Tim Sobakin
The dog that was a cat
I have a good friend. Her name is Nika Bosmith. She lives somewhere THERE, either in Scotland, or in Norway. I can’t say for sure: there are almost no borders in that world. But despite the differences in our lives, we are similar to each other. Sometimes it even seems like we are the SAME PERSON. Or people... In general, people.
When Nika and I meet, we talk in some unthinkable, unknown language. Although we understand each other best without words. And what are the words for? You can say one thing and think about something else. You may not do what you would like to do. You may not seem to be who you really are. And such non-coincidences occur quite often in life.
“Sometimes they are funny,” Nick says thoughtfully. “For example, I knew one dog that was actually a cat.”
“And her mistress,” I pick up the thought, “for sure, everything turned out differently than the others.”
“It gave her a lot of trouble,” Nike nods.
“Tell me more,” I ask.
- Fine. Only you will translate my stories from that unknown language…
“…which I hardly know…”
“…but you understand very well.
We look into each other's eyes for a long time.
And Nika slowly starts.
All wrong
In a Scottish town there lived an aunt Solveig. On the face of it, she seemed like the most ordinary aunt. But in life, for some reason, everything turned out differently for her than for others.
She could run for hours on the ice and not fall, but often slipped on dry pavement. She deliberately dropped the vase from the fifth floor - and the vase did not break. But as soon as she accidentally touched the jug with her sleeve, like that - to smithereens! With Aunt Solveig, even the dog was not a dog at all, but a cat. And her name was Shaq. But about this wrong dog - a little later.
Aunt Solveig worked as a consultant on difficult questions. But not in Glasgow, where she lived, but in a completely different Scottish city. And she flew to work by plane - twice a week. Aunt Solveig left home early to catch the airport, but for some reason she was always late. And the plane took off without her.
One morning she decided, “Stop being late! You have to get to work today."
Auntie had breakfast an hour earlier than usual and on a fast BMW car rushed to the airport. However, halfway through, she ran out of gas.
– Ho-ho! exclaimed Aunt Solveig. “In that case, I have a full pan of gasoline in reserve.
– Hee hee! Aunt Solveig chuckled. - I'm using the detour. There is still plenty of time.
And the detour path lay across the bridge. And it so happened that this bridge suddenly collapsed into the river.
– Ha-ha! said Aunt Solveig. – I have a big inflatable boat. She can handle the car. I'll swim over!
Crossing the river, oddly enough, ended safely. It was already a stone's throw from the airport, when a meteorite suddenly fell from the sky and hit the front wheel.
“Heh heh…” Aunt Solveig sighed. - I'll have to put a spare ...
But there was no spare tire in the trunk. But there was an old bicycle.
When Aunt Solveig finally made it to the airport after falling off her bike nine and a half times, her plane was speeding down the runway.
“Wow,” the aunt was surprised, “I didn’t have time! ..” But she was determined to get to work today and therefore immediately went to buy a ticket for the next flight.
“There are no tickets,” the ticket office told her.
- How so? After all, there have always been...
- Not today!
“Okay,” Aunt Solveig reasoned, “I’ll come to the very departure. Someone must be late." In the meantime, she decided to take a taxi back home for lunch.
The car zigzagged through the city for more than an hour.
“The streets are somehow unfamiliar,” Aunt Solveig was worried. “It’s like it’s not Glasgow at all ... And why does everything turn out differently for me than for others?” You try, you try - but it's no use! Even the city seems alien... I wonder if I try to deliberately do everything wrong, what if something good happens then? Let me imagine for a start that I am in another country ... "
After dinner, my aunt pulled out a map of the Norwegian city of Oslo from the closet, where she usually went in the summer to swim in the gentle sea.
What bus takes you to the airport? she muttered, running her finger over the map. - It seems that the two hundred and seventeenth ... However, we should hurry. However, there are still fourteen minutes before departure ...
After feeding canned food to the dog, which was a cat, and abundantly watering the cactus, which was a ficus, Aunt Solveig slowly boarded the bus, which turned out to be tram No. UX. “I’ll get there somehow,” my aunt reassured herself. “The more wrong, the better!”
And indeed, in half an hour she was almost at the goal: only a few kilometers remained to go to the airport. “Oh, well,” thought Aunt Solveig, briskly walking among the trees, “that’s not even interesting. No adventures for you ... Although the plane has already left anyway.
But the plane didn't take off. Because his left wing suddenly fell off. While this wing was being fixed in place, all the passengers returned their tickets and rushed to the station in the hope of catching the train. Aunt Solveig could now choose any seat on the plane. At least near the porthole!
“Well,” she rejoiced, settling herself more comfortably in her chair, “I felt that today I would certainly get to work ...”
The engines roared deafeningly. But they soon quieted down.
- What's happened? asked Aunt Solveig.
“The radio operator and the stewardess are missing,” the crew commander reported. - Apparently, they decided that the wing would not be repaired, and went to the circus for the performance of African hippos.
– And now what?
- Nothing. I absolutely refuse to fly without them. Maybe I also dreamed of looking at the hippos.
"Things are not going my way! thought Aunt Solveig as she got off the empty plane. “We should at least give a telegram to the boss.”
And she went to the post office and sent this telegram:
CAN'T GET TO WORK SPOT METEORITE HAPPENED THE WHEEL STOP FENDER FALLED OFF STEP IT'S TIME TO DINNER STOP
AUNT SOLVEIG
You probably think that the boss immediately fired the aunt from her job. No matter how! Before she had time to have dinner, the postman delivered the answer:
SINCERELY I sympathize with the misfortune of STK GO GOOD START SENDING MONEY AID IN THE AMOUNT OF THE ANNUAL SALARY OF STK
MR HEAD
Can't you guess what happened? And everything is very simple: in the telegraph lines, for no reason at all, individual letters were mixed up, and instead of “WHEEL” it turned out to be “HEAD”, instead of “WING FALLED OFF”, “ROOF CALLED IN”, and the word “ DINNER ” turned into “DIE”. All in all, a lot of trouble!
