Because the art of poetry requires words
I am one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors
second-class power that has contacted this one -
not wanting to force my own brain,
giving myself clothes, I go down to the kiosk
for the evening paper.
The wind drives the leaves. Old light bulbs dim glow
in these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors,
with the assistance of puddles, it generates the effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal an orange by scraping the amalgam.
However, the feeling with which you look at yourself -
I forgot this feeling.
In these sad places, everything is designed for the winter: dreams,
walls of prisons, coats, toilets of brides - whites
New Year, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis,
Puritan manners. Linen. And in the hands of violinists -
wooden heaters.
This region is immovable. Introducing the volume of gross
cast iron and lead, shake your head stunned,
remember the old power on bayonets and Cossack whips.
But the eagles land like a magnet on the iron mixture.
Even wicker chairs are held here
on bolts and nuts.
Only fish in the seas know the price of freedom, but their
dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own
labels and cash registers. And the space sticks out like a price list.
Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things
properties of both it seeks in raw vegetables.
Kochet listens to the chimes.
To live in the era of achievements, having an exalted disposition,
unfortunately difficult. Beauty dress up,
you see what you were looking for, and not new marvelous divas.
And it’s not that Lobachevsky is firmly observed here,
but the expanded world must narrow somewhere, and here -
here is the end of perspective.
Whether the map of Europe was stolen by agents of the authorities,
or five sixths of the remaining parts in the world
far too far. Is it some Kind fairy
He's telling fortunes over me, but I can't run away from here.
I pour Cahors for myself - do not shout to the servant -
I'm scratching the cat...
Either a bullet in the temple, as if in the place of an error with a finger,
or pull from here across the sea with the new Christ.
Yes, and how not to mix with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
a locomotive with a ship - you still won’t burn with shame:
like a boat on the water, will not leave a trace on the rails
locomotive wheel.
What do they write in the newspapers in the section "From the courtroom"?
The sentence has been carried out. Looking here
the layman sees through tin-rimmed glasses,
how a man lies face down against a brick wall,
but does not sleep. For disdain cumpol dreams
perforated right.
The vigilance of this era is rooted in those
times, unable in their general blindness
to distinguish those who fell out of the cradles from the fallen cradles.
The white-eyed monster does not want to look beyond death.
It's a pity, the saucers are full, but there is no one to turn the table with,
to ask you, Rurik.
The vigilance of these times is the vigilance to the things of a dead end.
It is not fitting for the tree to spread the mind yet,
but spitting on the wall. And do not wake up the prince - a dinosaur.
For the last line, eh, do not snatch a feather from a bird.
The innocent head of all and affairs is something to wait for an ax
yes green laurel.
Because the art of poetry requires words
I am one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors
Second-rate power that has contacted this one -
Not wanting to force my own brain,
Giving clothes to myself, I go down to the kiosk
For the evening paper.
The wind drives the leaves. Old light bulbs dim glow
In these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors,
With the assistance of puddles, it generates the effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal an orange by scraping the amalgam.
However, the feeling with which you look at yourself -
I forgot this feeling.
In these sad places, everything is designed for the winter: dreams,
The walls of prisons, coats, toilets of brides - whites
New Year, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis;
Puritan manners. Linen. And in the hands of violinists -
Wooden heaters.
This region is immovable. Introducing the volume of gross
Cast iron and lead, shake your head stunned,
Remember the old power on bayonets and Cossack whips.
But the eagles land like a magnet on the iron mixture.
Even wicker chairs are held here
On bolts and nuts.
To live in the era of achievements, having an exalted disposition,
Unfortunately, it's difficult. Beauty dress up,
You see what you were looking for, not new marvelous divas.
And it’s not that Lobachevsky is firmly observed here,
But the expanded world must narrow somewhere, and here -
This is where perspective ends.
Whether the map of Europe was stolen by agents of the authorities,
Or five sixths of the remaining parts in the world
Far too far. Is it some good fairy?
It tells fortunes over me, but I can’t run away from here.
I pour Cahors for myself - do not shout to the servant -
Let me scratch the cat...
Either a bullet in the temple, as if in the place of an error with a finger,
Whether to pull from here across the sea with the new Christ.
Yes, and how not to mix with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
A locomotive with a ship - you still won’t burn with shame:
Like a boat on the water, it will not leave a trace on the rails
Steam locomotive wheel.
What do they write in the newspapers in the section "From the courtroom"?
