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Sergey Fomichev
heavenly shepherd

© Fomichev S. A., 2016

Lyrics
1980–2016

Poetry has one amazing property. She returns the word to its original, virgin freshness. The most erased, completely “spoken” words by us, having completely lost their figurative qualities for us, living only as a verbal shell, in poetry begin to sparkle, ring, and smell sweet!

Konstantin Paustovsky

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

Gustave Flaubert

"Write poems to inflate bellows..."

Write poems to inflate the furs.
Burn tirelessly and blaze
In streams of air and force.
In doubt to die, but still sing,
As you asked.

"I'm waiting for insight, like a quiet wind..."

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

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

And there are no crazy prophets in the homeland,
Only crows and swans remained.
I'm waiting for insight, it seems to me, it seems
The voice of the trumpet coming from the future life.

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

In that garden there is a lone bird
Breaks into silence.
Either happy or angry
From the inside, hurting my heart.

In that garden somehow everything is different,
Lilac is blazing.
In that garden, a dilapidated dacha,
And the owner doesn't exist.

Spruce looks at the blue sky
And a plane is flying in the sky.
To places where I haven't been yet
And certainly no one is waiting.

And in the south, beyond the pitted field,
Golden in the foliage of the dome.
There the priest reads prayers -
Gray-haired head.

And the faces keep changing
Appearing randomly from outside.
But only that lonely bird
Disturbed my soul.

1998

Prayer

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

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

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

Oh, Mother of God, no more words are needed.
Eyes shine with teardrops sleeplessly,
The Earth flies among other worlds,
The mosquito rings above the ear monotonously.

heavenly shepherd

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

And joy fills the heart
When they swim, not knowing grief,
Over forests, fields, villages, cities,
Playing a performance, welcoming the Black Sea.

Welcoming Persia and the Caucasus peaks,
Deepening into the country of wild tribes once,
Passing over the deserts of China to the Pacific Ocean,
Becoming snow-white wool.

Herds of clouds do not know home
You get tired of chasing them - there is no urine,
Heavenly shepherd is my calling
And there are no other powers yet.

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

A little more - and the river will move,
Breaking the ice edge in coastal areas,
Lifting unimaginable tons of blocks,
Increasing rumble from afar.

A little more - and the sun stream
Fill your heart with joy and rejoicing,
And the Yenisei - a thin cord on the map -
Opens ice doors.

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

I peer into the lives of ordinary people
On the Internet, sitting in a warm place.
And I can't figure out how
They live in harmony with nature.

Bakhtin knows for sure, every day
Looking at the Yenisei, glaring at the sky,
What is there in the Kremlin do not think about him,
That he has no spectacle, no bread.

Taiga all around, all around one taiga.
Bears, moose, sable at gunpoint.
The day will come, the snow will pile up,
Hunting with fishing to prove in practice.

And that will leave everyone for many days
The gray-haired hunter is a sad fellow.
And will think about her at night,
Having smelled of moss in a wild hut.

And he will hear the good news in the sky,
What settles on spruce paws,
That he is the only guardian of these places
And a faithful guard for a couple with a clubfoot.

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

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

Philosopher's Thoughts

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

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

White snow

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

Suddenly it smells of straw, resin,
The tart smoke of garden fires.
And the moon shakes its head
From some distant world.

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

And the districts will choke with water,
Tapping monotonously drops.
And someone will be attracted to each other,
And they will begin to rigmarole.

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

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

Moon sail in the darkness of the night
Drifts off into the stars.
White scattering of dots
The side is the Milky Way.

Squint a little, gasp even
From the accumulation of alien worlds.
And you won't say anything anymore
There are no words in heaven.

1992

“A bust roams with me - imperishable and deep ...”

M. Yu. Lermontov

(1814–1841)

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

That's the whole lot of the singer in the field.
He was fire from the sky, rebellious,
With special audacity in the chest lurked temper.
He did not bow flatteringly in front of everyone,
In the battle with the Chechens, he fought patiently,
Dignity and honor without losing.

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

In Russia, the roots sprouted of the prophet,
In Russia, everything under a bushel sleeps until the deadline.
Along the Moika, Pushkin rolls to a duel.
His wife is blind, the king looks out the windows -
Frost frosted glass,
There is darkness in the flakes and a terrible blizzard.

The poet died, who will judge his death?
A peasant in the village is simple and will not judge
No high society, no intrigues of enemies.
Who is smarter - rushed into condemnation,
Reading poems aloud
Tickled foundations of the coast.

Caucasus in the distance - silent chains of mountains,
Free air and soul space.
The flight of an eagle is high and imperceptible.
He looks down without prying eyes,
Mountain tops shine like a diamond
Not noticing the course of gray centuries.

It smells of eternity, the sky is pierced
Beams of the sun, down streams of water
They fly along the rocks standing near the rapids.
Fog below, smoke curls a little further,
Scattered at home, where it rushes to them
A gray-haired Chechen, half in the shade.

