thanks a lot"; "Thank you"; "All the best!"; “Please tell me...” (59) For thousands of years, humanity has developed ways of expressing benevolence, gratitude, apology, sympathy, and attention. (60) They entered folk traditions, acquired a deep ethical and social meaning.
(61) It happens that external politeness masks internal indifference or even ill will. (62) But this is an exception, and it does not give grounds to curse politeness.
(63) In everyday life, in some books, sometimes on stage and on screen, the idea is asserted that politeness, good manners, restraint, courtesy are a cover for negative personality traits. (64) On the contrary, rudeness, shamelessness, impudence are an expression of a strong, extraordinary, sincere personality, a manifestation of talent that has the right to such an expression of its originality.
(65) It also happens that rudeness is spoken of as the protective armor of a tender, vulnerable soul. (66) In fact, as we know from personal experience of communicating with rude people, behind rudeness and rudeness, as a rule, nothing is hidden except rudeness and rudeness!
(67) Education is not limited to instilling politeness, restraint, friendliness, and courtesy. (68) But you can’t do without them. (69) These qualities are elementary, but beautiful. (70) There is no need to fear their excess. (71) There is no doubt that a person must be able to stand up for himself. (72) But no one will ever prove that the right way stand up for yourself - respond to rudeness with rudeness, evil with evil, meanness with meanness.
(73) Shouting and cursing are not evidence of strength or proof. (74) Strength lies in calm dignity. (75) It’s not easy to force yourself to be respected and not allow yourself to be rude. (76) But it is pointless to stoop to the level of a boor. (77) This means giving up oneself. (78) From my own personality. (79) Politeness, as a rule, is synonymous with inner strength and true dignity. (80) Ask: “Why politeness?” It’s just as pointless as asking questions: “Why culture?”, “Why beauty?”
(According to S. Lvov*)
* Sergei Lvovich Lvov (1922-1981) - prose writer, critic, publicist, author of numerous articles about Soviet and foreign literature, works of biographical and children's literature.
Literary example: M. Lomonosov “Ode for a Day...”
(1) He was flying to his mother’s funeral. (2) The flight on his plane has already been postponed several times. (3) And other flights were postponed. (4) The airport was crowded with passengers.
(5) He had been walking and walking between the sitting and scurrying passengers for several hours.
(6) Now, when he began to earn decent money and could already help his mother in full force, she fell ill and died. (7) He thought that no one in the world would ever know about his mother’s dedication, her great patience, love, her incredible efforts to raise her children alone.
(8) And so, having put everyone on their feet, she died almost suddenly, instead of fading away for a long time and quietly, caressing her grandchildren and feeling the grateful love of her adult children.
(9) Mother is a short holiday on Earth.
(10) These words of a poet unknown to him were now ringing in his head. (11) What injustice! (12) And no one will ever understand what she was for her loved ones, and this cannot be retold, because her love and selflessness were contained in thousands of details that his heart kept, and it cannot be expressed in words, and there will not be a person who who would want to listen and understand all this. (13) “What injustice,” he thought, walking and walking between people sitting on benches and scurrying around the airport hall.
(14) Mother is a short holiday on Earth.
(15) Suddenly his attention was attracted by a woman of about thirty, clearly a peasant by her clothes, sitting with bundles at her feet. (16) His attention was attracted by the expression of extraordinary sorrow on her face, and then he noticed a boy of about six years old sitting next to her. (17) Above the boy’s eye there was a monstrous tumor the size of a pigeon’s egg. (18) The boy’s face was serene, apparently he was not experiencing any pain, especially since his hands were constantly moving, he was busy with a toy car.
(19) He stopped, amazed by this woman’s face. (20) Of course, the expression of grief on her face was associated with this boy’s illness. (21) Of course, she flew to Moscow to show him to the doctors. (22) What did they tell her? (23) Hardly anything comforting. (24) Otherwise, why such sorrow on her face?
(25) He looked and looked at the ordinary face of a Russian woman. (26) In the ordinary sense it was neither ugly nor beautiful. (27) But now it was extraordinary. (28) She silently looked into some immeasurable distance, and her face shone with quiet, resigned sorrow.
(29) It contained all the sorrow of the world, and he felt that it also contained grief for his mother, as if it knew no worse than he about her selfless, courageous, patient life. (30) And he remembered that all his life sorrow had been the main expression on his mother’s face, but he was so used to this expression that he did not understand it. (31) And only now I understood. (32) And this woman, who was much younger not only than his mother, but also himself, suddenly seemed like his mother to him.
(33) In his life, he saw many pretty, sweet, beautiful women’s faces. (34) And only now, shocked, I realized that for the first time I was seeing a beautiful face.
(35) And he suddenly wanted to fall on his knees in front of this woman and kiss her hand as a sign of gratitude, to tell her everything that he did not have time to tell his mother.
(36) However, he did not move, but only looked at her face. (37) He knew that even if the airport was empty and there was not a single witness, he would not have fallen on his knees before her. (38) He was a son of his time, and shame at the frankness of reverence prevented him from doing this.
(39) And he looked and looked at this face glowing with sorrow, turned into an immeasurable distance. (40) And for some reason he felt lighter, more enlightened. (41) “In this world, everything that is beautiful mourns,” he thought, “and everything that mourns is beautiful.”
(42) And he suddenly realized with absolute confidence that only sorrow is beautiful and only it will save the world. (43) And is it by chance that the face of the Mother of God is always sad?..
(44) And the boy with a monstrous tumor above his eye was serenely playing with his typewriter.
(According to F. Iskander *)
* Fazil Abdulovich Iskander (born March 6, 1929) is a Soviet and Russian prose writer and poet. The writer became famous in 1966 after the publication of the story “Constellation of Kozlotur” in the “New World”. Iskander’s main books are written in a unique genre: the epic novel “Sandro from Chegem”, the epic “Chick’s Childhood”, the parable story “Rabbits and Boa Constrictors”, the essay-dialogue “Thinking of Russia and the American”. The plot of many of his works takes place in the village of Chegem, where the author spent a significant part of his childhood.
| Approximate range of problems | Author's position |
| 1. The problem of the role of the mother in a person’s life. (What is the role of a mother in a person’s life?) | 1. A mother is a spiritual support for her children. A true mother is always willing to be patient and put in incredible efforts to raise them. |
| 2. The problem of grief. (Why do people mourn?) | 2. Grief is one of the manifestations of spirituality, without which a person is unthinkable, therefore sorrow is beautiful. |
| 3. The problem of attitude towards the mother. (What should be the attitude towards the mother?) | 3. A person should appreciate every minute spent next to his mother. The death of a mother is an irreparable loss that gives rise to grief. |
| 4. The problem of true beauty. (Why is grief beautiful?) | 4. A grieving face is beautiful because suffering reveals a living human soul. |
Literary example: L. Ulitskaya “Daughter of Bukhara”, Ostrovsky “Thunderstorm”, K. Paustovsky “Telegram”
INSTANT
(1) What governs the world and all of us? (2) Maybe this is the hot abyss of a star in the center of the Universe or the dazzling blackness that absorbs the molten bodies of constellations and entire galaxies in its womb? (3) Perhaps it is this highest power that gives laws to the world movement, determines all beginnings and ends, life and death, the rotation of the Earth, the birth and death of humanity, just as earthly nature creates anthills in the forests and predetermines their last second, already putting a finite period into birth itself?
