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In Russia, literature has its own direction, different from any other. The Russian soul is mysterious and incomprehensible. The genre reflects both Europe and Asia, therefore the best classical Russian works are unusual, amaze with sincerity and vitality.
The main thing actor- soul. For a person, the position in society, the amount of money is not important, it is important for him to find himself and his place in this life, to find truth and peace of mind.
The books of Russian literature are united by the traits of a writer who possesses the gift of the great Word, who has completely devoted himself to this art of literature. Best Classics saw life not flatly, but multifaceted. They wrote about the life of not random destinies, but expressing being in its most unique manifestations.
Russian classics are so different, with different destinies, but they are united by the fact that literature is recognized as a school of life, a way of studying and developing Russia.
Russian classical literature was created best writers from different parts of Russia. It is very important where the author was born, because this determines his formation as a person, his development, and it also affects writing skills. Pushkin, Lermontov, Dostoevsky were born in Moscow, Chernyshevsky in Saratov, Shchedrin in Tver. Poltava region in Ukraine is the birthplace of Gogol, Podolsk province - Nekrasov, Taganrog - Chekhov.
Three great classics, Tolstoy, Turgenev and Dostoevsky, were absolutely different people, had different fates, complex characters and great gifts. They made a huge contribution to the development of literature by writing their the best works which still excite the hearts and souls of readers. Everyone should read these books.
One more important difference books of Russian classics - ridiculing the shortcomings of a person and his way of life. Satire and humor are the main features of the works. However, many critics said that this was all slander. And only true connoisseurs saw how the characters are both comical and tragic at the same time. Books like this always touch my soul.
Here you can find the best works classical literature. You can download Russian classic books for free or read online, which is very convenient. 
We present to your attention 100 best books Russian classics. AT full list The books include the best and most memorable works of Russian writers. This literature known to everyone and recognized by critics from all over the world.
Of course, our list of top 100 books is just a small part that has collected best work great classics. It can be continued for a very long time.
One hundred books that everyone should read in order to understand not only how they used to live, what were the values, traditions, priorities in life, what they aspired to, but to find out in general how our world works, how bright and pure a soul can be and how valuable it is for a person, for the formation of his personality.
The top 100 list includes the best and most notable works Russian classics. The plot of many of them is known from school bench. However, some books are difficult to understand at a young age, and this requires wisdom that is acquired over the years.
Of course, the list is far from complete and can be continued indefinitely. Reading such literature is a pleasure. She not only teaches something, she radically changes lives, helps to realize simple things that we sometimes do not even notice.
We hope you enjoyed our list of classic Russian literature books. Perhaps you have already read something from it, but something not. Great opportunity to make your own personal list books, your top, which you would like to read.
website represents the most short stories-masterpieces that only exist on the Internet. Some of them fit in one sentence and the end of this sentence simply arouses great interest in the reader. Here are the really worthwhile things that you will be interested in reading.
"I killed my grandmother this morning." With such a phrase, F. Roosevelt attracted the attention of a distracted interlocutor.
The ability to tell a lot in a few words, to give food for thought, to awaken feelings and emotions is highest degree language skills and highest level writing skills. And we have a lot to learn from the masters of conciseness.
In this topic Office plankton put together a small but exciting collection of the shortest literary stories demonstrating the talent of writers and their unique command of the word.
* * *
Once Hemingway entered into a bet that he would write a story consisting of only 4 words, capable of touching any reader. The writer managed to win the argument:
"Children's shoes for sale. Never worn" ("For sale: baby shoes, never used")
* * *
Frederick Brown composed the shortest scary story ever written:
“The last man on Earth was sitting in a room. There was a knock on the door…”
* * *
The American writer O. Henry won the competition for the shortest story, which has all the components of a traditional story - a plot, a climax and a denouement:
“The driver lit a cigarette and bent over the gas tank to see how much gasoline was left. The deceased was twenty-three years old.
* * *
Alan E. Mayer "Bad Luck"
I woke up with severe pain all over my body. I opened my eyes and saw a nurse standing by my bed.
“Mr. Fujima,” she said, “you are lucky to have survived the bombing of Hiroshima two days ago. But now you are in the hospital, you are no longer in danger.
A little alive with weakness, I asked:
- Where I am?
"Nagasaki," she replied.
* * *
Jane Orvis "Window"
Ever since Rita was brutally murdered, Carter has been sitting by the window. No TV, reading, correspondence. His life is what is seen through the curtains. He doesn't care who brings the food, pays the bills, he doesn't leave the room. His life is running athletes, the change of seasons, passing cars, the ghost of Rita.
Carter doesn't realize that the felt-lined wards don't have windows.
* * *
The British also organized a competition for the most short story. But according to the terms of the competition, the queen, God, sex, mystery should be mentioned in it. The first place was awarded to the author of the following story:
“Oh, God,” the queen exclaimed, “I am pregnant and I don’t know from whom!”
* * *
Larisa Kirkland "Proposal"
Starlight Night. The most suitable time. Romantic dinner. Cozy Italian restaurant. Little black dress. Gorgeous hair, sparkling eyes, silvery laugh. We've been together for two years now. Great time! True love, best friend, no one else. Champagne! I offer my hand and heart. On one knee. Are people watching? Well, let! A wonderful diamond ring. Blush on cheeks, charming smile.
How, no?!