Martynov is just an excuse, a heavy dream,
When the soul mourns, from all sides
Her evil spirit both torments and disturbs.
When the tongue becomes snarky
And the days painfully run to the draft,
And one thought does not hobble the other.

Killed calmly, and not at war,
Where many times on a war horse
He rushed to the redoubts with a menacing cloud.
Where there was a massacre, they shot here and there,
People moaned, the air through the fields,
And he seemed strong and powerful.

Now frail, in a thin coffin,
Like a fatalist who tried fate -
Silenced and, leaving quietly on the road,
What did you ask for a year before this day,
I got everything, like a horse's move.
God is patient, there are no secrets for God.

"Evening quickly, imperceptibly..."

Evening quickly, imperceptibly
Came up to my gate.
Secretly hiding from the rain
Gray thin cape.

The wind blew the leaves
Carried away into empty grottoes,
howled on the slope,
The song is laid out in notes.

Oak, arms outstretched,
rocked hard,
And somewhere along the road
The autumn leaf raced, raced.

And then all at once it was quiet,
Only night, playing with grass,
Passed by the windows
Not noticing anything.

"I'm suffocating without love..."

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

And what promises me tomorrow day?
Worry-filled harbor.
Along the roads - the wretchedness of the villages,
And a white dove - in the clear sky.

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

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

“I’m flying along a parabola, along a parabola ...”

A. A. Voznesensky

(1933–2010)

I'm flying along a parabola, along a parabola,
I send village greetings to the capitals,
So it fell to us to sing on the air,

Let's remove the trajectory and mannerisms,
Your words are diamonds in the wind.
Fidelity flares up in the pupils with a bright flame,
Foolishly, the nightingale of Peredelkino sings.

You are already on a long and long journey,
"Obilicheny" to sit in the fifth row.
The world is spinning in a web,
And the redoubt follows the redoubt.

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

Mad age - a lot of panic,
The battle of dead forces in the void.
Blackened, swollen lobasniki,
They were boys - they were not the same.

Women are beaten, they drink the same with them.
They are ready too
From impotence in the face in every way,
A sharp shoe between the eyes.

All sorts of oddities responded to you,
Vidioms as anti-worlds.
These are childish, cute pranks,
To not take on axes.

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

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

Zoya, Oza - forever engaged,
Electric shock wires.
We are frayed but not broken
We are bound forever.

Well, float in silent space
In the expanses of Moscow and Vienna,
You will not be thrown out of history: you are a given,
My dear Andrey Voznesensky.

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

I am not the person you know.
How many times have I opened up to you.
Thought you'd figure it out with time.
But, alas. You are in a different destiny.

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

These days I firmly convinced
Better none than my friends.
It's scary to be lonely and proud.
Not with you, I will be with them.

1986

Greek

Sit down, tell me something goodbye
Give me your hand - look for the curves
We could read by your hand
Greek wills.

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

In your veins the blood of the gods of Olympus
And the mystery of oriental speech,
Where the women began, there are nymphs
Wrap hair around shoulders.

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

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

Spring

Spring. It smelled of dampness and fresh streams.
Everything got wet, the space foamed.
Watched the sky with impenetrable fields
Childishly at me point blank.

Run faster, run faster, stream, changing course,
Along impassable, untravelled roads,
Bring and pour your brown must
Spinning into a stream of water.

A blond boy, dispersing puddles,
In damp pants, he launched his boat.
And squinted among the shadows and light lace,
He lived childhood together with melt water.

The rooks sat on the branches, tearing their throats.
And down there, ironing everything around,
There was an ice drift, and ice floes, like boats,
They arranged their Cossack circle.

Parting

The sun has a lot of power
To burn away.
Only go to the evening
To a fiery sunset.
Flame the path, and
Air in kisses
From light wine
Saturated and rich.

What songs to sing about
Greek principles?
Everything drowned there
Centuries ago.
Now another life
And all on those piers
Other tribes
They give birth and roar.

The road winds into the distance
Along the bays along the serpentine,
Along the tiled roofs
that look up and down.
In the valleys there is a dream
olive plantations
In silver hands
Crushed cypress.

Your plane has left
Become a dot on the screen.
Leaving sadness in my heart
And black hair.
I'm looking for you all
Among other companies
And again, as then,
Rain does not spare tears.

Genoese fortress

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

See there in the distance, in the whitish haze,
dolphins back,
Skeletons of masts on a distant ship,
Glitter of sea mud.

Windswept sails
From long journeys.
And barely audible, dull voices
In silent space.

And behind a chain of old walls -
One nonsense.
Witness of long-standing formidable changes -
Sitting fortress.

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

In the evening twilight she looks
It gets scary
Hands reach into oblivion
All eight towers.

Wave with wave argue, as then,
Throwing gloss
When I came to these shores
The thief is Italian.

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

“Somewhere the sea beats in Tel Aviv…”

Somewhere the sea beats in Tel Aviv.
Jaffa old city on the way.
Milk and honey in abundance
Just don't pass by.

Simon-Peter on the roof prays to God,
We are hungry and thirsty,
And below, at the very threshold,
People argue that they came for him.