(4) It is unthinkable to imagine the infinite space of the Universe: fire-breathing hurricanes, prominences of solar boils, incinerating everything in a terrible giant whirlwind, flashes of exploding stars, showers of a fiery carousel, and somewhere among the mysterious darkness, at some intersection of cosmic coordinate axes, it flies and rotates a faint speck of dust - the Earth, which highest power the great world order communicated a certain energy, task and period of existence in accordance with the general laws of the universal mechanism.
(5) It is impossible to agree that her birth already contains the last moment of farewell, that death is already an indissoluble shadow of life, its inseparable companion in sunny days of joy, love, youth, success, and the closer to sunset, the longer and more noticeable the fatal shadow .
(6) Eternity is endless time, and at the same time eternity has no time.
(7) If the longevity of the Earth is only a moment of a microscopic grain of world energy, then human life is a moment of the shortest moment.
(8) On January 26, 1976, a star the size of our Sun exploded in the northern hemisphere of the sky, and the mysterious gigantic explosion lasted only forty minutes, splashing into space such an amount of energy that would have been enough for the Earth and us sinners for a billion years.
(9) No one knows what this explosion was connected with - with the death or birth of a new star, or maybe the agony became a birth, or maybe there was an incomprehensible release of nuclear energy, the death of a star, its transformation into a black hole, a celestial body of extraordinary density, which at the appointed moment is also destined to explode and die, forming in its death a completely mysterious white hole.
(10) Who will answer exactly what laws, what forces of the Universe are subject to the elements and evolution, the periods of life and the hour of death, the levers of turning life into death and death into life?
(11) We can hardly explain why man is given a term of not nine hundred years, but seventy (according to the Bible), why youth is so lightning-fast and fleeting, and why old age is so long. (12) We cannot find an answer to the fact that sometimes good and evil cannot be separated, like cause from effect. (13) As bitter as it may be, one should not overestimate a person’s understanding of his place on Earth - most people are not given the opportunity to know the meaning of existence, the meaning of their own life. (14) After all, you need to live the entire period given to you in order to have grounds to say whether you lived correctly. (15) How else can we comprehend this?
(16) Speculative construction of possibilities and edifying predestinations?
(17) But man does not want to agree that he is only a tiny speck of dust - the Earth, invisible from cosmic heights, and, without knowing himself, he is boldly confident that he can comprehend the secrets, the laws of the universe and, of course, subordinate them to everyday use.
(18) Does a person know that he is doomed?.. (19) This restless thought only occasionally flashes in his mind, he pushes it away, he defends himself, calms down with hope - no, the fatal, inevitable will not happen tomorrow, there is still time, still there are ten years, five years, two years, a year, a few months...
(20) He does not want to part with life, although for most people it consists not of great suffering and great joys, but of the smell of work sweat and simple carnal pleasures. (21) With all this, many people are separated from each other by bottomless gaps, and only thin poles of love and art, breaking every now and then, sometimes connect them.
(22) And yet the consciousness of a person, endowed with intelligence and imagination, contains both the entire Universe, its icy horror of stellar mysteries taking place, and the personal tragedy of the natural accident of birth and the short-term nature of life. (23) But for some reason this does not cause despair, does not give his actions senseless futility, just as wise ants, apparently preoccupied with one thing, do not stop their tireless activity. useful necessity her. (24) Man imagines that he has the highest power on Earth, and therefore he is convinced that he is immortal. (25) He doesn’t think for a long time about the fact that summer gives way to autumn, youth gives way to old age, and even the brightest stars go out. (26) In his conviction are the springs of movement, energy, action, passions. (27) In his pride is the frivolity of the viewer, confident that the entertaining film of life will last continuously.
(28) Isn’t art also filled with pride in the arrogant desire to cognize the moments of moments of existence, in the hope of conveying to a person someone else’s experience of reason and experience of feeling and thus remain immortal?
(29) But without this conviction there is no idea of man and no art.
(According to Bondarev *)
* Yuri Vasilyevich Bondarev (born in 1924) - Russian Soviet writer. Member of the Great Patriotic War(since August 1942). The first collection of stories, “On the Big River,” was published in 1953. Author of short stories, stories “Youth of Commanders”, “Battalions Ask for Fire”, “Last Salvos”, novels “Hot Snow”, “Silence”, “Shore”, etc. Author of the script for the film based on the novel “Hot Snow”. One of the co-authors of the script for the epic film “Liberation”.
Literary example Turgenev “Fathers and Sons” (Bazarov), Korolenko “The Blind Musician”
(1) I live in a new building. (2) Behind my house there is a potato field. (3) Our house has not yet been installed with telephones. (4) Therefore, a pay phone booth was installed next to him.
(5) One day, my neighbor down the corridor, Polina Ivanovna, from the adjacent apartment, became ill with her heart. (6) Quite a lot of people gathered near the pay phone booth, I explained what was happening, and they let me through out of turn. (7) However, it turned out that calling an ambulance is not so easy. (8) Either the subscriber was busy, or for some reason they did not pick up the phone.
(9) And suddenly the cabin door swung open, and a lever was pressed over my shoulder. (10) A girl of about twenty stood in front of me. (11) Very beautiful. (12) That rare, striking beauty about which the poet said: (13) “The blind only will not notice it...”. (14) Such beauty is as rare a gift of nature for a person as talent or even genius. (15) And therefore it amazes.
(16) “I need to call,” said the girl. (17) “I need it!” – for her it already meant everything. (18) -They are waiting for me there. (19) I'm in a hurry! (20) Do you understand this?! - she added with that irritation in her voice that, they say, I have no time, but there are some here - she looked at me expressively...
(21) -So what? - came from the queue indignantly. (22) -Do not disturb the citizen.
(23) I prepared another coin, but it slipped out of my hands and rolled along the sidewalk.
(24) While they were helping me lift her, the girl fluttered into the booth and dialed the number she needed.
(25) -Why did you miss it? – I said reproachfully to the man standing in front of the door first.
(26) – It will be more expensive for yourself! – he grinned. (27) -I have my own. (28) Don’t say a word to them, it’s better to move away and stand aside.
(29) The girl talked loudly in the booth, not paying attention to strangers, so everyone could hear it.
(30) - Seryozha! - she shouted. (31) - As agreed, I’m waiting at the agreed place.
(32) Apparently, the caller muttered something displeased, made some remark to her, the girl looked back at us: (33) - Yes, there are all sorts of...
