Philological analysis of V.M. Garshin's story "Four days"
Completed by: Drozdova N., 11B class, MOU secondary school No. 8, Tomsk
Checked by: Burtseva E.V., teacher of Russian language and literature
Why was Garshin's story "Four Days" chosen for analysis? With this story, V.M. Garshin once became famous (1), thanks to the special “Garshin” style, which first appeared in this story, he became a famous Russian writer. However, this story is actually forgotten by readers of our time, they do not write about it, they do not study it. However, no
there is no doubt about the artistic merits of the story, in its "quality" it was written by Vsevolod Mikhailovich Garshin, the author of the wonderful "Red Flower" and "Attalea Princeps".
The choice of the author and the work influenced the fact that the subject of attention will primarily be artistic details, which, as a rule, carry the main semantic load in the stories of V.M. Garshin (2). In the short story "Four Days" this is especially evident. In the analysis, we will take into account this feature of the Garshin style.
Garshin's truthful, fresh attitude to the war was artistically embodied in the form of a new unusual style of sketchy sketches, with attention to seemingly unnecessary details and details. The emergence of this style, reflecting the author's point of view on the events of the story, was facilitated not only by Garshin's deep knowledge of the truth about the war, but also by the fact that he was fond of the natural sciences (botany, zoology, physiology, psychiatry), which taught him to notice "infinitely small moments" reality. In addition, in his student years, Garshin was close to the circle of itinerant artists, who taught him to look at the world penetratingly, to see the significant in the small and private.
The theme of the story "Four Days" is easy to formulate: a man at war. Such a theme was not an original invention of Garshin, it was quite common both in previous periods of the development of Russian literature (for example, the “military prose” of the Decembrists F.N. Glinka, A.A. Bestuzhev-Marlinsky, etc.), and in modern Garshin authors
(for example, "Sevastopol stories" by L.N. Tolstoy). One can even talk about the traditional solution of this topic in Russian literature, which began with the poem by V.A. in some cases, people are aware of their impact on the course of history (if it is, for example, Alexander I, Kutuzov or Napoleon), in others they participate in history unconsciously.
Garshin made some changes to this traditional theme. He brought the topic “man in war” beyond the scope of the theme “man and history”, as if he transferred the topic to another problematic and strengthened the independent meaning of the topic, which makes it possible to explore existential problems.
The problematics of Garshin's story can be defined as philosophical or novelistic. The latter definition is more accurate in this case: the story does not show a person in general, that is, a person not in a philosophical sense, but a specific person experiencing strong, shock experiences and overestimating his attitude to life. The horror of war does not lie in the need to perform heroic deeds and sacrifice oneself, just these picturesque visions were presented to the volunteer Ivanov (and, apparently, Garshin himself) before the war, the horror of war lies in something else, in what you can’t even imagine in advance. Namely:
1) The hero argues: “I did not want harm to anyone when I went to fight. The thought of having to kill people somehow escaped me. I only imagined how I would expose my chest to bullets. And I went and framed. So what? Fool, fool!" (3, p.7). A man in war, even with the most noble and good intentions, inevitably becomes a bearer of evil, a killer of other people.
2) A person in war suffers not from the pain that a wound generates, but from the uselessness of this wound and pain, and also from the fact that a person turns into
an abstract unit, which is easy to forget: “There will be a few lines in the newspapers that, they say, our losses are insignificant: so many were wounded; Ivanov, a private from the volunteers, was killed. No, and the names will not be written; they will simply say: one was killed. One was killed, like that little dog” (3, p. 6) There is nothing heroic and beautiful in the wounding and death of a soldier, this is the most ordinary death that cannot be beautiful. The hero of the story compares his fate with the fate of a dog he remembers from childhood: “I was walking down the street, a bunch of people stopped me. The crowd stood and silently looked at something white, bloody, plaintively squealing. It was a pretty little dog; a horse-drawn railway car ran over her, she was dying, that's how I am now. Some janitor pushed the crowd aside, took the dog by the scruff of the neck and carried it away. The janitor did not take pity on her, banged her head against the wall and threw her into a pit where rubbish is thrown and slop is poured. But she was alive and suffered for another three days ”(3, p. 6-7,13) Like that dog, a person in a war turns into garbage, and his blood turns into slop. There is nothing sacred left of a person.
3) War completely changes all the values of human life, good and evil are confused, life and death are reversed. The hero of the story, waking up and realizing his tragic situation, realizes with horror that next to him
lies the enemy he killed, a fat Turk: “Before me lies the one I killed
human. Why did I kill him? He lies here dead, covered in blood.
Who is he? Perhaps he, like me, has an old mother. For a long time in the evenings she will sit at the door of her wretched hut and look at the far north: is her beloved son, her worker and breadwinner, coming? And I? And so do I. I would even switch with him. How happy he is: he does not hear anything, does not feel pain from wounds, nor mortal anguish, nor thirst ”(3, p. 7) A living person envies a dead, corpse!
The nobleman Ivanov, lying next to the decomposing, smelly corpse of a fat Turk, does not disdain the terrible corpse, but almost indifferently observes all stages of its decomposition: first, “a strong cadaverous smell was heard” (3, p. 8), then “his hair began to fall out. His skin, naturally black, turned pale and yellow; the swollen ear stretched until it burst behind the ear. There were worms. The legs, wrapped in boots, swelled up, and huge bubbles crawled out between the hooks of the boots. And he was all swollen with a mountain” (3, p. 11), then “he no longer had a face. It slipped from the bones” (3, p. 12), finally “it completely blurred. Myriads of worms fall from it” (3, p.13). A living person is not disgusted by a corpse! And so much so that she crawls towards him in order to drink warm water from his flask: “I began to untie the flask, leaning on one elbow, and suddenly, losing my balance, fell face down on the chest of my savior. A strong putrid smell was already heard from him” (3, p. 8). Everything has changed and messed up in the world if the corpse is the savior
What are the features of Garshin's style and the meaning of artistic details and details?
The world depicted in the story differs in that it does not have an obvious integrity, but, on the contrary, is very fragmented. Instead of the forest in which the battle takes place at the very beginning of the story, details are shown: hawthorn bushes; branches torn off by bullets; prickly branches; ant, “some pieces of rubbish from last year's grass” (3, p. 3); the crackling of grasshoppers, the buzzing of bees, all this diversity is not united by anything whole. Similarly, the sky: instead of a single spacious vault or endlessly ascending heavens, “I saw only something blue; it must have been heaven. Then it disappeared too” (3, p.4). The world does not have integrity, which is quite consistent with the idea of the work as a whole, war is chaos, evil, something meaningless, incoherent, inhuman, war is the decay of living life.