* * *
A classic example of Spartan brevity comes from a letter from King Philip II of Macedon, who conquered many Greek cities:
"I advise you to surrender immediately, because if my army enters your lands, I will destroy your gardens, enslave people and destroy the city."
To this the Spartan ephors answered with one word: "If".
* * *
Charles Enright "Ghost"
As soon as this happened, I hurried home to tell my wife the sad news. But she didn't seem to listen to me at all. She didn't notice me at all. She looked right through me and poured herself a drink. Turned on the TV.
At this moment there was phone call. She walked over and picked up the phone. I saw how her face wrinkled. She wept bitterly.
* * *
Robert Tompkins "In Search of Truth"
Finally, in this remote, secluded village, his search was over. Truth sat by the fire in a dilapidated hut.
He had never seen an older and uglier woman.
- You - Really?
The old, shriveled hag nodded solemnly.
- Tell me, what should I tell the world? What message to convey?
The old woman spat into the fire and answered:
- Tell them I'm young and beautiful!
* * *
Victor Hugo sent the manuscript of Les Misérables to the publisher with a cover letter:
«?»
The answer was no less concise:
«!»
* * *
In the competition for the most short autobiography one elderly French woman won, who wrote:
“I used to have a smooth face and wrinkled skirt, but now it’s the other way around”
* * *
And in conclusion, the famous monostiche of Valery Bryusov in 1895:
"O cover your pale feet."
Dear friend! On this page you will find a selection of small or rather very small stories with deep spiritual sense. Some stories are only 4-5 lines, some a little more. Every story, no matter how short, opens up big story. Some stories are light and humorous, others are instructive and suggestive. philosophical thoughts, but they are all very, very sincere.
The short story genre is notable for the fact that a large story is created with a few words, which involves brainwashing and smiling, or pushing the imagination to a flight of thoughts and understanding. After reading just this one page, you might get the impression that you have mastered several books.
This collection contains many stories about love and the theme of death, the meaning of life and the emotional living of every moment of it, which is so close to it. They often try to avoid the topic of death, and in several short stories on this page it is shown from such an original side, which makes it possible to understand it in a completely new way, and therefore begin to live differently.
Enjoy reading and interesting spiritual impressions!
"Recipe for female happiness" - Stanislav Sevastyanov
Masha Skvortsova dressed up, put on makeup, sighed, made up her mind - and came to visit Petya Siluyanov. And he treated her to tea with amazing cakes. And Vika Telepenina did not dress up, did not put on makeup, did not sigh - and easily appeared to Dima Seleznev. And he treated her to vodka with amazing sausage. So there are countless recipes for female happiness.
"In Search of Truth" - Robert Tompkins
Finally, in this remote, secluded village, his search was over. Truth sat by the fire in a dilapidated hut.
He had never seen an older and uglier woman.
- Are you true?
The old, shriveled hag nodded solemnly.
"Tell me, what should I tell the world?" What message to convey?
The old woman spat into the fire and answered:
"Tell them I'm young and beautiful!"
"Silver Bullet" - Brad D. Hopkins
Sales have been declining for six consecutive quarters. The munitions factory suffered catastrophic losses and was on the verge of bankruptcy.
Chief Executive Scott Phillips had no idea what was going on, but shareholders would probably blame him for everything.
He opened a desk drawer, took out a revolver, put the muzzle to his temple, and pulled the trigger.
Misfire.
“Okay, let’s take care of the product quality control department.”
"Once Upon A Time There Was Love"
And one day the Great Flood came. And Noah said:
“Only every creature - a pair! And Singles - ficus !!! "
Love began to look for a mate - Pride, Wealth,
Glory, Joy, but they already had satellites.
And then Separation came to her, and said:
"I love you".
Love quickly jumped into the Ark with her.
But Separation actually fell in love with Love and did not
I wanted to part with her even on earth.
And now Separation always follows Love...
"Sublime sadness" - Stanislav Sevastyanov
Love sometimes evokes sublime sadness. At dusk, when the thirst for love is completely unbearable, student Krylov came to the house of his beloved, student Katya Moshkina from a parallel group, and climbed up the drainpipe to her balcony to make a confession. On the way, he diligently repeated the words that he would say to her, and was so carried away that he forgot to stop in time. So he stood all night sad on the roof of a nine-story building, until the firemen removed it.
"Mother" - Vladislav Panfilov
The mother was unhappy. She buried her husband and son, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. She remembered them as small and thick-cheeked and gray-haired and hunched over. Mother felt like a lonely birch in the forest scorched by time. Mother begged to grant her death: any, the most painful. For she is tired of living! But I had to live on ... And the only consolation for the mother was the grandchildren of her grandchildren, the same big-eyed and chubby. And she nursed them and told them all her life, and the life of her children and her grandchildren ... But one day giant blinding pillars grew around her mother, and she saw how her great-great-grandchildren were burned alive, and she herself screamed from the pain of melting skin and pulled to the sky withered yellow hands and cursed him for her fate. But the sky responded with a new whistle of cut air and new flashes of fiery death. And in convulsions, the Earth was agitated, and millions of souls fluttered into space. And the planet tensed up in a nuclear apoplexy and exploded into pieces ...