“It turns out that I deceived the chief,” said Aunt Solveig sadly. “Now I have to change jobs. But what to do with money? she asked the dog, which was a cat.
The dog shrugged.
Aunt Solveig thoughtfully walked around the room, knocking a cactus on the floor, which was actually a ficus. She whispered:
If the dog shrugged,
So she doesn't know anything.
Apparently, the difficult question turned out to be -
She doesn't know anything...
Then the aunt swept up the fragments of the flower pot and, having removed handset, randomly dialed a number:
“Excuse me, where did I go?” Is this the Norwegian city of Oslo? Aunt Solveig says. Don't you have any work?.. Yes, yes, I'm just a consultant on complex issues ... Oh, tusen takk! .. I really live in Glasgow. So it seems to me... Well, yes, it's not a problem... Of course, the plane is quite convenient... Twice a week... Good! I'm leaving tomorrow...
End of introductory segment.
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Notes
Thank you very much (Nor.)
His poems are read by both adults and children. The magazine "Tram" created by him in the early 90s did not come out for a long time, but still has not lost its devoted reader. Songs are written on his poems, and cartoons are made based on his fairy tales. He himself is surprised: “Am I famous? Yes, what are you! I have my own reader, I am very happy about this, and I love and adore my reader. That's all".
Tim Sobakin writes a little today, occasionally composes music and considers himself quite happy man: “When someone assures that all his life he did only what he liked, I don’t believe it. No one can only do what he is interested in. And I, perhaps, half live as I want. Therefore, it is a sin to complain about fate.
Tim Sobakin(Andrey Viktorovich Ivanov) graduated from the Moscow Engineering Physics Institute (1981), worked as a programmer. In 1985 he changed his profession, becoming a journalist, in 1987 he graduated from the Faculty of Journalism of Moscow State University. Since 1988 he has been engaged only literary work, writes poems and stories for children, published in magazines " Funny pictures”, “Murzilka”, “Pioneer”, “October”. Published several books.
In 1990-1995 he was the editor-in-chief wonderful children's magazine"Tram", which was released until 1995, but still has a lot of fans. Not only Sobakin published in it under pseudonyms, but also Tikhon Khobotov, Savva Bakin, Terenty Psov, Sidor Tyaff and even Nika Bosmit (Tim Sobakin, on the contrary).
He worked as a literary editor of the magazines "Kolobok", "Pile is small", "Filya", "Sinbad". Now he works as an editor-in-chief at the Publishing House "Veselye Kartinki".
Using modern computer technology, creates music for his poems, as well as individual compositions that are sometimes heard in radio and television programs.
From physics to poetry
– By your first specialty you are a mathematician, moreover, you are deeply interested in astrophysics. And "suddenly" became a children's writer. How did this happen?
- It was the time of perestroika. And it so happened that I, too, imperceptibly "rebuilt". Joke! Then I worked at MEPhI as a programmer for a digital electronic computer. Now, in the days of laptops, few people remember such technology. The car occupied the area of several rooms. I adored my job. And it seemed to me that I would do this business all my life.
But one day I was walking by local library and saw an ad for a literary studio. And I must say that even at school I wrote naive poems. That's why I decided to look into this studio. They criticized me there - and rightly so, in general, they did it. However, I still continued to attend classes.
My daughter was then three years old. Being engaged in a literary studio, I could take any books from the library home to read to her at night. For some reason, she did not fall asleep well without my reading. When we re-read everything, I tried to compose something for her myself.
At that time, I often worked at night: I put my daughter to bed and went to the computer center (the journey took only 15 minutes!). Of course, it was not like I left in the evening as a programmer and returned as a writer in the morning. All these changes lasted more than two years. First, I became a correspondent for the large-circulation newspaper MEPhI, for some reason I graduated evening department journalism faculty of Moscow State University, and only then imperceptibly became a children's writer.
By five with a minus
- You said that you were rightfully criticized when you came to the literary studio. You did not immediately manage to make friends with the word?
- When I was at school, I read somewhere a story about a poor she-wolf, how she was looking for her cubs. This story struck me so much that I decided to write a verse - of course, so clumsy, without rhyme, but I really liked it. Wow, I thought, it turns out that with the help of poetry you can create your own world, a completely new one! It fascinated me so much that I became friends with the word, as it seemed to me then, very quickly.
But over time, I began to understand how insidious the word can be. Sometimes the search for the most accurate and necessary can take weeks. And this friendship has become more and more strained over the years. Suppose you pick up a word: here it is, already printed in a magazine or in a book - and then you suddenly realize that you would need something completely different, but it was not among the options that came to mind.
– Do you write a lot now?
- Very little, according to the mood. In addition, friendship with the word is becoming more and more difficult. And then I think that now there is so much being written, so much information garbage that I don’t particularly want to add my own to this pile.
According to my observations, from each artist - painter, composer, poet or prose writer - no more than seven or eight works remain in the centuries. It can be either individual poems or a huge novel or symphony. It is with them that we associate the author. Everything else, with rare exceptions, is forgotten over time.
Someone from the wise said that the world is 90% of all nonsense. Only one tenth deserves attention, and 9/10 is not a pity to leave overboard, like ballast or garbage. It is easy to take the idea further: out of this one-tenth, one can also single out just one part of the best, and discard the rest. The process is repeated until the very minimum of what is really important and worthwhile remains - almost perfection itself!
However, these 9/10s are also necessary. Alas, the last villain is also needed, because without him there will be no righteous man. It is only necessary to clearly distinguish one the best part from all others.
Over the years, I don't like what I wrote before. At first, I easily selected the 200 "best" poems for the book; then there were about a hundred of them; and now it’s barely enough for a thin collection. But I will be happy if in a century at least a dozen “remain” of them.
- My favorite poet Nikolai Zabolotsky compiled a "set of poems" in advance. He bequeathed that only this list be printed. Many years after his death, a three-volume book was published, where poems were published that he did not include in the "code". When I read them, I admired: they were such brilliant! Any poet would envy these verses, but Zabolotsky did not even want to print them. Well, his right… Although I am sure that any work will certainly find its reader.