Old port - the same age as Solomon -
Waves gnawed for a reason,
From these places from the wrath of God's Jonah
Fled into the belly of a formidable whale.

I wander, inhaling the dust of centuries,
Recognizing past traits.
These days an unknown witness
And a participant in the eternal fuss.

January 2014

“I am tormented by emptiness in my head ...”

S. A. Yesenin

(1895–1925)

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

You were like a hunted animal.
Executioners don't cry and don't play clean.
Well, it's clear now:
Staged suicide.

Everyone believed in a wild deception:
Like, something happens to drunkards.
So stolen from the Russians
A voice that breaks into eternity.

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

Isadora, Galina, why this passion -
Under the birch trees cry for the whole day.
To their knees, as before, no longer fall
And not to see the expanses of native villages.

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

“I breathe in You - I won’t breathe…”

I breathe in you - I won't breathe,
What a trembling heart hurts.
My birch Russia -
Villages, rivers, bell towers.

And God's grace is everywhere
Spilled in a blue-white edge,
So a lump rises to the throat
A love that cannot be quelled.

And who wanted to capture you, -
They lie in the ground, their house is a grave.
In nothing else but in truth, strength,
Time to catch it.

Enemies can't figure you out
Their evil intentions are known.
Do not take with bare hands -
Here the Russian spirit is in everything bodily.

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

I breathe you, I don't breathe,
The lamp has been burning for centuries.
I don't need another homeland
I am Russian, in my heart there is Russia.

Karadag

The edge of an extinct volcano that fell into the sea -
From the abyss grew a gloomy giant,
Twined with ivy and the lightness of mist,
A rough cap of gloomy valleys.

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

Buzzing, drooling bottomless ocean,
Smelling iodine, hiding in the looking glass -
Witness of many ancient orgy,
The disembodied spirit is the pagan Bayan.

The foreheads of blunt stones are smeared with enamel,
Bird droppings and rain moisture,
When hanging like a cloak over Karadag
Countless array of bizarre shadows.

Ivan the robber in the vestments of a beggar
Stopped looking up
Where the dark body of lead and slate
Gray mountains rose into the sky.

So, reflected by a formidable giant
In diamond placers of a swirling wave,
The lava has frozen. Slow in the valleys
Float like heat, Tauride dreams.

July 1996

“There, over the sea, it burned ...”

There over the sea burned
Golden Star,
The ripples of the water reflected
White light to nowhere.

And black spaces
cimmerian land,
And like someone's reproaches -
Ships in the dark.

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

Flickered and fell
In an impenetrable haze.
The old cedar sheltered
Relax by the stream.

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

2000

“What was, was…”

What was, was.
What will happen, I don't know.
By the stars, in the thick, by the hand - I don’t guess.
I float down the winding rivers,
And it seems that this is the last run.
I wash clothes, once dirty,
I walk on instruments where not everyone walks.
And I fall again to rise from my knees,
And I wait from the inside in a hurry for change.

"Silence, not to express in words ..."

I am silent, not to express in words
All the pain of the last trials
Delight of momentary states
And a feeling of emptiness.

You know, I still thought
That everything passes like fatigue.
But love is the strongest
Whatever is mixed with it.

Here is the hatred, so what?
Perhaps she needs - in the face,
Forget about any false shame
And understanding resentment.

Silence, people pass around
They have no rest, their path is difficult.
What awaits them there at the end of the road?

I go, we burn with the spring sun,
Tomorrow is a holiday and there are no ideas
Entry of the Lord into Jerusalem
And Hosanna, and the joy of children.

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

Letter to a Ryazan friend

Hello.
Fate is not kind to us
You are on the far side
How long have you been silent
I'm here, in noisy squares, trying to live,
Almost no air
in the dust of passions, in a bad exile.

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

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

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

It's good that you stayed on earth,
Let without excess income, but still.
It's better to be in the village at "zero",
What is in abundance here - it looks like an animal.

How are our people? Does everyone smoke homemade?
Everything sucks, testing life for strength?
Like a garden grown by a grandfather on a hillock?
But it seemed - there was a power of life.

It seemed that a complex mechanism was moving,
The people lived on household plots.
And somewhere there loomed communism
With a very moderate sloppiness for a couple.

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

And all things fell day by day,
When to plow, when to mow with dew,
When the harvester floats in thick stubble,
When cleaning and when feast.

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

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

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

Goodbye.
Fate is not kind to us.
You are on the far side
How long have you been silent.
I'm here, in the dusty squares, trying
Live…

Attention! This is an introductory section of the book.

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

Types of speech

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

A description is a type of speech that depicts a phenomenon of reality by listing its permanent or simultaneously present features or actions (the content of the description can be conveyed on one camera frame). In the description, words are used most of all, denoting qualities, properties of objects (nouns, adjectives, adverbs). Verbs are more often used in the form of the imperfect form of the past tense, and for special clarity, figurativeness of the description - in the form of the present tense. Synonyms are widely used - definitions (agreed and inconsistent) and nominal sentences. For example: The sky was clear, clean, pale blue. Light white clouds, lit from one side with a pink glow, floated lazily in transparent silence. The East was red and flaming, shimmering in other places with mother-of-pearl and silver. From behind the horizon, like giant spread fingers, golden stripes stretched upward across the sky from the rays of the sun that had not yet risen. (A. I. Kuprin) Description helps to see the object, to present it in the mind.