The little pink fairy, swaying on an amber twig, was twittering to her friends for the umpteenth time about how many years ago, flying to the other end of the universe, she noticed a bluish-green, sparkling in the rays of space small planet. “Oh, she is so wonderful! Oh! She is so beautiful!” the fairy cooed. “I have been flying over the emerald fields all day! Azure lakes! Silver rivers! I felt so good that I decided to do some good deed!” And I saw a boy sitting alone on the shore of a tired pond, and I flew up to him and whispered: “I want to fulfill your cherished desire! Tell me it!" And the boy looked up at me with beautiful dark eyes: “It's my mother's birthday today. I want her, no matter what, to live forever!” “Oh, what a noble desire! Oh, how sincere it is! Oh, how sublime it is! the little fairies sang. “Oh, how happy is this woman who has such a noble son!”
"Lucky" - Stanislav Sevastyanov
He looked at her, admired her, trembled at the meeting: she sparkled against the background of his mundane everyday life, was sublimely beautiful, cold and inaccessible. Suddenly, having fairly endowed her with his attention, he felt that she, as if melting under his scorching gaze, began to reach out to him. And so, without expecting it, he made contact with her ... He came to his senses when the nurse changed the bandage on his head.
“You are lucky,” she said affectionately, “rarely anyone survives from such icicles.”
"Wings"
“I don’t love you,” these words pierced the heart, turning inside out with sharp edges, turning them into mincemeat.
“I don’t love you,” simple six syllables, only twelve letters that kill us, shooting merciless sounds from our mouths.
“I don’t love you,” there is nothing more terrible when a loved one pronounces them. The one for which you live, for which you do everything, for which you can even die.
“I don’t love you,” his eyes darken. First, peripheral vision is turned off: a dark veil envelops everything around, leaving a small space. Then flickering, iridescent gray dots cover the remaining area. Dark completely. You feel only your tears, a terrible pain in your chest, squeezing your lungs, like a press. You are squeezed and trying to take as little space as possible in this world, to hide from these hurting words.
- I do not love you - your wings that covered you and your loved one in Hard time, begin to crumble with already yellowed feathers, like November trees under a gust of autumn wind. Piercing cold passes through the body, freezing the soul. Only two shoots are already sticking out of the back, covered with a light fluff, but even he withers from words, crumbling into silver dust.
“I don’t love you,” the letters dig into the remnants of the wings with a screeching saw, tearing them out of the back, tearing the flesh to the shoulder blades. Blood runs down his back, washing away his feathers. Small fountains gush from the arteries and it seems that new wings have grown - bloody wings, light, air-squirting.
“I don’t love you.” There are no more wings. The blood stopped flowing, drying up in a black crust on his back. What used to be called wings are now only barely noticeable tubercles, somewhere at the level of the shoulder blades. The pain is gone and the words are just words. A set of sounds that no longer cause suffering, do not even leave traces.
The wounds have healed. Time heals…
Time heals even the worst wounds. Everything passes, even the long winter. Spring will still come, melting the ice in the soul. You hug your loved one dear person and embrace him with snow-white wings. Wings always grow back.
- I love you…
"Ordinary scrambled eggs" - Stanislav Sevastyanov
“Go, go everyone. It’s better somehow alone: I’ll freeze, I’ll be unsociable, like a bump in a swamp, like a snowdrift. And when I lie down in the coffin, don’t you dare come to me to weep to your heart’s content for your own good, bending over the fallen body, left by the muse, and the pen, and the shabby, stained oil paper ... ”Having written this, the sentimentalist writer Sherstobitov re-read what he had written about thirty times, he added “cramped” in front of the coffin, and was so imbued with the resulting tragedy that he could not stand it and shed a tear on himself. And then his wife Varenka called him to supper, and he was pleasantly satisfied with vinaigrette and scrambled eggs with sausage. In the meantime, his tears dried up, and, returning to the text, he first crossed out “cramped”, and then instead of “I lie down in a coffin” he wrote “I lay down on Parnassus”, because of which all subsequent harmony went to dust. “Well, to hell with harmony, I’d better go and stroke Varenka on the knee ...” So an ordinary scrambled egg was preserved for the grateful descendants of the sentimentalist writer Sherstobitov.
"Destiny" - Jay Rip
There was only one way out, for our lives were intertwined in a knot of anger and bliss too tangled to solve everything in any other way. Let's trust the lot: heads - and we will get married, tails - and we will part forever.
The coin was flipped. She chimed, spun, and stopped. Eagle.
We stared at her in bewilderment.
Then, with one voice, we said: "Maybe one more time?"
"Chest" - Daniil Kharms
The thin-necked man climbed into the chest, closed the lid behind him, and began to choke.
Here, a man with a thin neck said, panting, I am suffocating in a chest, because I have a thin neck. The lid of the chest is closed and does not let air in. I will suffocate, but I still won't open the lid of the chest. Gradually I will die. I will see the struggle of life and death. The battle will take place unnaturally, with equal chances, because death naturally conquers, and life, doomed to death, only fights in vain with the enemy, until the last minute, without losing vain hope. In the same struggle that will take place now, life will know the way of its victory: for this life it is necessary to force my hands to open the lid of the chest. Let's see who wins? Only now it smells awful of mothballs. If life wins, I will sprinkle things in the chest with shag ... It has begun: I can no longer breathe. I'm dead, that's clear! I have no salvation! And there is nothing sublime in my head. I'm suffocating!…
Ouch! What is it? Now something has happened, but I can't figure out what it is. I saw or heard something...
Ouch! Did something happen again? Oh my God! I have nothing to breathe. I seem to be dying...