- That is, you still set yourself a certain poetic peak, which you aspire to?
"I can't stand dilettantes!" If I take on something, then I want the work to turn out 5 plus. But the main thing here is not to overdo it. The best thing is when the work is done on 5 ... with a minus. Let the reader "remove" this minus.
There is no development in perfection. Having known the perfect creation, a person involuntarily feels that he will never be able to reach such a peak. And then he loses the desire to at least try. If in the work there is subtly present "carelessness of the master", then this unconsciously leads to the thought: "maybe I could do something?" That, in my opinion, is the true purpose of art: not to suppress the ideality of a masterpiece, but to evoke a sense of ownership in its creation.
Music of speech
- Was your daughter brought up on your literature?
- I remember that in the list of important things that she needed to take to the country, she always marked "daddy's magazine Tram." But in general, children do not like poetry and do not read them by themselves. Out of a hundred children, there are hardly a dozen who read poetry not under duress.
On the rare occasions when I speak in front of a children's audience, I usually ask: "Do you like poetry?" Friendly chorus of voices: “Yes-ah-ah! ..” “And to be honest?” Only a few hands go up. Obviously, my daughter was simply lulled by the rhythm of speech.
- Isn't that embarrassing? Why then write children's poetry?
“Children need to feel the Russian language so that they don’t express themselves in the way that officials often do. I once heard on TV how one policeman weightily stated: "I made a trip to the scene." He probably believed that such a design would give special significance to him, and his departure, and at the same time the scene. I would hate to see children in the future express themselves in such a florid way.
IN different time I tried to write poetry in English, German, Lithuanian, Norwegian and even in the artificial language Esperanto. And I realized that the Russian language is ideal for poetry - mainly due to the free word order in the sentence, as well as the variety of stresses. That is why children need poetry, so that they feel the music of Russian speech.
Read Dostoevsky, listen to how his characters speak... Now people don't communicate like that anymore. There was a different speech - and the world was different. And then there were all sorts of VOSR (Great October socialist revolution), on the anniversaries of which they congratulated each other, and after the Second World War (Great Patriotic War) - after all, they wrote exactly that on postcards! It is better not to talk about today's mangling of the language at all.
But if children from the cradle absorbed the music of speech, it would certainly be preserved in their minds. And who knows, maybe in three or four generations it would have been embodied in life? But for now, since childhood, they have had to wallow in the modern linguistic mud, in these disgusting slops of inarticulate lowing. Sorry, flared up! It hurts...
"Personal emigration"
- So you want to teach children literate speech? Or something else?
I don't want to teach them anything. Children have not yet formed the cause-and-effect relationships characteristic of an adult world outlook. In this they great power but also a major weakness. Even if they do something wrong, it is harmless, not evil. The whims of the most furious child are an innocent prank compared to what other adults consciously do. And then the children grow up and often begin to comply with the laws of this insidious world, where everyone needs to break out somewhere, take some place in life ...
In general, let children be taught by fathers and mothers, family and school. If, after reading my poems, some child (and not only!) becomes more fun, easier, more comfortable to live in the world, I will be sincerely happy! And not for him, and for myself.
- Have you tried to hide behind your own poems, to hide in your work from the outside world?
- Still tried! In the Soviet Union, it was boring to hear every day about the party, about congresses, about unfulfillable promises... And people went into their own world, which was usually arranged in artists' workshops or simply in kitchens. There they gathered in a close flock; and this was called "internal emigration."
And over time, I had a “personal emigration”. I rarely go to writers' meetings and don't like public speaking. I'm not bored of being alone, but the society weighs me down. It is not the people themselves that are burdensome, but their large concentrations, especially the crowd. But it is always interesting for me to communicate with a single (good!) person.
Where do poems come from
– Your poems are equally interesting for both children and adults. Maybe even more for adults. What is your secret?
– The secret is very simple: I write only for myself. I never sit down at the table with the thought: “Let me make something right now for children of six years old; although no, it won’t pull on six - it’s better to get ten at once! .. ”To be honest, I don’t sit down at the table at all. Usually poems are born in the head. Even when I grind them for a long time and painfully, I walk around near the table, usually in the kitchen. In short, I write only about what worries me now, what hooked me in this moment life. And then I think: is this suitable for a children's audience?
It often happened that I decided to read poems for adults to the children, and I felt a much more lively reaction from them than from obviously children's poetry. You can't guess here! The main thing is to write about what interests you. After all, if something really interested me, there will certainly be other individuals for whom this will also be significant. They really are.
- And what is interesting to Tim Sobakin? Where do you get themes for poetry?
– In one interview, I was asked if I ever tracked the entire process of creating a poem - from idea to its publication? And one day I decided to try. It fascinated me so much that I even wanted to write an article about the mysterious process. It's a pity that one introduction has already taken five pages. And I left the venture.
In general, it happens that you can’t sleep at night, you get up, you walk, you walk ... you smoke (fu, what a bummer!); and some unconscious lines appear inside - it is still unclear why and for what. Usually two or three, or even a whole stanza. Often there is an ending soon - this is luck.
Or some event will impress. Not necessarily epic. Here you go, for example, for groceries and you will see a sign on the door: "ENTRY TO THE SHOP WITH DOGS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN!" Well, you stand, read, people walk around you and think: some kind of psycho has been staring at the sign for five minutes. And then there are the verses:
... to the rest of the animals,
as seen,
Entrance to the store is allowed:
then the echidna will appear,
then the raccoon will come,
then a sly monkey,
that lofty giraffe...
But as soon as the dog enters,
immediately cry:
Pay the fine!
And the dog
by the way,
guards hand luggage,
although she dreams
walk in the store
so that there
let it be for a moment
looking into the meat department,
say hello to the wieners,
chat with the ham
stay at the carbonate,
take a look at the sausage...
Like for happiness
need little -
if only the smell
was on the nose!
- One gets the impression that there are no boundaries in your work: you write about what you want and how you want, absolutely freely ...