Narration is a type of speech that tells about some events in their temporal sequence; successive actions or events are reported (the content of the narrative can be conveyed only on a few frames of the camera).

In narrative texts, a special role belongs to verbs, especially in the form of the past tense of the imperfective form (came, saw, developed, etc.). For example: And suddenly... something inexplicable, almost supernatural happened. The Great Dane suddenly fell on its back, and some invisible force pulled it off the sidewalk. Following this, the same invisible force tightly gripped the astonished Jack's throat... Jack propped himself up with his front legs and shook his head furiously.

But an invisible "something" squeezed his neck so that the brown pointer lost consciousness. (A. I. Kuprin)

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

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

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

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

Ex. 9. Read. Prove that the given text is a description. Justify your answer.

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

Ex. 10. Read. Prove that this text is a narrative. Justify your answer.

It was one of countless episodes of the Civil War. I drove along a deserted winding road; occasionally I came across small groves hiding some of its curves from me. The sun was high, the air almost ringing with heat. There was no more fighting, it was quiet; I didn't see anyone behind me or in front of me. And then, at one of the turns in the road, which bent in this place almost at a right angle, my horse fell heavily and instantly at full gallop. I fell with her into a soft and dark space, because my eyes were closed - but I managed to free my foot from the stirrup and almost did not suffer from the fall. Rising to my feet, I turned around and saw that a rider on a huge white horse was riding a heavy and slow career very far behind me. I remember that I did not have a rifle for a long time, I must have left it in the grove when I slept. But I still had a revolver, which I pulled out with difficulty from a new and tight holster. I stood for a few seconds holding it in my hand; it was so quiet that I could clearly hear the dry sobbing of hooves on the cracked earth. Then I saw the rider drop the reins and throw up his rifle, which until then he held at the ready, to his shoulder. At that moment, I fired. He jerked in the saddle, slid off it and slowly fell to the ground. I remained motionless where I stood for two or three minutes. I still wanted to sleep, and I continued to feel the same agonizing fatigue. (G. Gazdanov)

Ex. 11. Read. Prove that this text is a reasoning. Justify your answer.

Poetry has one amazing property. She returns the word to its original, virgin freshness. The most erased, completely “spoken” words by us, having completely lost their figurative qualities for us, living only as a verbal shell, in poetry begin to sparkle, ring, and smell sweet! How to explain this, I do not know. I suppose that the word comes to life in two cases. First, when his phonetic (sound) power is returned to him. And to do this in melodious poetry is much easier than in prose. Therefore, both in a song and in a romance, words act on us more strongly than in ordinary speech. Secondly, even an erased word, placed in verse in a melodic musical sequence, is, as it were, saturated with the general melody of the verse and begins to sound in harmony with all other words. And finally, poetry is rich in alliterations. This is one of her precious qualities. Prose has the right to alliteration. But that's not the point. The main thing is that prose, when it reaches perfection, is, in essence, genuine poetry. (K. G. Paustovsky)

Ex. 12. What types of speech are presented in the following texts? In what case are elements of another type of speech included?

1) Strictly speaking, there are two essential conditions for the life of a highly moral person: the ability to see another, especially a suffering other, and the ability to see oneself without embellishment. Attention to oneself is especially characteristic of a young age. Who are we? We look alike - we are upset: we want to excel. We differ - also not good, sort of like a white crow. Who to be? What to be? Yourself. This is the only true advice. It is simple, but the road to oneself through someone else's, false, unnecessary, perhaps the most difficult thing in the world. Building a personality begins with attention to oneself, and ends with compassion for others, mercy for others, responsibility to others. (According to O. Kuchkina) 2) It was the heyday of Marina's beauty. A flower raised above her shoulders seems to be her golden-haired head, fluffy, with streams of light curls curling at the temples, with a thick sheen over her eyebrows, hair cut like children's. The clear green of her eyes, clouded by a short-sighted gaze that shyly evades, has something magical in it. This is not the shyness that tormented her in adolescence, when she was embarrassed by her appearance, which she did not like. Meeting the admiration of all who looked at her, she was cured of the pangs of that illness. She knows her own worth in external charm, as she knew her from childhood - in internal. But not a shadow of self-confidence and the “ballroom”, cheap complacency so cherished in themselves by the beauties. Her feminine only glides, only flies. (A. I. Tsvetaeva) 3) Rostov did not believe his eyes, and this doubt lasted more than a second. The wolf - an old beast with a gray back - ran unhurriedly, apparently convinced that no one saw him ... Nikolai shouted in a voice that was not his own, and his good horse rushed headlong downhill by itself, jumping over waterholes, across the wolf ... Nikolai he did not hear his cry, did not feel that he was galloping, did not see either the dogs or the place where he gallops - he saw only the wolf, which, intensifying its run, galloped without changing direction along the hollow. The first appeared near the beast, black and piebald Milka, and began to approach the beast. Closer, closer ... now she has come to him. But the wolf squinted a little at her, and instead of pushing (as she always did), Milka suddenly began to rest on her front legs. (According to L. N. Tolstoy) 4) At the beginning of July, we got to the bread, spacious Voronezh. There, finally, Zhukovsky found a suitable partner for himself. On the very day of the arrival of the heir, the gendarme appeared in the Koltsov family: the governor demanded a poet. At first, everyone was excited. But the call was peaceful and even useful to Koltsov: Zhukovsky invited Alexei Vasilievich to his place. He spent two days in Voronezh with Koltsov - Koltsov and Voronezh were also Russia, its thick, strong infusion. They drank tea in a merchant's house, walked around the city together, admired wide views, meadows, distant forests from the guarded mountain - that vastness and power of the Russian that is so felt in Voronezh and its region. Antiquity, the cathedral, St. Mitrofaniy of Voronezh, St. Tikhon of Zadonsk ... and below under the mountain the old houses of Petrovsky Sloboda: a different world, but History, Peter, shipbuilding ... (I. Zaitsev)