The sentence has been carried out. Looking here
The layman sees through tin-rimmed glasses,
How a man lies face down against a brick wall;
But he doesn't sleep. For disdain cumpol dreams
Perforated right.
The vigilance of this era is rooted in those
Times, unable in their general blindness
Distinguish those who fell out of the cradles from the fallen cradles.
The white-eyed monster does not want to look beyond death.
It's a pity, the saucers are full, but there is no one to turn the table with,
To ask you, Rurik.
The vigilance of these times is the vigilance to the things of a dead end.
It is not fitting for the tree to spread the mind yet,
But spitting on the wall. And do not wake up the prince - a dinosaur.
For the last line, eh, do not snatch a feather from a bird.
The innocent head of all and affairs is something to wait for an ax
Yes, green laurel. Because the art of poetry requires words
I - one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors
Second-rate powers associated with this -
Not wanting to rape your own brain,
Self feeding clothes, go down to the shop
During the evening paper.
The wind blows the leaves. Old bulbs dim glow
In these sad lands, whose motto - victory mirrors
With the assistance of puddles creates the effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal an orange, an amalgam of scratching .
However, the feeling with which you look at yourself
This feeling I forgot.
In these sad lands, all designed for the winter: dreams
Prison walls, coat, toilets brides - white
Christmas, drinks, second hands.
Passerines cardigans and dirt on the number of bases ;
Puritanical mores. underwear. And in the hands of the violinists
wooden warmers.
This land is immovable. representing gross
Iron and lead, stunned tryahnesh head
Remember former power on bayonets and Cossack whips .
But eagles sit like a magnet to iron mixture.
Even wicker chairs held here
Bolt and nuts.
Live in an era of achievements , with the sublime in nature,
Unfortunately, it is difficult. Belle dress lifted up
You see what I was looking and not new wonderful diva.
It is not that hard here Lobachevsky bluedut,
But somewhere in the world must move apart to narrow, and then -
Here end prospects.
Whether the map of Europe stolen agents authorities
Then five miles six remaining parts of the world
Too far. Whether some fairy godmother
Practice witchcraft on me , but I can't run away .
I pour myself Cahors - not screaming same servant -
Yes... I scratch Kotofei
Whether the bullet in the head , as if the finger of Errors ,
Whether to pull out of here by sea new Christ.
And how not to mix with drunken eyes, Ninny from frost
Steam locomotive with the ship - still can't burn with shame:
As the canoe on the water, will not leave a trace on the rails
Wheel of a steam locomotive.
What the newspapers say in the section "From the courtroom?"
Sentence was carried out. Glancing here
Babbitt will see through his glasses in pewter frame,
As a man lying face down against a brick wall;
But not asleep. For squeamish bonce dreams
Perforated protected.
Vigilance of this era roots entwined in those
Times, unable in their general blindness
Distinguished from the drop-down cradles of fallen cradles .
Ferruginous Chud on death did not want to look .
Pity saucers full, not only with whom vertanut table,
To ask from you, Rurik.
Vigilance these times - this vigilance to things impasse.
Do not spread on the tree mind stuck until
But sleep on the wall. And do not wake the prince - a dinosaur.
For the last line , oh, do not pull out a bird feather .
Defiant and head of all cases - that wait ax
Yes green laurel.
Let's start with the most seemingly simple: what is the plot of the poem? If it seems to you that The End of a Beautiful Era has no plot as such, then you are mistaken, and now I will tell you why. Strictly speaking, everyone has a plot good poem. This is not always a series of events, as in prose; often the plot of the poem is a train of thought, experiences of the lyrical hero, which are closely related to each other and organize a strict sequence of conclusions. Literary critics even came up with special term - « lyrical plot ”, applicable specifically to poetic texts and describing not only the series of events, but also the change in the mood of the text. But in this case there is a plot in the most obvious sense of the word.
So, the events of the poem begin to develop when the lyrical hero, " feeding himself clothes", going down" to the kiosk for the evening paper"- and all further narration will be based on the description little trip: from the house to the newsstand. It would seem that the situation is super-ordinary, but the strength of a true poet lies in the fact that he can use every detail, every little thing in everyday life to create a complex artistic canvas and important generalizations. Even a simple desire to buy a newspaper in Brodsky's text is motivated, frankly, pretentiously: the hero goes " for the evening paper» - « because the art of poetry requires words". Let's try to figure out what the author means.