(34) She slowly hung up the phone and walked majestically past us, proudly raising her chin, and near me she paused and whispered so that no one else could hear:
(35) - Ugly!..
(36) The second time I got through quickly, dictated the address and hurried to the elevator, remembering that Polina Ivanovna was left alone in the apartment.
(37) The door to Polina Ivanovna’s apartment turned out to be unlocked.
(38) Polina Ivanovna was lying on the bed, closing her eyes.
(39) - The ambulance will arrive now.
(40) - Thank you.
(41) - How do you feel?
(42) - Better.
(43) Polina Ivanovna was silent. (44) And I was silent, not knowing what to say, what to do.
(45) Suddenly, a girl I knew, whom I had seen at telephone booth. (46) The door to the apartment remained unlocked, and so the girl entered silently.
(47) - Are you here?! - Looking at me, she said with undisguised indignation.
(48) “My granddaughter,” Polina Ivanovna whispered, her face brightening.
(49) - So you didn’t call for yourself, you tried so hard? (50) Did you try for others? - the girl asked, looking at me with curiosity.
(51) “Granny, I’ll go,” she turned to Polina Ivanovna. (52) - One guy bought me a movie ticket for “Repentance”. (53) What’s going on at the cinema! (54) Some kind of psychosis! (55) Talk to this gentleman. (56) Pleasant company. (57) Well, I rushed off. (58) Kisses!
(59) The ambulance arrived a few minutes later. (60) Perhaps the girl met with the doctor somewhere near the elevator. (61) Polina Ivanovna was examined and told that it was necessary to urgently send her to the hospital. (62) They put him on a stretcher, covered him with a blanket up to his chin and took him away.
(63) I looked out the window and wondered why the car had been parked at our front door for so long. (64) Finally she left. (65) And the next day I found out that Polina Ivanovna died in the elevator.
(According to P. Vasiliev)
Vasiliev Pavel Aleksandrovich (1929–1990) – Russian prose writer. The main theme of his works is war. The most famous books: “The Guy in the Cap”, “In the Spring, After the Snow”, “Choice”, “Sudoma-Mountain”, etc.
| Approximate range of problems | Author's position |
| 1. The problem of true beauty. (What is the true beauty of a person?) | 1. The true beauty of a person is manifested in his deeds and actions, in his attitude towards others. |
| 2. The problem of kindness and mercy. (How should a person treat others?) | 2. A person must show kindness and mercy towards the people around him. |
| 3. The problem of relationships between relatives. (What should be the relationship between relatives?) | 3. Relationships between family members should be based on love, mutual understanding, and care for loved ones. |
| 4. The problem of selfishness. (What is the manifestation of a person’s spiritual ugliness? Can an outwardly beautiful person be ugly?) | 4. People who care only about themselves often remain indifferent even to those closest to them. |
Literary example: Dostoevsky “Crime and Punishment”
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The great Soviet writer Vladimir Ivanovich Soloukhin reflects on the meaning of beauty in people's lives, on its necessity in modern society. After all, beauty is what surrounds us. Smallest details in the structure of a flower or the majestic and beautiful crowns of trees - everything is beautiful, wonderful and unique in its own way.
In this text, the author raises the problem of lack of beauty in the modern world; in particular, V. Soloukhin takes flowers as a unit of beauty. (“The need for flowers has been great at all times.”).
The questions raised by the writer are undoubtedly relevant. Nowadays, people are increasingly immersed in problems and work, while forgetting about the urgent need to communicate with nature. Previously, it was more common to see families walking in parks, like, for example, a father and daughter picking a bouquet of daisies and cornflowers for mom. Of course, all this can be seen now, but less and less often. People try to buy fresh flowers, subconsciously trying to get closer to true perfection. Therefore, in our time, flowers are expensive: “If you remember the prices, you will have to conclude that people now have a hunger for beauty and for communication with living nature, familiarization with it, connection with it, at least fleetingly.”
According to V. Soloukhin, flowers are an ideal of beauty (“... in flowers we are not dealing with some kind of pseudo-beauty, but with an ideal and a model”). The author notes that “nature does not know how to cheat,” therefore, in all creations there is true beauty and authenticity, which man so desperately needs in our time. The writer also reflects on the fact that flowers are a kind of “barometer” of the state of the state and the people in it (“A state in prosperity and strength is the measure in everything, and with the decomposition of the state fortress, the attitude towards flowers takes on the features of excess and morbidity”).
I agree with V. Soloukhin that flowers are the standard of beauty. After all, if you look closely at a field chamomile, or at a rose, you can see how unusual, graceful and light each flower is filled. A person needs to immerse himself in this beauty in order not to lose touch with nature, to more keenly feel the true authenticity of natural beauty.
Everyone knows that flowers have been a source of inspiration for many talented people. For example, lilacs inspired the famous Russian composer P.I. Tchaikovsky to create the rare beauty of the fairy tale ballet “The Sleeping Beauty.” And the symbolist A. Blok loved and ardently praised violets in his works. In my opinion, and among ordinary people There are many who truly love flowers and care for them, because each flower has its own unique character.
And in the fairy tale of the French writer S. Exupery “The Little Prince” main character The Little Prince argues that his beloved rose has a very difficult character and is afraid of drafts; he understands that flowers, like people, know how to feel and empathize, and perhaps even love.
To summarize, I would like to note that beauty is one of the possible parts of the human soul; beauty must be felt and understood, and one must try not to lose touch with it so that the soul does not become impoverished.
Boris Ekimov
Memory of Summer
short stories
STEPPE BEAM
I’ll start with a reader’s letter: “At one time, in very old years, I had to drive a car in your area, from Kalach to Surovikin. We decided to take a rest, drove off the road to a small ravine. We got out of the car - and it was like another world. It’s impossible to describe I can, but I remember thirty years later. It was in May or June..."
A little strange, isn't it? An ordinary steppe beam. What's in it? "Palm trees of the south" do not grow there. Only grass, bushes, trees. But I still remember it thirty years later. Probably not in vain.
A beam is an ordinary hollow between steppe mounds or ridges. Steep, deep or spacious, with gentle slopes. There are many of them, beams and beams, in the Don steppe. In the gullies the water is closer, there are springs. There the grass is greener and thicker, and not only thorns and rose hips grow, but also sedge, aspen, and linden. Lipologovskaya beam, Osinogovskaya. From my summer home, a house in the village, to the nearest ravine in Zadonye is an hour's walk, by bicycle it's twice as fast, by car it's just a stone's throw away. Birch beam and Nut beam - these are in plain sight, near the bridge over the Don. But I like Grushevaya better: it’s spacious and away from crowded human roads.
You pass the bridge, leaving the Don waters behind; you will climb up the mountain along a noisy asphalt road; you turn left, run three kilometers along a narrow, also asphalt road, and away from it. Now the clayey, not painfully traveled rut down and down. This is already Pear Beam.