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

Speech styles

Style is a historically established system of linguistic means and ways of organizing them, which is used in a certain area of ​​human communication (public life): the field of science, official business relations, campaigning and mass activities, verbal and artistic creativity, the field of everyday communication. Each functional style is characterized by: a) scope; b) main functions; c) leading style features; d) language features; e) specific forms (genres).

scientific style

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

Formal business style

Two types of speech are usually presented in formal business style texts: description and narration.

Journalistic style

The journalistic style is divided into two sub-styles: the journalistic style proper and the journalistic style. Actually, the journalistic substyle is characterized by the topicality of the topic, the use of socio-political vocabulary and terminology (deputy, power, patriot, parliament, conservatism), specific journalistic vocabulary and phraseology (reporting, peacemaking, corridors of power, conflict resolution), the frequency of using borrowed words that name new economic, political, everyday, scientific and technical phenomena (distributor, investment, inauguration, killer, croupier, rating, etc.). The artistic and journalistic sub-style, in its linguistic features, approaches the style of fiction and is characterized by a combination of the functions of influence and persuasion with an aesthetic function, as well as the widespread use of figurative and expressive means of language, including tropes and figures. In the texts of journalistic style, all types of speech can be found: description, narration and reasoning. For the artistic and journalistic sub-style, reasoning-thinking is especially characteristic.

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

Art style

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

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

Conversational style

Ex. 14. Determine which speech styles these texts refer to. Prove your point, taking into account all the main characteristics of a particular style.

I. The idea of ​​atoms as the smallest indivisible particles was questioned by D. I. Mendeleev, who suggested that the atoms of simple bodies are formed by the addition of some even smaller parts. Direct evidence of the complexity of the structure of the atom was obtained in experiments on the transmission of electric current through rarefied gases ... Direct evidence of the complexity of the structure of the atom was the discovery of spontaneous decay of atoms of certain elements, called radioactivity. In 1896, the French physicist A. Becquerel discovered that uranium compounds light up a photographic plate in the dark, ionize gases, and cause the glow of fluorescent substances. Later it turned out that not only uranium has this ability ... ("Fundamentals of General Chemistry") II. Article 75 1. The monetary unit in the Russian Federation is the ruble. Money emission is carried out exclusively by the Central Bank of the Russian Federation. The introduction and issue of other money in the Russian Federation is not allowed. 2. Protecting and ensuring the stability of the ruble is the main function of the Central Bank of the Russian Federation, which it performs independently of other state authorities. 3. The system of taxes levied to the federal budget and the general principles of taxation and fees in the Russian Federation are established by federal law. 4. Government loans are issued in the manner determined by federal law and are placed on a voluntary basis. (Constitution of the Russian Federation) III. Winter with its whims is far from being an easy period in the life of our city. Snowfalls and thaws, morning frosts and piercing wind not only bring us discomfort, but also pose serious dangers. We see how the car park of the capital of the Chernozem region has noticeably grown, how much traffic has become more intense. But it must be remembered that the car is still a source of increased danger. We must finally embrace the idea of ​​the inadmissibility of the annual death in road accidents and the injury of a huge number of people. Going out into the street, we should know that 70% of all traffic accidents in the city are collisions with pedestrians. Therefore, dear drivers, give way to pedestrians at a pedestrian crossing, in a public transport stop area, give way at a turn. In winter, it is especially difficult for them. Yes, they do not know the rules of the road as well, they are not as disciplined as you, but take a step towards them. IV. You know, I visited the steppe last spring. First time. Well, beauty! Everything burns out in summer. But in the spring - another matter! Everywhere you look - a sea of ​​lush grass and flowers. And the flowers! There aren't any! And blue, and blue, and purple, and red, and pink, and yellow. Believe me, in the eyes ripples from different colors. And there are no birds of any kind! So they are poured in different ways. And in the sky - hawks. Yes, ten. The wings are open and look down: what to profit from. They will see a hare - bang down, and a skiff to a hare. And how many partridges! So they scurry. If I had a gun, I would shoot a lot. Don't take away. Yes, I'm not a hunter. Birds are my passion. V. Foggy morning, gray morning, Sad fields covered with snow, Reluctantly remember the time of the past, Remember the faces long forgotten. You will remember abundant passionate speeches, Looks, so greedily, so timidly caught, First meetings, last meetings, Favorite sounds of a quiet voice. You will remember parting with a strange smile, You will remember much dear, distant, Listening to the unceasing murmur of the wheels, Looking thoughtfully into the wide sky. (I. S. Turgenev)