It is unlikely that Brodsky needs a newspaper to get inspiration: the official literature of the 60s was clearly not something that the future laureate could admire Nobel Prize. But " the art of poetry requires words”, because any work of art is always a response. In other words, feedback is a response to someone else's idea, to an event that has occurred; the poet, deprived of information from the outside, involuntarily begins to burn himself, finding himself in a dead end of his own thoughts and experiences. This is probably what Brodsky is talking about when he admits that “ does not want to force his own brain". So he goes for the newspaper. And we go further - according to the text of the poem.
A second-rate power, Brodsky, most likely, with a fair amount of irony (hence intentional alogism ) names the Jewish nation, and demonstrative pronoun"this one" clearly shows that Brodsky does not identify himself as part of Soviet state. Not without reason, already in exile, Brodsky said the following about himself: I am a Jew, a Russian poet and an American citizen". Agree, a good set?
The second stanza is a picture that a person sees when he leaves the entrance of his house: old foliage, weakly burning lamps of lanterns reflected in puddles. I already wrote above that the poet is capable of generalizations that are striking in their globality: indeed, describing only one single courtyard, Brodsky makes it emblem all" these sad lands”, the essence of which is endless repetition, duplicity which the poet brings to the point of absurdity. So, even thieves steal not the orange itself, but its reflection in the mirror, " amalgam scraping» (amalgam is an ore alloy that is used in the manufacture of mirrors). In such a world of endless reflections, it is difficult to see the real oneself, which is necessary for poetic reflections (I think it’s easy to see in this term, which refers to the artist’s listening to himself, English word reflection - reflection) - therefore, Brodsky seems to cut off his speech, admitting that he does not remember feelings, " with which you look at yourself».
We listen to the song performed by Alexander Vasiliev
Parallel lines do not intersect. But it is not exactly
The next two stanzas are an emblematic description of the surrounding world and the whole country. Here the author focuses on two features: cold and static. It is important that these characteristics are seen by Brodsky as historically conditioned: even walls are erected with the expectation of the cold season, and literally steel static manifests itself from generation to generation - as political regime, as the basis of economic policy, as the basis of production. This idea will be developed in the final stanzas of the poem. Apparently, rushing towards them, Alexander Vasilyev does not perform the next stanza, so I bring it up.
Only fish in the seas know the price of freedom; but their
dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own
labels and cash registers. And the space sticks out like a price list.
Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things
properties of both it seeks in raw vegetables.
Kochet listens to the chimes.
There are several thoughts here that are quite characteristic of Brodsky. First of all, the tragic discord between man and nature: not being able to understand the language of nature (the image of dumb fish, but knowing the price of freedom), a person builds his own world, assigning a price to everything and hanging labels on everything that make sense only in this absurd "market" system . It turns out that it is not the living world that dictates its primordial rules to man, but, on the contrary, man subjugates nature, distorting it - and now the birds are building their routine, focusing not on the biological rhythm, but on the exact time that the chimes of the Spasskaya Tower beat.
Let me give you one more comment. The paradox “time is created by death” vividly reflects the pessimism of Brodsky’s stoic philosophy: to paraphrase the poet, we can say that life exists because it is finite, and any beginning has value only in the context of an inevitable end. Death is inevitably inherent in the material world.
As you can see, several voices seem to be intertwined in the poem: one describes the details of the real world specifically and accurately; he is echoed by a voice with sad and ironic intonations, laughing mirthlessly at surrounding reality and, thus, as if generalizing it. And a third voice sounds - the voice of a gloomy philosopher, who speaks dryly and aphoristically.
So, intonation The next stanza is set, of course, by an ironic voice. It would seem that the idea that unfortunately, it is difficult to live in an era of accomplishments, having an exalted disposition» can be confirmed by any example from life creative people Soviet era; Brodsky himself, let me remind you, was branded a parasite, was subjected to compulsory treatment in a mental hospital and was exiled to forced labor in the Arkhangelsk region. But no: it suddenly turns out that the problem of high temperament is that any carnal attraction inevitably leads to the same thing (guess what), but not to " marvelous divas". This episode seems especially important: Brodsky, while painting an extremely minor picture of reality, does not consider the socio-political system to be the root of all evil. It's about the man himself Furthermore! - in the world order.