What else is this? Why do I sing? I think my neck hurts... But where is the chest? Why can I see everything in my room? No way I'm lying on the floor! Where is the chest?
The thin-necked man got up from the floor and looked around. The chest was nowhere to be found. On the chairs and on the bed were things taken from the chest, but the chest was nowhere to be found.
The thin necked man said:
“So life has conquered death in a way unknown to me.
"Unfortunate" - Dan Andrews
They say evil has no face. Indeed, his face showed no emotion. There was not a glimmer of sympathy on him, and yet the pain is simply unbearable. Doesn't he see the horror in my eyes and the panic in my face? He calmly, one might say, professionally did his dirty work, and in the end he politely said: "Rinse your mouth, please."
"Dirty laundry"
One couple moved to live in new apartment. In the morning, barely waking up, the wife looked out the window and saw a neighbor who was hanging out washed clothes to dry.
“Look how dirty her laundry is,” she told her husband. But he read the newspaper and did not pay any attention to it.
“She probably has bad soap, or she doesn’t know how to wash at all. I should teach her."
And so every time a neighbor hung out the laundry, the wife was surprised at how dirty it was.
One fine morning, looking out the window, she cried out: “Oh! Today the linen is clean! She must have learned to wash!”
“No,” said the husband, “I just got up early today and washed the window.”
“I didn’t wait” - Stanislav Sevastyanov
It was unseen wonderful moment. Despising unearthly forces and his own path, he froze in order to see enough of her for the future. At first, she took off her dress for a very long time, fussed with the lightning; then she loosened her hair, combed it, filling it with air and silky color; then she pulled with stockings, tried not to catch with her nails; then she hesitated with pink underwear, so ethereal that even her delicate fingers seemed rough. Finally, she undressed all - but the month was already looking out of another window.
"Wealth"
Once a rich man gave a poor man a basket full of rubbish. The poor man smiled at him and left with the basket. Shake the trash out of it, clean it out, then fill it up beautiful flowers. He returned to the rich man and returned the basket to him.
The rich man was surprised and asked: “Why are you giving me this basket filled with beautiful flowers, if I gave you rubbish?”
And the poor man replied: “Everyone gives to another what he has in his heart.”
"Do not waste the good" - Stanislav Sevastyanov
"How much do you take?" “Six hundred rubles an hour.” “And in two hours?” - "A thousand." He came to her, she smelled sweet of perfume and craftsmanship, he was agitated, she touched his fingers, his fingers were naughty, crooked and ridiculous, but he clenched his will into a fist. Returning home, he immediately sat down at the piano and began to consolidate the scale he had just studied. The tool, an old "Becker", got to him from the former tenants. Fingers ached, pawned in the ears, willpower grew stronger. The neighbors were pounding on the wall.
"Postcards from the Other World" - Franco Arminio
Here the end of winter and the end of spring are about the same. The first roses serve as a signal. I saw one rose when they took me to the ambulance. I closed my eyes thinking about that rose. Up front, the driver and the nurse were talking about a new restaurant. There you eat your fill, and the prices are miserable.
At some point, I decided that I could become important person. I felt that death was giving me a reprieve. Then I plunged headlong into life, like a child putting his hand into a stocking with Epiphany gifts. Then my day came. Wake up, my wife told me. Wake up, she repeated everything.
It was a fine sunny day. I didn't want to die on a day like this. I always thought that I would die at night, under the barking of dogs. But I died at noon when the cooking show started on TV.
They say most people die at dawn. For years I woke up at four in the morning, got up and waited for the fateful hour to pass. I opened a book or turned on the TV. Sometimes he went outside. I died at seven in the evening. Nothing special happened. The world has always given me a vague anxiety. And then this anxiety suddenly disappeared.
I was ninety nine. My children came to the nursing home just to talk to me about my centenary celebration. It didn't bother me at all. I didn't hear them, I felt only my tiredness. And I wanted to die so as not to feel her. It happened in front of my eyes eldest daughter. She gave me a piece of an apple and talked about a cake with the number one hundred. Ones should be as long as a stick, and zeros as long as bicycle wheels, she said.
My wife still complains about the doctors who did not cure me. Although I always considered myself incurable. Even when Italy won the World Cup, even when I got married.
By the age of fifty, I had the face of a man who could die any minute. I died at ninety-six, after a long agony.
What I have always enjoyed is the nativity scene. Every year he got better and better. I exhibited it in front of the door of our house. The door was constantly open. I divided the only room with a red-and-white ribbon, like when repairing roads. Those who stopped to admire the nativity scene, I treated them to beer. I talked in detail about papier-mâché, musk, lambs, magi, rivers, castles, shepherds and shepherds, caves, the Baby, the guiding star, electrical wiring. Wiring was my pride. I died alone on Christmas night, looking at the nativity scene, sparkling with all the lights.
Anna Karenina. Lev Tolstoy
The greatest love story of all time. A story that has not left the stage, filmed countless times - and still has not lost the boundless charm of passion - a destructive, destructive, blind passion - but all the more bewitching with its grandeur.
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The Master and Margarita. Michael Bulgakov
This is the most mysterious novel ever domestic literature 20th century This is a novel that is almost officially called the "Gospel of Satan". This is The Master and Margarita. A book that can be read and re-read dozens, hundreds of times, but most importantly, which is still impossible to understand. So, which pages of The Master and Margarita were dictated by the Forces of Light?