Early spring. April. It was just starting to get warmer. Only another day the sun warms.
And immediately I was drawn to Zadonye. Let's go. And there it’s still boring and empty like in winter: black steppe, chilly wind.
I turned off the road, went down half a mountain to Grushovaya Balka, got out of the car and realized that I had arrived early, I was in a hurry: everything was bare, black, only here and there dry leaves rustling on the oak trees. But once you’ve arrived, you can’t leave at once. He walked away from the car and sat down on a hillock.
Clear day. The sun is warming. Disturbed by my arrival, the midday silence closed again, like still water: the waves splashed and calmed down. A simple lemongrass butterfly, sparkling yellow, traced the air.
With heightened hearing, in the windless, midday silence, I sensed some kind of continuous rustling, looked around and saw an awakened, living anthill. Quite large for our area - knee-high - the mound was seething with spring ant life. I walked up to him and bent down: a pungent ant spirit smelled in my face. Remembering my childhood, I put a dry piece of grass on the anthill, and then licked it, wincing sweetly from the formic acid. An elegant coffee-spotted hives butterfly circled in front of me in a leisurely, fluttering flight, now flaring up under the sun with the iridescent tints of its wings, then fading.
Another time passed - slow, viscous; all together: both life and sweet oblivion. Noisy earth bees are slowly looking for shining marigold flowers or stars goose onions- first color. Red soldier bugs, huddled together, bask on an old stump. Nearby, a scarlet drop of a ladybug is hurrying up a dried stem, wanting to fly up.
The sun is above your head; warm earth; pungent spirit of leafy preli and young bitter buds. Quiet world of life. This is early spring, Zadonye, Grushovaya Balka. It's easy to get here, but there's no strength to leave. And even in the young summer. On a hot afternoon you will drive through the village streets, then you will pass the Don. Everywhere - summer, greenery. But they went down to Grushovaya Balka, got up, got out of the car - and it was as if it had hit them and blinded them. You squint, you can’t believe your eyes: is this another land or a magical dream?
Flowering meadows are like colored lakes on the green banks of oak and elm trees. Nomad blossoms pink - pink lake. Purple spill of china and mouse peas. Sunny yellow spears of mullein, pink ones of wild mallow. Cute daisies, spur. Everything shines, everything blazes under the sun, exuding an intoxicating spirit.
We're delirious. Greenery and color - above the knees, waist-deep. On the lips - sweetness and bitterness. White, pink, lilac, violet, gold - in light and dark greens. No, this is not my stingy Don land - sand and clay, burning red, this is a golden fairy dream.
The greenery of small beams cuts through the flowering earth with lanes. And this is salvation. From the bright, blinding multicolor, the eye rests on the greenery of oaks and black maples. Wild cherries spread across the ground, along the lacquered greenery - a scattering of pinking berries. We passed the beam, its coolness cooled our face and body. And again - yellow, scarlet, purple, blue. The constellations of St. John's wort, clouds of white and pink porridge, fragrant thickets of sweet clover sway and float on thin elastic stems, sway and sway under the sun. Honey sweetness and sweet, tart bitterness. Everything is here: wormwood, savory, yarrow, ironweed, immortelle, oregano, which has not yet opened its color, but is giving a sign. Here she is - at the edge of the forest.
It's hot, sultry, but it's easy to breathe. You go and touch and embrace the flowering thing, which showers and gives you golden pollen, petals, bitter juice and sweet honey saturation. And now you’re all smelling of this sweetness, tartness, bitterness...
You fall, close your eyes, falling not into oblivion, but into the same festive dream: blue and scarlet floats before your eyes. You drink the thick and fragrant air, the viscous infusion, you drink and feel the blood bubbling in your veins. This is June: young summer in bloom, Pear Beam, which descends in a huge sweep from the tops of the Zadonsk mounds to the very water. Grushevaya, Krasnaya Balka, Blue - the entire Don land is now like a woman in her ripest, hottest season: dazzlingly beautiful, hot, sweet, intoxicatingly fragrant and so desirable.
They remember that earlier, when during manual haymaking they lived for weeks in huts while mowing, the most beautiful children were born in March, nine months after mowing.
Time for autumn. On a fine August day we made our way from the Osinovsky farm to Bolshoi Nabatov. As always, we wanted to shorten the path and got a little lost. And only when they came across an abandoned field camp did they realize where they had ended up.
They got out of the car and, without saying a word, walked down from the road - towards the greenery, towards the shade, towards the coolness, to where a wooded ravine flowed from the hillside into the valley. They came up, sat down, and then lay down on the grass, under the shade of oak trees that had already gathered clusters of young acorns. After the humming car, the shaking road, I could breathe well, I looked around and I no longer wanted to rush anywhere.
The dry, hot summer was ending. The earth was scorched, the steppe grasses turned yellow and dried out. And nearby, in a wooded gully, the foliage of the trees was lushly green, and the water of a spring was babbling somewhere below, in the depths of the gully. Blue flowers midday chicory, yellow fragrant tansy, larkspur were colorful at the edge. The spirit of greenery, close water, wet earth, rolling in waves, dissolved in the hot steppe. Grasshoppers chirped, and some kind of bird - it seemed like a warbler - quietly murmured nearby, in the bushes.
Today it is winter again. Outside the windows - late December, dim, with short days. I came across a letter from a reader among the papers, and I immediately remembered another time - spring and summer. This is a long memory, for life. But just a steppe ravine, somewhere in the Trans-Don region, halfway from Kalach-on-Don to Surovikin. You just need to stop and get out of the car.
KAYMAK
Ask a Russian person if he likes kaymak. The answer is most often bewilderment: “What is this thing?” Probably, our Don region, the Cossack region, is really not Russia. Because their people, whether they are indigenous, inveterate Cossacks or have simply lived in our area, will immediately smile, their eyes will become oily, and their lips will smack their lips: “Kaymachok...” And that’s the whole answer.
Regular dictionaries of the Russian language bypass Kaimak. As they say, let it be worse for them. The wise Dahl reports that kaymak is “cream from baked milk, foam... boiled cream”...
Thank you for not being forgotten. But what is “melted” and “boiled”... And most importantly, you can’t lick the dictionary. And to truly understand what kaymak is, you need to try it. So, put the dictionary aside, let’s go to the Sunday market somewhere in Kalach-on-Don, or in the village of Ust-Medveditskaya.
We've arrived. People... as if in China. The market is buzzing. Who to sell, who to buy, and most of all - to look at people.