The depicted world does not have integrity, not only in the spatial hypostasis, but also in the temporal. Time develops not consistently, progressively, irreversibly, as in real life, and not cyclically, as is often the case in works of art, here time begins anew every day and each time seemingly already resolved issues arise anew. On the first day in the life of soldier Ivanov, we see him at the edge of the forest, where a bullet hit him and seriously wounded him, Ivanov woke up and, feeling himself, realized what had happened to him. On the second day, he again solves the same questions: “I woke up. Am I not in a tent? Why did I get out of it? Yes, I am wounded in battle. Is it dangerous or not? (3, p.4) On the third day, he repeats everything again: “Yesterday (I think it was yesterday?) I was wounded” (3, p.6).
Time is divided into unequal and meaningless segments, still like hours, into parts of the day; these time units seem to add up in the sequence the first day, the second day, however, these segments and time sequences do not have any pattern, they are disproportionate, meaningless: the third day exactly repeats the second, and between the first and third days the hero seems to have an interval of much more than a day etc. The time in the story is unusual: it is not the absence of time, like, say, the world of Lermontov, in which the demon hero lives in eternity and does not realize the difference between a moment and a century (4), Garshin shows dying time, four days pass before the reader’s eyes from life of a dying person, and it is clearly seen that death is expressed not only in the decay of the body, but also in the loss of the meaning of life, in the loss of the meaning of time, in the disappearance of the spatial perspective of the world. Garshin showed not a whole or fractional world, but a decaying world.
This feature of the artistic world in the story led to the fact that artistic details began to have special significance.
Garshin's increased attention to detail is not accidental: as mentioned above, he knew the truth about the war from the personal experience of a volunteer soldier, he was fond of natural sciences, which taught him to notice "infinitely small moments" of reality - this is the first, so to speak, "biographical" cause. The second reason for the increased importance of the artistic detail in the artistic world of Garshin is the theme, the problematic, the idea of the story, the world is disintegrating, splitting into meaningless incidents, accidental deaths, useless actions, etc.
The most noticeable detail of the artistic world of the story is the sky. As already noted in our work, space and time in the story are fragmented, so even the sky is something indefinite, as if a random fragment of the real sky. Having been wounded and lying on the ground, the hero of the story “did not hear anything, but saw only something blue; it must have been heaven. Then it also disappeared” (3, p.4), after a while, waking up from sleep, he again pays attention to the sky: “Why do I see stars that shine so brightly in the black-blue Bulgarian sky? Above me is a piece of black-blue sky, on which a large star and several small ones are burning, around something dark, high. These are bushes” (3, p.4-5). This is not even the sky, but something similar to the sky; it has no depth, it is at the level of the bushes hanging over the face of the wounded; this sky is not an ordered space, but something black and blue, a patch in which, instead of an impeccably beautiful bucket of the constellation Ursa Major, there is some unknown “star and a few small ones”, instead of the guiding North Star, just a “big star”. The sky has lost its harmony, it has no order, no meaning. This is another sky, not of this world, this is the sky of the dead. After all, over the corpse of a Turk is just such a sky
Since the “piece of sky” is an artistic detail, and not a detail, then it (more precisely, it is a “piece of sky”) has its own rhythm, changing as events unfold. Lying on the ground face up, the hero sees the following: “Pale pinkish spots came around me. The big star turned pale, several small ones disappeared. This is the moon rising” (3, p.5) The author stubbornly does not name the recognizable constellation Ursa Major and his hero does not recognize it either, this happens because these are completely different stars, and a completely different sky.
It is appropriate to compare the sky of Garshin's story with the sky of Austerlitz from L. Tolstoy's "War and Peace" where the hero finds himself in a similar situation, he is also wounded, he also looks at the sky. The similarity of these episodes has long been noticed by readers and researchers of Russian literature (1). Soldier Ivanov, listening in the night, distinctly hears “some strange sounds”: “As if someone is groaning. Yes, it's a moan. The groans are so close, and there seems to be no one around me. My God, but it’s me myself!” (3, p.5). Let us compare this with the beginning of the “Austerlitz episode” from the life of Andrei Bolkonsky in Tolstoy’s epic novel: “Prince Andrei Bolkonsky lay bleeding on the Pratsenskaya mountain, and, without knowing it, groaned with a quiet, pitiful and childish moan” (vol. 1, part 3, chapter XIX)(5). Alienation from one's own pain, one's moan, one's body, the motif connecting two heroes and two works is only the beginning of the similarity. Further, the motif of oblivion and awakening coincides, as if the hero's rebirth, and, of course, the image of the sky. Bolkonsky “opened his eyes. Above him was again the same high sky with floating clouds rising even higher, through which one could see the blue infinity ”(5). The difference from the sky in Garshin's story is obvious: although Bolkonsky sees the distant sky, the sky is alive, turning blue, with floating clouds. The injury of Bolkonsky and his merging with heaven is a peculiar situation invented by Tolstoy in order to enable the hero to realize what is happening, his real role in historical events, to correlate the scale. The injury of Bolkonsky is an episode from a large plot, the high and clear sky of Austerlitz is an artistic detail that clarifies the meaning of that grandiose image of the vault of heaven, that quiet pacifying sky that occurs hundreds of times in Tolstoy's four-volume work. This is the root of the difference between similar episodes of the two works.
The story in the story “Four Days” is narrated in the first person (“I remember”, “I feel”, “I woke up”), which, of course, is justified in the work, the purpose of which is to explore the state of mind of a senselessly dying person. The lyricism of the narrative does not lead to sentimental pathos, but to increased psychologism, to a high degree of reliability in depicting the hero's emotional experiences.
The plot and composition of the story is interesting. Formally, the plot can be defined as cumulative, since plot events seem to be strung one after another in an endless sequence: day one, day two. However, due to the fact that time and space in the artistic world of the story are, as it were, corrupted, there is no cumulative movement . Under such conditions, a cyclical organization becomes noticeable within each plot episode and compositional part: on the first day Ivanov tried to determine his place in the world, the events preceding this, possible consequences, and then on the second, third and fourth days he will repeat the same thing again. The plot develops as if in circles, always returning to its original state, at the same time, the cumulative sequence is clearly visible: every day the corpse of the murdered Turk decomposes more and more, more terrible thoughts and deeper answers to the question about the meaning of life come to Ivanov. Such a plot, which combines cumulativeness and cyclicity in equal proportions, can be called turbulent.