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Wuthering Heights. Emily Bronte
Mystery novel, included in the top ten best novels of all time! The story of a stormy, truly demonic passion, which excites the imagination of readers for more than a hundred and fifty years. Katie gave her heart to her cousin, but ambition and a thirst for wealth push her into the arms of a rich man. Forbidden attraction turns into a curse for secret lovers, and one day.
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Eugene Onegin. Alexander Pushkin
“Have you read "Onegin"? What can you say about Onegin? These are the questions that are constantly repeated among writers and Russian readers, ”the writer, enterprising publisher and, by the way, the hero of Pushkin’s epigrams, Faddey Bulgarin, noted after the publication of the second chapter of the novel. For a long time ONEGIN has not been accepted to evaluate. In the words of the same Bulgarin, it is “written in Pushkin's verses. That's enough."
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Cathedral Notre Dame of Paris. Victor Hugo
A story that survived the centuries, became a canon and gave its heroes the glory of common nouns. A story of love and tragedy. The love of those to whom love was not given and not allowed - by religious rank, physical weakness or someone else's evil will. The gypsy Esmeralda and the deaf hunchback bell ringer Quasimodo, the priest Frollo and the captain of the royal shooters Phoebe de Chateauper, the beautiful Fleur-de-Lys and the poet Gringoire.
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Gone With the Wind. Margaret Mitchell
the great saga of civil war in the USA and about the fate of the wayward and ready to go over the heads of Scarlett O'Hara was first published more than 70 years ago and has not become outdated to this day. This the only novel Margaret Mitchell, for which she received a Pulitzer Prize. A story about a woman who is not ashamed to be equal to either an unconditional feminist or a staunch supporter of house building.
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Romeo and Juliet. William Shakespeare
This is the highest of love tragedies that human genius can create. A tragedy that has been filmed and will be filmed. A tragedy that does not leave the stage to this day - and to this day it sounds like it was written yesterday. Years and centuries go by. But one thing remains and will forever remain unchanged: “There is no sadder story in the world than the story of Romeo and Juliet ...”
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The Great Gatsby. Francis Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby is not only the pinnacle of Fitzgerald's work, but also one of the highest achievements in world prose of the 20th century. Although the action of the novel takes place in the “turbulent” twenties of the last century, when fortunes were made literally from nothing and yesterday’s criminals became millionaires overnight, this book lives outside of time, because, telling about the broken fates of the “Jazz Age” generation.
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Three Musketeers. Alexandr Duma
The most famous historical adventurous novel by Alexandre Dumas tells about the adventures of the Gascon d'Artagnan and his Musketeer friends at the court of King Louis XIII.
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Count of Monte Cristo. Alexandr Duma
The book features one of the classic's most gripping adventure novels. French literature 19th century Alexandre Dumas.
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Triumphal Arch. Erich Remarque
One of the most beautiful and tragic love stories in the history of European literature. The story of a refugee from Nazi Germany, Dr. Ravik, and entangled in " unbearable lightness being” by the beautiful Joan Madu takes place in pre-war Paris. And the disturbing time in which these two happened to meet and fall in love with each other becomes one of the main characters of the Arc de Triomphe.
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The person who laughs. Victor Hugo
Gwynplaine is a lord by birth, as a child he was sold to gangsters-comprachos, who made a fair jester out of a child, carving a mask of “eternal laughter” on his face (at the courts of the European nobility of that time there was a fashion for cripples and freaks who amused the owners). Against all odds, Gwynplaine retained the best human qualities and your love.
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Martin Eden. Jack London
A simple sailor, in whom it is easy to recognize the author himself, goes through a long, full of hardships path to literary immortality ... By chance, finding himself in a secular society, Martin Eden is doubly happy and surprised ... and the creative gift awakened in him, and divine way young Ruth Morse, so unlike all the people he knew before ... From now on, two goals relentlessly stand before him.
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Sister Kerry. Theodore Dreiser
The publication of Theodore Dreiser's first novel was so difficult that it led its creator into a severe depression. But further fate novel "Sister Kerry" turned out to be happy: it was translated into many foreign languages reprinted in millions of copies. New and new generations of readers are happy to plunge into the vicissitudes of the fate of Caroline Meiber.
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American tragedy. Theodore Dreiser
The novel “An American Tragedy” is the pinnacle of creativity of the outstanding American writer Theodor Dreiser. He said: “No one creates tragedies - life creates them. The writers only portray them.” Dreiser managed to depict the tragedy of Clive Griffiths so talentedly that his story leaves no one indifferent and modern reader.
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Outcasts. Victor Hugo
Jean Valjean, Cosette, Gavroche - the names of the heroes of the novel have long become common nouns, the number of its readers for a century and a half since the publication of the book has not decreased, the novel has not lost its popularity. A kaleidoscope of faces from all walks of French society in the first half 19th century, vivid, memorable characters, sentimentality and realism, tense, exciting plot.
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The adventures of the good soldier Schweik. Yaroslav Gashek
Great, original and hooligan novel. A book that can be perceived both as a "soldier's story" and as a classic work, directly related to the traditions of the Renaissance. This is a sparkling text that makes you laugh to tears, and a powerful call to “lay down your arms”, and one of the most objective historical evidence in satirical literature.