Today we pass the meat aisles and even the fish ones, where pike perch and carp, spade bream from Tsimla, hanging catfish and mountains of dried sabrefish. And we don’t need vegetable pickles these days: scarlet cheeky tomatoes, pimply fragrant cucumbers in dill, vigorous cabbage with bell peppers and even a royal pickled watermelon. All this is past, past... Our path is to the dairy row, where the Cossack women of the Kamyshevsky farm, Ilyevsky, kumovsky, five-izbyansky brought fresh, sour, folded milk, cottage cheese and sour cream to the market... And of course the famous Don kaymak ! Here it is, on plates, on dishes - milky, creamy, fluffy foam, finger-thick, two-thick, four-fold - like a pancake - rolled up. Here is pink kaymak, gently browned, and here is heat-simmered, brown with a crust; this one turns oily yellow. And some people like it completely white, drowning in kaymak liquid. Market kaymaki - for every taste. Choose. And you can even “eat”, that is, taste it with a spoon, from underneath. That's how it's supposed to be. The main thing is to find a freshly taken kaymak, with a “tear”. And so that he breathes the unique kaymak spirit, in which it seems - and should be! - everything from the farm, as they say, is “unowned,” that is, pristine: fragrant steppe June hay (“We have a pound of hay like a pound of honey,” they will say even now), clean water, the Don wind, and therefore “sweetened” milk, It is from this that real kaymak is made, which now flaunts on the shelves of the Sunday market.
But of course, it’s better to go for kaymak, go in the morning to the yard where they keep the cows and make kaymak. To the same Kamyshi farm, it’s nearby. You run up to the time, the hostess smiles: “I’ll be filming now.” It is “removal”, the kaymaki are removed. It's called "Kaymachny eat". Eat one, eat two...
Here a heavy cauldron or a spacious pan of milk is brought in from the cold, and before your eyes, with a wooden spatula or a spoon, the top is removed - a lush, spongy pancake of frozen baked cream, a huge foam in thick smudges, juicy and fragrant. In a word, kaymak. Thank the hostess, pay and go to your base to drink morning tea with fresh kaymak. Preferably with hot crumpets. You break off a piece of hot crumpet, and at the top there is a cold kaymak, which immediately begins to melt and leak. Rather, into your mouth... Smelling hot bread flesh and the chill of fragrant kaymak melting on your tongue. Eat - don't get tired. Not pampering, not a delicacy, just kaymak. He is in our area from childhood to old age. Even at funerals, after hot bread, donuts generously spread with kaymak are always served with broth.
And kaymak begins in childhood. He is in every yard where cows are kept. In my childhood, we had one cow in our yard (after all, it’s not a farm, but a village), and you can’t get much milk from one, especially since in that post-war period most of the milk went to the state for cow tax.
As a boy, I carried and carried cans of milk “for change,” receiving paper receipts in return. So kaymak appeared in our yard very rarely. And therefore it is better now to remember the story of our old neighbor, the long-deceased Praskovya Ivanovna Ivankova, who grew up as an orphan on the Peskovatka farm, with her dear aunt. There were a lot of cows at the base. And Praskovya Ivanovna loved kaymak until the end of her days, repeating:
- I'm kamashny. But are there really kaymaki now? It used to be on the farm, at my aunt’s...
It used to be that they milked the cows in the evening, strained the milk, poured it into a flattened bowl, that is, spacious at the top, clay pot: whether it’s a frying pan, a sagan or a makitra - and they take it out into the yard to stand, “on the wheel” - an ordinary cart wheel raised above the ground on a stake. Cats and dogs won't get it. There the milk stands, waiting in the wings.
Early in the morning the housewife will light up the Russian stove, cook herself off, and then put on the milk. There, in a Russian oven, the milk simmers in light heat until the evening. This kind of milk is called baked milk. It is thick and reddish in color. In the evening, the milk returns to freedom again, “to the wheel,” or perhaps to the cellar. Early in the morning, remove the kaymak - thick foam that has hardened on top. If kaymaki are prepared for sale, then they are rolled into a pancake, and if for themselves, then in a bowl or in a skull.
“You collect kaymaki,” recalled Praskovya Ivanovna, “and you can’t resist.” Under the underside of the kaymak there is brown stewed pulp. I can't stand it. Spoon it, spoon it into your mouth. So sweet... While I’m taking off my kaymaki, we’ll eat and don’t want to have breakfast anymore. My aunt reproaches me: “I grabbed it... The duck”... I answered her: “Don’t force me to take off the kaymaki. They climb into my mouth themselves.”
Such is the memory.
Later, when there were fewer cows and the Russian stoves were gone, milk for the kaymaks was simmered directly to the base. They built an out-door stove made of adobe or wild stone, and placed a Kalmyk cauldron with a round bottom on it. They will collect a “morning table” and a “evening table”, heat it up, and then in the evening they set it up or hang the cauldron somewhere outside until the morning.
In our younger years, being mischievous at night, we went to “steal kaymak”, offending the owners. Cauldrons usually hung under the eaves of barns, under the canopy of summer kitchens. In distant farmsteads, from where there is a long way to the bazaars, kaymak butter was churned from kaymak, slightly sour, streaked with brown foam. Smelling, delicious. Now he's long gone. And it won't.
The kaymaki themselves, thank God, remain for now. Let them not be the same as in the old days. After all, now there are no Russian stoves, no roasting pots, no cauldrons, which means there is no truly baked milk. But the kaymaki still remained. When you come to the market in winter city life, your feet involuntarily carry you to the dairy aisle. They meet you there and persuade you: “Take real milk... Sour cream, homemade cottage cheese...” Sometimes you will hear: “Kaymachok...” You will hear, look - something is white in glass jars, and you will only sigh to yourself: “No , my good ones. You haven’t even seen a kaymak.” There can be no real kaymak either in Volgograd or Moscow. To try it, or rather, to taste it, you need to go to Kalach-on-Don, to the Ust-Medveditskaya village, to the Sunday market. Or better yet, go straight to the farm, in the morning, when the kaymaks are removed.
What they brought in from the cold was not a clay pot, not a Kalmyk cauldron, but just a wide saucepan, not closed with a lid, but tied with a clean scarf. They opened it. We ran along the edges, cutting. And here it is - lush, tenderly browned, foamy kaymak, with thick, sweet kaymak liquid. As they say, eat or eat, for good health.
CELEBRAL COLOR
In recent years, my yard has been increasingly filled with empty grass. Either there is less strength to fight it off, but rather a hunt: it grows... and let it grow. There's a lot of space. And the garden was poisoned. And what a garden this is now! Only the name. A bed of onions, a bed of garlic, fifty tomato bushes and some greens. There is a lot of empty land. No longer with a hoe, I go out to mow in the morning with a scythe.
But the flowers remained. It's August, the end of it. It's chilly in the morning. Dew. During the day it is warm, but there is no scorching heat.
My simple flowers blaze, burn, gently shine - joy to the soul and eyes.
Of course, the main beauty and pride are zinnias; in Nashensky, in Donsky - “soldiers”, probably because the flower stands upright, does not sway on a hard stem, like a grenadier.
And all together they are like a high fire, crimson, scarlet, red. The quiet flame does not burn him, but warms him. Anyone who does not enter the yard immediately praises: “What good zinnias you have!” People even came to take pictures near the flowers. Honestly! Why not?.. Zinnias are really good.
