Nabokov Vladimir
Letter to Russia
Vladimir Nabokov
Letter to Russia
My distant and lovely friend, it follows that you have not forgotten anything during these more than eight years of separation, if you even remember the gray-haired, in azure liveries, watchmen who did not interfere with us at all when, on a frosty Petersburg morning, we met in a dusty, small, similar to a snuffbox, the Suvorov Museum, How nicely we kissed behind the back of the wax grenadier! And then, when we emerged from these ancient twilights, how silver fires burned us Tauride garden and the brisk, greedy barking of a soldier, rushing forward on command, sliding on the sleet, thrusting his bayonet into the stuffed straw belly in the middle of the street.
Strange: I myself decided, in my previous letter to you, not to remember, not to talk about the past, especially about the trifles of the past; after all, we writers should be characterized by the sublime modesty of the word, but meanwhile I immediately, from the very first lines, disregard the right of beautiful imperfection, deafening with epithets the memory that you touched so easily. Not about the past, my friend, I want to tell you.
Now it is night. At night, you especially feel the stillness of objects - lamps, furniture, portraits on the table. From time to time behind the wall in the plumbing sobs, water overflows, as if approaching the throat of the house. At night I go out for a walk. In the damp, black-greased Berlin asphalt, the reflections of lanterns flow; in the folds of black asphalt - puddles; in some places a grenade light burns over a fire signal box, at home - like fogs, at a tram stop there is a glass pole filled with yellow light - and for some reason it makes me feel so good and sad when it flies by at a late hour, screeching at turning, the tram car is empty: clearly visible through the windows are lighted brown shops, between which passes against the movement, staggering, a lone, as if slightly drunk, conductor with a black purse on his side.
Wandering down a quiet, dark street, I like to listen to a person coming home. The person himself is not visible in the dark, and one can never know in advance which particular front door will come to life, accept the key with a creak, swing open, freeze on the block, slam shut; the key on the inside will grind again, and in the depths, behind the glass of the door, a soft light will shine for one amazing minute.
He rolls the car on pillars of wet shine—black itself, with a yellow stripe under the windows—damply trumpets in the ear of the night, and its shadow passes under my feet. Now the street is completely empty. Only the old dog, clattering his claws on the panel, reluctantly takes a lethargic, pretty girl for a walk, without a hat, under an umbrella. When she passes under the red light that hangs on the left, above the fire signal, one tight black part of the umbrella turns wet crimson.
And behind the gate, above the damp panel - so unexpectedly! - the wall of cinema is shaking with diamonds. There you will see, on a rectangular canvas as light as the moon, more or less skillfully trained people; and now from the canvas approaches, grows, looks into the dark hall a huge female face with lips, black, in brilliant cracks, with gray twinkling eyes, - and a wonderful glycerine tear, elongated glowing, flows down her cheek. And sometimes there will appear - and this, of course, is divine - life itself, which does not know that it is being filmed - a random crowd, shining waters, silently, but visibly noisy tree.
Farther on, at the corner of the square, a tall, stout prostitute in black furs slowly walks back and forth, sometimes stopping in front of a roughly illuminated shop window, where a toasty wax lady shows the night onlookers her emerald flowing dress, the shiny silk of peach stockings. I love to see how a middle-aged, mustachioed gentleman, who had come on business from Papenburg in the morning, approaches this elderly, calm harlot, having previously overtaken her and turned around twice. She will slowly lead him to furnished rooms, to one of the nearby houses, which in the daytime can not be found among the rest, just as ordinary. Behind front door an indifferent, polite porter guards all night in the unlit entrance hall. And upstairs, on the fifth floor, the same indifferent old woman would wisely unlock the spare room and calmly accept payment.
And do you know with what a magnificent roar the train passes over the bridge, over the street, lit, laughing from all its windows? He probably does not go further than the suburbs, but the darkness under the black vault of the bridge is full at this moment of such powerful cast-iron music that I involuntarily imagine warm countries where I will go as soon as I get those extra hundred marks that I dream of - so complacently, so carefree.
I am so carefree that sometimes I even like to watch how people dance in the local taverns. Many here with indignation (and there is pleasure in such indignation) shout about fashionable outrages, in particular about modern dances - and after all, fashion is the creativity of human mediocrity, a certain level, the vulgarity of equality - and shout about it, scold it means to recognize that mediocrity can create something (be it an image state government or the new kind hairstyles), which should make some noise. And, of course, these dances of ours, supposedly fashionable, are in fact not at all new: they were fond of them in the days of the Directory, since the women's dresses of that time were also wearable, and the orchestras were also Negro. Fashion breathes through the centuries: the crinoline dome in the middle of the last century is a complete sigh of fashion, then exhale again - tapering skirts, tight dances. After all, our dances are very natural and rather innocent, and sometimes - in London ballrooms - are quite elegant in their monotony. Do you remember how Pushkin wrote about the waltz: "monotonous and crazy", After all, it's all the same. As for the decline in morals ... Do you know what I found in the notes of M. d'Agricourt? "I have not seen anything more depraved than the minuet that we deign to dance."