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Iliad. Homer
The attraction of Homer's poems is not only that their author introduces us to a world separated from modernity by tens of centuries and yet unusually real thanks to the genius of the poet, who preserved in his poems the beating of contemporary life. The immortality of Homer is that in his brilliant creations there are inexhaustible reserves of universal enduring values - reason, goodness and beauty.
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St. John's wort. James Cooper
Cooper was able to find and describe in his books that originality and unexpected brightness of the newly discovered continent, which managed to fascinate the entire world. modern Europe. Each new novel The writer was eagerly awaited. The exciting adventures of the fearless and noble hunter and tracker Natty Bumpo conquered both young and adult readers..
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Doctor Zhivago. Boris Pasternak
The novel "Doctor Zhivago" is one of the outstanding works Russian literature, throughout years remained closed to a wide range readers in our country who knew about him only through scandalous and unscrupulous party criticism.
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Don Quixote. Miguel Cervantes
What do the names of Amadis the Gallic, the English Palmerine, the Greek Don Belianis, the White Tyrant tell us today? But it was precisely as a parody of the novels about these knights that “The Cunning Hidalgo Don Quixote of La Mancha” by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra was created. And this parody outlived the parodied genre for centuries. "Don Quixote" was recognized best novel throughout the history of world literature.
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Ivanhoe. Walter Scott
"Ivanhoe" - key work in the cycle of novels by W. Scott, which take us to medieval England. To the young knight Ivanhoe, who secretly returned from crusade to his homeland and, by the will of his father, deprived of his inheritance, will have to defend his honor and love lovely lady Rowena ... King Richard will come to his aid Lion Heart and the legendary robber Robin Hood.
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Headless horseman. Reed Mine
The plot of the novel is built so skillfully that it keeps you in suspense until the very last page. It is no coincidence that the exciting story of the noble mustanger Maurice Gerald and his beloved, the beautiful Louise Poindexter, investigating the sinister secret of the headless horseman, whose figure, when he appears, terrifies the inhabitants of the savannah, was extremely fond of readers of Europe and Russia.
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Dear friend. Guy de Maupassant
The novel "Dear friend" has become one of the symbols of the era. This is Maupassant's most powerful novel. Through the story of Georges Duroy, who is making his “way up”, the true morals of high French society are revealed, the spirit of venality that reigns in all its areas contributes to the fact that an ordinary and immoral person, such as the hero of Maupassant, easily achieves success and wealth.
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Dead Souls. Nikolay Gogol
The release of the first volume of N. Gogol's "Dead Souls" in 1842 caused a heated controversy among contemporaries, splitting society into admirers and opponents of the poem. “... Speaking of “ Dead souls“- you can talk a lot about Russia ...” - this judgment of P. Vyazemsky explained main reason disputes. The author’s question is still relevant: “Rus, where are you going, give me an answer?”
Stories of the classics - classical prose about love, romance and lyrics, humor and sadness in the stories of recognized masters of the genre.
Antonio was young and proud. He did not want to obey his older brother, Marco, although he was supposed to eventually become the ruler of the entire kingdom. Then the angry old king expelled Antonio from the state as a rebel. Antonio could have taken refuge with his influential friends and waited out the time of his father's disfavor, or retired overseas to his mother's relatives, but pride did not allow him to do this. Having changed into a modest dress and without taking any jewelry or money with him, Antonio quietly left the palace and intervened in the crowd. The capital was a commercial, seaside city; its streets were always full of people, but Antonio did not wander aimlessly for long: he remembered that now he must earn his own living. In order not to be recognized, he decided to choose the most black work, went to the pier and asked the porters to accept him as a comrade. They agreed, and Antonio immediately set to work. Until the evening he carried boxes and bales, and only after sunset he went with his comrades to rest.
I'm amazingly lucky! If my rings had not been sold out, I would purposely throw one of them into the water for a test, and if we still caught fish, and if this fish were given to us to eat, then I would certainly find an abandoned ring in it. In a word, the happiness of Polycrates. As best example extraordinary luck, I will tell you my story with the search. I must tell you, we have been ready for a search for a long time. Not because we felt or recognized ourselves as criminals, but simply because all our acquaintances had already been searched, and why are we worse than others.
Waited a long time - even tired. The fact is that they usually came to search at night, about three o'clock, and we set up a watch - one night the husband did not sleep, another aunt, the third - I. And it’s unpleasant if everyone is in bed, there is no one to meet dear guests and engage in conversation while everyone is dressed.
I
Molton Chase is a charming old estate where the Clayton family has been living for hundreds of years. Its current owner, Harry Clayton, is wealthy, and since he has only been enjoying the pleasures of married life for only five years and has yet to receive his college and school bills by Christmas, he wants the house to be constantly full of guests. He receives each of them with cordial and sincere cordiality.
December, Christmas Eve. Family and guests gathered at the dinner table.
— Bella! Would you like to take part in a horse ride after dinner? Harry turned to his wife, who was sitting across from him.
Bella Clayton, a small woman with dimples and a simple-minded expression on her face to match her husband, immediately replied:
— No, Harry! Not today, dear. You know that the Daymers could arrive any minute before seven o'clock, and I wouldn't like to leave the house without seeing them.
“May I know, Mrs. Clayton, who exactly are these Daymers, whose arrival deprives us of your dear company today?” inquired Captain Moss, a friend of her husband, who, like many handsome men I considered myself entitled to be immodest.
But resentment was the least characteristic of Bella Clayton's nature.
