An online broadcast of the dictation will be organized on the site, during which the author will read the text to the audience, and the participants will type the text in a special window.
Don't worry if you're a slow typist on your computer - sentences are dictated slowly and repeated several times.
The duration of writing a dictation as part of the Total Dictation 2016 campaign will be about 45 minutes.
Everyone will be able to choose the most suitable time to write a dictation or take part in the Total Dictation three times.
9:00 - the first part of the dictation. Broadcast from the Far Eastern Federal University (Vladivostok). Natalya Sergeevna Milyanchuk, Ph.D., chairman of the expert commission in Vladivostok, dictates.
12:00 - second part of the dictation. Broadcast from Novosibirsk state university(Novosibirsk). The author of the text, writer Andrei Usachev, dictates.
15:00 - the third part of the dictation. Broadcast from Russian University of Economics them. Plekhanov. Actor Sergei Bezrukov dictates
15:00 - the third part of the dictation. Broadcast from the Mediametrics TV studio. Actor Evgeny Steblov dictates.
Attention! To write a dictation you will need to log in. Take care in advance about creating account on the official website of the promotion.
As soon as the Total Dictation is completed, you will instantly receive a detailed analysis of the mistakes made.
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The Russian language is one of the richest languages in the world. This is what V.G. wrote about him. Belinsky. This indisputable fact is recognized by both past and present poets, writers, scientists and cultural figures. A.I. called for the study and preservation of the native language as the history of the people, the path of civilization and culture. Kuprin.
Today, the problem of preserving the language in Russia is the most pressing. Modern man gradually loses his literacy. Word and newfangled gadgets help us write “correctly.” The programs correct errors, but not all of them. A person’s ability to think about correct writing of a text is lost, and there is no desire to improve the level of knowledge of their native language.
How to make learning the Russian language fashionable and popular again? How can we improve the literacy of everyone? They thought about this at Novosibirsk State University.
History of the educational campaign
At the Faculty of Humanities of NSU they noticed a trend towards a decrease in the education of the citizens of our country and wished to change this injustice. To attract public attention to issues of literacy and education, the university organized an annual tradition of conducting dictations for guests of the institution. Subsequently, the action acquired the name “Total Dictation”, the motto of which was the words: “Writing correctly is fashionable!”
The first dictation took place within the walls of NSU in 2004. On average, 150–250 city residents took part in this and five subsequent actions. In 2009, the organizers asked Psoy Korolenko to conduct a dictation. Attendance at the event increased 3 times. A tradition has formed of entrusting the writing of the text for the Total Dictation to Russian contemporary writers. The authors invariably read their text on the main stage of the event - at Novosibirsk State University.
Gradually the event becomes popular and large-scale. Now it covers not only Russian cities, but also foreign countries. Ordinary residents, public figures, and famous people take part in the dictation.
According to the organizers, in 2015 the event took place in 58 countries. 108,200 people in 549 cities took part in the dictation.
How to take part in the promotion?
To take part in the “Total Dictation 2016” campaign and test your knowledge of the Russian language for free along with hundreds of thousands of people around the world, you need to select a nearby venue for the event and register on the official website. In addition, there is the possibility of writing a dictation online.
How to write “Total dictation” online?
Despite the wide geographical distribution promotions throughout Russia and the world, not all regions have organized platforms for writing the Total Dictation. Many people are stopped from participating in the event by personal busyness and the remote location of the event venues. Wanting to involve as many Russian language lovers as possible in testing their knowledge, the organizers of the event offer to write a Total Dictation online.
(L.N. Tolstoy). Text 2004
The next day, having said goodbye to only one count, without waiting for the ladies to leave, Prince Andrei went home.
It was already the beginning of June when Prince Andrei, returning home, again entered that birch grove, in which this old, gnarled oak struck him so strangely and memorably. The bells rang even more muffled in the forest than a month and a half ago; everything was full, shady and dense; and the young spruces, scattered throughout the forest, did not disturb the overall beauty and, imitating the general character, were tenderly green with fluffy young shoots.
It was hot all day, a thunderstorm was gathering somewhere, but only a small cloud splashed on the dust of the road and on the succulent leaves. The left side of the forest was dark, in shadow; the right one, wet and glossy, glistened in the sun, slightly swaying in the wind. Everything was in bloom; the nightingales chattered and rolled, now close, now far away.
“Yes, here, in this forest, there was this oak tree with which we agreed,” thought Prince Andrei. “Where is he,” Prince Andrei thought again, looking at the left side of the road and without knowing it, without recognizing him, he admired the oak tree that he was looking for. The old oak tree, completely transformed, spread out like a tent of lush, dark greenery, swayed slightly, swaying slightly in the rays of the evening sun. No gnarled fingers, no sores, no old mistrust and grief - nothing was visible. Juicy, young leaves broke through the tough, hundred-year-old bark without knots, so it was impossible to believe that this old man had produced them. “Yes, this is that same oak tree,” thought Prince Andrei, and suddenly an unreasonable, spring feeling of joy and renewal came over him. All the best moments of his life suddenly came back to him at the same time. And Austerlitz with the high sky, and the dead, reproachful face of his wife, and Pierre on the ferry, and the girl excited by the beauty of the night, and this night, and the moon - and all this suddenly came to his mind.
“No, life is not over at the age of 31, Prince Andrei suddenly finally, permanently decided. Not only do I know everything that is in me, it is necessary for everyone to know it: both Pierre and this girl who wanted to fly into the sky, it is necessary for everyone to know me, so that my life does not go on for me alone So that they don’t live so independently of my life, so that it affects everyone and so that they all live with me!”
Volokolamsk Highway (Alexander Bek, text 2005)
In the evening we set out on a night march to the Ruza River, thirty kilometers from Volokolamsk. A resident of southern Kazakhstan, I am used to late winter, but here, in the Moscow region, in early October it was already freezing in the morning. At dawn, along a frost-covered road, along hardened dirt turned up by wheels, we approached the village of Novlyanskoye. Leaving the battalion near the village, in the forest, I and the company commanders went on reconnaissance. My battalion was assigned seven kilometers along the bank of the winding Ruza. In battle, according to our regulations, such an area is large even for a regiment. This, however, did not worry. I was sure that if the enemy ever really came here, he would be met at our seven kilometers not by a battalion, but by five or ten battalions. With this in mind, I thought, we need to prepare fortifications.
Don't expect me to paint nature. I don’t know whether the view spread out before us was beautiful or not. Spread across the dark mirror of the narrow, slow Ruza were large, as if carved, leaves, on which white lilies probably bloomed in the summer. Maybe it’s beautiful, but I noticed for myself: it’s a crappy little river, it’s shallow and convenient for the enemy to cross. However, the coastal slopes on our side were inaccessible to tanks: glistening with freshly cut clay containing traces of shovels, a sheer ledge, called a scarp in military parlance, fell to the water.
Beyond the river one could see the distance - open fields and individual tracts, or, as they say, wedges, forests. In one place, somewhat diagonally from the village of Novlyanskoye, the forest on the opposite bank almost closely adjoined the water. It, perhaps, had everything that an artist writing Russian would wish for. autumn forest, but this ledge seemed disgusting to me: here, most likely, the enemy could, hiding from our fire, concentrate for an attack. To hell with these pines and spruces! Knock them out! Move the forest away from the river! Although none of us, as has been said, expected fighting here soon, we were given the task of establishing a defensive line, and we had to carry it out with complete conscientiousness, as befits officers and soldiers of the Red Army.
Taimyr Lake (Ivan Sokolov-Mikitov, text 2006)
Almost in the very center of the country’s polar station lies the huge Taimyr Lake. It stretches from west to east in a long shining stripe. In the north, rocky blocks rise, with black ridges looming behind them. Until recently, people had not looked here at all. Only along the rivers can traces of human presence be found. Spring waters sometimes bring torn nets, floats, broken oars and other simple fishing equipment from the upper reaches.
Along the swampy shores of the lake, the tundra is bare, only here and there patches of snow turn white and glisten in the sun. Driven by the force of inertia, a huge ice field presses against the shores. The permafrost, bound by an icy shell, still holds my feet tightly. The ice at the mouth of the rivers and the small river will remain for a long time, and the lake will clear in about ten days. And then the sandy shore, flooded with light, will turn into the mysterious glow of sleepy water, and then into the solemn silhouettes, the vague outlines of the opposite shore.