A long ridge along the path. Tall stems, almost tall. And they bloom powerfully and generously, from the ground to the tops. Crimson, scarlet, pink. They bloom and bloom. It will be like this for a long time. Until the first matinee sometime in October. They will freeze in color. You get up and go out into the yard - it’s cold, the grass is covered in white frost. "Soldier soldiers" - zinnias, their bright flowers and green leaves, frozen. They crunch under your hand. They break. The sun will rise, they will melt and turn black. End.
But now it's August. It's still far from sad. Scarlet and red are blazing, burning like a fire, pink flowers. It's a pleasure to look at them.
And a little further, deeper into the yard, the flowerbed is not a flowerbed, the bed is not a bed, but like an oriental bazaar, its spacious overflow. From summer kitchen to the cellar, to the barn and to the house. There are asters here: white, lilac, fawn; with a yellow basket in the middle and - delicate, fragile, pointed balls. There are mighty marigolds here, “chakrankas” with carved openwork leaves. And the flowers are cream, saffron, carmine. Each petal is edged with golden yellow and therefore shines softly; looks and feels like velvet. That is why they are called marigolds. Powerful sedum bushes: hare cabbage, young... In August they just begin to bloom. Azure, light lilac, crimson baskets-inflorescences with a honey spirit surrounded by fleshy, juicy, waxy foliage. Gramophones of fragrant petunias - white, purple, pink - are modestly visible along the edges of the flowerbed.
What a flowerbed there is... Oriental bazaar. Rainbow multicolor on the green lining of the leaves. Bees and bumblebees ring and hum, rejoicing and feeding; Golden dragonflies rustle with mica wings, flare up and go out.
Flowers... Even if they are simple, ours, we plant them, weed them, water them, and take care of them. You can't live without flowers.
In the neighboring yard, old Mikolavna lives out her century. He barely crawls around the house, doesn’t go out into the yard, only sometimes sits on the porch. He can’t go out into the yard, but every year he tells his young helpers: “Plant a dahlia for me near the thresholds.” They listen to her and imprison her. Dahlia bush blooms. Mikolavna looks at him, sitting on the steps in the evenings.
Across the street, on the contrary, old Gordeevna lives. She has shortness of breath and a bad heart. There's no way she can bend over. But every summer “dawns” bloom in her front garden. “This is our flower, from the farm...” she explains. “I love it...”
Neighbor Yuri. The person is unhealthy, sick. What a demand from him! But in the summer, a mighty bush of pink peonies blooms in the middle of a completely neglected yard. “Mom planted it...” he explains. “I water it.” His mother died a long time ago. And this flower bush is like a distant hello.
Aunt Lida doesn’t have a lot of land near her house. “In the palm of your hand...” she complains. “But you need to plant potatoes, and beets, and tomatoes, both of them. And the land - in the palm of your hand.” But pansies bloom near the house, and the “royal curls” turn golden. It is impossible without this.
Ivan Alexandrovich and his wife also lack land. Every millimeter in their yard is calculated with mathematical precision. You have to get creative. After the potatoes, the cabbage also has time to ripen before frost. The onions have been removed and the late tomatoes are growing. But they also have a couple of “dawn” bushes, several dahlias, and the “sun” creeps and blooms.
Where the owners are young and able, there are roses, there are lilies, there is a lot of things in the courtyards, in the palisades.
But with flowers there are so many worries. They will not grow by themselves, from God. Plant them, look after them, loosen them, weed them, feed them with mullein. Try not to water for at least a day in our heat! They'll dry up right away. Not like flowers, you won’t see leaves. Growing flowers is a lot of work. But there is more joy.
Early August morning. Breakfast in the wild. The sun is behind. There are flowers before my eyes. How many of them... Dozens, hundreds... Scarlet, blue, azure, golden-honey... Everyone is looking at me. Or rather, over my shoulder, into the morning rising sun. Yellowness and whiteness, delicate cornflower blue, greenery, scarlet, heavenly blue shine before your eyes. Our simple flowers look and breathe into my face.
Summer morning. There's a long day ahead...
Sometimes, when they start saying bad things about people: they say that people have become useless, have become lazy, have become lazy... - during such conversations I always remember flowers. They are in every yard. So it's not all bad. Because a flower is not just a matter of looking and smelling... Tell or whisper to a woman or girl: “You are my azure color...” - and you will see the happiness that splashes in her eyes.
LIVE LIFE
Our summer life in the old house, in the village, among other things, is also happily different from the city life that is around - living life. It can't be compared to a city apartment. There is a desert there.
In my yard I tried to count the plants and herbs that were turning green and blooming, at least the most noticeable ones: creeping knotweed and light reed grass, arzhanets, tragus, fragrant lilies of the valley, blue iris, cute dandelions, lilies of the valley and nettles, simple-minded burdock, tall mallows , steppe scarlet poppy, celandine, spurge, carrot, wormwood, plantain, bindweed with white and pinkish flowers, tartar bush, fence hemp... Having reached a hundred names, I abandoned this empty task. May God count and protect them.
And about the living creatures that fly, flutter and crawl, there is nothing to say. An unexpected cockroach wanders into a city apartment, and with it comes war: crush and poison! A tiny moth flutters around - there is complete confusion. In the old house, in its spacious courtyard, the order is different: there are countless residents here. And there is enough shelter for everyone.
True, swallows no longer live on the veranda. We don’t keep a cow, but the swallow loves the bestial spirit. Swallows do not nest, although they fly in and chirp; But the sparrows are a full yard; the chicks are hatched at the gates. On a thorny thorn there is an insecure nest of a turtle dove. You can’t even call it a nest, it’s some kind of sieve. Nearby are starlings, tits, and warblers. Yellow-winged oriole - in the dense crown of an elm. A woodpecker sometimes knocks while healing old apple trees. There are a lot of birds. And the smaller creatures are too numerous to count. Heavy bumblebees, earth and tree bees, amber wasps, light-winged butterflies - from majestic swallowtails, bright urticaria to all sorts of little things, grasshoppers and crickets, praying mantises, toy soldiers, ladybugs, ants, spiders, and other insects that you can’t count. It may only seem to an outsider that our green yard is dozing in lifeless oblivion. Look and listen - life is everywhere.
The same ants... Of course, there cannot be large anthills in the yard, but there are ant people scurrying around here and there, running around. They rush here and there, dragging something. Sometimes ants appear in unexpected places.
The old apricot tree is gradually drying up. I cut off the branches. A thick branch stuck out at the base of the tree. I hit it with the butt of an axe, it fell off and exposed an intricate pattern of ant passages made in the rotten wood. Passages, galleries, secluded storerooms with grub and brood - white eggs. The twig fell off, revealing a hidden life. The red ants began to fuss and run around... What a disaster! Of course, I couldn’t put the branch back. But he didn’t start lighting the nest any further. Let them live. They live. Sometimes I come to an old apricot tree, to its foot. I sit down and look at the ant life in the corroded tree trunk. Sometimes I bring a gift - some seeds, crumbs, a ripe apricot, a plum, a tomato core. They immediately take away the small alms, sometimes not at once, but they bite into it and feast for several days until only a bone and a withered skin remain.