There are many interesting things in the subject organization of the story, where the second character is not a living person, but a corpse. The conflict in this story is unusual: it is complex, it incorporates the old conflict between the soldier Ivanov and his closest relatives, the confrontation between the soldier Ivanov and the Turk, the complex confrontation between the wounded Ivanov and
the corpse of a Turk and many others. etc. It is interesting to analyze the image of the narrator, who, as it were, hid himself inside the voice of the hero.
The story "Four Days" has unexpected intertextual connections with the New Testament Revelation of John the Theologian or the Apocalypse, which tells about the last six days of mankind before the Last Judgment. Garshin in several places of the story places hints or even direct indications of the possibility of such a comparison, for example: “I am more unhappy than her [the dog], because I have been suffering for three whole days. Tomorrow is the fourth, then the fifth, the sixth Death, where are you? Go, go! Take me!" (3, p.13)
In the future, Garshin's story, which shows the instantaneous transformation of a person into garbage, and his blood into slop, turns out to be connected with the well-known story by A. Platonov "The Garbage Wind", in which the motif of turning a person and the human body into garbage and slop is repeated.
LITERATURE
Kuleshov V.I. History of Russian literature of the XIX century. (70-90s) - M.: Vyssh.shk., 1983. - P.172.
Byaly G.A. Vsevolod Mikhailovich Garshin. - L .: Education, 1969. - P.15
Garshin V.M. Stories. – M.: Pravda, 1980.
Lominadze S. The poetic world of M.Yu. Lermontov. - M., 1985.
Tolstoy L.N. Collected works in 12 vols. T.3. – M.: Pravda, 1987. – P.515.
Vsevolod Mikhailovich Garshin
Four days
I remember how we ran through the forest, how the bullets buzzed, how the branches they torn off fell, how we made our way through the hawthorn bushes. The shots became more frequent. Something red appeared through the edge, flickering here and there. Sidorov, a young soldier of the first company (“how did he get into our chain?” flashed through my head), suddenly sat down on the ground and silently looked around at me with large, frightened eyes. A stream of blood flowed from his mouth. Yes, I remember it well. I also remember how already almost at the edge, in dense bushes, I saw ... him. He was a huge fat Turk, but I ran straight at him, although I was weak and thin. Something popped, something, it seemed to me; a huge one flew by; ringing in my ears. “He shot me,” I thought. And with a cry of horror, he pressed his back against a thick hawthorn bush. It was possible to bypass the bush, but from fear he did not remember anything and climbed onto the thorny branches. With one blow I knocked out his gun, with another I stuck my bayonet somewhere. Something growled, something groaned. Then I ran on. Our shouted "Hurrah!", fell, fired. I remember, and I made several shots, having already left the forest, in a clearing. Suddenly, the "cheers" sounded louder, and we immediately moved forward. That is, not us, but ours, because I stayed. It seemed strange to me. Even stranger was the fact that all of a sudden everything disappeared; all screams and shots fell silent. I did not hear anything, but only saw something blue; it must have been heaven. Then it disappeared too.
I have never been in such a strange position. I seem to be lying on my stomach and see in front of me only a small piece of land. A few blades of grass, an ant crawling upside down with one of them, some pieces of litter from last year's grass - that's my whole world, And I see it with only one eye, because the other is clamped by something hard, it must be a branch on which rests my head. I'm terribly embarrassed, and I want, but I really don't understand why I can't, move. This is how time passes. I hear the crackling of grasshoppers, the buzzing of bees. There is nothing more. Finally, I make an effort, release my right hand from under me and, resting both hands on the ground, I want to kneel.
Something sharp and fast, like lightning, pierces my entire body from my knees to my chest and head, and I fall again. Again darkness, again nothing.
I woke up. Why do I see stars that shine so brightly in the black and blue Bulgarian sky? Am I not in a tent? Why did I get out of it? I move and feel excruciating pain in my legs.
Yes, I am wounded in battle. Dangerous or not? I grab my feet where it hurts. Both the right and left legs were covered with hardened blood. When I touch them with my hands, the pain is even worse. Pain, like a toothache: constant, pulling at the soul. Ringing in the ears, head heavy. I vaguely understand that I am wounded in both legs. What is it? Why didn't they pick me up? Have the Turks defeated us? I begin to remember what happened to me, at first vaguely, then more clearly, and I come to the conclusion that we are not at all broken. Because I fell (I don’t remember this, however, but I remember how everyone ran forward, but I couldn’t run, and I only had something blue in front of my eyes) - and fell in a clearing at the top of a hill. Our little battalion showed us to this clearing. "Guys, we'll be there!" he shouted to us in his sonorous voice. And we were there: it means that we are not defeated ... Why didn’t they pick me up? After all, here, in the clearing, an open place, everything is visible. After all, I'm probably not the only one lying here. They fired so often. You need to turn your head and look. Now it is more convenient to do this, because even when, when I woke up, I saw grass and an ant crawling upside down, I, trying to get up, fell not to my previous position, but turned on my back. That's why I can see these stars.
I get up and sit down. This is difficult when both legs are broken. Several times you have to despair; Finally, with tears in my eyes, which came out from the pain, I sit down.
Above me is a piece of black-blue sky, on which a large star and several small ones are burning, around something dark, high. These are bushes. I'm in the bushes: they didn't find me!
I can feel the roots of the hair on my head moving.
However, how did I end up in the bushes when they shot at me in the clearing? Probably wounded, I crawled here, unconscious from pain. It is only strange that now I cannot move, but then I managed to drag myself to these bushes. Or maybe I had only one wound then and another bullet finished me already here.
Pale pinkish spots came around me. The big star turned pale, several small ones disappeared. It's the moon rising. It's good to be home now!
Some strange sounds reach me ... As if someone is groaning. Yes, this is a moan. Is there someone just as forgotten lying next to me, with broken legs or with a bullet in his stomach? No, the groans are so close, and there seems to be no one around me ... My God, but it's me! Quiet, plaintive moans; do i really hurt that much? Must be. Only I do not understand this pain, because I have a fog in my head, lead. It's better to lie down and fall asleep, sleep, sleep ... But will I ever wake up? It does not matter.