On a clear, windy day, inhaling the smells of the awakened earth, we wander through the thawed patches of the tundra and observe a lot of curious phenomena. An unusual combination of high sky and cold wind. Every now and then a partridge runs out from under our feet, crouching to the ground; will fall off and immediately, as if shot, a tiny little Easter cake will fall to the ground. Trying to lead the uninvited visitor away from its nest, the little sandpiper begins to somersault at its very feet. A voracious arctic fox, covered with shreds of faded fur, makes its way at the base of a stone placer. Having caught up with the fragments of stones, the arctic fox makes a well-calculated jump and crushes the mouse that has jumped out with its paws. And even further away, an ermine, holding a silver fish in its teeth, gallops towards the piled up boulders.
Plants near the slowly melting glaciers will soon begin to come to life and bloom. The first to bloom will be kandyk and mountain weed, which develop and fight for life under the transparent cover of ice. In August, the first mushrooms will appear among the polar birch trees creeping on the hills.
The tundra overgrown with miserable vegetation has its own wonderful aromas. Summer will come, and the wind will sway the corollas of the flowers, and a bumblebee will fly buzzing and land on the flower.
The sky frowns again, the wind begins to whistle furiously. It's time to return to the plank house of the polar station, where there is a delicious smell of baked bread and the comfort of human habitation. And tomorrow we will begin reconnaissance work.
Sotnikov (Vasil Bykov, text 2007)
All the last days Sotnikov seemed to be in prostration. He felt bad: he was exhausted without water and food. And he silently, half-forgotten, sat among a close crowd of people on the prickly, dry grass without any special thoughts in his head and, probably, that’s why he didn’t immediately understand the meaning of the feverish whisper next to him: “I’ll finish off at least one. Doesn't matter…". Sotnikov carefully looked to the side: that same lieutenant neighbor, unnoticed by others, was taking out an ordinary penknife from under the dirty bandages on his leg, and such determination was hidden in his eyes that Sotnikov thought: you won’t be able to hold this.
Two guards, having come together, lit a cigarette with a lighter, one on a horse a little further away vigilantly inspected the column.
They still sat in the sun, maybe fifteen minutes, until some command was heard from the hill, and the Germans began to raise the column. Sotnikov already knew what his neighbor had decided to do, and he immediately began to move away from the column to the side, closer to the guard. This guard was a strong, squat German, like everyone else, with a machine gun on his chest, in a tight jacket that sweated under the armpits; from under his cloth cap, which was wet at the edges, a not at all Aryan forelock was sticking out - a black, almost resin-like forelock. The German hastily finished his cigarette, spat through his teeth and, apparently intending to rush some prisoner, impatiently took two steps towards the column. At the same instant, the lieutenant, like a kite, rushed at him from behind and plunged the knife into his tanned neck up to the handle.
With a short grunt, the German sank to the ground, and someone at a distance shouted: “Polundra!” - and several people, as if thrown from the column by a spring, rushed into the field. Sotnikov also rushed away.
The confusion of the Germans lasted about five seconds, no more, and immediately bursts of fire struck in several places - the first bullets passed over his head. But he ran. It seems that he had never rushed with such furious speed in his life, and in several wide leaps he ran up a hillock with pine trees. The bullets were already densely and randomly piercing the pine thicket, he was showered with pine needles from all sides, and he still rushed, without discerning the path, as far as possible, every now and then repeating to himself with joyful amazement: “Alive! Alive!
Naulaka: A Tale of West and East (Rudyard Kipling, 2008 text)
After about ten minutes Tarvin began to realize that all these tired, exhausted people represented the interests of half a dozen different firms in Calcutta and Bombay. Like every spring, without any hope of success, they besieged the royal palace, trying to get at least something from the debtor, who was the king himself. His Majesty ordered everything, indiscriminately, and in huge quantities - but he really did not like to pay for purchases. He bought guns, travel bags, mirrors, expensive trinkets for the mantelpiece, embroidery, Christmas tree decorations sparkling with all the colors of the rainbow, saddles and horse harnesses, mail coaches, carriages with four horses, perfumes, surgical instruments, candlesticks, Chinese porcelain - individually or in bulk, for cash or credit, as His Royal Majesty pleases. Losing interest in the things he acquired, he immediately lost the desire to pay for them, since little occupied his jaded imagination for more than twenty minutes. Sometimes it happened that the very purchase of an item satisfied him completely, and the boxes with precious contents arriving from Calcutta remained unpacked. The peace of the Indian Empire prevented him from taking up arms against his fellow kings, and he was deprived of the only joy and amusement that had entertained him and his ancestors for thousands of years. And yet he could play this game even now, albeit in a slightly modified form - fighting with clerks who were vainly trying to get the bill from him.
So, on one side stood the political resident of the state himself, placed in this place in order to teach the king the art of management, and most importantly, economy and frugality, and on the other side - more precisely, at the palace gates, there was usually a traveling salesman, in whose soul Contempt for the malicious defaulter and the reverence for the king inherent in every Englishman fought.
Nevsky Prospekt (Nikolai Gogol, text 2009)
There is nothing better than Nevsky Prospekt, at least in St. Petersburg; for him he is everything. Why does this street not shine - the beauty of our capital! I know that not one of its pale and bureaucratic residents would trade Nevsky Prospect for all the benefits. Not only those who are twenty-five years old, have a beautiful mustache and a wonderfully tailored frock coat, but even those who have white hairs popping out on their chin and whose head is smooth as a silver dish, are delighted with Nevsky Prospect. And the ladies! Oh, ladies enjoy Nevsky Prospect even more. And who doesn’t like it? As soon as you step onto Nevsky Prospekt, it already smells like a festivities. Even if you had some necessary, necessary work to do, once you get to it, you will probably forget about any work. Here the only place, where people are shown not out of necessity, where necessity and mercantile interest that embraces the whole of St. Petersburg have not driven them.
Nevsky Prospekt is the universal communication of St. Petersburg. Here, a resident of the St. Petersburg or Vyborg part, who has not visited his friend on Peski or at the Moscow outpost for several years, can be sure that he will certainly meet him. No address calendar or reference place will deliver such reliable news as Nevsky Prospekt. Almighty Nevsky Prospekt! The only entertainment for the poor during the St. Petersburg festivities! How clean its sidewalks are swept, and, God, how many feet have left their traces on it! And the clumsy dirty boot of a retired soldier, under the weight of which the very granite seems to crack, and the miniature, light as smoke, shoe of a young lady, turning her head to the shining windows of the store, like a sunflower to the sun, and the rattling saber of a hopeful ensign, conducting there is a sharp scratch on it - everything takes out on it the power of strength or the power of weakness. What a rapid phantasmagoria takes place on it in just one day!
What is the reason for the decline of the Russian language and does it exist at all? (Boris Strugatsky, text 2010)
There is no decline, and there cannot be. It’s just that censorship was softened, and in part, thank God, completely abolished, and what we used to hear in pubs and gateways now delights our ears, coming from the stage and from television screens. We are inclined to consider this the onset of lack of culture and the decline of Language, but lack of culture, like any devastation, is not in books or on the stage, it is in souls and in heads. And with the latter, in my opinion, there is nothing significant for last years Did not happen. Is it that our bosses, again thank God, have distracted themselves from ideology and become more interested in cutting down the budget. So languages have blossomed, and the Language has been enriched with remarkable innovations in a wide range - from “hedging a GKO portfolio with the help of futures” to the emergence of Internet jargon.
Talk about the decline in general and the Language in particular is, in fact, the result of the lack of clear instructions from above. The corresponding instructions will appear - and the decline will stop as if by itself, immediately being replaced by some kind of “new flourishing” and a general sovereign “blessing of the air.”
Literature is thriving, finally remaining almost without censorship and in the shadow of liberal laws regarding book publishing. The reader is spoiled to the extreme. Every year, several dozen books appear at such a level of significance that, if any of them had appeared on the shelves 25 years ago, it would have immediately become the sensation of the year, but today it only evokes condescending and approving grumbling from critics. Conversations about the notorious “crisis of literature” do not subside, the public demands the immediate appearance of new Bulgakovs, Chekhovs, Tolstoys, as usual, forgetting that any classic is necessarily a “product of the time,” like good wine and, in general, like everything good. There is no need to pull the tree up by its branches: this will not make it grow faster. However, there is nothing wrong with talking about the crisis: there is little benefit from them, but there is no harm observed either.