“The Deimers are my relatives, Captain Moss,” she replied, “at any rate, Blanche Deimer is my cousin.”
The dacha was tiny - two rooms and a kitchen. The mother grumbled in the rooms, the cook in the kitchen, and since Katenka served as the object of grumbling for both, there was no way for this Katya to stay at home, and she sat all day in the garden on a rocking bench. Katenka's mother, a poor but ignoble widow, sewed ladies' clothes all winter and even entrance doors nailed the tablet "Madame Parascove, fashions and dresses." In the summer, she rested and raised her daughter-gymnasium through reproaches of ingratitude. Darya the cook had been arrogant for a long time, about ten years ago, and in all of nature there has not yet been found a creature that could put her in her place.
Katenka sits on her rocking chair and dreams "about him." In a year she will be sixteen years old, then it will be possible to get married without the permission of the metropolitan. But who to marry, that's the question?
It should be noted that this story is not so overly funny.
Other times there are such unfunny themes taken from life. There was some kind of fight, scuffle or property whistled.
Or, for example, as in this story. The story of how one intelligent lady drowned. So to say, laughter from this fact can be collected a little.
Although, I must say that in this story there will be some funny provisions. You will see for yourself.
Of course, I would not bother the modern reader with such a not too bravura story, but, you know, a very responsible modern topic. About materialism and love.
In a word, this is a story about how one day, through an accident, it finally became clear that any mysticism, any idealist, various unearthly loves, and so on and so forth, is pure nonsense and nonsense.
And that only a real material approach is valid in life and nothing, unfortunately, more.
Maybe this will seem too sad to some backward intellectuals and academics, maybe they will whine back through this, but, having whined, let them look at their past life and then they will see how much they have screwed up on themselves too much.
So, allow the old, rude materialist, who finally put an end to many lofty things after this story, to tell this very story. And let me apologize again if there is not as much laughter as we would like.
I
Sultan Mohammed II the Conqueror, the conqueror of two empires, fourteen kingdoms and two hundred cities, swore that he would feed his horse with oats on the altar of St. Peter in Rome. The great vizier of the Sultan, Ahmet Pasha, having crossed the strait with a strong army, surrounded the city of Otranto from land and sea and took it by attack on June 26, in the year from the incarnation of the Word 1480. Messer Francesco Largo, many of the inhabitants who were able to bear arms were killed, the archbishop, priests and monks were subjected to all kinds of humiliations in the temples, and noble ladies and girls were deprived of honor by violence.
The daughter of Francesco Largo, the beautiful Giulia, wished to take the Grand Vizier himself into his harem. But the proud Neapolitan woman did not agree to become the concubine of the non-Christ. She met the Turk, on his first visit, with such insults that he flared up against her with terrible anger. Of course, Ahmet Pasha could have overcome the resistance of a weak girl by force, but he preferred to take revenge on her more cruelly and ordered her to be thrown into the city's underground prison. The Neapolitan rulers threw into this prison only notorious murderers and the blackest villains, for whom they wanted to find a punishment worse than death.
Julia, bound hand and foot with thick ropes, was brought to the prison in a closed stretcher, since even the Turks could not help but show her some honor, befitting her birth and position. They dragged her down a narrow and dirty staircase into the depths of the prison and chained her to the wall with an iron chain. Julia was left with a luxurious Lyon silk dress, but all the jewelry that was on her was torn off: gold rings and bracelets, a pearl diadem and diamond earrings. Someone took off her morocco oriental shoes, too, so that Julia was barefoot.
The world was created in five days.
“And God saw that it was good,” the Bible says.
He saw what was good and created man.
What for? — is asked.
Nevertheless created.
This is where it went. God sees “what is good,” but man immediately saw what was wrong. And that is not good, and this is wrong, and why are the covenants and why are the prohibitions.
And there - all known sad story with an apple. The man ate the apple, and blamed the snake. He supposedly incited. A technique that has lived for many centuries and has survived to our time: if a person has mischief, friends are always to blame for everything.
But it is not the fate of man that interests us now, but the question - why was he created? Is it not because the universe, like any other piece of art needed criticism?
Of course, not everything in this universe is perfect. A lot of nonsense. Why, for example, some meadow blade of grass has twelve varieties and all is useless. And a cow will come, and take away with a wide tongue, and devour all twelve.
And why does a person need a process of the caecum, which must be removed as soon as possible?
- Oh well! - they will say. “You are talking lightly. This appendix indicates that a person once ...
I don’t remember what he testifies to, but, probably, about some completely unflattering thing: about belonging to a certain genus of monkeys or some South Asian water cuttlefish. Better not testify. Vermiform! Such nonsense! But it was created.
From her chaise longue, Mrs. Hamlin stared blankly at the passengers climbing up the gangplank. The ship arrived in Singapore at night, and loading began from the very dawn: the winches toiled all day, but having become familiar, their incessant creak no longer hurt their ears. She had breakfast at the Europa and, to pass the time, got into a rickshaw carriage and drove along the elegant streets of the city, teeming with diverse people. Singapore is a place of great pandemonium of nations. The Malays, the true sons of this land, are few here, but apparently-invisibly obsequious, agile and diligent Chinese; dark-skinned Tamils inaudibly touch with their bare feet, as if they feel themselves strangers and random people here, but well-groomed rich Bengalis feel great in their neighborhoods and are full of complacency; obsequious and cunning Japanese are absorbed in some of their hasty and, apparently, dark affairs, and only the British, whitening helmets and canvas pantaloons, flying in their cars and sitting freely on rickshaws, are careless and at ease in appearance. With smiling indifference, the rulers of this swarming crowd bear the burden of their power. Tired of the city and the heat, Mrs. Hamlin waited for the ship to continue its long journey across the Indian Ocean.