Ex. 15. 1) Read the comic text from the Literary Gazette. Find clericalism and other specific features of the official business style.

Damage to good mood

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

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

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

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

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

He will ask: "Who is there at the door?"

I will say: "Here is Your servant, open."

He will ask: “What did you come with, my son?”

"Serve you, my Lord."

Rumi

But let's get back to such a popular and beloved by many connoisseurs of poetry genre as a ruby. Up to the X century. this genre was part of a purely oral folk art. The recognized master of the rubai was the learned sage of the 11th century. Omar Khayyam. The poetry of Omar Khayyam and Nizami Ganjavi became the pinnacle of the humanistic branch of Islamic literature.

Now, in the holy month of Ramadan, when each of us is working on our own nafs, improving our spiritual qualities and trying to get closer to our Creator, the poetic works of the poets of the East will come in handy. After all, their creations from the darkness of distant, dusty and almost forgotten centuries convey to us gratitude to the Almighty for the exultant joy of life, describing a healthy, strong, courageous, highly moral and courageous person, who sets the goal of his life to achieve the contentment of the Creator.

In the next material, we will introduce you in more detail to the work of poets who sing of Islam and the Creator, His perfection and the need to follow the moral commandments, the norms of the Holy Quran.

Ilmira Gafiyatullina, Kazan

Looking at these buildings, you understand that good taste is, first of all, a sense of proportion.
I am sure that the same laws of proportionality of parts, the absence of everything superfluous, a small number of decorations, simplicity, in which every line is visible and gives real pleasure - all this has something to do with prose.
A writer who has fallen in love with the perfection of classical architectural forms will not allow heavy and clumsy composition in his prose. He will seek the proportionality of the parts and the severity of the verbal pattern. He will avoid an abundance of prose-diluting ornaments - the so-called ornamental style.
The composition of a prose work must be brought to such a state that nothing can be thrown out and nothing added without violating the meaning of the narrative and the natural course of events.

As always in Leningrad, I spent most of my time in the Russian Museum and the Hermitage.
The light twilight of the Hermitage halls, touched by dark gilding, seemed sacred to me. I entered the Hermitage as a repository of human genius. In the Hermitage, for the first time, as a young man, I felt the happiness of being a man. And I realized how a person can be great and good.
At first I was lost among the magnificent procession of artists. I was dizzy from the abundance and density of colors, and in order to rest, I went to the hall where the sculpture was exhibited.
I sat there for a very long time. And the more I looked at the statues of obscure Hellenic sculptors or at the barely perceptibly smiling women of Kaka, the more clearly I understood that all this sculpture is a call to beauty in itself, that it is a harbinger of the purest morning dawn of mankind. Then poetry will rule over hearts and the social system - the system to which we are moving through years of work, worries and mental stress - will be based on the beauty of justice, the beauty of the mind, heart, human relations and the human body.
Our road is to the golden age. He will. It's a shame, of course, that we won't live to see it. But we should be happy that the wind of this age is already roaring around us and making our hearts beat faster.
No wonder Heine came to the Louvre, sat for hours near the statue of Venus de Milo and cried.
About what? About the desecrated perfection of man. The fact that the path to perfection is hard and far away and he, Heine, who gave people the poison and brilliance of his mind, will, of course, no longer reach that promised land, where his restless heart has been calling him all his life.
This is the power of sculpture, that power, without the inner fire of which advanced art is inconceivable, especially the art of our country. And thus, full-fledged prose is unthinkable.