And Language, as before, lives its own life, slow and incomprehensible, constantly changing and at the same time always remaining itself. Anything can happen to the Russian language: perestroika, transformation, transformation, but not extinction. He is too big, powerful, flexible, dynamic and unpredictable to suddenly disappear. Unless - together with us.
Spelling as a law of nature (Dmitry Bykov, text 2011)
The question of why literacy is needed is discussed widely and biasedly. It would seem that today, when even a computer program is capable of correcting not only spelling, but also the meaning, the average Russian is not required to know the countless and sometimes meaningless subtleties of his native spelling. I'm not even talking about commas that were unlucky twice. At first, in the liberal nineties, they were placed anywhere or ignored altogether, claiming that this was a copyright sign. Schoolchildren still widely use the unwritten rule: “If you don’t know what to put, put a dash.” It’s not for nothing that they call it “a sign of despair.” Then, in the stable 2000s, people began to fearfully play it safe and put commas where they were not needed at all. True, all this confusion with signs does not in any way affect the meaning of the message. Why then write correctly?
I think this is something like those necessary conventions that replace our specific canine sense of smell when sniffing. A somewhat developed interlocutor, having received an electronic message, identifies the author by a thousand little things: of course, he does not see the handwriting, unless the message did not come in a bottle, but a letter from a philologist containing spelling errors can be erased without finishing reading it.
It is known that at the end of the war the Germans, who used the Russian labor, with threats they extorted a special receipt from the Slavic slaves: “So-and-so treated me wonderfully and deserves leniency.” The liberating soldiers, having occupied one of the suburbs of Berlin, read a letter proudly presented by the owner with a dozen gross mistakes, signed by a student at Moscow University. The degree of sincerity of the author became immediately obvious to them, and the average slave owner paid for his vile foresight.
Today we have almost no chance to quickly understand who is in front of us: the methods of camouflage are cunning and numerous. You can imitate intelligence, sociability, even, perhaps, intelligence. It is impossible to play only literacy - a refined form of politeness, the last identifying mark of humble and mindful people who respect the laws of language as the highest form of the laws of nature.
Part 1. Do you care? (Zakhar Prilepin, text 2012)
Lately, we have often heard categorical statements, for example: “I don’t owe anyone anything.” They are repeated, considering it to be good form, by a considerable number of people themselves. of different ages, especially young people. And those who are older and wiser are even more cynical in their judgments: “There is no need to do anything, because while the Russians, having forgotten about the greatness that has fallen under the bench, quietly drink, everything goes on as usual.” Have we really become more inert and emotionally passive today than ever? It's not easy to understand right now, but time will tell eventually. If a country called Russia suddenly discovers that it has lost a significant part of its territory and a significant share of its population, it will be possible to say that at the beginning of the 2000s we really had nothing to do and that during these years we were engaged in more important matters than preserving statehood, national identity and territorial integrity. But if the country survives, it means that complaints about the indifference of citizens to the fate of the Motherland were, to say the least, groundless.
Nevertheless, there are reasons for a disappointing forecast. Quite often there are young people who perceive themselves not as a link in an unbroken chain of generations, but as nothing less than the crown of creation. But there are obvious things: life itself and the existence of the earth on which we walk are possible only because our ancestors treated everything differently.
I remember my old people: how beautiful they were and, my God, how young they were in their war photographs! And how happy they were that we, their children and grandchildren, were getting mixed up among them, thin-legged and tanned, blooming and overcooked in the sun. For some reason we decided that previous generations owed us, but we, as new subspecies individuals, we are not responsible for anything and we do not want to be in debt to anyone.
There is only one way to preserve the land given to us and the freedom of the people - to gradually and persistently get rid of the mass paroxysms of individualism, so that public statements about independence from the past and non-involvement in the future of our Motherland become at least a sign of bad taste.
Part 2. I care
Lately, categorical statements like: “I don’t owe anyone anything” have often been heard. They are repeated by many, especially young people who consider themselves the crown of creation. It is no coincidence that the position of extreme individualism is a sign of almost good form today. But first of all, we are social beings and live according to the laws and traditions of society.
Most often, traditional Russian stories are meaningless: a pipe burst there, something caught fire here - and three regions were left either without heat, or without light, or without both. No one has been surprised for a long time, because similar things seem to have happened before.
The fate of society is directly related to the state as such and the actions of those who govern it. The state can ask, strongly recommend, order, and ultimately force us to do something.
A reasonable question arises: who and what needs to be done with people so that they are concerned not only with their own fate, but also with something more?
There is a lot of talk now about awakening civic consciousness. It seems that society, regardless of the will of others and orders from above, is recovering. And in this process, as we are convinced, the main thing is to “start with yourself.” I personally started: I screwed in a light bulb in the entrance, paid taxes, improved the demographic situation, and provided jobs for several people. And what? And where is the result? It seems to me that while I am busy with small things, someone is doing their own, huge ones, and the vector of application of our forces is completely different.
Meanwhile, everything that we have: from the land we walk on to the ideals we believe in, is the result not of “small deeds” and cautious steps, but of global projects, huge achievements, selfless asceticism. People are transformed only when they burst into the world with all their might. A person becomes a person in search, in feat, in work, and not in petty soul-searching that turns the soul inside out.
It’s much better to start by changing the world around you, because you want to finally big country, great worries about her, great results, big land and the sky. Give me a map with a real scale so that at least half of the globe can be seen!
Part 3. And we care!
There is a quiet, itching feeling that the state on this earth owes nothing to anyone. Maybe that’s why lately we’ve heard so often from people that I don’t owe anyone anything. And so I don’t understand: how can we all survive here and who will defend this country when it collapses?
If you seriously believe that Russia has exhausted its resources of vitality and we have no future, then, honestly, maybe we shouldn’t worry? Our reasons are compelling: the people are broken, all empires sooner or later fall apart and therefore we have no chance.
Russian history, I don’t argue, provoked such declarations. Nevertheless, our ancestors, stricken by skepticism, never believed in this nonsense. Who decided that we no longer have a chance, and, for example, the Chinese have more than enough of them? After all, they also have a multinational country that has experienced revolutions and wars.
We actually live in a funny country. Here, in order to realize your basic rights - to have a roof over your head and daily bread, you need to perform somersaults of extraordinary beauty: change your home and jobs, get an education in order to work outside your specialty, go over your head, preferably on your hands. You can’t just be a peasant, a nurse, an engineer, just a military man - it’s not recommended at all.
But despite all the, so to speak, “unprofitability” of the population, tens of millions of adult men and women live in Russia - capable, enterprising, enterprising, ready to plow and sow, build and rebuild, give birth and raise children. Therefore, a voluntary farewell to the national future is not at all a sign of common sense and balanced decisions, but a natural betrayal. You cannot give up your positions, throw down flags and run away without even making an attempt to defend your home. This, of course, is a figure of speech inspired by the history and smoke of the fatherland, in which spiritual and cultural upsurge, a mass desire for reconstruction have always been associated with great upheavals and wars. But they were crowned with Victories that no one could achieve. And we must earn the right to be the heirs of these Victories!
Part 1. The Gospel of the Internet (Dina Rubina, text 2013)
Once, many years ago, I got into a conversation with a programmer I knew and, among other remarks, I remember his phrase that some ingenious thing had been invented, thanks to which all the knowledge of mankind would become available to any subject - the Worldwide Information Network.
“This is amazing,” I responded politely, always getting bored with the word “humanity” and hating the word “individual.”
Imagine,” he continued, “that for a dissertation on the production of pottery among the Etruscans, for example, you no longer need to delve into the archives, but just type a certain code, and everything that is required for the work will appear on your computer screen.
But this is wonderful! - I exclaimed.
Meanwhile he continued:
Unheard of possibilities are opening up before humanity - in science, in art, in politics. Everyone will be able to bring their word to the attention of millions. At the same time, any person, he added, will become much more accessible to intelligence services and will not be protected from all sorts of attackers, especially when hundreds of thousands of Internet communities emerge.
But this is terrible... - I thought.