But there is a place in our yard that I pass by, perhaps not with apprehension, but with some kind of vague anxiety. The place is not secluded, but in plain sight - on the path that leads from the house to the summer kitchen and past it to the garden. The path is made of concrete slabs, with grass growing on both sides. Path and path... But when I walk along it, right at the junction of two slabs, I involuntarily slow down my pace, sometimes I stop and even squat down, staring at the concrete of the slab, into the grassy earth. I look and listen carefully. A gray slab, covered with earth and bordered by creeping goose grass and tall reed grass. No hole, no crack. And there are no sounds. The reed grass will sway in the wind. And that's all. The small grasshopper will chirp. But it's up here. But from there, from underground, there is no sign. Although I know that somewhere here, very close, a mighty life is in full swing, unknown to me.
Once a year, usually on a warm June day, this life suddenly comes out. Some secret cracks and passages open up and a living swarm of thousands and thousands of tiny ants spills out into the white light. There are so many of them that they flood the path and roadsides with a black living flood. The fuss and fuss lasts almost the entire day. More and more ant hordes arrive from underground, scurrying and hurrying. It just takes me by surprise: where were they located? Such passion...
And in the evening you look - it’s empty. And the next day there is no crack, no hole, not even a hint of the recent riot. It was like a dream. The earth is silent and the grass is silent. Appeared for a day and again went underground for whole year.
It’s like I understand everything with my mind. I read Fabre and a few other things. This was the usual emergence and flight of young ant queens. Ant families spread this way. In my mind I seem to understand everything, but for some reason I always slow down when walking through this place. Sometimes I stop, squat down, and peer. Empty space: no cracks, no holes. But I know: somewhere out there, hidden from me, is life. Invisible and unknown. Like a different light.
It's all strange. And when you think about it, it’s even scary. We hurry, we jump, we fly. Distant countries beckon, distant worlds. And he is here, another world. I’m standing above him, he’s nearby, unknown. And is there only one? Maybe there is another one nearby who doesn’t give any sign of himself at all. Another and a third... How many of them, these lives, hidden worlds, hidden from our sight?.. Or simply not seen in the darkness of the night, or in a clear day, when the human gaze glides across the vast horizon: green grass like grass, a flower, yes flower, eternal stone and eternal wind in the crown tall tree. That's all.
I’m sitting on the porch on a calm summer afternoon. The birds became silent. The street is deserted. But he looks at me from all sides, breathes into my face, sings, and rings, and rattles the alarm, merging into silence, and an endlessly multifaceted living life flows. Next to mine, human. One of them all.
FISH IN THE HAY
I am sure that most readers will look at my title with bewilderment. “Dog in the manger” is understandable: I won’t make a fuss for myself and I won’t give it to others. But how and why did the fish get into the hay?
This is ours, Don. Anything can happen on the Don. For example, in the village of Nizhnechirskaya, the famous Don fish sabrefish “ate hay.” It was like this: at one time the Cossacks did not bring hay from the water meadow, postponing this concern for later. As luck would have it, the Don flooded and the haystacks went downstream. “The Chiryans’ saber fish ate the hay,” echoed throughout the area. They remember this even now.
Azure color
In recent years, my yard has been increasingly filled with empty grass. Either the strength to fight it off has become less, but rather the hunt: it grows... and let it grow. There's a lot of space. And the garden was poisoned. And what a garden this is now! Only the name. A bed of onions, a bed of garlic, fifty tomato bushes and some greens. There is a lot of empty land. No longer with a hoe, I go out to mow in the morning with a scythe.
But the flowers remained. It's August, the end of it. It's chilly in the morning. Dew. During the day it is warm, but there is no scorching heat.
My simple flowers blaze, burn, and gently shine—a joy to the soul and eyes.
Of course, the main beauty and pride are zinnias; in Nashenskiy, in Donskiy, “soldiers,” probably because the flower stands upright and doesn’t sway on its hard stem like a grenadier.
And all together they are like a high fire, crimson, scarlet, red. The quiet flame does not burn him, but warms him. Whoever enters the yard immediately praises: “What good zinnias you have!” People even came to take pictures near the flowers. Honestly! Why not? Zinnias are really good.
A long ridge along the path. Tall stems, almost human height. And they bloom powerfully and generously, from the ground to the tops. Crimson, scarlet, pink. They bloom and bloom. It will be like this for a long time. Until the first matinee sometime in October. They will freeze in color. You get up and go out into the yard - it’s cold, the grass is covered in white frost. The “soldier” zinnias, their bright flowers and green leaves, were frozen. They crunch under your hand. They break. The sun will rise - they will melt and turn black. End.
But now it’s August. It's still far from sad. Scarlet, red, pink flowers are blazing, burning like a fire. It's a pleasure to look at them.
And a little further, deeper into the yard, the flowerbed is not a flowerbed, the bed is not a bed, but like an oriental bazaar, its spacious overflow. From the summer kitchen to the cellar, to the barn and the house. There are asters here: white, lilac, fawn; with a yellow basket in the middle and delicate, fragile pointed balls. Here are mighty marigolds, “chakhranka”, with carved openwork leaves. And the flowers are cream, saffron, carmine. Each petal is edged with golden yellow and therefore shines softly. It looks and feels like velvet. That is why they are called marigolds. Powerful sedum bushes: hare cabbage, young... In August they just begin to bloom. Azure, light lilac, crimson baskets-inflorescences with a honey spirit surrounded by fleshy, juicy, waxy foliage. Gramophones of fragrant petunias modestly peek out along the edges of the flowerbed. – white, purple, pink.
What a flowerbed there is... Oriental bazaar. Rainbow multicolor on the green lining of the leaves. Bees and bumblebees ring and hum, rejoicing and feeding; Golden dragonflies rustle with mica wings, flare up and go out.
Flowers... Even if they are simple, ours, we plant them, weed them, water them, and take care of them. You can't live without flowers.
In the neighboring yard, old Mikolavna lives out her century. He barely crawls around the house, doesn’t go out into the yard, only sometimes sits on the porch. He can’t go out into the yard, but every year he tells his young helpers: “Plant a dahlia for me near the thresholds.” They listen to her and imprison her. Dahlia bush blooms. Mikolavna looks at him, sitting on the steps in the evenings.
Across the street, on the contrary, old Gordeevna lives. She has shortness of breath and a bad heart. There's no way she can bend over. But every summer “dawns” bloom in her front garden. “This is our flower, from the farm...” she explains. - I love him…"
Neighbor Yuri. The person is unhealthy, sick. What a demand from him! But in the summer, a mighty bush of pink peonies blooms in the middle of a completely neglected yard. “Mom planted...” he explains. “I’m watering.” His mother died a long time ago. And this flower bush is like a distant hello.