At the moment when I am about to be caught, a wide, pale streak of moonlight clearly illuminates the place where I am lying, and I see something dark and large, lying about five paces from me. In some places, it shows glare from moonlight. These are buttons or ammunition. Is it dead or wounded
Anyway, I'm going to bed...
No, it can not be! Ours didn't leave. They are here, they drove out the Turks and remained in this position. Why is there no talk, no crackling fires? Why, I hear nothing from weakness. They are probably here.
"Help! .. Help!"
Wild, insane hoarse screams come out of my chest, and there is no answer to them. They are loud in the night air. Everything else is silent. Only the crickets are still chirping restlessly. The moon looks at me plaintively with a round face.
If he had been wounded, he would have woken up from such a cry. This is a corpse. Ours or the Turks? Oh my god! It doesn't seem to matter! And sleep descends on my inflamed eyes!
I lie with my eyes closed, although I have long since woken up. I don't want to open my eyes, because I feel sunlight through my closed eyelids: if I open my eyes, it will cut them. And it’s better not to move… Yesterday (I think it was yesterday?) I was wounded; a day has passed, others will pass, I will die. Does not matter. Better not move. Let the body be still. How nice it would be to stop the work of the brain! But nothing can stop her. Thoughts, memories crowded in my head. However, all this is not for long, soon the end. Only a few lines will remain in the newspapers that, they say, our losses are insignificant: so many were wounded; Ivanov, a private from the volunteers, was killed. No, and the names will not be written; they will simply say: one was killed. One private, like that one little dog...
The whole picture flashes brightly in my mind.
Drozdova Nadezhda
Immediately after the release of the first collection of stories by V. Garshin, contemporaries felt and understood that Garshin creates different versions of a single typical image. This is the image of a person who is not able to put up with "the injustice and evil of a decrepit and depraved world". Drawing the spiritual insight of the hero, the writer sharpens the tragedy of life situations. Any incident outgrows the everyday framework and becomes in the mind of the hero Garshin a tragedy of universal significance.
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Philological analysis of V.M. Garshin’s story “Four Days” Completed by: Drozdova N., 11B class, secondary school No. 8, Tomsk Checked by: Burtseva E.V., teacher of Russian language and literature Tomsk-2011
With this story, V.M. Garshin once became famous, thanks to the special "Garshin" style, which first appeared in this story, he became a famous Russian writer. However, this story is actually forgotten by readers of our time, they do not write about it, they do not study it. At the same time, there is no doubt about the artistic merits of the story, about its “quality”.
A man in war, even with the most noble and good intentions, inevitably becomes a bearer of evil, a killer of other people.
“A few lines will remain in the newspapers that, they say, our losses are insignificant: so many were wounded; Ivanov, a private from the volunteers, was killed. No, and the names will not be written; they will simply say: one was killed. Killed alone, like that little dog…”
War completely changes all the values of human life, good and evil are confused, life and death are reversed
“there was a strong putrid smell”… “his hair began to fall out. His skin, naturally black, turned pale and yellow; the swollen ear stretched until it burst behind the ear. There were worms. The legs, wrapped in boots, swelled up, and huge bubbles crawled out between the hooks of the boots. And he was all swollen with a mountain” ... “he no longer had a face. It slipped from the bones ... "he completely blurred. Myriads of worms fall from it"
hawthorn bushes; branches torn off by bullets; prickly branches; ant, "some pieces of litter from last year's grass"; the crackling of grasshoppers, the buzzing of bees...
“I woke up. Am I not in a tent? Why did I get out of it? Yes, I am wounded in battle. Is it dangerous or not? “Yesterday (I think it was yesterday?) I was wounded”
“Why do I see stars that shine so brightly in the blue-black Bulgarian sky? Above me is a piece of black-blue sky, on which a large star and several small ones are burning, around something dark, high. These are the bushes."
“Some strange sounds”: “As if someone is moaning. Yes, this is a moan. The groans are so close, but there seems to be no one around me ... My God, but it's me myself!
“I am more unhappy than her [the dog] because I have been suffering for three whole days. Tomorrow - the fourth, then, the fifth, the sixth... Death, where are you? Go, go! Take me!"
Thank you for your attention!
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Philological analysis of V.M. Garshin's story "Four days"
Completed by: Drozdova N., 11B class, MOU secondary school No. 8, Tomsk
Checked by: Burtseva E.V., teacher of Russian language and literature
Why was Garshin's story "Four Days" chosen for analysis? With this story, V.M. Garshin once became famous (1), thanks to the special “Garshin” style, which first appeared in this story, he became a famous Russian writer. However, this story is actually forgotten by readers of our time, they do not write about it, they do not study it. However, no
there is no doubt about the artistic merits of the story, about its "quality" - it was written by Vsevolod Mikhailovich Garshin, the author of the wonderful "Red Flower" and "Attalea Princeps".
The choice of the author and the work influenced the fact that the subject of attention will primarily be artistic details, which, as a rule, carry the main semantic load in the stories of V.M. Garshin (2). In the short story "Four Days" this is especially evident. In the analysis, we will take into account this feature of the Garshin style.
Garshin's truthful, fresh attitude to the war was artistically embodied in the form of a new unusual style - sketchy sketchy, with attention to seemingly unnecessary details and details. The emergence of this style, reflecting the author's point of view on the events of the story, was facilitated not only by Garshin's deep knowledge of the truth about the war, but also by the fact that he was fond of the natural sciences (botany, zoology, physiology, psychiatry), which taught him to notice "infinitely small moments" reality. In addition, in his student years, Garshin was close to the circle of itinerant artists, who taught him to look at the world penetratingly, to see the significant in the small and private.
The theme of the story "Four Days" is easy to formulate: a man at war. Such a theme was not an original invention of Garshin, it was quite common both in previous periods of the development of Russian literature (for example, the “military prose” of the Decembrists F.N. Glinka, A.A. Bestuzhev-Marlinsky, etc.), and in modern Garshin authors
(for example, "Sevastopol stories" by L.N. Tolstoy). One can even talk about the traditional solution of this topic in Russian literature, which began with the poem by V.A. which in some cases people are aware of their impact on the course of history (if, for example, Alexander I, Kutuzov or Napoleon), in others they participate in history unconsciously.
Garshin made some changes to this traditional theme. He brought the topic “man in war” beyond the scope of the theme “man and history”, as if he transferred the topic to another problematic and strengthened the independent meaning of the topic, which makes it possible to explore existential problems.