Many years have passed, but I remember this conversation very well. And today, having changed a good dozen computers, corresponding - to the accompaniment of the keyboard - with hundreds of correspondents, running another query from Google to Yandex and mentally blessing the great invention, I still cannot answer myself unequivocally: the Internet - is it “wonderful” or “terrible” ?
Thomas Mann wrote: “...Where you are, there is the world - a narrow circle in which you live, know and act; the rest is fog..."
The Internet - for good or evil - has cleared the fog, turning on its merciless spotlights, piercing with cutting light to the smallest grain of sand countries and continents, and at the same time the fragile human soul. And what happened, by the way? recent years twenty with this notorious soul, before whom dazzling possibilities for self-expression opened up?
The Internet for me is the third turning point in the history of human culture - after the advent of language and the invention of the book. In Ancient Greece, no more than twenty thousand people heard an orator speaking in a square in Athens. This was the sonic limit of communication: the geography of language is the tribe. Then a book came that expanded the circle of communication to the geography of the country. With the invention of the World Wide Web, arose new stage human existence in space: the geography of the Internet - the globe!
Part 2. The dangers of heaven
The Internet for me is the third turning point in the history of human culture - after the advent of language and the invention of the book. In Ancient Greece, no more than twenty thousand people heard an orator speaking in a square in Athens. This was the sonic limit of communication: the geography of language is the tribe. Then a book came that expanded the circle of communication to the geography of the country.
And now there was a dizzying, unprecedented opportunity to instantly convey the word to countless people. Another change of spaces: the geography of the Internet - the globe. And this is another revolution, and a revolution always breaks quickly, it only builds slowly.
Over time, a new hierarchy of humanity will emerge, a new humane civilization. In the meantime... for now, the Internet is dominated by the “reverse side” of this grandiose breakthrough discovery - its destructive power. It is no coincidence that the World Wide Web becomes a tool in the hands of terrorists, hackers and fanatics of all stripes.
The most obvious fact of our time: the Internet, which has unimaginably expanded the possibilities of the common man to speak and act, lies at the heart of the current “revolt of the masses.” This phenomenon, which arose in the first half of the twentieth century, caused by the vulgarization of culture - material and spiritual - gave rise to both communism and Nazism. Today it is addressed to the “mass” in any person, feeds from it and satisfies it in all respects - from linguistic to political and consumer, because it has incredibly brought the desired “bread and circuses” closer to the people, including the lowest. This confidant, preacher and confessor of crowds turns into “noise” everything he touches and gives life to; breeds vulgarity, ignorance and aggression, giving them an unprecedented, fascinating outlet not just outside, but to the whole world. The most dangerous thing is that this is a playful and very intelligent “child” new civilization destroys criteria - spiritual, moral and behavioral codes of existence human society. What can you do, in the Internet space everyone is equal in the most common sense of the word. And I think: aren’t we paying too high a price for a wonderful opportunity to talk with a distant friend, to read rare book, see brilliant picture and hear great opera? Isn't this done too early? grand opening? In other words, has humanity grown into itself?
Part 3. Evil for good or good for evil?
Questions related to the mighty Internet can be called existential, as is the question of what we do in this world.
There is no instrument that could determine the obvious benefit and equally obvious evil that all great inventions bring us, just as there is no way to separate one from the other.
“I would not be in a hurry to criticize the Internet too sharply for all the sins of humanity,” objected my friend, a famous physicist who has lived in Paris for a long time (by the way, we met him through the Internet). - From my point of view, this is a wonderful thing, if only because talented and smart people got the opportunity to communicate, unite and thereby contribute to the great discoveries of modern times. Think, for example, about polar explorers in Antarctica: isn’t Internet communication a great benefit for them? And the plebs will remain plebs, with or without the Internet. At one time, monsters of the style of Hitler or Mussolini, with only radio and the press, managed to have a murderous influence on the masses. And the book has always been a very powerful tool: you can print Shakespeare’s poetry and Chekhov’s prose on paper, or you can have manuals on terrorism and calls for pogroms - paper will endure anything, just like the Internet. This invention in itself does not fall into the categories of good or evil, any more than fire, dynamite, alcohol, nitrates or nuclear energy do. It all depends on who is using it. This is so obvious that it’s even boring to discuss. “Write better,” the professor added, “how difficult it is to become an adult in our age, how entire generations are doomed to eternal and irreversible immaturity...
That is, after all, about the World Wide Web? - I stubbornly clarified. “It was there that I read the other day: “The best thing that life has given me is a childhood without the Internet.”
So what? What are we, in fact, doing in this world, I think, penetrating deeper into its secrets, trying to get to the bottom of the innermost spring, whose crystalline power will quench our thirst for immortality? And does it exist, this spring, or each next generation, which has removed the next cover from great secret, can only muddy clear waters existence given to us by the unknowable genius of the Universe?
Train Chusovskaya – Tagil (Alexey Ivanov, text 2014)
Part 1. On a train through childhood
“Chusovskaya - Tagil”... I traveled by this train only in the summer.
A line of carriages and a locomotive - angular and massive, it smelled of hot metal and for some reason tar. Every day this train departed from the old Chusovsky station, which no longer exists, and the conductors stood at the open doors, holding out yellow flags.
The railway turned decisively from the Chusovaya River into a ravine between the mountains, and then for many hours in a row the train pounded steadily through the dense valleys. The motionless summer sun was burning above, and all around in the blue and haze the Urals swayed: now some taiga factory will put up a thick red brick chimney over the forest, now a gray rock above the valley will sparkle with mica, now in an abandoned quarry, like a rolled coin, a quiet lake will sparkle . All the world outside the window it could suddenly fall down - this car was rushing along a short, like a sigh, bridge over a flat river riddled with boulders. More than once the train was carried out onto high embankments, and it flew with a howl at the level of the spruce tops, almost in the sky, and around it, in a spiral, like circles in a whirlpool, a horizon unfolded with sloping ridges, on which something strangely flashed.
The semaphore switched the scale, and after grandiose panoramas, the train slowed down at modest sidings with dead ends, where the red-hot wheels of forgotten trains were stuck to the red rails. Here, the windows of wooden stations were decorated with platbands and signs “Do not walk on the tracks!” rusted, and dogs slept under them in the dandelions. Cows grazed in the weeds of the drainage ditches, and stray raspberries grew behind the cracked plank platforms. The hoarse whistle of the train floated over the station, like a local hawk that had long lost the greatness of a predator and was now stealing chickens in front gardens, snatching sparrows from the gable slate roof of a sawmill.
Going over the details in my memory, I no longer know and don’t even understand why magical land This train is traveling through the Urals or through my childhood.
Part 2. Train and people
“Chusovskaya - Tagil”... Sunny train.
Then, in childhood, everything was different: the days were longer, the land was larger, and the bread was not imported. I liked my fellow travelers; I was fascinated by the mystery of their lives, revealed to me by chance, as if in passing. Here is a neat old lady unfolding a newspaper in which onion feathers, pies with cabbage filling and hard-boiled eggs are neatly folded. Here is an unshaven father rocking a little daughter sitting on his lap, and there is so much tenderness in that careful movement with which this clumsy and awkward man covers the girl with the hem of his shabby jacket... Here are the disheveled demobilized men drinking vodka: as if, crazy with happiness, they are discordant they cackle, fraternize, but suddenly, as if remembering something, they begin to fight, then they cry from the inability to express the suffering they do not understand, they hug again and sing songs. And only many years later I realized how hard the soul becomes when you live away from home for a long time.
Once at some station I saw how all the conductors went to the buffet and chatted, and the train suddenly floated slowly along the platform. The aunts flew out onto the platform and, cursing the funny driver who didn’t blow the whistle, the crowd rushed after him, and from the doors of the last carriage the train manager shamelessly whistled with two fingers, like a fan at a stadium. Of course, the joke was rude, but no one was offended, and then everyone laughed together.
Here, confused parents pulled up on motorcycles with strollers to escort their children to the train, kissed and had bitter fun, played accordions and sometimes danced. Here the conductors told the passengers to calculate for themselves how much the ticket cost and bring it to them “without change,” and the passengers honestly rummaged through their wallets and purses, looking for small change. Here everyone was involved in the general movement and experienced it in their own way. You could go out into the vestibule, open the door to the outside, sit on the iron steps and just look at the world, and no one would scold you.
“Chusovskaya - Tagil”, the train of my childhood...