Aunt Lida has little land near her house. “In the palm of your hand...” she complains. – But we need to plant potatoes, beets, tomatoes, both. And the land is in the palm of your hand.” But pansies bloom near the house, and the “royal curls” turn golden. It is impossible without this.
Ivan Alexandrovich and his wife also lack land. Every millimeter in their yard is calculated with mathematical precision. You have to get creative. After the potatoes, the cabbage also has time to ripen before frost. The onions have been removed and the late tomatoes are growing. But they also have a couple of “dawn” bushes, several dahlias, and the “sun” creeps and blooms.
Where the owners are young and able, there are roses, there are lilies, there is a lot of things in the courtyards, in the palisades.
But there are so many worries with flowers. They will not grow by themselves, from God. Plant them, look after them, loosen them, weed them, feed them with mullein. Try not to water for at least a day in our heat! They'll dry up right away. Not to mention the colors, you can’t see the leaves. Growing flowers is a lot of work. But there is more joy.
Early August morning. Breakfast in the wild. The sun is behind. There are flowers before my eyes. How many of them... Dozens, hundreds... Scarlet, blue, azure, golden-honey... Everyone is looking at me. Or rather, over my shoulder, into the morning rising sun. Yellowness and whiteness, delicate cornflower blue, greenery, scarlet, heavenly blue shine before your eyes. Our simple flowers look and breathe into my face.
Summer morning. There's a long day ahead...
Sometimes, when they start saying bad things about people: they say that the people have become useless, have become lazy, have become lazy... - during such conversations I always remember about flowers. They are in every yard. So it's not all bad. Because a flower is not just a matter of looking and smelling... Tell or whisper to a woman or girl: “You are my azure color...” - and you will see the happiness that splashes in her eyes.
Russian language
17 out of 24
(1) In recent years, my yard has been increasingly filled with empty grass. (2) Either the strength to fight it off has become less, but rather the hunt: it grows... and let it grow. (H) There is a lot of space. (4) And the garden was poisoned. (5) And what a garden this is now! (6) Only a name. (7) A bed of onions, a bed of garlic, fifty tomato bushes and some greens. (8) Lots and lots of land is empty, but the flowers remain.
(9) Flowers... (10) They may be simple, ours, but we plant them, weed them, water them, and take care of them. (11) You can’t live without flowers.
(12) In the neighboring courtyard old Mikolavna lives out her century. (13) He barely crawls around the house, doesn’t go out into the yard, only sometimes sits on the porch. (14) He can’t go out into the yard, but every year he orders his young helpers: (15) “Plant a dahlia for me near the thresholds.” (16) They listen to her and put her in jail. (17) The dahlia bush is blooming. (18) Mikolavna looks at him, sitting on the steps in the evenings.
(19) Across the street, on the contrary, old Gordeevna lives. (20) She has shortness of breath and a bad heart. (21) She can’t bend over at all. (22) But every summer “dawns” bloom in her front garden. (23) “This is our flower, from the farm...” she explains. (24) - I love him...”
(25) Neighbor Yuri. (26) The person is unhealthy, sick. (27) What a demand from him! (28) But in the summer, a mighty bush of pink peonies blooms in the middle of a completely neglected yard. (29) “Mom planted... - he explains. (30) - I’m watering.” (31) His mother died a long time ago. (32) And this flower bush is like a distant hello.
(33) Aunt Lida has little land near her house. (34) “In the palm of your hand...” she complains. (35) - But we need to plant potatoes, and beets, and tomatoes, both of them. (36) And the lands - in the palm of your hand." (37) But pansies bloom near the house, and the “royal curls” turn golden. (38) It’s impossible without this.
(39) Ivan Alexandrovich and his wife also lack land. (40) In their yard, every millimeter is calculated with mathematical precision. (41) You have to get creative. (42) After the potatoes, the cabbage also has time to ripen before frost. (43) The onions have been removed, the late tomatoes are growing. (44) But they also have a couple of “dawn” bushes, several dahlias, and the “sun” creeps and blooms.
(45) Where the owners are young and able, there are roses, there are lilies, there is a lot of things in the courtyards, in the palisades.
(46) But with flowers there are so many worries. (47) They will not grow by themselves. (48) Plant them, look after them, loosen them, weed them, feed them with mullein. (49) Try not to water for at least a day in our heat! (50) They will dry up immediately. (51) Not to mention the colors, you won’t see the leaves. (52) Growing flowers is a lot of work. (53) But there is more joy.
(54) Early morning in August. (55)3 breakfast in the wild. (56) The sun is behind. (57) There are flowers before my eyes. (58) How many of them... (59) Tens, hundreds, thousands... (60) Scarlet, blue, azure, golden-honey... (61) Everyone is looking at me. (62) Or rather, over my shoulder, into the morning rising sun. (bZ) Yellowness and whiteness, delicate cornflower blue, greenery, scarlet, heavenly blue shine before my eyes. (64) Our simple flowers look and breathe into my face.
(65) Summer morning. (66) Long day ahead...
(67) Sometimes, when they start saying bad things about people: they say, the people are worthless, lazy... - during such conversations I always remember flowers. (68) They are in every yard. (69) So, it’s not all that bad. (70) Because a flower is not just a look and a sniff... (71) Tell, whisper to a woman, a girl: (72) “You are my azure color...” - and you will see what happiness will splash into her eyes.
(According to B. Ekimov *)
* Boris Petrovich Ekimov (born in 1938) - Russian prose writer and publicist, laureate of the State Prize of the Russian Federation (1998), laureate of the Alexander Solzhenitsyn Prize (2008). Boris Ekimov is often called the conductor of the literary traditions of the Don region. The leitmotif of his works is the real life everyday life of a common man. The collections of stories “3a with Warm Bread”, “Night of Healing”, “The Shepherd’s Star”, and the novel “Parental Home” became widely known.
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Boris Petrovich Ekimov is one of the amazing masters of artistic expression. His works instill in us a reverent attitude towards nature.
The author raises the problem of a person’s relationship to flowers. In the text the author describes many examples and lives modern people. "Flowers... They may be simple, ours, but we plant them, weed them, and take care of them." Nature can bring great joy. “You can’t live without flowers,” writes the writer.
The author's position is expressed quite clearly. He is convinced that flowers have a positive effect on a person. The author claims that while a person admires nature and strives to be closer to it - It cannot be said that our generation is worthless and lazy. After all, a person spends a lot of energy admiring the flowers in his garden. “Growing flowers is a lot of work. But there’s more joy.”
I completely share the author's opinion. Indeed, it is a great happiness to admire the flowers planted on our own. In life modern man, filled with the bustle of the city, you need to be able to be closer to nature. I saw
Criteria
- 1 of 1 K1 Formulation of source text problems
- 3 of 3 K2