And so, in the local taverns, I like to watch how "a couple flickers after a couple," how amusingly made-up eyes play with simple human fun, how black and light legs cross, touching Each other, - and behind the door - my faithful, my lonely night, wet reflections, car horns, high winds.
On such a night in an Orthodox cemetery, far outside the city, a seventy-year-old woman committed suicide on the grave of her recently deceased husband. In the morning I happened to be there, and the watchman, a heavy cripple on crutches that creaked with every swing of his body, showed me a low white cross on which the old woman had hanged herself, and yellow threads stuck where the rope had rubbed (“brand new,” he said softly ). But the most mysterious and charming of all were the crescent-shaped footprints left by her small, like a child's, heels in the damp earth at the foot. “I trampled a little, but it’s clean,” the watchman remarked calmly, “and, looking at the threads, at the holes, I suddenly realized that there is a childish smile in death.
Letter to Russia
Vladimir Nabokov
Nabokov Vladimir
Letter to Russia
Vladimir Nabokov
Letter to Russia
My distant and lovely friend, it follows that you have not forgotten anything during these more than eight years of separation, if you even remember the gray-haired, in azure liveries, watchmen who did not interfere with us at all when, on a frosty Petersburg morning, we met in a dusty, small, similar to a snuffbox, the Suvorov Museum, How nicely we kissed behind the back of the wax grenadier! And then, when we emerged from these ancient twilights, how the silver fires of the Tauride Garden burned us and the cheerful, greedy grunting of a soldier, rushing forward on command, sliding on icy ice, sticking a bayonet with a swing into the straw belly of a stuffed animal, in the middle of the street.
Strange: I myself decided, in my previous letter to you, not to remember, not to talk about the past, especially about the trifles of the past; after all, we writers should be characterized by a lofty bashfulness of the word, but meanwhile I immediately, from the very first lines, disregard the right of beautiful imperfection, deafening with epithets the memory that you touched so easily. Not about the past, my friend, I want to tell you.
Now it is night. At night, you especially feel the stillness of objects - lamps, furniture, portraits on the table. From time to time behind the wall in the plumbing sobs, water overflows, as if approaching the throat of the house. At night I go out for a walk. In the damp, black-greased Berlin asphalt, the reflections of lanterns flow; in the folds of black asphalt - puddles; in some places a grenade light burns over a fire signal box, at home - like fogs, at a tram stop there is a glass pole filled with yellow light - and for some reason it makes me feel so good and sad when it flies by at a late hour, screeching at turning, the tram car is empty: clearly visible through the windows are lighted brown shops, between which passes against the traffic, staggering, a lonely, as if slightly drunk, conductor with a black purse on his side.
Wandering down a quiet, dark street, I like to listen to a person coming home. The person himself is not visible in the dark, and one can never know in advance which particular front door will come to life, accept the key with a creak, swing open, freeze on the block, slam shut; the key on the inside will grind again, and in the depths, behind the glass of the door, a soft light will shine for one amazing minute.
He rolls the car on pillars of wet shine—black itself, with a yellow stripe under the windows—damply trumpets in the ear of the night, and its shadow passes under my feet. Now the street is completely empty. Only the old dog, clattering his claws on the panel, reluctantly takes a lethargic, pretty girl for a walk, without a hat, under an umbrella. When she passes under the red light that hangs on the left, above the fire signal, one tight black part of the umbrella turns wet crimson.
And behind the gate, above the damp panel - so unexpectedly! - the wall of cinema is shaking with diamonds. There you will see, on a rectangular canvas as light as the moon, more or less skillfully trained people; and now from the canvas approaches, grows, looks into the dark hall a huge woman's face with black lips, in brilliant cracks, with gray flickering eyes, and a wonderful glycerin tear, elongated glowing, flows down her cheek. And sometimes there will appear - and this, of course, is divine - life itself, which does not know that it is being filmed - a random crowd, shining waters, silently, but visibly noisy tree.