Part 3. When the train returns
My mother and father worked as engineers, the Black Sea was too expensive for them, so on summer holidays they teamed up with friends and went on the Chusovskaya-Tagil train in cheerful groups on family hikes along the rivers of the Urals. In those years, the very order of life seemed to be specially adapted for friendship: all the parents worked together, and all the children studied together. Perhaps this is called harmony.
Our dashing and powerful fathers threw backpacks with cotton sleeping bags and canvas tents, heavy as if made of sheet iron, onto the luggage racks, and our naive mothers, fearing that the children would find out about the plans of the adults, asked in a whisper: “Have we taken them for the evening?” ? My father, the strongest and cheerful one, without being embarrassed at all and not even smiling, answered: “Of course! A loaf of white and a loaf of red.”
And we, the children, rode towards wonderful adventures - where there were merciless sunshine, inaccessible rocks and fiery sunrises, and we had wonderful dreams while we slept on the hard carriage shelves, and these dreams were the most amazing thing! - always came true. A hospitable and friendly world opened up before us, life stretched into the distance, into blinding infinity, the future seemed wonderful, and we were rolling there in a creaky, shabby carriage. In the railway schedule our train was listed as a commuter train, but we knew that it was an ultra-long-distance train.
And now the future has become the present - not beautiful, but as it apparently should be. I live in it and am getting to know the homeland through which my train travels better and better, and it is getting closer to me, but, alas, I remember my childhood less and less, and it is getting further and further away from me - this is very, very sad. However, my present will also soon become the past, and then the same train will take me not to the future, but to the past - along the same road, but in the opposite direction of time.
“Chusovskaya - Tagil”, the sunny train of my childhood.
Magic lantern. (Evgeny Vodolazkin, text 2015)
Part 1. Dacha
Professor's dacha on the shores of the Gulf of Finland. In the absence of the owner, a friend of my father, our family was allowed to live there. Even decades later, I remember how, after a tiring journey from the city, I was enveloped in the coolness of a wooden house, how my shaken, disintegrated body was collected in the carriage. This coolness was not associated with freshness, but rather, oddly enough, with an intoxicating mustiness, in which the aromas of old books and numerous ocean trophies merged, it is unclear how the law professor got it. Spreading a salty smell, on the shelves lay dried starfish, mother-of-pearl shells, carved masks, a pith helmet and even the needle of a needlefish.
Carefully pushing away the seafood, I took books from the shelves, sat cross-legged in a chair with boxwood armrests and read. Flipping through the pages right hand, and the left one was clutching a piece of bread with butter and sugar. I took a bite thoughtfully and read, and the sugar creaked on my teeth. These were Jules Verne novels or magazine descriptions of exotic countries bound in leather - a world unknown, inaccessible and infinitely far from jurisprudence. At his dacha, the professor apparently collected what he had dreamed of since childhood, which was not provided for by his current position and was not regulated by the Code of Laws Russian Empire" In the countries dear to his heart, I suspect there were no laws at all.
From time to time I looked up from the book and, watching the fading bay outside the window, tried to understand how lawyers become. Have you dreamed about this since childhood? Doubtful. As a child, I dreamed of being a conductor or, say, a fire chief, but never a lawyer. I also imagined that I stayed in this cool room forever, living in it like in a capsule, and outside the window there were changes, revolutions, earthquakes, and there was no longer sugar, no butter, not even the Russian Empire - and only I was still sitting and I read, I read... Later life showed that I got it right with sugar and butter, but sitting and reading - this, alas, did not work out.
Part 2. Park
We are in Polezhaevsky Park, mid-June. The Ligovka River flows there, it is quite small, but in the park it turns into a lake. There are boats on the water, checkered blankets, fringed tablecloths, and samovars on the grass. I watch as a group sitting nearby starts up a gramophone. I don’t remember who exactly is sitting, but I still see the handle turning. A moment later, music is heard - hoarse, stuttering, but still music.
A box full of little ones, colds, singing, albeit invisible from the outside - I didn’t have that. And how I wanted to have it: to take care of it, cherish it, place it near the stove in winter, but most importantly, start it with royal carelessness, as they do something that has long been familiar. The rotation of the handle seemed to me a simple and at the same time unobvious reason for the pouring sounds, a kind of universal master key to beauty. There was something Mozartian in this, something from the wave of a conductor’s baton, reviving mute instruments and also not entirely explainable by earthly laws. I used to conduct alone with myself, humming the melodies I heard, and I did a good job. If it weren’t for the dream of becoming a fire chief, then I would, of course, want to be a conductor.
On that June day we also saw the conductor. With the orchestra obedient to his hand, he slowly moved away from the shore. It wasn't a park orchestra, it wasn't a wind orchestra - it was a symphony orchestra. He stood on the raft, somehow fitting in, and his music spread across the water, and the vacationers half-listened to it. Boats and ducks swam around the raft, the creaking of rowlocks and quacking could be heard, but all this easily grew into the music and was generally accepted favorably by the conductor. Surrounded by musicians, the conductor was at the same time lonely: there is an incomprehensible tragedy in this profession. It is perhaps not expressed as clearly as that of the fireman, since it is not connected either with fire or with external circumstances in general, but this inner, hidden nature of it burns the hearts all the more strongly.
Part 3. Nevsky
I saw how they were driving along Nevsky to put out a fire - in early autumn, at the end of the day. In front on a black horse is a “leap” (that’s what the leading rider of the fire train was called), with a trumpet at his mouth, like the angel of the Apocalypse. The jump trumpets, clearing the way, and everyone scatters. The cab drivers whip the horses, press them to the side of the road and freeze, standing half-turned towards the firemen. And now, along the seething Nevsky, in the resulting emptiness, a chariot carrying firefighters rushes: they sit on a long bench, with their backs to each other, in copper helmets, and the banner of the fire department flutters above them; The fire chief is at the banner, he is ringing the bell. In their dispassion, the firefighters are tragic; the reflections of a flame that has already flared up somewhere, is already somewhere waiting for them, invisible for the time being, plays on their faces.
Fiery yellow leaves from the Catherine Garden, where there is a fire, sadly fall on those traveling. Mom and I are standing at forged grating and we observe how the weightlessness of the leaves is transmitted to the convoy: it slowly lifts off the paving stones and flies at a low altitude over Nevsky. Behind the line with firefighters floats a cart with a steam pump (steam from the boiler, smoke from the chimney), followed by a medical van to save the burned. I cry, and my mother tells me not to be afraid, but I’m not crying from fear - from an excess of feelings, from admiration for courage and great glory these people, because they float so majestically past the frozen crowd to the sound of bells.
I really wanted to become a fire chief and every time I saw firefighters, I silently asked them to accept me into their ranks. She, of course, was not heard, but now, years later, I don’t regret it. At the same time, driving along Nevsky in the Imperial, I invariably imagined that I was heading to a fire: I behaved solemnly and a little sadly, and did not know how everything would turn out there during the fire extinguishing, and I caught enthusiastic glances, and at the cheers of the crowd, slightly throwing my head to the side , answered with only his eyes.
This ancient, ancient, ancient world! (Alexander Usachev, text 2016)
Part 1. Briefly about the history of the theater
They say that the ancient Greeks were very fond of grapes and, after harvesting them, they held a holiday in honor of the god of grapes, Dionysus. Dionysus' retinue consisted of goat-footed creatures - satyrs. When portraying them, the Hellenes put on goat skins, jumped wildly and sang - in a word, selflessly indulged in fun. Such performances were called tragedies, which in ancient Greek meant “the singing of goats.” Subsequently, the Hellenes began to think: what else could they devote to such games?
Ordinary people have always been interested in knowing how the rich live. The playwright Sophocles began writing plays about kings, and it immediately became clear: kings often cry and their personal lives are unsafe and not at all simple. And in order to make the story entertaining, Sophocles decided to attract actors who could play his works - this is how the theater was born.
At first, art fans were very unhappy: only those who sat in the front row saw the action, and since tickets were not yet provided, best places occupied by the strongest and tallest. Then the Hellenes decided to eliminate this inequality and built an amphitheater, where each next row was higher than the previous one, and everything that happened on the stage became visible to everyone who came to the performance.
The performance usually involved not only actors, but also a choir, speaking on behalf of the people. For example, the hero entered the arena and said:
– I’ll go do something bad now!