There is no such thing as absolutely free creativity. There are always boundaries. None of my works contain any swear words. Not because I myself never swear - alas, it happens, but I try to fight it. It's just that in my work I don't need such vocabulary. The most “creepy” thing I wrote for children (and which, by the way, was repeatedly published) is the final lines of the poem “Motherland”:
Overcame rumbling in the stomach,
I proudly thought
Here they are - our simple ducks!
Here it is - my Fatherland!
And he went, unsteadily placing his foot,
even forgetting to put it on.
And the moon shone on my way.
And the star showed the way.
Of course, I can't stand bloody themes, murders, horrors. Now they constantly scare us with all sorts of catastrophes that await humanity. And for some reason, it’s tempting me, in defiance of these horror stories, to compose a utopia story that everything will be super-duper-excellent. And people, finally, will become almost perfect.
What to read?
- You have preserved the dreaminess that children have and which adults often lack. What did you read as a child?
- He loved "Dunno in Sunny city» Nosova. His characters built all sorts of machines, outlandish devices. I myself tried to come up with my own inventions. This, apparently, prompted me to enter MEPhI after school.
At the age of 12, my favorite book was Alice in Wonderland. And at 15 I was fascinated by Exupery. I still think that " A little prince"- the most best book in the world! Because it has everything: for both children and adults; about love and life...
I would still recommend these wonderful books to children today. And of course Pushkin. Especially in high school.
“There is a lot of talk these days about modern books terrible, there are no writers, and everything is going to hell, including children's literature. Do you agree?
There are not so many children's writers, but they do exist. Mikhail Yasnov, Mikhail Yesenovsky, Marina Moskvina, Sergey Sedov, Artur Givargizov... I'm afraid not to mention someone whose books are already known to the reader, but, unfortunately, are published very rarely.
The fact is that now the concepts of “mainstream” and “bestseller” decide a lot. Publishers work within a commercial framework and are afraid to print truly "reasonable, kind, eternal." And today there is a different literature - and everyone can find something in it to their taste.
Now it is easy to find books that a quarter of a century ago it was impossible to dream about. When I first visited Norway, I saw there Bitov, Mandelstam, Gumilyov, the novels of Aksenov and Voinovich, unpublished in our country ... My eyes ran wide! I brought in suitcases not clothes, but books. It is remarkable that in our time this wealth has become available. But along with it, a muddy stream of dubious writings began to seethe. So it turns out that again you need to choose the right one: yes, that one tenth.
Read poetry and prose by Tim Sobakin, listen to songs based on his words, and learn about the reprint edition of Tramway magazine, as well as read it in in electronic format you can on the page http://tramwaj.narod.ru/
see also cartoon creative association"CLUB CLOSED" based on the fairy tale "The Color of the Wind" by Tim Sobakin, published in the magazine "Tram".
Tim Sobakin (real name - Andrei Viktorovich Ivanov) is a Russian writer. Author of prose and poetry for children.
Autobiography
Born in 1958 in Ukraine. In 1981 he graduated from the Moscow Engineering Physics Institute (MEPhI) with a degree in mathematics and programming, and in 1987 he also graduated from Moscow State University. M. V. Lomonosov, a special department of the faculty of journalism.
Since childhood, he wrote fantastic stories about flights to other planets. At school, he composed songs on his own (of course, very weak) poems.
He began to seriously engage in literature in 1982, when he tried to compose something in poetry for his two-year-old daughter. However, he initially worked successfully in humorous genre for adults. The first publisher was Lev Novozhenov (now a popular TV presenter), who at that time was in charge of the department of satire and humor in the Moskovsky Komsomolets newspaper. It was there that my first poem was published in August 1983.
Despite the fact that I wrote mainly for adults, poetry was increasingly published in publications for children. So imperceptibly for myself I found myself among the "children's" authors. I consider Valentin Berestov and Eduard Uspensky as literary mentors - they largely influenced my creative destiny. In addition to them, my favorite poets: Nikolai Zabolotsky, Daniil Kharms (works for adults), Emma Moshkovskaya.
In 1990, I first became deputy and then editor-in-chief of the excellent children's magazine "Tramvay", which was published until 1995 - circulations were over five million copies! (By the way, to this day he has a lot of fans - it's worth looking on the Internet). Then he worked as a literary editor for the no less excellent magazine "Kucha Mala" (the successor to "Tram").
Since these publications were focused on the playful beginning, irony, light absurdity, I had to write a lot myself in the issue. So, in addition to my main pseudonym - Tim SOBAKIN - others arose and gradually settled down: Tikhon Khobotov, Savva Bakin, Terenty Psov, Sidor Tyaff and even Nika Bosmit (Tim Sobakin, on the contrary). Ah, it was a fun time!
Currently I work as an editor-in-chief at the Publishing House "Funny Pictures", releasing the children's magazines "Tramplin" (about healthy way life) and "Filya" (about animals and nature). I actively collaborate with many other publications.
I try to work in all conceivable genres: poetry, prose, popular science articles, game materials, songs and so on. Using modern computer technologies, I create music based on my poems, as well as individual compositions that sometimes sound on radio and television broadcasts.
In 1991 he was admitted to the Writers' Union.
Today we will tell you who Tim Sobakin is. Biography famous writer will be discussed further. Future Writer was born in 1958, January 2, in Zhovti Vody (Ukraine). He is the author of poems and prose for children. Real name - Ivanov Andrey Viktorovich.
Tim Sobakin: biography
Let's briefly talk about life path talented person. The future writer graduated from the Engineering Physics Institute in Moscow in 1981 and worked as a programmer. In 1985 he changed his profession and became a journalist. In 1987 he received another education - he graduated from the Faculty of Journalism of the Moscow state university. Since 1988 he has been exclusively engaged in literary activity. She writes stories and poems for children. Published in various magazines: "October", "Pioneer", "Murzilka", "Funny Pictures". From 1990 to 1995, he served as the editor-in-chief of a children's magazine called "Tram". After that, he worked in publications: "Sinbad", "Filya", "Pile is small" and "Kolobok". The author of a number of books that were published in large publishing houses: Bustard, Children's Literature and others.