Farther on, at the corner of the square, a tall, stout prostitute in black furs slowly walks back and forth, sometimes stopping in front of a roughly illuminated shop window, where a toasty wax lady shows the night onlookers her emerald flowing dress, the shiny silk of peach stockings. I love to see how a middle-aged, mustachioed gentleman, who had come on business from Papenburg in the morning, approaches this elderly, calm harlot, having previously overtaken her and turned around twice. She will slowly lead him to furnished rooms, to one of the nearby houses, which in the daytime can not be found among the rest, just as ordinary. Behind the front door, an indifferent, polite doorkeeper guards all night in an unlit hallway. And upstairs, on the fifth floor, the same indifferent old woman would wisely unlock the spare room and calmly accept payment.
And do you know with what a magnificent roar the train passes over the bridge, over the street, lit, laughing from all its windows? He probably does not go further than the suburbs, but the darkness under the black vault of the bridge is full at this moment of such powerful cast-iron music that I involuntarily imagine warm countries where I will go as soon as I get those extra hundred marks that I dream of - so complacently, so carefree.
I am so carefree that sometimes I even like to watch how people dance in the local taverns. Many here with indignation (and there is pleasure in such indignation) shout about fashionable outrages, in particular about modern dances - and after all, fashion is the creativity of human mediocrity, a certain level, the vulgarity of equality - and shout about it, scold it , is to recognize that mediocrity can create something (whether it be an image of government or a new kind of hairstyle) that would be worth making a fuss about. And, of course, these dances of ours, supposedly fashionable, are in fact not at all new: they were fond of them in the days of the Directory, since the women's dresses of that time were also wearable, and the orchestras were also Negro. Fashion breathes through the centuries: the crinoline dome in the middle of the last century is a complete sigh of fashion, then exhale again - tapering skirts, tight dances. After all, our dances are very natural and rather innocent, and sometimes - in London ballrooms - are quite elegant in their monotony. Do you remember how Pushkin wrote about the waltz: "monotonous and crazy", After all, it's all the same. As for the decline in morals ... Do you know what I found in the notes of M. d'Agricourt? "I have not seen anything more depraved than the minuet that we deign to dance."
And so, in the local taverns, I like to watch how "a couple flickers after a couple", how amusingly made-up eyes play with simple human fun, how black and light legs cross, touching Each other, - and behind the door - my faithful, my lonely night, wet reflections, car horns, high winds.
On such a night in an Orthodox cemetery, far outside the city, a seventy-year-old woman committed suicide on the grave of her recently deceased husband. In the morning I happened to be there, and the watchman, a heavy cripple on crutches that creaked with every swing of his body, showed me a low white cross on which the old woman had hanged herself, and yellow threads stuck where the rope had rubbed (“brand new,” he said softly ). But the most mysterious and charming of all were the crescent-shaped footprints left by her small, like a child's, heels in the damp earth at the foot. “I trampled a little, but it’s clean,” the watchman remarked calmly, “and, looking at the threads, at the holes, I suddenly realized that there is a childish smile in death.
Perhaps, my friend, I am writing this whole letter only to tell you about this easy and tender death. So the Berlin night was resolved,
Look, I'm perfectly happy. My happiness is a challenge. Wandering through the streets, through the squares, along the embankments along the canal, absent-mindedly feeling the lips of dampness through the holey soles, I proudly carry my inexplicable happiness. Centuries will roll by, schoolchildren will miss the history of our upheavals, everything will pass, everything will pass, but my happiness, dear friend, my happiness will remain, in the wet reflection of the lantern, in the careful turn of the stone steps descending into the black waters of the canal, in the smile of a dancing couple, in everything that God surrounds so generously with human loneliness.