- Doing bad things is shameless! - howled the choir.
“Okay,” the hero reluctantly agreed, after thinking about it. “Then I’ll go and do something good.”
“It’s good to do good,” the chorus approved of him, thereby, as if accidentally pushing the hero to death: after all, as it should be in a tragedy, retribution inevitably comes for good deeds.
True, sometimes the “god ex-machine” appeared (the machine was the name given to the special crane on which the “god” was lowered onto the stage) and unexpectedly saved the hero. Whether it was really a real god or just an actor is still unclear, but it is known for certain that both the word “machine” and theater cranes were invented in Ancient Greece.
Part 2. Briefly about the history of writing
In those immemorial times, when the Sumerians came to the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, they spoke no one clear language: after all, the Sumerians were the discoverers of new lands and their language was like that of real scouts - secret, encrypted. No one had or has such a language, except perhaps other intelligence officers.
Meanwhile, the people in Mesopotamia were already using wedges with all their might: young men tucked wedges under the girls (this is how they looked after them); swords and knives forged from Damascus steel were wedge-shaped; even the cranes in the sky - and they flew like a wedge. The Sumerians saw so many wedges around them that they invented writing - with wedges. This is how cuneiform appeared - the oldest writing system in the world.
During lessons in a Sumerian school, students wooden chopsticks they squeezed out wedges on clay tablets, and therefore everything around was smeared with clay - from floor to ceiling. The cleaning ladies eventually became furious, because studying at school like this was nothing but dirt, and they had to keep it clean. And in order to maintain cleanliness, it must be clean, otherwise there is nothing to maintain.
But in Ancient Egypt, writing consisted of drawings. The Egyptians thought: why write the word “bull” if you can just draw this bull? The ancient Greeks (or Hellenes, as they called themselves) subsequently called such word-pictures hieroglyphs. Writing lessons in ancient Egyptian were more like drawing lessons, and writing hieroglyphs was a real art.
“Well, no,” said the Phoenicians. “We are hard-working people, artisans and sailors, and we don’t need sophisticated calligraphy, let us have simpler writing.”
And they came up with letters - this is how the alphabet turned out. People began to write in letters, and the further, the faster. And the faster they wrote, the uglier it turned out. Doctors wrote the most: they wrote prescriptions. That’s why some of them still have such handwriting that they seem to write letters, but what comes out are hieroglyphs.
Part 3. Briefly about the history of the Olympic Games
The ancient Greeks invented the Olympic Games while they were fighting one of their never-ending wars. There were two main reasons: firstly, during battles, soldiers and officers had no time to play sports, but the Hellenes (as the ancient Greeks called themselves) sought to train all the time not spent exercising in philosophy; secondly, the soldiers wanted to return home as quickly as possible, and leave during the war was not provided. It was clear that the troops needed a truce and that the only opportunity to declare it could be the Olympic Games: after all, an indispensable condition for the Olympics is the end of the war.
At first, the Hellenes wanted to hold the Olympic Games annually, but later realized that frequent breaks in hostilities endlessly prolong wars, so the Olympic Games began to be announced only once every four years. There were, of course, no Winter Games in those days, because there were no ice arenas, no ski slopes.
Any citizen could participate in the Olympic Games, but the rich could afford expensive sports equipment, while the poor could not. To prevent the rich from beating the poor just because their sports equipment is better, all athletes measured their strength and agility naked.
– Why were the games called Olympic? - you ask. – Did the gods from Olympus also take part in them?
No, the gods, apart from quarreling among themselves, did not engage in any other sports, but they loved to watch with an excitement that was undisguised from mortals. sports competitions from the sky. And to make it easier for the gods to observe the ups and downs of the competition, the first stadium was built in a sanctuary called Olympia - this is how the games got their name.
The gods also concluded a truce among themselves during the games and swore not to help their chosen ones. Moreover, they even allowed the Hellenes to consider the winners as gods - albeit temporary, for only one day. Olympic champions were awarded olive and laurel wreaths: medals had not yet been invented, and laurel in Ancient Greece was worth its weight in gold, so Laurel wreath then it was all the same Golden medal Today.
City on the River (Leonid Yuzefovich, text 2017)
Part 1. St. Petersburg. Neva
My grandfather was born in Kronstadt, my wife is from Leningrad, so in St. Petersburg I don’t feel like a complete stranger. However, in Russia it is difficult to find a person in whose life this city would mean nothing. We are all connected in one way or another with him, and through him with each other.
There is little greenery in St. Petersburg, but there is a lot of water and sky. The city lies on a plain, and the sky above it is vast. You can enjoy the performances that play out clouds and sunsets on this stage for a long time. The actors are controlled by the best director in the world - the wind. The scenery of roofs, domes and spiers remains unchanged, but never gets boring.
In 1941, Hitler decided to starve the people of Leningrad and wipe the city off the face of the earth. “The Fuhrer did not understand that the order to blow up Leningrad was tantamount to the order to blow up the Alps,” noted writer Daniil Granin. St. Petersburg is a stone mass, which in its unity and power has no equal among European capitals. It preserves over eighteen thousand buildings built before 1917. This is more than in London and Paris, not to mention Moscow.
The Neva with its tributaries, ducts and canals flows through an indestructible labyrinth carved from stone. Unlike the sky, the water here is not free; it speaks of the power of the empire that managed to chain it in granite. In summer, fishermen with fishing rods stand near the parapets on the embankments. Under their feet lie plastic bags in which caught fish flutter. The same roach and fish catchers stood here under Pushkin. The bastions also turned gray then Peter and Paul Fortress and the Bronze Horseman reared his horse. Except that Winter Palace was dark red, not green as it is now.
It seems that nothing around reminds us that in the twentieth century a crack in Russian history passed through St. Petersburg. His beauty allows us to forget the unimaginable trials he endured.
Part 2. Perm. Kama
When from the left bank of the Kama, on which my native Perm lies, you look at the right bank with its forests blue to the horizon, you feel the fragility of the border between civilization and the pristine forest element. They are separated only by a strip of water, and it also unites them. If as a child you lived in a city on a big river, you are lucky: you understand the essence of life better than those who were deprived of this happiness.
In my childhood, there was still a sterlet in Kama. In the old days, it was sent to St. Petersburg to the royal table, and to prevent it from spoiling on the way, cotton wool soaked in cognac was placed under the gills. As a boy, I saw a small sturgeon on the sand with a jagged back stained with fuel oil: the whole Kama was then covered in fuel oil from the tugboats. These dirty workers pulled rafts and barges behind them. Children were running on the decks and laundry was drying in the sun. The endless lines of stapled, slimy logs disappeared along with the tugs and barges. The Kama became cleaner, but the sterlet never returned.
They said that Perm, like Moscow and Rome, lies on seven hills. This was enough to feel the breath of history blowing over my wooden city, studded with factory chimneys. Its streets run either parallel to the Kama or perpendicular to it. Before the revolution, the first ones were named after the churches that stood on them, such as Voznesenskaya or Pokrovskaya. The latter bore the names of the places where the roads flowing from them led: Siberian, Solikamsk, Verkhotursk. Where they intersected, the heavenly met the earthly. Here I realized that sooner or later things will converge with the heavenly, you just need to be patient and wait.
Permians claim that it is not the Kama that flows into the Volga, but, on the contrary, the Volga into the Kama. It makes no difference to me which of these two great rivers is a tributary of the other. In any case, Kama is the river that flows through my heart.
Part 3. Ulan-Ude. Selenga
The names of the rivers are older than all other names on maps. We don’t always understand their meaning, so Selenga keeps the secret of her name. It came either from the Buryat word “sel”, which means “spill”, or from the Evenki “sele”, that is, “iron”, but I heard in it the name of the Greek goddess of the moon, Selene. Compressed by forested hills and often shrouded in fog, the Selenga was mysterious to me “ lunar river" In the noise of its current, I, a young lieutenant, felt a promise of love and happiness. It seemed that they were waiting for me ahead as immutably as Baikal was waiting for Selenga.
Maybe she promised the same thing to twenty-year-old lieutenant Anatoly Pepelyaev, the future to the white general and the poet. Shortly before the First World War, he secretly married his chosen one in a poor rural church on the banks of the Selenga. The noble father did not give his son his blessing for unequal marriage. The bride was the granddaughter of exiles and the daughter of a simple railway worker from Verkhneudinsk - as Ulan-Ude was formerly called.