Bibliography
Tim Sobakin in 1990 publishes the work "Everything is the opposite." In 1991, "From Correspondence with the Cow" was published. In 1995, the publishing house "Children's Literature" published "The Dog That Was a Cat". In 1998, "Without a shoe" was released. The Drofa publishing house publishes the work "The Game of Birds" in 2000. Then the "Songs of the Behemoth" appear. In 2011, the work “Music. Lioness. River".
"From Correspondence with the Cow"
Tim Sobakin created this work as a humorous correspondence between a city dweller and Nyura the cow. He shares his thoughts with her, tells that he works as a tram driver. She writes about village life. Tells how to give milk home country and graze. In this friendly, relaxed conversation, the play of the writer's mind and sense of humor were revealed with brightness. Zinaida Surova designed the book in a manner close and well understood by a child. As a result, a wonderful example of complete mutual understanding of the artist and the poet emerged. The book has become a real gift for children and adults.
"Music. Lioness. River"
Tim Sobakin presented in this book, intended for the whole family, poems of various genres and rhythms. There is both free breeze and a classical sonnet. All poems are distinguished by excellent word play, paradoxical meaning and good irony. The reader will find here stories about heaven and love, about the cares of people and animals, about eternity and the universe. Almost a third of the poems have not been published before.
Other stories
Children will like holding "Everything is the other way around" preschool age. It can be called a forest fairy tale. The book is complemented by beautiful color illustrations by N. Knyazkova, which are reminiscent of Z. Miller's style. The story begins in a quiet forest. Two hedgehogs are looking for mushrooms in the grass. The first is called Fufums, and the second is Khlops. One of them is thoughtful. He is interested in what mushrooms are made of, why it is dark at night, where the wind blows from. But Khlops does not like to think. He is a carefree hedgehog. He walks merrily, sings a song about a green cone, watches how a cloud in the sky turns into a fox from a hare. He got carried away, stumbled, flew somersault. But the earth did not fall, because it began to rise to heaven. In order not to fly away completely, he wants to grab onto something. Holding on tightly to a branch. Fufums the hedgehog soon appears under a tree. He sees an overturned basket and starts looking for Khlops. Hears a voice from above. He raises his head and sees a completely unfamiliar little animal. She stands on a branch with her hind legs up. An animal without needles, but it has a tail and long ears. Fufums is trying to figure out who it is.
The tale "The Dog That Was a Cat" combines philosophical view to the world with a virtuoso play with words and subtle irony. The book is complemented by magnificent illustrations by Alexander Grashin. The book "Playing Birds" contains fairy tales dad and his little daughter. They take turns sharing their stories. "Songs of the hippopotamus" is a playful fun book. Its heroes are hippos, telling stories from their lives. In addition, they solve crossword puzzles and sing. "No Shoe" is an ironic and curious poem also written by Tim Sobakin. This work tells of a short, passer-by who walks down the street. However, he only has one shoe. A sock is put on the second leg. Oncoming people suspect that in front of them is a passer-by who thought too deeply about scientific issues and therefore forgot to put on his shoe. The passer-by soon loses his temper as his sock gets wet. The reader learns that before him is Semyon Semenych, who is a local noble teacher. At home, a heated battle broke out that day. It's all about a quarrel between two shoes that quarreled without dividing a shoe brush between them. They decide to live apart. The owner failed to reconcile them. He only had to wear one shoe.
Now you know who Tim Sobakin is. The biography and work of the writer were considered by us in great detail.
Tim Sobakin (Andrey Viktorovich Ivanov)
Graduated from the Moscow Engineering Physics Institute (MEPhI) in 1981 and the Faculty of Journalism of Moscow State University (MSU) in 1987. Worked as a programmer, junior researcher. " writing career”began with a correspondent for a large-circulation newspaper. At various times he was the editor-in-chief of the magazine "Tram", the literary editor of the magazines "Kolobok", "A bunch of small", "Filya", "Sinbad", the editor-in-chief of the directory "Where to go to study". His first work - nursery rhyme"Who?" published on August 14, 1983 in the Moskovsky Komsomolets newspaper. Currently, he is the author of books: “From Correspondence with the Cow”, “The Dog That Was a Cat”, “No Shoe”, “Mouse Village”, “Playing Birds”, “Songs of Hippos”, “Kukish with Butter” .. . 
Fragments of the interview
Why "Sobakin"?
In fact, I answered this question a hundred times. When I felt that not today or tomorrow my poems could be published, I thought about a pseudonym. But nothing good came to my mind. And on May 1, 1983, I accidentally saw on TV A film for children. According to Gaidar. There, at the end, a boy stands in front of the squadron, so thin ... And the commander solemnly: “For the courage and heroism shown, I express gratitude to Grigory ... what is your last name?” He replies: “Yes, we are Sobakins ...” - “... Grigory Sobakin.” And I immediately realized: this is mine. Especially when my mother reminded me that I was born in the year of the Dog. In addition, I love these faithful creatures who do not betray. In Japan, the dog is a symbol of justice. And then I was Tikhon Khobotov, and Terenty Psov, and Savva Bakin, and even Nika Bosmit (Tim Sobakin, on the contrary) ... Read the book “Songs of Behemoths” - all my pseudonyms are indicated in it.
What kind of books do you write for children and what age are they for?
The fact is that now I will probably surprise everyone very much: I do not think that I write only for children. It seems to me that I am writing for those who have a child alive in their souls, and who will read it - children or adults - that's how it will turn out.
I think that it is necessary, because if there is no child, then life becomes gray and boring. And in order to save it, I think there is only one way - it is to be surprised. That is, never cease to be amazed at the world and everything new that happens in it. In our time, I think that every day there is a lot of new things, I mean not some events, news, and so on, in general, the world itself does not stand still.
How should or how not to write for children? Could you define the specifics of children's literature?