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

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

IN THE BODY OF A CARGO

In July 1941, I was driving a military truck from Rybnitsa-on-Dniester to Tiraspol. I sat in the cab next to the silent driver.
Brown dust, heated by the sun, exploded in clubs under the wheels of the car. Everything around - huts, sunflowers, acacias and dry grass - was covered with this rough dust.
The sun was smoking in a bleached sky. The water in the aluminum flask was hot and smelled of rubber. Cannonade thundered beyond the Dniester.
Several young lieutenants rode in the back. Sometimes they would start banging their fists on the roof of the cabin and shouting "Air!" The driver stopped the car, we jumped out, ran away from the road and lay down. Immediately, with a malevolent howl, black German "Messers" swooped down on the road.
Sometimes they noticed us and hit us with machine guns. But, fortunately, no one was hurt. The bullets kicked up dust. "Messers" disappeared, and only the heat in the whole body from the hot earth, the hum in the head and thirst remained.
After one of these raids, the driver suddenly asked me:
What do you think about when you lie under bullets? Do you remember?
“I remember,” I replied.
“And I remember,” the driver said after a pause. - I remember our forests in Kostroma. If I stay alive, I will return to my homeland - I will ask to be a forest ranger. I will take my wife with me - she is calm, beautiful - and a girl, and we will live in the lodge. Believe me, when I think about it, this is how my heart breaks. Drivers aren't supposed to.
“Me too,” I replied. I remember my forests.
Are yours good? the driver asked.
- Good.
The driver pulled his cap over his forehead and stepped on the gas. We didn't talk anymore.
Perhaps, I have never remembered my favorite places with such acuteness as in the war. I caught myself impatiently waiting for the night when, somewhere in a dry steppe gully, lying in the back of a truck and covered with an overcoat, I could return my thoughts to these places and walk through them slowly and calmly, breathing in the pine air. I said to myself: "Today I will go to the Black Lake, and tomorrow, if I am alive, to the banks of the Pra or to Trebutino." And my heart sank from the premonition of these imaginary campaigns.
So one day I was lying under my greatcoat and imagined in great detail the path to Black Lake. It seemed to me that there could be no greater happiness in life than to see these places again and walk through them, forgetting about all worries and hardships, listening to how lightly my heart beats in my chest.
In these dreams of mine in the back of a car, I always left the village house early in the morning and walked along the sandy street past the old huts. Fiery balsam bloomed on the window sills in canned food tins. He is called "Vanya wet" in the places there. It must be because the thick stem of the balsam shines through against the sun with green juice, and in this juice sometimes even air bubbles are visible.
Near the well, where barefoot talkative girls in faded calico dresses rattle their buckets all day long, you have to turn into an alley, or, in the local language, into a “burn-out”. In this alley, in an extreme hut, lives a handsome rooster known throughout the district. He often stands on one foot in the very sun and glows with his plumage like a heap of glowing coals.
Behind the rooster, the huts end, and stretches, wrapping in a smooth arc into the distant forests, the toy canvas of a narrow gauge railway. It is surprising that the flowers that grow along the slopes of this canvas are not at all the same flowers that are around. Nowhere are there such thickets of chicory as near the narrow rails hot from the sun.
Behind the narrow-gauge railway, a young pine forest stands like an impenetrable palisade. It seems impassable only from a distance. You can always push through it, but, of course, small pines will prick you with needles and leave sticky spots of resin on your fingers.
Tall dry grass grows between pine trees on sandy ground. The middle of each blade of grass is gray, and the edges are dark green. This herb cuts hands. There are also many yellow, scaly immortelle rustling under the fingers and a white fragrant carnation with reddish spots on the disheveled petals. And under the pines are full of milk butters. Their feet are plastered with pure gray sand.
Behind the pine forest begins a high forest. An overgrown road runs along its edge.
It is good to lie down under the first sprawling pine tree and take a break from the stuffiness of the young bowl. Lie on your back, feel the cool earth through a thin shirt and look at the sky. And maybe even fall asleep, because the white clouds shining with their edges make you drowsy.
There is a good Russian word "languor". Recently, we have completely forgotten about it and for some reason we are even embarrassed to pronounce it. No other word can better describe that calm and a little sleepy state that surrounds you when you lie in a warm morning forest and look at the endless chains of clouds. They are born somewhere in the bluish distance and constantly float away to no one knows where.
Lying on this forest edge, I often recalled Bryusov's poems:

... To be free, lonely,
In the solemn silence of the spread fields
Go your way free and wide,
Without future and past days.
Pluck flowers, instant like poppies,
Drink the rays like first love
Fall and die and drown in darkness
To rise again and again without bitter joy...