The problematics of Garshin's story can be defined as philosophical or novelistic. The latter definition is more accurate in this case: the story does not show a person in general, that is, a person not in a philosophical sense, but a specific person experiencing strong, shock experiences and overestimating his attitude to life. The horror of war does not lie in the need to perform heroic deeds and sacrifice oneself, just these picturesque visions were presented to the volunteer Ivanov (and, apparently, Garshin himself) before the war, the horror of war lies in something else, in what you can’t even imagine in advance. Namely:
1) The hero talks:“I didn’t want to harm anyone when I went to fight. The thought of having to kill people somehow escaped me. I only imagined how I would expose my chest to bullets. And I went and framed. So what? Fool, fool!"(3, p.7). A man in war, even with the most noble and good intentions, inevitably becomes a bearer of evil, a killer of other people.
2) A person in war suffers not from the pain that a wound generates, but from the uselessness of this wound and pain, and also from the fact that a person turns into
an abstract unit that is easy to forget about:“A few lines will remain in the newspapers that, they say, our losses are insignificant: so many were wounded; Ivanov, a private from the volunteers, was killed. No, and the names will not be written; they will simply say: one was killed. Killed alone, like that little dog…”(3, p.6) There is nothing heroic and beautiful in the wounding and death of a soldier, this is the most ordinary death that cannot be beautiful. The hero of the story compares his fate with the fate of a dog he remembers from childhood:“I was walking down the street, a bunch of people stopped me. The crowd stood and silently looked at something white, bloody, plaintively squealing. It was a pretty little dog; a horse-drawn railway car ran over her, she was dying, that's how I am now. Some janitor pushed the crowd aside, took the dog by the scruff of the neck and carried it away.<…>The janitor did not take pity on her, banged her head against the wall and threw her into a pit where rubbish is thrown and slop is poured. But she was alive and suffered for three more days.<…>» (3, p.6-7,13) Like that dog, a man in a war turns into garbage, and his blood turns into slop. There is nothing sacred left of a person.
3) War completely changes all the values of human life, good and evil are confused, life and death are reversed. The hero of the story, waking up and realizing his tragic situation, realizes with horror that next to him
lies the enemy he killed, a fat Turk:“Before me lies the one I killed
human. Why did I kill him? He lies here dead, covered in blood.<…>
Who is he? Perhaps he, like me, has an old mother. For a long time in the evenings she will sit at the door of her wretched hut and look at the far north: is her beloved son, her worker and breadwinner, coming? ... And me? And I also... I would even switch with him. How happy he is: he hears nothing, feels no pain from wounds, no mortal anguish, no thirst<…>» (3, p.7) A living person envies a dead, corpse!
The nobleman Ivanov, lying next to the decomposing, smelly corpse of a fat Turk, does not disdain the terrible corpse, but almost indifferently observes all stages of its decomposition: first"There was a strong cadaverous smell"(3, p.8), then “His hair started to fall out. His skin, naturally black, turned pale and yellow; the swollen ear stretched until it burst behind the ear. There were worms. The legs, wrapped in boots, swelled up, and huge bubbles crawled out between the hooks of the boots. And he was all swollen with a mountain.(3, p.11), then “He no longer had a face. It slipped from the bones(3, p.12), finally “He completely melted. Myriads of worms fall from it"(3, p.13). A living person is not disgusted by a corpse! And so much so that she crawls towards him in order to drink warm water from his flask:“I began to untie the flask, leaning on one elbow, and suddenly, losing my balance, I fell face down on the chest of my savior. There was already a strong cadaverous smell coming from him.”(3, p.8). Everything has changed and messed up in the world if the corpse is the savior...
What are the features of Garshin's style and the meaning of artistic details and details?
The world depicted in the story differs in that it does not have an obvious integrity, but, on the contrary, is very fragmented. Instead of the forest in which the battle takes place at the very beginning of the story, details are shown: hawthorn bushes; branches torn off by bullets; prickly branches; ant,"some pieces of litter from last year's grass"(3, p.3); the crackling of grasshoppers, the buzzing of bees - all this diversity is not united by anything whole. Similarly, the sky: instead of a single spacious vault or endlessly ascending heavens -“I only saw something blue; it must have been heaven. Then it disappeared too.”(3, p.4). The world does not have integrity, which is quite consistent with the idea of the work as a whole - war is chaos, evil, something meaningless, incoherent, inhuman, war is the decay of living life.
The depicted world does not have integrity, not only in the spatial hypostasis, but also in the temporal. Time develops not consistently, progressively, irreversibly, as in real life, and not cyclically, as is often the case in works of art, here time begins anew every day and each time seemingly already resolved issues arise anew. On the first day in the life of soldier Ivanov, we see him at the edge of the forest, where a bullet hit him and seriously wounded him, Ivanov woke up and, feeling himself, realized what had happened to him. On the second day, he again solves the same questions:"I woke up<…>Am I not in a tent? Why did I get out of it?<…>Yes, I am wounded in battle. Dangerous or not?<…>» (3, p.4) On the third day, he repeats everything again:“Yesterday (I think it was yesterday?) I was wounded”(3, p.6).
Time is divided into unequal and meaningless segments, still like hours, into parts of the day; these time units seem to add up in sequence - the first day, the second day ... - however, these segments and time sequences do not have any pattern, they are disproportionate, meaningless: the third day exactly repeats the second, and between the first and third days the hero seems to have a gap much more than a day, etc. The time in the story is unusual: it is not the absence of time, like, say, the world of Lermontov, in which the demon hero lives in eternity and does not realize the difference between a moment and a century (4), Garshin shows dying time, four days pass before the reader’s eyes from life of a dying person, and it is clearly seen that death is expressed not only in the decay of the body, but also in the loss of the meaning of life, in the loss of the meaning of time, in the disappearance of the spatial perspective of the world. Garshin showed not a whole or fractional world, but a decaying world.
This feature of the artistic world in the story led to the fact that artistic details began to have special significance.
Garshin's increased attention to detail is not accidental: as mentioned above, he knew the truth about the war from the personal experience of a volunteer soldier, he was fond of the natural sciences, which taught him to notice "infinitely small moments" of reality - this is the first, so to speak, "biographical » reason. The second reason for the increased importance of the artistic detail in the artistic world of Garshin is the theme, the problematic, the idea of the story - the world is disintegrating, splitting into meaningless incidents, accidental deaths, useless actions, etc.