I can not. And hardly anyone can. Although Samuil Marshak advised writing for children in the same way as for adults, only much better! To be honest... I don't know how to write for children either. I can only tell you how I do it. Let's say I take Blank sheet paper and I say to myself: “Now I’m piling up a cool rhyme for children from six to seven years old ...” I assure you, nothing good will come of it. After all, I strive to write for everyone. My reader or listener is primarily a thinking person with an obligatory sense of humor. And who it will be - a child or an old man - is no longer so important. That's why I never considered myself a purely children's writer. - It seems to me that some poems, including yours, are better to read aloud. They greatly benefit from this, but on paper they are perceived worse. - May be. I recently composed a small cycle called "Fish Day". Here is an excerpt from one poem:
I liked the word "omul" -
I repeated it for two hours:
omul, omul, omul, omul...
And for two more hours he repeated:
omul, omul, omul, omul...
And then another two hours:
omul, omul, omul, omul...
And combed the hair in his beard.
To whom is it to be offered? If published, it will not look very good. And when you read for the public, you pronounce this same “omul” with different intonations - and this way and that ... There is an additional humorous effect that is understandable to children (although everything ends sadly: the unfortunate omul ends up in a frying pan). It seems to me that there are things for printing, and there are things for pronunciation. - Why don't they write fairy tales like "The Little Prince" today? There is no "Black Hen" or even "Pinocchio". I get the feeling that good fairy tale is an objective matter. That is, not everything depends on the author. Here, for example, in Scandinavian countries for some reason, there are so many wonderful storytellers and storytellers: Astrid Lindgren, Selma Lagerlöf, Tove Jansson ... What is it: is it a language, a way of life, a cultural environment? What should be the soil on which a fairy tale can grow? - I have been to the Scandinavian countries: Norway, Sweden. And not just visited, but lived there for more than a year. You see, almost all of their stories are based on local mythology: trolls, gnomes and other cute creatures. In general, a fairy tale is a largely local phenomenon that has absorbed beliefs and legends. Here, perhaps, is the soil on which fairy tales grow. Or let's take such a successful find: Carlson is a man with a propeller. When was it written? Somewhere in the forties. Astrid Lindgren really wanted to fly. Now - please: if you are healthy and can shell out enough money, go to any local airfield, you will be taught. Then it was impossible.
What do you do for a living? After all, the fees are probably not enough.
IN Lately I'm addicted to doing crossword puzzles. Again, for the kids. Moreover, they are required in almost every edition. I call my works X-words, because they are the most different types: teawords, fieldwords, crosswords, cyclowords ... While I like this activity, because it is somewhat similar to adding poetry: in them, too, all the words seem to be “soldered” - and nothing, as they say, cannot be thrown out of the song. It is curious that the first compiler of Russian-language crossword puzzles was the young Nabokov, later a world-famous writer. Apparently he borrowed this word game the British and called it "Crossword".
How do you feel about current state children's literature?
There are many books published, but most of them are of no use. Under the communists there was strict censorship. Is it good or bad? It is as difficult to answer as the question: “Which is better - the earth or the sky?” On the one hand, a sea of all sorts of crap about Lenin, about the party was published (fortunately, I managed to avoid this “eternally living” theme in my work). Few actual works have been published. Now, in any store you can buy whatever your heart desires, but "a good spoon for dinner." And here another side arises: what, in fact, does your heart desire? It suddenly turned out that the tastes of the main readership were completely undeveloped. And children, alas, are no exception. It was then that a stream of stupid detective stories, idiotic horror films, vulgar novels poured onto the book market - in fact, post-communist waste paper, which is sprinkled by all and sundry. After all, no censorship! For what fairy tales? Why sparkling verses? .. Well, computer games and the seductive Internet only exacerbate the sad situation. As a result, children's fiction was on the brink of extinction.
A SMALL LETTER TO THE READER
The main thing is to avoid inner emptiness. Then you will never be bored anywhere. Do all sorts of useful things and try to achieve success in them! Remember that “it is not strength that wins, but constancy of effort” (this is what the ancients said).
And I came up with this aphorism: “It is better to do nothing than to do NOTHING.” But this is for your future.
And of course, read on! A book is, after all, a being of a spiritual nature (paper is made from a living tree). Other "pieces of iron" are just tools for learning. Including computers (without which I can’t even imagine working).
Also, learn to be happy! Even though it's difficult...
Tim Sobakin
Two books by Tim Sobakin can be viewed at 5razvorotov
:
“The dog that was a cat”
“From correspondence with a cow”
A small selection of poems and fragments of fairy tales.
SUNDAY CRATWORD
One evening the Rat is underground
Lips covered with bright lipstick
And, having put on sports shoes,
Immediately became a rat!
Here she sat down and ratted,
Watching the rats of the evening
And blushing from ears to tail.
On a visit, he can’t wait for a rat.
Sunday time is long,
And the krysotka thinks thoughtfully:
“If only the Red Army soldier would welcome
With a purely military cross-section.
Crack we could do enough
Hearty food in the home environment,
And then they would indulge in eloquence
About the beautiful art of artists ... ".
Only instead of a rat came
Suddenly a peasant, unexpectedly, unexpectedly,
And his face is red-faced -
Isn't the rat contagious?
How did he manage to sneak up on tiptoe?
We need something to hide goodbye!
And, grabbing a couple of crystal salts,
The Rat quickly darted into the shelter.
There she sat down in a soft chair
And, hiding their furry paws,
This kryssvord began to silently unravel,
What is under the heading "The rat has gone."
* * *
Pick up an elephant
Stroke the muzzle of a rhinoceros,
And the pure moon
will smile at you
Like a magpie
And it will be fun to hang
Flying among sad stars
As if caught in a net
Big golden fish;
However
Chains of extra words
Entangled the planet around
And there are no elephants nearby
And there are no rhinos either;
Tired of bad news
Moon
lay down
To the bottom
wells,
And the time
Full of passion
Looking back at us
And laughs.
WITHOUT BOOT
A passer-by was walking down the street.
He was short in stature.
On one leg - a shoe,
On the other leg is a sock.
"This is apparently a scientist, -
Everyone looked after him,
Who thought so deeply about a scientific problem,
Why didn’t you put on your boots!”