Instead of a preface
Each teacher over the years of work develops a certain circle of favorite control dictations, with which you can check the assimilation of the studied spelling and punctuation rules. The sources of such texts are very diverse: special collections, manuals, materials of newspapers and magazines on the Russian language. The texts selected in them meet the prescribed standards (the number of words, spelling, etc.), but are often of the same type ( description of autumn, winter, spring nature, animals or architectural monuments, stories about hunters, fishermen, travelers and tourists), and therefore are boring and cause only one reaction from our students: “Again about autumn!”. The language of such dictations is strange: in the texts for grades 5–6 there are almost no complex sentences, participial and participle turns, comparative constructions, clarifications, and students are greeted with unchanged small house, shallow pond, evening light, silence, blue and light frost. And there is a feeling that the Russian language is not great and powerful, but, on the contrary, gray and short. You can find interesting texts written vividly and vividly in fiction and popular science works: excerpts from books that we have already read and are going to read with children in the class, fragments of articles from encyclopedias, reference books, dictionaries not only in literature or the Russian language, but also in other school subjects. However, they, as a rule, are large in volume, they have few necessary spellings and punctograms, or, conversely, there are too many “difficult cases”. Therefore, one has to intervene in the author's text and "edit" it, which leads to a complete distortion of the language of the work (such are dictations for the 5th and 7th grades; their source is Mark Twain. Prince and the Pauper. Per. from English. K. Chukovsky and N. Chukovsky, M., 1992). And still it is not possible to avoid words with spellings that have not yet been studied; we write such words on the board or correct them, but do not count the mistakes. In the proposed control dictations for the 6th and 8th grades, we tried to preserve the author's style of narration, allowing ourselves only to shorten or combine some sentences, and in the 6th grade, to complete the first and last phrases. All other words and expressions remained unchanged, such as in the book: Jerome K. Jerome. Three in the boat, not counting the dog. Per. from English. M. Donskoy. M., 1984. You should read and discuss with the guys the text you have chosen in its entirety, and dictate only a fragment from it, to which a grammar task is offered. If you wish, you can refuse the grammar task by writing down the dictation in full.
5th grade
Lunch ends. Chief lord offers Tom a shallow bowl of pure gold. The bowl is decorated with wonderful plants and filled with fragrant rose water for rinsing the mouth and washing hands. The hereditary napkin binder silently stands behind the prince's chair and holds a large towel at the ready. Tom looks at the pelvis in bewilderment. Then he takes it in his hands, raises it to his lips with the most serious look, takes a sip and returns the golden vessel to the lord, who stands on tiptoe at the table and does not dare to offer his help to the prince. “No, my lord, this is not to my liking. The smell is pleasant, but there is no fortress, ”says Tom.
(93 words)
Tasks
The chief lord offers Tom a shallow bowl of solid gold.
2. Perform morphological analysis of nouns:
1st option: ornament;
2nd option: (behind the chair.
3. Perform morphemic analysis of words:
1st option: brings, fragrant;
2nd option: suggest, shallow.
4. Write down the transcription of the word silently and describe the consonant sounds in this word.
5. Specify the conjugation of verbs in a complex sentence.
6th grade
The teacher reads the entire text, but dictates only the highlighted sentences (if you wish, you can dictate the entire text and not give a grammar task).
If the students miss the commas indicating the end subordinate clause, such errors can be recognized as not gross, but it is better not to count at all.
When the dawn painted half the sky a pale pink, we put the kettle on the spirit lamp in the bow of the boat and retired to the stern.
The only way to make the kettle boil is to ignore it. If he notices that you are looking forward to him boiling, he will not even think to make a noise. You have to pretend that you are not going to drink tea. In no case should you look back at the kettle, then you will soon hear how he snorts in annoyance, spits and wants to give you tea. If you have no time, then it’s good to talk loudly with each other that you are not thinking about drinking tea. You position yourself not far from the kettle so that he can hear you, and loudly declare: “I don’t want tea, do you, George?”. George yells back, "Come on, let's have some lemonade." After such words, the kettle immediately begins to boil with a key.
We applied this innocent trick and soon we were drinking fragrant tea from clay mugs, discussing the news from the French newspaper.
(155 words, 105 words in the highlighted fragment)
Tasks
1. Explain the spelling of words:
1st option: dawn, French (newspapers), (about) tea drinking, settle down;
2nd option: pale pink (color), drink, key, innocent (cunning).
2. Perform morphemic and derivational analysis of the adjective, determine its category:
1st option: clay (mugs);
2nd option: nasal (parts).
Write out from the text an adjective of a different category, indicate its non-permanent features.
3. Follow parsing offers: When the dawn painted half the sky a pale pink, we put the kettle on the spirit lamp in the bow of the boat and retired to the stern.
4. For verbs in the present tense, highlight the endings and determine the conjugation.
7th grade
Suddenly, the tip of his nose wrinkled. The lords, who do not sleep for a minute, rush to Tom with distressed faces, begging him to tell what happened. Tom, barely holding back tears in his eyes, says: “My lords, my nose is painfully itchy. What are the rites and customs observed here on such occasions? Please hurry up with the answer, I just can't stand it!". No one smiles at his words, everyone's faces are sad and preoccupied. Indeed, in England there is not a single hereditary tickler of royal noses, and no one dares to touch the sacred person of the sovereign. Meanwhile, barely contained tears overflow their banks and flow down Tom's cheeks. His nose itches more and more. Finally, nature overthrows all the barriers of court decency, and Tom, mentally asking for forgiveness, relieves the contrite hearts of those close to him by scratching his nose with his own hand.