I found this city almost as Pepelyaev saw it. At the market, Buryats who had come from the hinterlands in traditional blue robes were selling lamb, and women were walking around in museum sundresses. They sold circles of frozen milk strung on their hands like rolls. These were “semeiskie,” as the Old Believers, who used to live in large families, are called in Transbaikalia. True, something also appeared that did not exist under Pepelyaev. I remember how on the main square they erected the most original of all the monuments to Lenin that I had ever seen: on a low pedestal there was a huge round granite head of the leader, without a neck or torso, similar to the head of the giant hero from “Ruslan and Lyudmila”. It still stands in the capital of Buryatia and has become one of its symbols. Here history and modernity, Orthodoxy and Buddhism do not reject or suppress each other. Ulan-Ude gave me hope that this is possible in other places.
Literature teacher.
Part 1. Morning
Every morning, still in the light of the stars, Jacob Ivanovich Bach woke up and, lying under a thick quilted feather bed of duck down, listened to the world. The quiet discordant sounds of someone else's life flowing somewhere around him and on top of him calmed him down. Winds walked across the roofs - heavy in winter, thickly mixed with snow and ice pellets, elastic in spring, breathing moisture and heavenly electricity, in summer sluggish, dry, mixed with dust and light feather grass seeds. Dogs barked, greeting the sleepy owners who came out onto the porch, and cattle roared loudly on their way to the watering hole. The world breathed, crackled, whistled, mooed, clattered its hooves, rang and sang in different voices.
The sounds of his own life were so meager and blatantly insignificant that Bach forgot how to hear them: he isolated them in the general sound stream and ignored them. The glass of the only window in the room rattled under the gusts of wind, the chimney, which had not been cleaned for a long time, crackled, and occasionally a gray-haired mouse whistled from somewhere under the stove. That's probably all. Listen great life it was much more interesting. Sometimes, after listening, Bach even forgot that he himself was part of this world, that he, too, could, going out onto the porch, join in the polyphony: sing something perky, or loudly slam the door, or, at worst, just sneeze. But Bach preferred to listen.
At six in the morning, carefully dressed and combed, he was already standing at the school bell tower with a pocket watch in his hands. Having waited until both hands merged into a single line (the hour at six, the minute at twelve), he pulled the rope with all his strength - and the bronze bell echoed loudly. Over many years of practice, Bach achieved such mastery in this matter that the sound of the blow was heard exactly at the moment when the minute hand touched the dial zenith, and not a second later. A moment later, everyone in the village turned towards the sound and whispered a short prayer. A new day has come...
Part 2. Day
... Over the years of teaching, each of which resembled the previous one and did not stand out in anything special, Yakob Ivanovich was so accustomed to pronouncing the same words and reading out the same problems that he learned to mentally split in two inside his body: his tongue muttered the text of the next grammatical rules, the hand clutched with a ruler sluggishly slapped the back of the head of the overly talkative student, the legs sedately carried the body around the class from the department to the back wall, then back, back and forth. And the thought lay dormant, lulled by its own in your own voice and a measured shaking of the head in time with leisurely steps.
German speech was the only subject during which Bach's thought regained its former freshness and vigor. We started the lesson with oral exercises. The students were asked to tell something, Bach listened and translated: he turned short dialect phrases into elegant phrases of literary German. They moved slowly, sentence by sentence, word by word, as if they were walking somewhere in deep snow - trail after trail. Yakob Ivanovich did not like to tinker with the alphabet and calligraphy and, having finished with conversations, hurriedly moved the lesson towards the poetic part: poems poured generously onto young shaggy heads, like water from a basin on a bath day.
Bach was burned with a love for poetry in his youth. Then it seemed that he was not eating potato soup and sauerkraut, but only ballads and hymns. It seemed that he could feed everyone around them with them - that’s why he became a teacher. Until now, while reciting his favorite verses in class, Bach still felt a cool flutter of delight in his chest. The children did not share the teacher’s passion: their faces, usually playful or concentrated, with the very first sounds of the poetic lines acquired a submissive somnambulistic expression. German romanticism acted on the class better than sleeping pills. Perhaps, reading poetry could be used to calm the unruly audience instead of the usual screams and blows with a ruler...
Part 3. Evening
...Bach descended from the porch of the school and found himself on the square, at the foot of the majestic church with a spacious prayer hall in a lace of lancet windows and a huge bell tower, reminiscent of a sharpened pencil. I walked past neat wooden houses with sky-blue, berry-red and corn-yellow trim; past planed fences; past boats overturned in anticipation of the flood; past front gardens with rowan bushes. He walked so quickly, loudly crunching his felt boots in the snow or squelching his boots in the spring mud, that one would think that he had a dozen urgent matters that should definitely be settled today...
Those who met him, noticing the mincing figure of the teacher, sometimes called out to him and started talking about the school successes of their offspring. However, he, out of breath from fast walking, answered reluctantly, in short phrases: time was running out. In confirmation, he took his watch out of his pocket, cast a contrite glance at it and, shaking his head, ran on. Where he fled to, Bach himself could not explain.
It must be said that there was another reason for his haste: when talking with people, Yakob Ivanovich stuttered. His trained language, which worked regularly and flawlessly during lessons and without a single hesitation pronounced multi-compound words of literary German, easily produced such complex sentences that some students would forget the beginning before they listened to the end. The same language suddenly began to fail the owner when Bach switched to dialect in conversations with fellow villagers. For example, the tongue wanted to read passages from Faust by heart; say to the neighbor: “And your dunce has been naughty again today!” I didn’t want it at all, it stuck to the roof of my mouth and got mixed between my teeth, like an overly large and poorly cooked dumpling. It seemed to Bach that his stuttering was getting worse over the years, but it was difficult to verify: he talked with people less and less... So life flowed, in which there was everything except life itself, calm, full of penny joys and miserable anxieties, in some ways even happy .
Part 1. Briefly about the history of the theater
They say that the ancient Greeks were very fond of grapes and, after harvesting them, they held a holiday in honor of the god of grapes, Dionysus. Dionysus' retinue consisted of goat-footed creatures - satyrs. Depicting them, the Hellenes put on goat skins, jumped wildly and sang - in a word, selflessly indulged in fun. Such performances were called tragedies, which in ancient Greek meant “the singing of goats.” Subsequently, the Hellenes began to think: what else could they devote to such games?
Ordinary people have always been interested in knowing how the rich live. The playwright Sophocles began writing plays about kings, and it immediately became clear: kings often cry and their personal lives are unsafe and not at all simple. And in order to make the story entertaining, Sophocles decided to attract actors who could play his works - this is how the theater was born.
At first, art fans were very unhappy: only those who sat in the front row saw the action, and since tickets were not yet provided, the best seats were occupied by the strongest and tallest. Then the Hellenes decided to eliminate this inequality and built an amphitheater, where each next row was higher than the previous one, and everything that happened on the stage became visible to everyone who came to the performance.
The performance usually involved not only actors, but also a choir, speaking on behalf of the people. For example, the hero entered the arena and said:
I'll go do something bad now!
Doing bad things is shameless! - howled the choir.
Okay,” the hero reluctantly agreed, after thinking about it. “Then I’ll go and do something good.”
It’s good to do good,” the chorus approved of him, thereby, as if accidentally pushing the hero to death: after all, as it should be in a tragedy, retribution inevitably comes for good deeds.
True, sometimes the “god ex-machine” appeared (the machine was the name given to the special crane on which the “god” was lowered onto the stage) and unexpectedly saved the hero. Whether it was really a real god or an actor is still unclear, but it is known for certain that both the word “machine” and theater cranes were invented in Ancient Greece.
(288 words)
Part 2. Briefly about the history of writing
In those immemorial times, when the Sumerians came to the area between the Tigris and Euphrates, they spoke a language that no one understood: after all, the Sumerians were the discoverers of new lands and their language was like that of real scouts - secret, encrypted. No one had or has such a language, except perhaps other intelligence officers.
Meanwhile, the people in Mesopotamia were already using wedges with all their might: young men tucked wedges under the girls (this is how they looked after them); swords and knives forged from Damascus steel were wedge-shaped; even the cranes in the sky - and they flew like a wedge. The Sumerians saw so many wedges around them that they invented writing using wedges. This is how cuneiform appeared - the oldest writing system in the world.
