Tatiana is a thick clean sheet. Tatiana tolstaya Tatiana tolstaya clean sheet analysis

Tatiana Tolstaya

Stories

That's why, at sunset hours

Leaving into the darkness of the night

From the white square of the Senate

I bow quietly to him.

And for a long time I will be so kind to the people ...

For example, at the very moment when Dantes' white index finger is already on the trigger, some ordinary, unpoetic bird of God, frightened off the fir branches by fussing and trampling in the bluish snow, poops on the hand of the villain. The blot!

The hand naturally twitches involuntarily; shot, Pushkin falls. Such a pain! Through the fog covering his eyes, he aims, shoots back; Dantes also falls; "glorious shot," the poet laughs. The seconds take him away, half-conscious; in his delirium, he mutters everything, as if he wants to ask something.

Rumors of a duel spread quickly: Dantes was killed, Pushkin was wounded in the chest. Natalya Nikolaevna is hysterical, Nikolai is furious; Russian society quickly divided into the party of the killed and the party of the wounded; there is something to brighten up the winter, something to chat about between a mazurka and a polka. Ladies are defiantly weaving mourning ribbons into lace. The young ladies are curious and imagine a star-shaped wound; however, the word "chest" seems indecent to them. Meanwhile, Pushkin is in oblivion, Pushkin is in the heat, rushing about and delirious; Dahl drags and drags soaked cloudberries into the house, trying to push the bitter berries through the gritted teeth of the sufferer, Vasily Andreevich hangs the mournful sheets on the door, for the crowd that has gathered and does not disperse; the lung is shot through, the bone is festering, the smell is terrible (carbolic acid, mercuric chloride, alcohol, ether, moxibustion, bloodletting?), the pain is unbearable, and old good-willed friends, veterans of the twelfth year, say that it is like fire and incessant firing in the body, like ruptures thousands of kernels, and it is advised to drink punch and punch again: distracting.

Pushkin dreams of fires, shooting, screams, the Battle of Poltava, the gorges of the Caucasus, overgrown with small and hard bushes, one in the air, the sound of copper hooves, a Karla in a red cap, Griboyedov's cart, he sees the coolness of Pyatigorsk murmuring waters - someone put a cooling hand on feverish forehead - Dahl? - Dahl. The distance is covered with smoke, someone falls, shot down, on the lawn, among the Caucasian bushes, medlar and capers; it is he himself, killed - why now sobs, empty praise, an unnecessary chorus? - the Scottish moon sheds a sad light on the sad meadows, overgrown with branchy cranberries and mighty, up to heaven, cloudberries; a beautiful Kalmyk woman, furiously coughing with tuberculosis, - is it a trembling creature or has the right? - breaks a green stick over his head - a civil execution; what are you sewing, Kalmyk? - Panther. - To whom? - Myself. Are you still dozing, dear friend? Do not sleep, get up, curly-haired! A senseless and merciless peasant, bending over, does something with the iron, and the candle, in which Pushkin, trembling and cursing, reads his life full of deception with disgust, sways in the wind. Dogs tear the baby up, and the boys are bloody in their eyes. Shoot, - he says quietly and with conviction, - because I stopped hearing the music, the Romanian orchestra and the songs of sad Georgia, and anchar rushes on my shoulders, but I'm not a wolf by my blood: I managed to stick it in my throat and turn it twice. He got up, killed his wife, killed his sleepy little ones. The hum died down, I went out onto the stage, I went out early, to the stars, I was there, but all went out, a man came out of the house with a club and a sack. Pushkin leaves the house barefoot, boots under his arm, diaries in boots. So souls look from a height at their dropped body. Writer's diary. Diary of a Madman. Notes from Of a dead house... Scholarly Notes of the Geographical Society. I will pass with a blue flame in the soul of the people, I will pass with a red flame through the cities. The fish are swimming in the pocket, the path ahead is unclear. What are you building there, to whom? This, sir, is a state-owned house, Aleksandrovsky central. And music, music, music is woven into my singing. And every language in her will call me. Whether I'm driving along a dark street at night, now in a wagon, now in a carriage, now in an oyster carriage, shsr ayuku - this is not the city, and midnight is not the same. Many robbers shed the blood of honest Christians! Horse, darling, listen to me ... R, O, S - no, I don't distinguish between letters ... And suddenly I realized that I was in hell.

"Broken dishes have lived for two centuries!" - grunts Vasily Andreevich, helping to drag the crumpled sheets from under the convalescent. He strives to do everything himself, fusses, gets confused under the feet of the servants - he loves. "And here is some broth!" The devil is in him, in the broth, but there are troubles about royal favor, but here is the most merciful forgiveness for the unlawful duel, but intrigue, slyness, feigned court sighs, all-giving notes and an endless ride back and forth in a cab, "and report back, brother … "Master!

Vasily Andreevich beams: he has procured a link to Mikhailovskoye for the victorious student - only, only! Pine air, open spaces, short walks, and a shot-through chest will heal - and you can swim in the river! And - "shut up, shut up, my dear, the doctors won't tell you to talk, it's all later! All the way. Everything will be fine."