And the passerby walked gloomily,
His sock is wet.
It was Semyon Semenych -
A well-known teacher, by the way.
He is at home today
A heated battle broke out:
Two shoes quarreled
Because of the shoe brush.
And in the end they decided:
To live from now on - only apart!
And the owner's shoes
Failed to reconcile.
So Semyon Semenych went,
Even though he was a teacher...
On one leg - a shoe,
On the other leg
no boots at all.
ABOUT COWS
On the grass
by the dense forest
meadow cow was grazing.
And in the sea
splashing water,
a sea cow dived.
And somewhere
on the tree deftly
ladybug crawling...
Cows are everywhere
cows -
they be healthy!
HOW THE SKILLY HIPPO RACED
BEHIND A SMASHING FLY IN A CLOSE ROOM,
WHERE THERE WAS A LOT OF GLASSWARE
Slightly UNUSUAL NON-poem
AND
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BAM! BAM!!
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BAM! BOOM! JIN!..
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SLAP!!!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
SHMYAK.
And it became quiet.
COSTUME FOR TURTLE
In the distant desert
the turtle lived.
There was a turtle
big slob:
walked in clothes
crumpled and torn,
not using
no toilet
no bathroom.
Though often changed
outfit Turtle,
but quickly broke
shirt behind the shirt.
When it's business
quite tired
took Turtle
and put on the armor.
Since then
so it crawls
with a sullen look.
And the shell serves her
safe suit:
does not wrinkle
does not tear
all the time on the spot
for a hundred years...
or even two hundred!
MOON TALE
Again the night came to the sky -
And the moon is hanging again.
Moonlight Hare in a sleepy city
He goes for a walk.
He creeps down the boulevard
Where the noise is silent.
Toward the Lunar Hare
Lunar Wolf hobbles.
Telling the nightly news
On the desert pavement
will feast together
Chocolate star.
And then the morning comes
As it happens in the morning.
Lunar Wolf
And the Moonlight Hare
Run around the corners.
Neat Janitor Wind
Come out with a windy broom.
From the star a shiny candy wrapper
Deftly blow off the pavement.
MILITARY ALERT
For happiness you need a little:
Wine, love and lasting peace.
But here's the war alarm
Disturbed the peace of the apartments.
Military men wearing boots
military shoes pants,
I get out of bed
To protect the peace of the country.
Severely I drink military kefir,
I chew a military tomato -
And I go gradually
An enemy worthy to fight back.
And my daughter is in bed
And sees children's sleep About,
Like a brave dad on a horse
He fights with an insidious enemy,
He deftly jumps with a cigarette
Towards a fierce enemy
And the wind from my father's nose
Breaks fragile glasses
Then another jacket rips off,
Then military pants
Then military boots
(At the price of 42 rubles),
And dad can't see without glasses
But rides on a dashing horse
Against nuclear missiles
Submarines, etc.,
And the enemy, watching through binoculars
Undressed daddy's body,
Suddenly he realizes
What does Russian heroism mean;
He rips the secret paper
And runs away
And dad soon for courage
Give the Hammer of Honor!..
Dark. On the military street
Squad of military lanterns.
I'm in a hurry to the military
Do your duty as soon as possible.
And near the garbage can,
Holding a piece of newspaper in the teeth,
Sitting military dog
And stares up at the ceiling.
MOTHERLAND
There was frost.
And pretty creepy, too.
even the water in the pond was covered with ice!
And on ice
ducks walked in a crowd,
angry and hungry.
I turned to the ducks:
- Sorry,
you have no food
no housing.
Why don't you ducks fly
to distant and warm lands?
That's why -
ducks answered me, -
that let the pineapple bloom there,
in those parts we will die of sadness,
because Motherland for us
this frozen pond serves,
quack quack.
Overcame rumbling in the stomach,
I thought softly:
"Yo-my...
Here they are - our simple ducks!
Here it is - my Fatherland!
And went,
unsteady foot,
even forgetting to put it on.
And the moon shone on my way.
And the star showed the way.
THE DOG THAT WAS A CAT (detail)
There was a big black dog in a Scottish town. True, at first she was a small white cat. But then she forgot that she was a cat, and became a dog. Her name was Shaq.
Shaq did not learn how to bark, but he forgot how to meow. Therefore, he often sighed, and on birthdays he quietly purred. Most of all he fresh fish. But his mistress Solveig fed him dog food. Therefore, Shaq learned to say: “Thank you, I'm full ...” And at night he lay on the couch and waited: would a mouse appear? But there were no mice in the house.
Shaq also loved chasing birds. One day he met a crow and chased after it. But the crow flew up to the tree - what a harmful one! Then Shaq remembered that he had once been a cat, and climbed after the crow.
Seeing how a large black dog climbs the trunk, the crow was frightened and flew to warmer climes. And Shaq was also scared, because he managed to climb almost to the very top. From fear, he immediately forgot that he was a cat. And I also forgot how to get off the tree! Then Shaq sat down on a branch and began to sigh loudly.
And the postman walked past the tree. Hearing sighs, he looked up.
So you can fall! - said the Postman. - Get down soon, I'll give you a postcard.
But Shaq just sighed.
Then the Postman sent a letter to the nearest restaurant. Soon the Cook arrived from there on a bicycle.
Get off! - he said to Shaq. - I brought you sausages.
Do you want me to play the flute for you? asked the Cook. In fact, he was a musician.
And I’ll sleep, - the Postman was delighted. - Just go down, please ...
Shaq sighed sadly again: he couldn't have told them that he had completely forgotten how to properly climb down from the trees.
Suddenly a policeman arrived.
What are you doing here dancing to the flute?
We remove the dog from the tree.
Now I'll fine her 99 shillings, - promised the Policeman. - For sitting in the wrong place.
And climbed a tree. He used to be a rock climber. But didn't get there.
Broke.
A tree is not a rock,” said the Policeman, rubbing his bruised ear. “We must call a doctor. My ear hurt. The Doctor came and was surprised:
Dog in a tree? Yes, you are all crazy! You need to take an injection.