(125 words)
Tasks
1. Write out and sort by composition:
1st option: one real participle of the present and past tenses;
2nd option: one by one passive communion present and past tense.
2. Underline all adverbial phrases as members of the sentence.
3. Perform a morphological analysis of one of the adverbs.
8th grade
The teacher reads the entire text, and dictates only the first two paragraphs (if desired, it can be dictated in its entirety and not given a grammar task).
If students skip the commas in the first paragraph, indicating the end of the subordinate clause, such errors can be considered not gross, but it is better not to count at all.
The morning of our departure was warm and sunny, and we were hardly discouraged by the chilling prophecy of George, reading in the newspaper that "the barometer is falling," "an area of low pressure is spreading to the southern part of Europe." Convinced that he was not capable of leading us to despair and was only wasting time, George pulled off the cigarette, which I carefully folded for myself, and went out. And Harris and I, having finished with what little breakfast was left on the table, carried our belongings out on the porch and waited for a cab.
Things stacked in one heap had a rather impressive appearance. There was also a large leather bag, and two baskets for provisions, and a bale with blankets and four coats, and a melon in a separate bag, and a Japanese paper umbrella, and a frying pan, which, because of the long handle, did not fit anywhere.
A free cab still did not appear, but a crowd began to gather around us, interested in the spectacle, and people asked each other what was going on. Two parties were formed. One, composed of young and frivolous spectators, kept that opinion that this was a wedding, and considered Harris the groom. The other, where elderly and respectable gentlemen entered, was inclined to think that this was a funeral and that I was probably the brother of the deceased. Finally, we saw an empty cab, squeezed ourselves and our belongings into it, and set off on the road, accompanied by shouts of “Hurrah!” and the cheers of the crowd.
(210 words, 126 words in the first and second paragraphs)
Tasks
1. Underline the basis in the first paragraph, indicate the type of each predicate.
2. Graphically explain the punctuation marks in the sentence: There was also a large leather bag, and two baskets for provisions, and a bale with blankets and four coats, and a melon in a separate bag, and a Japanese paper umbrella, and a frying pan, which, because of the long handle, did not fit anywhere.
3. Parse the sentence: Things stacked in one heap had a rather impressive appearance.
A.V. VOLKOVA,
school number 57,
Moscow
BLOCK II
8th grade
Night flew silently into the forest like an owl. And with it, the cold. Vasyutka felt his clothes soaked with sweat get cold.
“Taiga, our nurse, doesn’t like flimsy ones!” He remembered the words of his father and grandfather. And he began to remember everything he was taught, what he knew from the stories of fishermen and hunters. First things first, you need to make a fire. It's good that he grabbed the matches from home. Matches came in handy.
Vasyutka broke off the lower dry branches near the tree, tore off a bunch of dry bearded moss with his touch, crumbled the knots finely, put everything in a pile and set it on fire. The light, swaying, crept uncertainly through the branches. Vasyutka threw in more branches. Shadows shivered between the trees, the darkness receded further away. With a monotonous itch, several mosquitoes flew into the fire.
We had to stock up on firewood for the night. Vasyutka, not sparing his hands, broke the boughs, dragged dry deadwood, twisted the old stump. Pulling a piece of bread out of the bag, he sighed and thought with anguish: “Go mother is crying.” He also wanted to cry, but he overcame himself ...
(V. Astafiev. Vasyutkino lake)
(143 words)
Tasks
1. Parse the sentence:
1st option: Vasyutka broke off the lower dry branches near the tree, plucked a tuft of dry bearded moss with his touch, crumbled the knots finely, put everything in a pile and set it on fire;
2nd option: Vasyutka, not sparing his hands, broke the boughs, dragged dry deadwood, twisted the old stump.
2. Underline in the text:
3. Write out from the text:
1st option: impersonal offer;
2nd option: indefinitely personal proposal.
9th grade
The sentimental and gullible crowd can be convinced that the theater in its present form is a school. But whoever is familiar with the school in its true sense, you will not be caught by this bait. I don't know what will happen in fifty or a hundred years, but under present conditions the theater can only serve as entertainment. It robs the state of thousands of young, healthy and talented men and women who, if they had not devoted themselves to the theater, could have been good doctors, cultivators, teachers, and officers. It robs the public of the evening hours - the best time for mental work and friendly conversations. Not to mention the monetary costs and the moral losses that the viewer bears when he sees murder or slander on stage.