Yes, and the name of Lobachevsky appears in the text for a reason: it was Nikolai Lobachevsky who created geometric theory, suggesting the possibility of crossing two parallel lines. But regardless of through what scientific and philosophical optics man trying to look at real world, in the simplest things a person remains powerless. So passion again and again turns into only carnal pleasure, and it is precisely in this that the “end of perspective”, which is formed by two lines female legs, in this hopelessness to become higher than what surrounds you, than you surround yourself. Love, which is traditionally an opportunity in art to relieve the burden of earthly burdens, is found to be just as heavy and mundane in Brodsky's work. In many ways, one feels bitterness and disappointment from the break with Marianna Basmanova, the woman whom Brodsky loved. most his life, but with whom he could not build a relationship.
We listen to a poem performed by Joseph Brodsky
Reading the newspaper and looking for "Easter eggs"
The next two stanzas are united by the idea of emigration. These lines are quite transparent, but I want to dwell on the words " or a bullet in the temple, as if in the place of an error with a finger». motive suicide is a frequency not only in Brodsky's lyrics, but, alas, in his life. In 1963, while in prison, Brodsky makes an attempt to commit suicide - fortunately, unsuccessfully. It is also important that the poet, speaking of " place of error"points precisely to his head - this is not so much a variation on the theme of" grief from the mind ", but again the removal of responsibility for the painful state from the outside world. Brodsky does not shift, I apologize for the pun, guilt from a sick head to a healthy one and vice versa, but he is clearly aware of the responsibility that each person bears for his thoughts and for what is happening in his head.
And the ninth stanza returns us from the world of abstractions to artistic specificity. Lyrical hero finally buys a newspaper and the first thing his eyes come across is the section “ From the courtroom". Why does the poet concentrate on this particular detail? Firstly, I think that the topic of judicial arbitrariness is close to Brodsky, who himself became a victim of Soviet justice. On the other hand, the news about the murder of a person - even if by a court decision! - is, on reflection, scary enough to overshadow all the others that the newspapers of the "epoch of great deeds" can write about. It seems to me quite interesting the finale of this stanza: removing the author's inversion (indirect word order in a sentence), we get the phrase: a murdered person does not sleep, because dreams have the right to disdain a perforated cumpole. Word " bonce” means the head in prison jargon. Here you can hear the horror that suggests violence and death: a person is deprived of dreams (at a metaphorical level - high matter, soul) and forever remains just a body with a shot through "kumpol", one of the many murdered prisoners - it doesn't matter for what and why . It is worth noting that Brodsky was close to atheism and hardly believed in the possibility afterlife accepting Christian dogmas only partially on ethical and largely on aesthetic level. A bullet in a cumpole will forever remain a bullet in a cumpole: death is final and therefore so terrible.
In the last two stanzas, the voice of a gloomy philosopher sounds more and more confident, as if taking away the mocking intonations necessary to sum up the poem, generalize moods and thoughts. So, paradoxically, the vigilance of this " belle epoch grows out of the blindness of former times. Okay, but what kind of cradles are we talking about? I confess that this is one of the most difficult places poems, the explanation of which was found by the famous philologist Lev Losev. According to the scientist, this is a reference to the XII chapter of Gogol's "Taras Bulba": in the midst of the battle, Taras loses smoking pipe, but decides to pick it up (" Stop! a cradle with tobacco fell out ...”), because of which he is captured and dies. Senseless, universal rigidity, recklessness and inappropriate heroism, inevitably leading to new and new victims, described by Gogol, are the features that have shaped the current "beautiful era".
But in these stanzas you can find two more references, a kind of literary "Easter eggs". For example, " white-eyed chud" - This collective character Finnish, Russian and Komi folklore, which can be compared with Western European gnomes. But Brodsky, most likely, creates a pun and adds gloomy mythological features to the Finno-Ugric ethnic group " chud”, which, according to some theories (so thought, including Alexander Blok), took an active part in the formation of the modern Russian nation. No wonder a few lines below Brodsky will say: “ It’s not right to spread the mind along the tree yet"- clearly referring to famous expression from the Old Russian Tale of Bygone Years.