The most noticeable detail of the artistic world of the story is the sky. As already noted in our work, space and time in the story are fragmented, so even the sky is something indefinite, as if a random fragment of the real sky. Having been wounded and lying on the ground, the hero of the story“did not hear anything, but saw only something blue; it must have been heaven. Then it disappeared too.”(3, p.4), after a while, waking up from sleep, he will again pay attention to the sky:“Why do I see stars that shine so brightly in the blue-black Bulgarian sky?<…>Above me is a piece of black-blue sky, on which a large star and several small ones are burning, around something dark, high. These are bushes"(3, p.4-5). This is not even the sky, but something similar to the sky - it has no depth, it is at the level of the bushes hanging over the face of the wounded; this sky is not an ordered space, but something black and blue, a piece in which, instead of an impeccably beautiful bucket of the constellation Ursa Major, some unknown"a star and a few little ones", instead of the guiding North Star, just a "big star". The sky has lost its harmony, it has no order, no meaning. This is another sky, not of this world, this is the sky of the dead. After all, over the corpse of a Turk is just such a sky ...
Since the “piece of sky” is an artistic detail, and not a detail, it (more precisely, it is “a piece of sky”) has its own rhythm, changing as events unfold. Lying on the ground face up, the hero sees the following:“Pale pinkish spots came around me. The big star turned pale, several small ones disappeared. It's the moon rising"(3, p.5) The author stubbornly does not name the recognizable constellation Ursa Major, and his hero does not recognize it either, this happens because these are completely different stars, and a completely different sky.
It is appropriate to compare the sky of Garshin's story with the sky of Austerlitz from L. Tolstoy's "War and Peace" - there the hero finds himself in a similar situation, he is also wounded, he also looks at the sky. The similarity of these episodes has long been noticed by readers and researchers of Russian literature (1). Soldier Ivanov, listening in the night, clearly hears“some strange sounds”: “As if someone is moaning. Yes, this is a moan.<…>The groans are so close, but there seems to be no one around me ... My God, but it’s me myself!(3, p.5). Compare this with the beginning of the "Austerlitz episode" from the life of Andrei Bolkonsky in Tolstoy's epic novel:"On the Pracen Mountain<…>Prince Andrei Bolkonsky was lying, bleeding, and, without knowing it, was moaning with a quiet, pitiful and childish moan.(vol. 1, part 3, ch. XIX) (5). Alienation from one's own pain, one's moan, one's body - the motif connecting two heroes and two works - this is only the beginning of the similarity. Further, the motif of oblivion and awakening coincides, as if the hero's rebirth, and, of course, the image of the sky. Bolkonsky“opened his eyes. Above him was again the same high sky with floating clouds rising even higher, through which a blue infinity could be seen.(5). The difference from the sky in Garshin's story is obvious: although Bolkonsky sees the distant sky, the sky is alive, turning blue, with floating clouds. The wounding of Bolkonsky and his merging with heaven is a kind of situation invented by Tolstoy in order to enable the hero to realize what is happening, his real role in historical events, to correlate the scale. Bolkonsky’s injury is an episode from a large plot, the high and clear sky of Austerlitz is an artistic detail that clarifies the meaning of that grandiose image of the vault of heaven, that quiet pacifying sky that occurs hundreds of times in Tolstoy’s four-volume work. This is the root of the difference between similar episodes of the two works.
The narration in the story "Four Days" is in the first person(“I remember…”, “I feel…”, “I woke up”), which, of course, is justified in a work whose purpose is to explore the state of mind of a senselessly dying person. The lyricism of the narrative does not lead to sentimental pathos, but to increased psychologism, to a high degree of reliability in depicting the hero's emotional experiences.
The plot and composition of the story is interesting. Formally, the plot can be defined as cumulative, since plot events seem to be strung one after another in an endless sequence: day one, day two ... However, due to the fact that time and space in the artistic world of the story are, as it were, corrupted, there is no cumulative movement no. Under such conditions, a cyclical organization becomes noticeable within each plot episode and compositional part: on the first day Ivanov tried to determine his place in the world, the events preceding this, possible consequences, and then on the second, third and fourth days he will repeat the same thing again. The plot develops as if in circles, always returning to its original state, at the same time, the cumulative sequence is clearly visible: every day the corpse of the murdered Turk decomposes more and more, more terrible thoughts and deeper answers to the question about the meaning of life come to Ivanov. Such a plot, which combines cumulativeness and cyclicity in equal proportions, can be called turbulent.
There are many interesting things in the subjective organization of the story, where the second character is not a living person, but a corpse. The conflict in this story is unusual: it is complex, it incorporates the old conflict between the soldier Ivanov and his closest relatives, the confrontation between the soldier Ivanov and the Turk, the complex confrontation between the wounded Ivanov and
the corpse of a Turk and many others. etc. It is interesting to analyze the image of the narrator, who, as it were, hid himself inside the voice of the hero.
The story "Four Days" has unexpected intertextual connections - with the New Testament Revelation of John the Theologian or the Apocalypse, which tells about the last six days of mankind before the Last Judgment. Garshin in several places of the story places hints or even direct indications of the possibility of such a comparison - for example:“I am more unhappy than her [the dog] because I have been suffering for three whole days. Tomorrow - the fourth, then the fifth, the sixth... Death, where are you? Go, go! Take me!"(3, p.13)
In the future, Garshin's story, which shows the instantaneous transformation of a person into garbage, and his blood into slop, turns out to be connected with the well-known story by A. Platonov "The Garbage Wind", in which the motif of turning a person and the human body into garbage and slop is repeated.
LITERATURE
- Kuleshov V.I. History of Russian literature of the XIX century. (70-90s) - M .: Vyssh.shk., 1983. - P. 172.
- Byaly G.A. Vsevolod Mikhailovich Garshin. - L .: Education, 1969. - P.15
- Garshin V.M. Stories. - M.: Pravda, 1980.
- Lominadze S. The poetic world of M.Yu. Lermontov. - M., 1985.
- Tolstoy L.N. Collected works in 12 vols. T.3. - M.: Pravda, 1987. - S.515.