The doctor looked at the branch.
I think I've gone crazy too, he decided and took himself to the hospital.
And the fire brigade drove up to the tree.
Now we'll take the dog. We have stairs.
And the bravest Fireman climbed the stairs. But halfway through he suddenly stopped.
Listen, he says, what came to my mind:
The dog is sitting on a tree.
Well, let him sit!
Maybe she liked it...
Why take it off?
Everyone clapped - good poetry received from the Fireman. After all, he was once a poet. But just in case, we decided to invite another well-known dog expert.
He looked at Shaq through a telescope for a long time.
Probably some new breed, - said the Dogman. - I don’t really understand them well. I prefer astronomy. I want to see the moon! And he pointed the trumpet into the sunny sky.
Then the hostess Solveig returned home.
What are you up to? - asks.
Then the Postman who was a dancer, the Cook who was a musician, the Policeman who was a rock climber, the Doctor who took himself to the hospital, the Fireman who was a poet, and the Dogman who was an astronomer, answer her in unison:
We are solving a difficult issue.
Which? Solveig asked. She was just a consultant on complex issues.
Should I take the dog out of the tree or not?
Solveig looked up.
Of course shoot! she shouted.
We need to call a woodcutter, - suggested the Doctor, who took himself to the hospital. - Let the tree fall down!
No need, - Solveig objected, - I’d better bring canned food.
Thank you, I'm full ... - Shaq sighed sadly.
And just then Rybolov was walking by. And he carried a whole bucket of fish.
Maybe treat the dog to a fish? - he asked.
And when Shaq saw fresh fish, he immediately remembered that he was a cat. And how to get off the tree - I also remembered! In an instant, he jumped down and ate all the fish.
And I don’t feel sorry, - said Rybolov. - I'm just catching fish. I'm actually a lumberjack...
But no one listened to him. Everyone was glad that Shaq from the tree of tears. And they wondered: how did he manage to get there? They didn't know it was a dog that was a cat.
This is what happened in the Scottish city of Glasgow. Which was the Norwegian city of Oslo.
WIND COLOR
When the last birds flew south, the cub, standing on the balcony, followed them with a sad look. Well, he didn't have a balcony. For that there were large gray eyes in which the sky, clouds and birds were reflected. The Seasoned Wolf silently crept up to the Wolf cub from behind.
Birds fly away to distant lands, the time will come - I will fly too. he recited.
In general, the Seasoned Wolf liked to express himself in verse. And Volchenok always flinched in surprise. He was timid and afraid of everything in the world.
Only the Mother Wolf was not afraid.
They walked slowly, rustling with fallen leaves. The air smelled of something fried, but cold.
Why are you so sad? - Volchenok asked his usual question.
She bit the sheep ... - reluctantly admitted the Seasoned Wolf.
Was it delicious?
No, bony. It's a pity for her.
You need to eat something ... - Wolf cub comforted him.
They sat down on the bank of the pond. Ducks were splashing in the black water - so stupid ...
Eh, the water is cold, - the Seasoned Wolf licked his lips - otherwise he would have dived.
And I don’t know how to swim, - said Wolf, thinking about his own.
A minute later, the Old Wolf began to howl:
Woo! Hu-u-udo me tu-u-ut! And the lambs are skinny! I’ll run away, I’ll run away from here, I’ll run away-u-u! ...
Where will you run?
To the South Ends. There are sheep - you know what? Like suitcases! Wildly fed.
The little wolf blinked his gray eyes in confusion:
And what about me?
Let's run away together!
I can not. I have a mom, dad, home...
Home ... - the Old Wolf nodded sadly. - I'm homeless.
And there you will howl with anguish!
So they talked, and in the meantime, the press announced the onset of winter. The surface of the pond has tightened thin ice. Large fluffy snowflakes fell on the soft fur of Wolf. And they didn't melt.
Here is the snow, it won't melt on you! - sighed the Old Wolf. - You'll be petrified soon enough.
Do not run away! asked Volchenok. - I'll be sad without you.
Yes, what am I to you, such a hardened one?
You wise.
My fur is falling out. From lack of vitamins.
You are cute.
Teeth often break!
Sheep should be chewed less, - Volchenok almost sobbed.
He trustingly clung to the hardened wolf with his fluffy head strewn with snowflakes, and his neck seemed even thinner. The Seasoned Wolf clumsily stroked her. “Bite something?” he thought grimly.
At the end of winter, the Seasoned Wolf fled to the Southern Territories. He ran away unnoticed - Volchenok did not even have time to give him his beloved copper teapot, into which it was impossible to pour a drop of water. There were no holes in the teapot. And in the spring, a short message came from the Hardened Wolf:
"Dear Wolf!
There are a lot of sheep here - fat, fat, dumb and stupid. I don't even want to eat them. In my free time, I listen to music. One song is my favorite! It starts like this: Your eyes are colored like wind. I think it's about you. In general, I'm fine here. It just happens to be sad. Sometimes you want to howl. But here it is not customary to howl - sheep can be scared away.
With regards, Wolf Matyory.
The cub spent the whole evening over English-Russian dictionary, and finally he managed to translate a line from the song: The color of your eyes is like the color of the wind.
Indeed, the wind blew. Bird aliens. Vlchenok, standing on the balcony, met them with a sad look. Although he still did not have a balcony.
I wonder what color the wind is? - Whispered Wolf, making his way to the pond. Ducks were swimming there. He felt sorry for the Mother Wolf. And feel sorry for yourself.
Cars scurried around, passers-by hurried. Nobody noticed Volchenok. No one saw how bright tears flowed from his eyes - the color of the north wind.
Or maybe it was the raindrops that Volcionok loved so much...
Sources: www.ruscenter.ru, www.bibliogid.ru, www.ug.ru, www.svobodanews.ru, ironic.poetry.com.ua, tramwaj.narod.ru, shkola.lv.
A. Grashin 
Evg. Sokolov 
A. Lukyanov 
O. Gorbushin 
Vadim Medzhibovsky 