Seeing the doctor and Mrs. Linsell coming up on deck, she waved to them - her hand was large, and she herself was big, tall. From Yokohama, where her current voyage had begun, she watched with malevolent curiosity as the pair's intimacy quickly grew. Linsell was a naval officer assigned to the British embassy in Tokyo, and the indifference with which he watched the doctor fawn over his wife made Mrs. Hamlin perplexed. Two newcomers were coming up the ladder, and, to amuse herself, she began to wonder whether they were married or single. Close by, with wicker chairs pushed back, was a company of men—planters, she thought, looking at their khaki suits and wide-brimmed fedoras; the steward was knocked off his feet while taking their orders. They talked and laughed too loudly, for they had poured enough alcohol into themselves to fall into some kind of foolish animation; it was clearly a send-off, but whose, Mrs. Hamlin could not understand. There were only a few minutes left before departure. Passengers kept coming and coming, and at last Mr. Jephson, the consul, majestically marched down the gangplank; he was on vacation. He boarded a ship in Shanghai and immediately began courting Mrs. Hamlin, but she had no inclination to flirt. Remembering what was now driving her to Europe, she frowned. She wanted to spend Christmas at sea, away from anyone who had anything to do with her. The thought instantly made her heart clench, but she immediately became angry with herself that the memory, which she had resolutely banished, was again stirring up her resisting mind.
Free, boy, free! Free, boy, free!
Novgorod song
- Here comes the summer.
- It's spring. May. Spring.
You won't understand anything here. Spring? Summer? Heat, stuffiness, then - rain, snow, stoves are heated. Again stuffiness, heat.
We were not like that. We have - our northern spring was an event.
The sky, air, earth, trees changed.
All secret forces, secret juices accumulated during the winter, rushed out.
Animals roared, animals roared, the air rustled with wings. High, under the very clouds, in a triangle, like a heart soaring above the ground, the cranes flew. The river was filled with ice. Streams gurgled and gurgled along the ravines. The whole earth trembled in light, in ringing, in rustlings, whispers, cries.
And the nights did not bring peace, did not close their eyes with peaceful darkness. The day grew dim, turned pink, but did not leave.
And people dangled, pale, languid, wandered, listened, like poets looking for a rhyme to an image that had already arisen.
It became difficult to live a normal life.
At the beginning of this century there was significant event: a son was born to court adviser Ivan Mironovich Zaedin. When the first impulses of parental enthusiasm passed and the mother's strength recovered somewhat, which happened very soon, Ivan Mironovich asked his wife:
- And what, my dear, what do you think, the youngster must be the spitting image of me?
— How not so! And God forbid!
“But what, isn’t that ... I’m not good, Sofya Markovna?”
- Good, but unfortunate! You all go apart; you have no worries: seven arshins of cloth for a tailcoat!
- That's what they added. What do you feel sorry for the cloth, or what? Oh, Sofya Markovna! If you weren't talking, I wouldn't be listening!
- I wanted to cut a vest out of my katsaveyka: where to! it doesn’t come out in half ... Eka the grace of God! If only you walked more, Ivan Mironovich: after all, it will soon be shameful to appear among people with you!
"What's wrong with that, Sofya Markovna?" So I go to the department every day and I don’t see any harm to myself: everyone looks at me with respect.
“They laugh at you, but you don’t even have a mind to understand!” And you want others to be like you!
“Really, my dear, you are sophisticated: what is there to be surprised if the son looks like his father?
- Will not be!
- It will, darling. Now the little one is like that ... Again, take your nose ... you can say that the main thing is in a person.
- What are you doing with your nose here! He is my birth.
- And mine too; here you will see.
Here mutual arguments and refutations began, which ended in a quarrel. Ivan Mironovich spoke with such fervor that the upper part of his huge belly swayed like a stagnant swamp, inadvertently shaken. Since it was still impossible to make out anything on the face of the newborn, then, having somewhat calmed down, the parents decided to wait for the most convenient time to resolve the dispute and concluded the following bet at this end: if the son, who was supposed to be called Dmitry, will look like his father, then the father has the right to raise his sole discretion, and the wife has no right to have the slightest interference in that matter, and vice versa, if the gain is on the side of the mother ...
“You will be embarrassed, my dear, I know in advance that you will be embarrassed; better refuse ... take a nose, - said the court adviser, - and I am so sure that at least, perhaps, on stamped paper I will write our condition and declare in the chamber, right.
- They also thought up what to spend money on; eh, Ivan Mironovich, God did not give you sound reasoning, and you are also reading the Northern Bee.
“You won’t please, Sofya Markovna. Let's see what you say, how I will educate Mitenka.
- You won't!
- But we'll see!
— See!
A few days later, Mitenka was given a formal examination in the presence of several relatives and friends at home.
“He doesn’t look like you in the slightest, darling!”
- He is from you as from the earth the sky, Ivan Mironovich!
Both exclamations flew out at the same time from the lips of the spouses and were confirmed by those present. In fact, Mitenka did not at all resemble either his father or his mother.