Katya was of a completely different opinion. She assured me that the theatre, even in its present form, was higher than auditoriums, higher than books, higher than everything in the world. No art and no science in isolation can act so strongly and so faithfully on human soul like a stage, and not without reason therefore an actor medium size is much more popular in the state than the best scientist or artist.
(According to A. Chekhov)
(172 words)
Tasks
1. Parse:
1st option: 1st offer;
2nd option: 2nd offer.
2. Underline in the text:
1st option: compound nominal predicate;
2nd option: compound verb predicate.
9th grade
It's night now. At night, you especially feel the immobility of objects: lamps, furniture, portraits on the table. Occasionally behind the wall in the plumbing sobs, water overflows, approaching, as it were, the throat of the house. At night I go out for a walk. In the damp, black-greased Berlin asphalt, the reflections of lanterns flow; in the folds of black asphalt - puddles; here and there a grenade light is burning above the fire signal box. Houses are like fogs, at the tram stop there is a glass pillar filled with yellow light, and for some reason it makes me feel so good and sad when at a late hour a tram car flies by, squealing at the turn: the illuminated brown shops are clearly visible through the windows, between which passes against the movement, staggering, a lone, as if slightly drunk, conductor with a black purse on his side.
Wandering down a quiet, dark street, I like to listen to a person coming home. The person himself is not visible in the dark, and one can never know in advance which particular front door will come to life, accept the key with a creak, swing open, freeze on the block; the key on the inside will grind again, and in the depths, behind the glass of the door, a soft light will shine for one amazing minute.
(According to V. Nabokov)
(162 words)
Tasks
1. Parse the sentence Wandering down a quiet, dark street, I like to listen to a person coming home.
2. Underline the relative attributive clause in the text.
3. Write out from the text:
1st option: compound nominal predicate;
2nd option: compound verb predicate.
V.G. STRELCHENKO,
School № 1,
Zheleznodorozhny
Are you afraid that you will burst into tears right in front of random passers-by? Don't want to torture yourself with hopes anymore? Are you tired of everything and want to quickly put an end to the documentary film called "Life"?
Are you familiar with this? Is it possible to escape from hopeless longing when you no longer want to fight it? The RD correspondent managed to undergo a 10-day course of treatment for depression from a military medical psychologist of the FSB and learn the secrets of recovery.
They put me at the computer and let me fill in psychological tests. From several answers, in some cases you need to choose what you feel right now, in others - as usual. The questions are different: about mood swings, suicidal thoughts, about sympathy for people, about the desire to stand out from the crowd ... The next day I find out the results: "severe depressive moods" and "emotional exhaustion."
My thoughts before turning to a psychologist: why not try? Fears: too many "healers of souls" divorced - and without them I know enough.
“It's a shame to think that I suffer so much, and the reason, perhaps, is the usual lack of some substance in the body,” I complain. The doctor asks about parents, grandparents - whether someone in the family was prone to blues. And he notices: “Genes and physiology (anemia) make themselves felt. The next week, our classes will be reduced to special trainings. Also, I have to make changes in my lifestyle. Be sure to walk outside for half an hour every day. And only in the company, only in a sports rhythm. Do not read or watch anything that would lead to sad reflections.
I am told to forget about rubbing in the morning with a cold towel, which I tried to bring myself to my senses, but only fell into even more despondency. “Your type of health needs a hot shower to stay awake - and only at the end you can switch to cool water!”
In the psychologist's office, we switched from conversations to exercises. On my head - on my forehead, behind my ear, on the back of my head - they attached several sensors with wires that caught the rhythms of the brain, I put a special ring with a wire on my finger. All of this was connected to a computer. And then it started at literally brainwork. I had to ... struggle to imagine something good, pleasant - I imagined mountains and the sea, cloudless childhood memories surfaced in my memory ... The more I thought about the good, the higher the alpha rhythms became (responsible for tone) . In total, three types of rhythms were measured for me - alpha, beta and gamma. I realized that the worst ones are those that talk about muscle tension, fatigue; others talk about the activity of the mental process, others - about positive emotions. The doctor measured the readings of impulses before the exercise, during and at the end. After a week of training, my ability to relax and “think positive” improved, and stiffness and fatigue decreased. Thus, you can train without a computer - 20 minutes every day: sit comfortably, close your eyes, think about the good.