During lessons in a Sumerian school, students used wooden sticks to press out wedges on clay tablets, and therefore everything around was smeared with clay - from floor to ceiling. The cleaning ladies eventually became furious, because studying at school like this was nothing but dirt, and they had to keep it clean. And in order to maintain cleanliness, it must be clean, otherwise there is nothing to maintain.
But in Ancient Egypt, writing consisted of drawings. The Egyptians thought: why write the word “bull” if you can just draw this bull? The ancient Greeks (or Hellenes, as they called themselves) subsequently called such word-pictures hieroglyphs. Writing lessons in ancient Egyptian were more like drawing lessons, and writing hieroglyphs was a real art.
Well, no, said the Phoenicians. - We are hard-working people, artisans and sailors, and we do not need sophisticated calligraphy, let us have simpler writing.
And they came up with letters - this is how the alphabet turned out. People began to write in letters, and the further, the faster. And the faster they wrote, the uglier it turned out. Doctors wrote the most: they wrote prescriptions. That’s why some of them still have such handwriting that they seem to write letters, but what comes out are hieroglyphs.
(288 words)
Part 3. Briefly about the history of the Olympic Games
The ancient Greeks invented the Olympic Games while they were fighting one of their never-ending wars. There were two main reasons: firstly, during battles, soldiers and officers had no time to play sports, but the Hellenes (as the ancient Greeks called themselves) sought to train all the time not spent exercising in philosophy; secondly, the soldiers wanted to return home as quickly as possible, and leave during the war was not provided. It was clear that the troops needed a truce and that the only opportunity to declare it could be the Olympic Games: after all, an indispensable condition for the Olympics is the end of the war.
At first, the Hellenes wanted to hold the Olympic Games annually, but later realized that frequent breaks in hostilities endlessly prolong wars, so the Olympic Games began to be announced only once every four years. Of course, there were no winter games in those days, because there were no ice arenas or ski slopes in Hellas.
Any citizen could participate in the Olympic Games, but the rich could afford expensive sports equipment, while the poor could not. To prevent the rich from beating the poor just because their sports equipment is better, all athletes measured their strength and agility naked.
Why were the games called Olympics? - you ask. - Did the gods from Olympus also take part in them?
No, the gods, apart from quarrels among themselves, did not engage in any other sports, but they loved to watch sports competitions from the skies with an excitement that was undisguised from mortals. And to make it easier for the gods to observe the ups and downs of the competition, the first stadium was built in a sanctuary called Olympia - this is how the games got their name.
The gods also concluded a truce among themselves during the games and swore not to help their chosen ones. Moreover, they even allowed the Hellenes to consider the winners as gods - albeit temporary, for only one day. Olympic champions were awarded olive and laurel wreaths: medals had not yet been invented, and laurel in Ancient Greece was worth its weight in gold, so a laurel wreath then was the same as a gold medal today.
This ancient, ancient, ancient world!
Part 1. Briefly about the history of the theater
They say that the ancient Greeks were very fond of grapes and, after harvesting them, they held a holiday in honor of the god of grapes, Dionysus. Dionysus' retinue consisted of goat-footed creatures - satyrs. When portraying them, the Hellenes put on goat skins, jumped wildly and sang - in a word, selflessly indulged in fun. Such performances were called tragedies, which in ancient Greek meant “the singing of goats.” Subsequently, the Hellenes began to think: what else could they devote to such games?
Ordinary people have always been interested in knowing how the rich live. The playwright Sophocles began writing plays about kings, and it immediately became clear: kings often cry and their personal lives are unsafe and not at all simple. And in order to make the story entertaining, Sophocles decided to attract actors who could play his works - this is how the theater was born.
At first, art fans were very unhappy: only those who sat in the front row saw the action, and since tickets were not yet provided, the best seats were occupied by the strongest and tallest. Then the Hellenes decided to eliminate this inequality and built an amphitheater, where each next row was higher than the previous one, and everything that happened on the stage became visible to everyone who came to the performance.
The performance usually involved not only actors, but also a choir, speaking on behalf of the people. For example, the hero entered the arena and said:
– I’ll go do something bad now!
- Doing bad things is shameless! - howled the choir.
“Okay,” the hero reluctantly agreed, after thinking about it. “Then I’ll go and do something good.”
“It’s good to do good,” the chorus approved of him, thereby, as if accidentally pushing the hero to death: after all, as it should be in a tragedy, retribution inevitably comes for good deeds.
True, sometimes the “god ex-machine” appeared (the machine was the name given to the special crane on which the “god” was lowered onto the stage) and unexpectedly saved the hero. Whether it was really a real god or just an actor is still unclear, but it is known for certain that both the word “machine” and theater cranes were invented in Ancient Greece.
(288 words)
Part 2. Briefly about the history of writing
In those immemorial times, when the Sumerians came to the area between the Tigris and Euphrates, they spoke a language that no one understood: after all, the Sumerians were the discoverers of new lands and their language was like that of real scouts - secret, encrypted. No one had or has such a language, except perhaps other intelligence officers.
Meanwhile, the people in Mesopotamia were already using wedges with all their might: young men tucked wedges under the girls (this is how they looked after them); swords and knives forged from Damascus steel were wedge-shaped; even the cranes in the sky - and they flew like a wedge. The Sumerians saw so many wedges around them that they invented writing - with wedges. This is how cuneiform appeared - the oldest writing system in the world.
During lessons in a Sumerian school, students used wooden sticks to press out wedges on clay tablets, and therefore everything around was smeared with clay - from floor to ceiling.
The cleaning ladies eventually became furious, because studying at school like this was nothing but dirt, and they had to keep it clean. And in order to maintain cleanliness, it must be clean, otherwise there is nothing to maintain.
But in Ancient Egypt, writing consisted of drawings. The Egyptians thought: why write the word “bull” if you can just draw this bull? The ancient Greeks (or Hellenes, as they called themselves) subsequently called such word-pictures hieroglyphs. Writing lessons in ancient Egyptian were more like drawing lessons, and writing hieroglyphs was a real art.
“Well, no,” said the Phoenicians. “We are hard-working people, artisans and sailors, and we don’t need sophisticated calligraphy, let us have simpler writing.”
And they came up with letters - this is how the alphabet turned out. People began to write in letters, and the further, the faster. And the faster they wrote, the uglier it turned out. Doctors wrote the most: they wrote prescriptions. That’s why some of them still have such handwriting that they seem to write letters, but what comes out are hieroglyphs.
Part 3. Briefly about the history of the Olympic Games
The ancient Greeks invented the Olympic Games while they were fighting one of their never-ending wars. There were two main reasons: firstly, during battles, soldiers and officers had no time to play sports, but the Hellenes (as the ancient Greeks called themselves) sought to train all the time not spent exercising in philosophy; secondly, the soldiers wanted to return home as quickly as possible, and leave during the war was not provided. It was clear that the troops needed a truce and that the only opportunity to declare it could be the Olympic Games: after all, an indispensable condition for the Olympics is the end of the war.
At first, the Hellenes wanted to hold the Olympic Games annually, but later realized that frequent breaks in hostilities endlessly prolong wars, so the Olympic Games began to be announced only once every four years. Of course, there were no winter games in those days, because there were no ice arenas or ski slopes in Hellas.
Any citizen could participate in the Olympic Games, but the rich could afford expensive sports equipment, while the poor could not. To prevent the rich from beating the poor just because their sports equipment is better, all athletes measured their strength and agility naked.
– Why were the games called Olympic? - you ask. – Did the gods from Olympus also take part in them?
No, the gods, apart from quarrels among themselves, did not engage in any other sports, but they loved to watch sports competitions from the skies with an excitement that was undisguised from mortals. And to make it easier for the gods to observe the ups and downs of the competition, the first stadium was built in a sanctuary called Olympia - this is how the games got their name.
The gods also concluded a truce among themselves during the games and swore not to help their chosen ones. Moreover, they even allowed the Hellenes to consider the winners as gods - albeit temporary, for only one day. Olympic champions were awarded olive and laurel wreaths: medals had not yet been invented, and laurel in Ancient Greece was worth its weight in gold, so a laurel wreath then was the same as a gold medal today.