Gets from Brodsky and Rurik - the first Novgorod prince, the progenitor of the royal dynasty of the Romanovs. " It's a pity, the saucers are full, but there is no one to turn the table with”, says Brodsky, wishing for a metaphysical meeting with Rurik: “to turn the table” in the jargon of spiritualists means to make contact via astral communication, to call on the spirit. But even this is not enough for Brodsky: do not wake up the prince - a dinosaur is necessary to understand the causes of the current "vigilance to dead end things", that is, stagnation. It turns out that the problem of the “beautiful era” lies not only in the unwillingness to look “beyond death” (that is, to live not only for the current day, but also to think about the legacy for future generations). The tragedy of the situation is thought by Brodsky, most likely, more globally: it is not national, but, probably, civilization catastrophe , a mistake in the initial choice of the path of human development, the result of which are punched cumpoles that have fallen out of cradles, innocent poets waiting for an ax.
Watch the clip of Kirill Serebrennikov
(be careful, postmodern!)
Two people in the room: me and Brodsky
“The End of a Beautiful Era” is a poem in which a banal plot - a walk for a newspaper - grows into a reflection on the fate of the country, the fate of the artist, the fate of everything human world. I would like to try to answer the question (it torments me too) - why is Brodsky's poem so good? I will try to put it this way: the poet accurately notes the details that are painfully familiar to all of us, from puddles to criminal chronicles (replace the image of the newspaper with a black box with NTV turned on), succinctly and at the same time ironically, thereby preventing pathos from dulling the sharpness of thought, expresses the thoughts that swarm in the head of every thinking person (what to do with love, with the country, yes, damn it, with this very life?).
At the same time, Brodsky does not give unambiguous answers (yes, this is impossible in principle!) - but provides us tools to independently find solutions to these problems. When I talk about tools, I'm talking about conclusions, ideas, emotions, finally! - about everything that is necessary for every person who does not want to force his own brain and needs an interlocutor. In an attentive, ironic, gloomy and infinitely intelligent interlocutor, which Brodsky is for his reader.
For such a conversation, you don’t even need to “turn the table”.
It is enough just to buy a book of poems.
Or, at worst, listen to Vasiliev's track again.
Because the art of poetry requires words
I am one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors
second-class power that has contacted this one -
not wanting to force my own brain,
giving myself clothes, I go down to the kiosk
for the evening paper.
The wind drives the leaves. Old light bulbs dim glow
in these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors,
with the assistance of puddles, it generates the effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal an orange by scraping the amalgam.
However, the feeling with which you look at yourself -
I forgot this feeling.
In these sad places, everything is designed for the winter: dreams,
walls of prisons, coats, toilets of brides - whites
New Year, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis;
Puritan manners. Linen. And in the hands of violinists -
wooden heaters.
This region is immovable. Introducing the volume of gross
cast iron and lead, shake your head stunned,
remember the old power on bayonets and Cossack whips.
But the eagles land like a magnet on the iron mixture.
Even wicker chairs are held here
on bolts and nuts.
Only fish in the seas know the price of freedom; but their
dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own
labels and cash registers. And the space sticks out like a price list.
Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things
properties of both it seeks in raw vegetables.
Kochet listens to the chimes.
To live in the era of achievements, having an exalted disposition,
unfortunately difficult. Beauty dress up,
you see what you were looking for, and not new marvelous divas.
And it’s not that Lobachevsky is firmly observed here,
but the expanded world must narrow somewhere, and here -
here is the end of perspective.
Whether the map of Europe was stolen by agents of the authorities,
or five sixths of the remaining parts in the world
far too far. Is it some good fairy?
He's telling fortunes over me, but I can't run away from here.
I pour Cahors for myself - do not shout to the servant -
I'm scratching the cat...
Either a bullet in the temple, as if in the place of an error with a finger,
or pull from here across the sea with the new Christ.
Yes, and how not to mix with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
a locomotive with a ship - you still won’t burn with shame:
like a boat on the water, will not leave a trace on the rails
locomotive wheel.
What do they write in the newspapers in the section "From the courtroom"?
The sentence has been carried out. Looking here
the layman sees through tin-rimmed glasses,
how a man lies face down against a brick wall;
but does not sleep. For disdain cumpol dreams
perforated right.
The vigilance of this era is rooted in those
times, unable in their general blindness
to distinguish those who fell out of the cradles from the fallen cradles.
The white-eyed monster does not want to look beyond death.
It's a pity, the saucers are full, but there is no one to turn the table with,
to ask you, Rurik.
The vigilance of these times is the vigilance to the things of a dead end.
It is not fitting for the tree to spread the mind yet,
but spitting on the wall. And do not wake up the prince - a dinosaur.
For the last line, eh, do not snatch a feather from a bird.
The innocent head of all and affairs is something to wait for an ax
yes green laurel.