In addition, I was sent to trainings in the relaxation room, that is, relaxation. Here the patients sat in comfortable leather armchairs with armrests and footstools, leaned back, the lights in the room went out, and on the ceiling, on a huge blue ceiling, small silver bulbs lit up, creating the illusion of a starry sky. In the corner, water gurgled softly in an artificial fountain. We were given a video cassette with a relaxing course. It took about an hour to do the job. main point: learn to relax physically, emotionally, mentally. This can also be done at home: sit comfortably in a chair, place your hands comfortably with your palms up, as if towards the sun, close your eyes and open your mouth so that all the muscles on your face relax. And then begin to sequentially "travel" through your body, starting with the feet and ending with the head. Tighten the muscles of the feet and take a breath, hold the air, then begin to relax the muscles and at the same time exhale easily, then also move to the lower leg, knees, abdomen, hands, shoulders, neck. At the same time, always under load, that is, tensing your muscles, take a breath, and relax as you exhale. Having made a circle of physical tensions and relaxations, walk through the body again, only now mentally focus on one or another part of the body and imagine that you are tensing it, relaxing it and inhaling and exhaling air through it. Also try to imagine that this or that hand becomes warm. These exercises will help you better control your condition, in stressful situation relax and, conversely, concentrate when needed. This is the so-called psychotraining for self-regulation. Biofeedback.
The main thing in treatment is complexity: more communication, excursions, new experiences, vitamin nutrition. Buy nature sound CDs, browse travel magazines. Be sure to make plans for the day.
Hot tubs, sharko showers are useful, but, for example, they did not suit me. Very good massage session. Walks - 5 km a day, physiotherapy exercises.
Read useful literature. For example, from those printouts of various psychologists that my doctor gave me, I gathered the following for myself:
“Failure is not defeat, if you don't want to think so. Let's take an example from plant life. Their growth depends on the processes of ebbs and flows that occur cyclically as a result of the attraction of the Moon and the Earth. On the growing Moon (in the phase of the tide of the Earth's vital juices to the surface, i.e., the most favorable conditions for plants), their visible part, located above the surface ("tops"), grows on the waning Moon (the conditions are most unfavorable, the earth's juices are removed from the surface ) plants are forced to develop a root system, otherwise they will not survive. And, interestingly, the quality and quantity of flowers, fruits, leaves, i.e. tops, depends on the degree of development of the root system. The same regularity is also true for a person: during the period of success, success, his “tops” grow, that is, achievements visible to others, while during the period of failures - that is, unfavorable, it would seem, conditions for a person - his roots grow, that is, invisible to others inner work by accumulation vital energy, strength, self-confidence, stress resistance and balance, in the knowledge of one's own resources.
The film is creepy, and, at the same time, strikingly beautiful. The audience in the cinema hall, adults (and it’s too early for children to watch such things), applauded when the credits rolled across the screen. Some wiped away tears. Where does this effect come from? Our era is stingy with empathy ...
It's all about the emphasized, concentrated bet made by the director on the frankness of the film narrative. The film turned out to be not just a documentary, but ... some kind of super-documentary, as if its creators set out to create the most reliable source on the history of our time for future researchers.
Every nation that creates high culture, has some secret predilection for some one virtue artwork. It becomes decisive for most readers. Other virtues can please, delight, attract attention, but in their meaning it is this one, and no other, that in the vast majority of cases dominates. Moreover, no one will ever write in a textbook and, moreover, will not write in a manifest artistic association such is the unspoken priority. Everyone knows everything, but extremely rarely voice their understanding. What for? Who needs it, he already absorbed the understanding of the essence of the matter with his mother's milk ...
In Russian culture, something is highly valued, about which one can say: “That's the truth!” It is the truth, and nothing else, that is valued above all else. Above the liveliness of the mind, above the philosophical properties of the intellect, above the technical sophistication, above the wealth of ideas, but above anything. There is truth, and much is forgiven. That is why in Russian culture - literature, painting, cinema, theater - realism is so highly valued. That is why the attention to detail and the desire for "authenticity" always pays off with the grateful attention of the audience.
And in the film by Sofya Gorlenko there is nothing "playful", nothing beyond the realism of everyday life. Not even a voiceover. There is no interviewer asking questions of contemporary witnesses. It's just that the inhabitants of the Russian North talk about themselves. Scary - so let it be scary, sad - so let it be sad, witty, clumsy, absurd, deep - everything is presented in the form of the truth of the fact. And the truth of the fact is presented in such a way that there is no gap between it and some lofty, transcendental truths.
Here they gathered village old women so that they sang old folk songs. The old women dressed up, and the accordion player says to them: “Sorry, I can’t play for you. My friend died today, I can’t, you yourself somehow. Crashed and left. Two or three of the most groovy grandmothers tried to start a concert without music, and the rest disperse. Were embarrassed. Well, then these also dispersed: although they came from big city filmmakers in their wilderness, but uncomfortable, very uncomfortable to sing next to someone else's grief. How to sing here? Oh, they dressed up in vain.