Of course, of course, the howling of wolves and the striking of the clock, long winter evenings by the candle, Natalya Nikolaevna's tearful boredom, - first, frightened screams at the sick person's bed, then despondency, reproaches, whining, wandering from room to room, yawning, beating children and servants, whims, hysterics, loss of a glass waist, the first gray hair in an unkempt strand, And what is it, gentlemen, in the morning, coughing up and spitting out the oncoming phlegm, looking out the window, like a dear friend in cut-off felt boots, with a twig in his hand, chasing a goat that has been eating dry stems of dried flowers sticking here and there since last summer through the freshly fallen snow ! Blue dead flies scattered between the glass - order to remove.

No money left. Children are goofs. When will the roads be fixed for us? .. - Never. I bet ten cellars of brut champagne - never. And don't wait, it won't. "Pushkin has written out," the ladies chirp, aging and dripping. However, the new writers, it seems, also have peculiar views on literature - unbearably applied. The melancholic lieutenant Lermontov showed some hope, but died in a stupid fight. Young Tyutchev is not bad, albeit a bit chilly. Who else writes poetry? No one. Pushkin writes outrageous verses, but does not flood Russia with them, but burns on a candle, for the supervision, gentlemen, is round-the-clock. He also writes prose, which no one wants to read, because it is dry and accurate, and the era requires pity and vulgarity (I thought that this word is unlikely to be honored with us, but he was mistaken, but how wrong he was!), And now the hemoptysis neurotic Vissarion and the ugly verseplet Nekrasov - so it seems? - they race along the morning streets to the seizure raznochinets (what a word!): "Do you understand yourself that you wrote this?" Yes, old acquaintances have returned from the depths of Siberian ores, from chains and fetters: it’s impossible to recognize, and it’s not a matter of white beards, but in conversations: unclear, as if from under the water, as if the drowned men, in green algae, knocked under the window and at the gate. Yes, the peasant was freed, and now he, passing by, looks impudently and hints at something robber. Young people are terrible and insulting: "Boots are taller than Pushkin!" - "Good!" The girls cut off their hair, look like courtyard boys and talk about their rights: shcht Vshug! Gogol died after being mad. Count Tolstoy published excellent stories, but did not reply to the letter. Puppy! The memory is weakening ... Surveillance has long been removed, but I do not want to go anywhere. Harsh cough in the morning. There is still no money. And it is necessary, groaning, to finish at last - how long can you drag out - the history of Pugachev, a work that has been chosen since time immemorial, but still does not let go, pulls everything towards itself - they open previously forbidden archives, and there, in the archives, a bewitching novelty, as if not the past was revealed, but the future, something vaguely dawning and showing through vague contours in the feverish brain - then, long ago, when I lay there, shot right through by this, what is it? - forgot; because of which? - forgot. As if the uncertainty was parted in the dark.

The dream of the soul in the story of Tatiana Tolstoy "Clean sheet"

The plot of Tatyana Tolstoy's story "Blank Slate" is typical of the "era of the nineties": Ignatiev, exhausted by everyday troubles, experiences and longing for the unrealizable, decides to have an operation to remove the suffering soul, wishing to become the strong of the world this. The result is predictable: he turns into one of those impersonal, soulless, about whom Yevgeny Zamyatin wrote in the science fiction novel "We".

Losing the ability to compassion, the hero loses the main component of human happiness - the ability to make others happy, his neighbors and distant ones.

Soulless people really walk on the earth. Literally. It has become fashionable now to write about zombies. New details on this topic appear in newspapers and magazines. But even earlier, Sergei Yesenin noticed:

“I'm scared - because the soul is passing,

Like youth and like love. "

The shower is passing. You don't even need to "extract" it.

People often become colder and callous over the years.

Tatiana Tolstaya in her work asks the most important questions:

What happens to the soul?

In what depths, in what abysses does she hide?

Where does it go or how is it transformed, what does this eternal longing for truth, goodness, beauty turn into?

Tatiana Tolstaya knows that there are no definite answers to these questions. To stage them, she uses (following Zamyatin) the techniques of science fiction.

Presenting her hero, who easily parted with his soul, in a new capacity with a blank sheet in her hands, the writer parted with him just as easily, without giving an answer, how one can overcome such a terrifying “cleansing of souls” that become indifferent. The hero became a blank slate. One could write on it:

“And with all my soul, which is not a pity

Drown everything in the mysterious and sweet,

Light sadness takes over

How the moonlight takes over the world. "

Ignatiev's soul was seized by melancholy. Longing, doubts, pity, compassion - this is the way the soul exists in a person, because it is a "dweller of other places". Ignatiev became faint-hearted, could not stand her presence in himself. Having decided on the operation, he himself signed his own death warrant - he lost his immortal soul, lost everything (but he thought that he had gained everything!).

Let weak, but alive, doubting, but full of quivering fatherly love and tenderness ("he jumped with a jerk and threw himself at the door to the barred bed"), restless, but pitying his wife and bowing to her ("The wife is a saint"), Ignatiev was interesting auto RU.