What is this place from which the heart shrinks? The most inconspicuous and simple. Behind the birch copse, the road rises steeply to a sandy cliff. The damp lowland remains behind, but a light wind from time to time brings here, into the dry and hot forest, the iodine air of these lowlands.
On a hillock the second halt. I sit on the hot needles. Everything you touch is dry and warm: old and long-empty pine cones, yellow, transparent and crackling, like parchment, films of young pine bark, stumps heated to the core, each branch is rough and fragrant. Even strawberry leaves are warm.
You can simply break an old stump with your hands and pour a handful of brown hot dust into your palm.
Know, silence. A serene day ripened to the straw ripeness of summer.
Small dragonflies with red wings sleep on stumps. And bumblebees sit on lilac and hard umbrella flowers. They bend these flowers to the ground with their weight.
I check on a self-made map - there are still eight kilometers to the Black Lake. All the signs are marked on this map - a dry pine by the road, a boundary post, euonymus thickets, an ant heap, again a lowland, where forget-me-nots always bloom, and behind it a pine tree with the letter “O” carved on the bark is a lake. From this pine, you need to turn right into the forest and go along the notches made back in 1932. Every year, they overgrow and swim with resin. They need to be updated.
When you find a notch, you will definitely stop and run your hand over it, over the amber frozen on it. And sometimes you break off a hardened drop of resin and examine the conchoidal fracture. Sunlight plays in it with yellowish lights, closer to the lake, deaf, deep depressions begin in the middle of the forest, so densely overgrown with alder that there is nothing to even think of getting into the depths of these depressions. It must be the former small lakes.
Then again rise in the thickets of juniper with black dry berries. And, finally, the last sign - shriveled bast shoes, hung on a pine branch. Behind the bast shoes stretches a narrow grassy clearing, and behind it - a steep cliff.
The forest ends. Below are dried-up swamps - mshary, overgrown with small forest: birch, aspen and alder.
Here is the last stop. The day is already halfway through. It rings thickly, like a swarm of invisible bees. A dim brilliance moves in waves through the undergrowth from each, even the weakest breeze.
Somewhere out there, two kilometers away, Black Lake is hidden among the mossars - a state of dark waters, snags and huge yellow water lilies.
It is necessary to walk carefully along the msharams: in the deep moss, broken and pointed by time, like peaks, trunks of birch trees stick out - pegs. They can severely hurt your legs.
It is stuffy in the undergrowth, it smells of prel, black peat water squelches underfoot. With every step the trees sway and tremble. You need to go and not think about what is under your feet, under a layer of peat and humus only a meter thick - deep water, an underground lake. In it, they say, live completely black, like coal, marsh pikes.
The shore of the lake is a little higher and therefore the mshar is drier, but you can’t stand in one place for a long time either - the trail will surely fill with water.
It is best to go to the lake in the late twilight, when everything around - the faint gleam of water and the first stars, the glow of the fading sky, the motionless tops of the trees - all this merges so strongly with the wary silence that it seems to be born of it.
Sit by the fire, listen to the crackling of branches and think that life is unusually good, if you are not afraid of it and accept it with an open mind ...
So I wandered in my memories through the forests, then - along the embankments of the Neva or along the hills blue from flax of the harsh Pskov land.
I thought about all these places with such aching pain, as if I had lost them forever, as if I would never see them again in my life. And, obviously, from this feeling they acquired an unusual charm in my mind.
I asked myself why I had not noticed this before, and immediately guessed that, of course, I saw and felt all this, but only in separation did all these features of my native landscape appear before my inner gaze in all their heart-grabbing beauty. Obviously, one must enter into nature, just as each, even the weakest sound, enters the general sound of music.
Nature will act on us with all its power only when we bring our human element into the sensation of it, when our state of mind, our love, our joy or sadness come into full conformity with it and it will no longer be possible to separate the freshness of the morning from the light of loved ones. eye and the measured noise of the forest from reflections on the life lived.
The landscape is not an appendage to prose and not an ornament. You need to immerse yourself in it, as if you immersed your face in a pile of leaves wet from the rain and felt their luxurious coolness, their smell, their breath.
Simply put, nature must be loved, and this love, like any love, will find the right ways to express itself with the greatest force.

ADVICE TO YOURSELF

With this, I end the first book of my notes on writing with a clear feeling that the work has only just begun and there is no end to it. There is much more to be said about the aesthetics of our literature, its deepest significance as an educator of a new person with his rich and lofty system of thoughts. and feelings, about the plot, humor, image, modeling of human characters, changes in the Russian language, folk literature, romanticism, good taste, editing manuscripts - you can’t reread everything.
Working on this book is reminiscent of a journey through a little-known country, when new distances and roads open up at every step. They lead to no one knows where, but they promise a lot of the unexpected, giving food for thought. Therefore, it is tempting and simply necessary, even if incompletely, as they say, in rough outline, but still to understand the interweaving of these roads.

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

Poems succeed if they are created with spiritual clarity.
Ovid

A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn through the sonorous fibers of our being. Not our own - our thoughts make the poet sing inside us. Telling us about the woman he loves, he wonderfully awakens in our souls our love and our sorrow. He is a wizard. Understanding him, we become poets like him.
Anatole France

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

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

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

The spring of poetry is beauty.
Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol

Poetry has one amazing property. She returns the word to its original, virgin freshness. The most erased, completely “spoken” words by us, having completely lost their figurative qualities for us, living only as a verbal shell, in poetry begin to sparkle, ring, and smell sweet!
Konstantin Georgievich Paustovsky

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

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

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

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

For many people, writing poetry is a growing pain of the mind.
Georg Lichtenberg

Poetry is like painting: a certain work will captivate you more if you look at it closely, and a different one if you move further away.
Horace

Poetry is not in verses alone: ​​it is spilled everywhere, it is around us. Look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life breathe from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.
Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

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

The historian and the poet differ from each other not in speech - rhymed or not; what distinguishes them is that one speaks of what happened, the other of what might have happened. Therefore, in poetry there is more philosophical, serious than in history, because it shows the general, while history - only the individual.
Aristotle

Analysis is not the business of the poet. His calling is to reproduce, not to dismember.
Thomas Macaulay

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

Poetry is a play of the senses into which reason introduces a system; eloquence is a matter of reason, which is enlivened by feeling.
Immanuel Kant

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