What do northerners say - old and young? And they talk about their sorrows with calm dignity. People live in poverty, many have left for the cities, households are ruined everywhere, full of dead villages. Beautiful wooden temples decay from year to year. And the camera shows: yes, that's strong an old house, very large: eighty years ago there was a prosperous peasant family, she had a lot of cattle, a river nearby, in the forest - a game animal, mushrooms and berries. Now the forest has been cut down, the beast has been knocked out, the cattle are gone for a long time, and museum workers are wandering around the empty house in search of antiques. But more often, of course, not museum workers, but simple marauders: a very profitable business is to pull out old utensils from abandoned houses, and then take them to antique shops. Tourists pay well...
And all this against the backdrop of wooded hills, flowering meadows, beautiful lakes, whose tin sheets seem to be virgin from the beginning ... What a beauty!
And what poverty...
Camera: here's a living village... lights, smokes, cows, life... but a dead one... toothless window gaps... gaps in the walls... a collapsed porch... still dead... more, more, more and more...
Words about our village are already heard as about something past: "Those who live now in the village touch the hidden Russian Atlantis, the city of Kitezh." Where is the voice coming from? Yes, from there, from under dark waters North.
But there are islands of recovery here and there. Or maybe not even restoration, but a completely new life, which does not allow itself to forget about the old life, drowned in time. A thick-set Russian peasant, pulls out on himself even what seems impossible to pull out. He wants help from the state, it doesn’t hurt, the state helps him, the state is somewhere far away, the state is melting in a foggy haze, but if at least it doesn’t interfere, then he alone, on himself, pulls out an unbearable cart.
Young people came to the village educated people from the city. Resist horn and do not leave. They feel like "their own". They feel that here it is easier for them to build around themselves the universe that they need: it doesn’t work out in the bustle of the metropolis, people grind to pieces, but they have no joy. Here is another matter. A young musician says to the camera: "How to teach people to feel like a master in their land." He talks about the petty psychological pressure of the mass media. Every screen demands: "Be a successful person!" And what can be successful man in the countryside, among the forests, with a poor life on cow dung? But life here is good, glorious, and, therefore, we must calmly say to ourselves: “By local standards, I am an unsuccessful person ... Yes, that's fine.” And live on, and manage in your house.
Some temples perish irrevocably - from rot, from fires, from desolation. And some live. There is no place for a place, everywhere it depends on the will local residents.
In some places, churches are being restored, and the economy is being conducted in spite of the general ruin. Locals do not give up, they are not satisfied with life in a landscape of economic ruins.
Camera: a semi-dismantled church, a former village club where dances used to take place under Leonid Ilyich... People complain: “There is no money, no workers, how to put it in order”... they are swarming around the church, slowly doing some little work... here the garbage was removed ... something was hung up here ... And now there is a temple in in perfect order, with a new head office ... A miracle?
One of the carpenters reflects: “Temples are like checkpoints on our land. While they stand, the land is ours, and we ourselves exist. If they don't exist, we won't. We will be free, nothing will keep us on the ground. As they say, vacate the territory!” The grandson of a priest, an archpriest, who was killed during the years of repression against the clergy, says to his mother, who remembered the hardships in the life of a simple rural priest: "We must continue the path of grandfather."
Through the darkness, from under the boulders, from below, it seems, from the very bottom, voices are heard, alien to despondency: “There is hope: the night is especially dark just before dawn.” And - about the same damned "Atlantis", but in a completely different tone: "It's too early to say, the Russian village has died, that this is a sunken Atlantis."
God bless! There are people who will not go anywhere, but will remain, each in his place, the backbone of his land. This means that the Russian cause is not lost. So, "we'll still wander!"
One burly northerner at the very end of the film says: “I am sixty years old, and my son is one year old. I'm risking. But you don’t have to think like that: I will live or I won’t live ... If you feel the potential in yourself, don’t whine, act!”.
One might get the impression that the author of these lines admires the film as a wonderful ethnographic canvas of modern Russian life in the countryside. No, nothing like that. I'm not outside, I'm inside. I do not live in the village, but in the city, but I am with those about whom the Atlantis of the Russian North tells. After all, these are my people, my fellow tribesmen and co-religionists. Their pain is my pain, their hope is my hope, their prayers are my prayers. I want them to live better.
And therefore I will finish by saying that my people love it so much, I will say to Sofya Gorlenko and my comrades: "That's true." And for the truth - low bow to you.