Garshin Vsevolod Mikhailovich
Four days
Garshin Vsevolod Mikhailovich
Four days
I remember how we ran through the forest, how the bullets buzzed, how the branches they torn off fell, how we made our way through the hawthorn bushes. The shots became more frequent. Something red appeared through the edge, flickering here and there. Sidorov, a young soldier of the first company (“how did he get into our chain?” flashed through my head), suddenly sat down on the ground and silently looked around at me with large, frightened eyes. A stream of blood flowed from his mouth. Yes, I remember it well. I also remember how already almost at the edge, in dense bushes, I saw ... him. He was a huge fat Turk, but I ran straight at him, although I was weak and thin. Something popped, something, it seemed to me; a huge one flew by; ringing in my ears. "He shot me," I thought. And with a cry of horror, he pressed his back against a thick hawthorn bush. It was possible to bypass the bush, but from fear he did not remember anything and climbed onto the thorny branches. With one blow I knocked out his gun, with another I stuck my bayonet somewhere. Something growled, something groaned. Then I ran on. Our shouted "Hurrah!", fell, fired. I remember, and I made several shots, having already left the forest, in a clearing. Suddenly, "cheers" were heard louder, and we immediately moved forward. That is, not us, but ours, because I stayed. It seemed strange to me. Even stranger was the fact that all of a sudden everything disappeared; all screams and shots fell silent. I did not hear anything, but only saw something blue; it must have been heaven. Yotom and it disappeared.
I have never been in such a strange position. I seem to be lying on my stomach and see in front of me only a small piece of land. A few blades of grass, an ant crawling upside down with one of them, some pieces of litter from last year's grass - that's my whole world, And I see it with only one eye, because the other is clamped by something hard, it must be a branch on which rests my head. I'm terribly embarrassed, and I want, but I really don't understand why I can't, move. This is how time passes. I hear the crackling of grasshoppers, the buzzing of bees. There is nothing more. Finally, I make an effort, release my right hand from under me and, resting both hands on the ground, I want to kneel.
Something sharp and fast, like lightning, pierces my entire body from my knees to my chest and head, and I fall again. Again darkness, again nothing.
I woke up. Why do I see stars that shine so brightly in the black and blue Bulgarian sky? Am I not in a tent? Why did I get out of it? I move and feel excruciating pain in my legs.
Yes, I am wounded in battle. Dangerous or not? I grab my feet where it hurts. Both the right and left legs were covered with hardened blood. When I touch them with my hands, the pain is even worse. Pain, like a toothache: constant, pulling at the soul. Ringing in the ears, head heavy. I vaguely understand that I am wounded in both legs. What is it? Why didn't they pick me up? Have the Turks defeated us? I begin to remember what happened to me, at first vaguely, then more clearly, and I come to the conclusion that we are not at all broken. Because I fell (I don’t remember this, however, but I remember how everyone ran forward, but I couldn’t run, and I only had something blue before my eyes) - and fell in a clearing, at the top of a hill. Our little battalion showed us to this clearing. "Guys, we'll be there!" he shouted to us in his sonorous voice. And we were there: it means that we are not defeated ... Why didn’t they pick me up? After all, here, in the clearing, an open place, everything is visible. After all, I'm probably not the only one lying here. They fired so often. You need to turn your head and look. Now it is more convenient to do this, because even when, when I woke up, I saw grass and an ant crawling upside down, I, trying to get up, fell not to my previous position, but turned on my back. That's why I can see these stars.
I get up and sit down. This is difficult when both legs are broken. Several times you have to despair; Finally, with tears in my eyes, which came out from the pain, I sit down.
Above me is a piece of black-blue sky, on which a large star and several small ones are burning, around something dark, high. These are bushes. I'm in the bushes: they didn't find me!
I can feel the roots of the hair on my head moving.
However, how did I end up in the bushes when they shot at me in the clearing? Probably wounded, I crawled here, unconscious from pain. It is only strange that now I cannot move, but then I managed to drag myself to these bushes. Or maybe I had only one wound then and another bullet finished me already here.
Pale pinkish spots came around me. The big star turned pale, several small ones disappeared. It's the moon rising. It's good to be home now!
Some strange sounds reach me... As if someone is moaning. Yes, this is a moan. Is there someone just as forgotten lying next to me, with broken legs or with a bullet in his stomach? No, the groans are so close, and there seems to be no one around me ... My God, but it's me! Quiet, plaintive moans; do i really hurt that much? Must be. Only I do not understand this pain, because I have a fog in my head, lead. It's better to lie down and fall asleep, sleep, sleep... But will I ever wake up? It does not matter.
At the moment when I am about to be caught, a wide, pale streak of moonlight clearly illuminates the place where I am lying, and I see something dark and large, lying about five paces from me. In some places, it shows glare from moonlight. These are buttons or ammunition. Is it dead or wounded
Anyway, I'm going to bed...
No, it can not be! Ours didn't leave. They are here, they drove out the Turks and remained in this position. Why is there no talk, no crackling fires? Why, I hear nothing from weakness. They are probably here.
Help!.. Help!
Wild, insane hoarse screams come out of my chest, and there is no answer to them. They are loud in the night air. Everything else is silent. Only the crickets are still chirping restlessly. The moon looks at me plaintively with a round face.
If he had been wounded, he would have woken up from such a cry. This is a corpse. Ours or the Turks? Oh my god! It doesn't seem to matter! And sleep descends on my inflamed eyes!
I lie with my eyes closed, although I have long since woken up. I don't want to open my eyes, because I feel sunlight through my closed eyelids: if I open my eyes, it will cut them. And it's better not to move... Yesterday (I think it was yesterday?) I was wounded; a day has passed, others will pass, I will die. Does not matter. Better not move. Let the body be still. How nice it would be to stop the work of the brain! But nothing can stop her. Thoughts, memories crowded in my head. However, all this is not for long, soon the end. Only a few lines will remain in the newspapers that, they say, our losses are insignificant: so many were wounded; Ivanov, a private from the volunteers, was killed. No, and the names will not be written; they will simply say: one was killed. One private, like that one little dog...
The whole picture flashes brightly in my mind.
It was a long time ago; however, everything, my whole life, that life, when I was not yet lying here with broken legs, was so long ago ... I was walking along the street, a bunch of people stopped me. The crowd stood and silently looked at something white, bloody, plaintively squealing. It was a pretty little dog; the carriage of the horse-drawn railway ran over her. She was dying, that's how I am now. Some janitor pushed the crowd aside, took the dog by the scruff of the neck and carried it away.
The crowd dispersed. .
Will someone take me away? No, lie down and die. And how good life is!.. That day (when the misfortune happened to the dog) I was happy. I was walking in some kind of intoxication, and there was a reason for that. You memories, don't torment me, leave me! Former happiness, real torment ... let only torment remain, let memories not torment me that involuntarily make me compare. Ah, longing, longing! You are worse than wounds.
However, it gets hot. The sun burns. I open my eyes, I see the same bushes, the same sky, only in daylight. And here is my neighbor. Yes, this is a Turk, a corpse. How huge! I recognize him, he's the one...
In front of me lies the man I killed. Why did I kill him?
He lies here dead, bloodied. Why did fate bring him here? Who is he? Perhaps he, like me, has an old mother. For a long time in the evenings she will sit at the door of her wretched hut and look at the far north: is her beloved son, her worker and breadwinner, coming? ..
And I? And I also... I would even switch with him. How happy he is: he hears nothing, feels no pain from his wounds, no mortal anguish, no thirst... The bayonet went right into his heart... There's a big black hole on his uniform; there is blood around her. I did it.
I didn't want this. I did not want to harm anyone when I went to fight. The thought that I would have to kill people somehow escaped me. I only imagined how I would put my chest under the bullets, And I went and set it up.
So what? Fool, fool! And this unfortunate fellah (he is wearing an Egyptian uniform) is even less to blame. Before they were put, like herring in a barrel, on a steamer and taken to Constantinople, he had not heard of Russia or Bulgaria. He was told to go, and he went. If he had not gone, they would have beaten him with sticks, otherwise, perhaps, some pasha would have put a bullet into him from a revolver. He walked a long, difficult march from Istanbul to Ruschuk. We attacked, he defended. But seeing that we, terrible people, not afraid of his patented English Peabody and Martini rifles, keep climbing and climbing forward, he was horrified. When he was about to leave, some little man, whom he could have killed with one blow of his black fist, jumped up and stuck a bayonet in his heart.
Why is he to blame?
And what is my fault, even though I killed him? What am I to blame? Why am I thirsty? Thirst! Who knows what that word means! Even when we were walking through Romania,
making fifty versts in the terrible forty-degree heat, then I did not feel what I feel now. Ah, if someone would come!
My God! Yes, he probably has water in this huge flask! But you have to get to it. What will it cost! Anyway, I'll get there.
I'm crawling. Legs drag, weakened hands barely move the motionless body. There are two sazhens to the corpse, but for me it is more - not more, but worse - tens of miles. You still need to crawl. Throat burns, burns like fire. Yes, and you will die without water sooner. Still, maybe...
And I'm crawling. Feet cling to the ground, and every movement causes unbearable pain. I scream, I scream with cries, but still I crawl. Finally, here he is. Here is a flask ... it has water - and how much! Seems to be more than half a flask. O! I will have enough water for a long time ... until the day I die!
You save me, my victim! .. I began to untie the flask, leaning on one elbow, and suddenly, losing my balance, fell face down on the chest of my savior. A strong cadaverous smell was already audible from him.
I got drunk. The water was warm, but not spoiled, and there was plenty of it. I will live for a few more days. I remember that in the "Physiology of Everyday Life" it is said that without food a person can live for more than a week, if only there was water. Yes, there is also a story of a suicide who starved himself to death. He lived a very long time because he drank.
So what? If I live another five or six days, what will come of it? Ours left, the Bulgarians fled. There is no road nearby. Anyway, die. Only instead of a three-day agony, I made myself a week. Isn't it better to finish? Near my neighbor lies his gun, an excellent English work. One has only to lend a hand; then - one moment, and the end. The cartridges are lying around right there, in a heap. He didn't get everyone out.
So finish or submit? What? Deliverance? Of death? Wait for the Turks to come and start skinning my wounded legs? It's better for yourself...
No, no need to lose heart; I will fight to the end, to the last strength. Because if they find me, I'm saved. Perhaps the bones are not touched; I will be cured. I will see my homeland, mother, Masha...
Lord, don't let them know the whole truth! Let them think that I was killed on the spot. What will happen to them when they find out that I suffered for two, three, four days!
Dizzy; my trip to the neighbor completely exhausted me. And then there's that awful smell. How he turned black ... what will happen to him tomorrow or the day after tomorrow? And now I'm lying here only because I don't have the strength to pull myself away. I will rest and crawl to the old place; By the way, the wind blows from there and will carry the stench away from me.
I lie in complete exhaustion. The sun burns my face and hands. Nothing to cover. If only the night would be faster; this seems to be the second one.
Thoughts get confused and I forget.
I slept for a long time, because when I woke up it was already night. Everything is the same: the wounds hurt, the neighbor lies, just as huge and motionless.
I can't stop thinking about him. Did I really leave everything dear, dear, walked here a thousand-mile hike, starved, cold, tormented by the heat; Is it possible, finally, that I am now lying in these torments - only for the sake of this unfortunate man ceasing to live? But have I done anything useful for military purposes other than this murder?
Murder, murderer... And who is it? I!
When I started going to fight, my mother and Masha dissuaded me, although they wept over me. Blinded by the idea, I did not see those tears. I did not understand (now I understand) what I was doing with the beings close to me.
Do you remember? You can't bring back the past.
And what a strange attitude to my act appeared among many acquaintances! "Well, holy fool! Climbs, without knowing what!" How could they say this? How do such words fit in with their ideas about heroism, love for the motherland and other such things? After all, in their eyes I represented all these valor. And yet - I'm "holy fool".
And so I'm going to Chisinau; They put a knapsack and all sorts of military equipment on me. And I go along with thousands, of which there are only a few, like me, who go willingly. The rest would stay at home if
they would be allowed. However, they walk the same way as we, the "conscious", travel thousands of miles and fight just like us, or even better. They fulfill their duties, despite the fact that they would immediately leave and leave - if only they would allow it.
It was blown by a sharp morning breeze. The bushes stirred, a half-asleep bird flew up. The stars have faded. The dark blue sky turned grey, covered with delicate cirrus clouds; gray twilight rose from the ground. The third day of my... What do you call it? Life? Agony?
Third... How many of them are left? In any case, a little... I'm very weak and I don't even seem to be able to move away from the corpse. Soon we will catch up with him and will not be unpleasant to each other.
Need to get drunk. I will drink three times a day: in the morning, at noon and in the evening.
The sun rose. Its huge disk, all crossed and divided by black branches of bushes, is red as blood. It looks like it's going to be hot today. My neighbor - what will become of you? You are terrible now.
Yes, he was terrible. His hair began to fall out. His skin, black by nature, turned pale and yellow; her swollen face pulled her up until she burst behind her ear. There were worms. The legs, tightened in boots, swelled up and huge bubbles crawled out between the hooks of the boots. And he was all swollen with a mountain. What will the sun do to him today?