Having ceased to suffer, he ceased to interest the writer. What he is, a soulless person - everyone knows.

On his blank sheet of paper, he will write a complaint - the first thing he was going to do after the operation. And never again will come to him, will not sit on the edge of his bed Tosca, will not take his hand. Ignatiev will not feel how from the depths, from the abyss "from somewhere out of the dugouts, the Living is coming out." From now on, his lot is loneliness and emptiness. Everyone leaves him - both the author and the reader, since now he is a dead man, "an empty, hollow body."

What did Tatyana Tolstaya want to tell us? Why is she talking about what is already known? This is how we see it.

The phrases have become established: "to destroy your soul", "to save your soul", that is, a person, being an earthly and mortal being, has the power to save or destroy his immortal unearthly soul.

The story has five men (one of them is a boy) and five women. Everyone is unhappy, especially the women. The first is Ignatiev's wife. The second is Anastasia, his beloved. The third is his friend's divorced wife. The fourth - came out in tears from the office of the big boss, who was the first to get rid of the soul. Fifth - listens in telephone receiver the persuasions of a swarthy man who has "the whole living space in carpets."

"Woman", "wife" is the soul. But Tatiana Tolstaya does not say this word anywhere. Imposes a taboo. (Doesn't want to take it in vain?)

How does the story begin? - "The wife is asleep."

Ignatiev's soul sleeps. She is sick and weak. It seems that Tatyana Tolstaya is talking about her, describing Ignatiev's wife and child: “exhausted”, “weak sprout”, “stub”. Could Ignatiev become strong, lead the family out of pain and sorrow? It is unlikely, because it is said: "Whoever does not, will be taken away from him."

Having removed the soul, Ignatiev immediately decides to get rid of what reminds of her - from its visible incarnation - of his loved ones.

Look at the people closest to you. This is the visible embodiment of your invisible soul. How are they next to you? This is with you and your soul.

He affirms this idea in his small masterpiece - the story "Blank Slate".

Notes (edit)

Thick sheet. with Yesenin with Mariengof ("There is frantic happiness in friendship…" 184-185. Och at home // conversion of works in three volumes: Vol. 1. - M .: Terra, 2000 .-- S. 78.

"Clean Water" - Search for solutions in the field of providing the population clean water... Water is dispensed in standard 5-6 liter bottles. Works in automatic mode. Water purification technology. Service card. The water purification system is based on membrane technology. Water is dispensed in standard bottles of 5-19 liters.

"The external structure of the sheet" - Questions for revision. Leaf vein. Explain the difference between sessile and petiolar leaves. What venation is characteristic of dicotyledonous plants? Modified leaves. What venation is characteristic of monocotyledonous plants? What are the main parts of the sheet. In monocotyledonous plants, the root system is _______, leaf venation ___________, ____________.

Franz Liszt - Liszt is considered the foremost figure in the history of music. Hungarian pianist and composer (1811-1886). And in 1847 F. List undertook a farewell concert tour. In 1844 Liszt became Kapellmeister at the ducal court in Weimar. Most of the composer's piano heritage is transcriptions and paraphrases of music by other authors.

"Mobius Leaf" - Mobius is one of the founders of modern topology. Art and technology. Mobius strip - a symbol of mathematics, Which serves as the crown of the highest wisdom ... An incredible project of a new library in Astana, Kazakhstan. This sculpture is made up of many cans. Director of the Leipzig Astronomical Observatory, A. Möbius was a versatile scientist.

"Essay on Leaves" - My Autumn. I. Turgenev. Linden Poplar Rowan Maple Lilac Oak. Leaves movement. What are the colors of the leaves. Rowan bunches. I. Bunin. Bronze Herbal Brown Light Green Malachite Scarlet. Themes of the essays. What are the leaves whispering about? What trees have shed their foliage? Autumn sounds. But the pond is already frozen ... Red. Yellow Orange Red Green Lemon Orange.

"Pure lesson" - Discussion on the topic of the lesson. Leonardo da Vinci. The Lesson of Pure Water. Tasks: Sinkwine on the topic "Clean water". Organizational moment... Discussion of measures to improve the ecological aquatic environment of the region. Lesson summary: compilation of syncwine. Rainwater, spring water Flows, freezes, evaporates Source of life Liquid.

Author Tolstaya Tatiana Nikitichna

Clear sheet

As soon as the wife lay down on the sofa in the nursery, she fell asleep: nothing is more exhausting than a sick child. And well, let him sleep there. Ignatiev covered her with a blanket, hesitated, looked at his gaping mouth, haggard face, regrown black hair - she had not pretended to be a blonde for a long time, - pitied her, pitied the frail, white, sweating again Valerik, pitied himself, left, lay down and lay now without sleep, looked at the ceiling.

Every night longing came to Ignatiev. Heavy, dim, with her head bowed, she sat on the edge of the bed, took the hand - a sad nurse from a hopeless patient. So they were silent for hours - hand in hand.

The night house rustled, shuddered, lived; in the indistinct hum, bald spots appeared - there was a dog barking, there was a piece of music, and there it was tapping, going up and down the line an elevator - a night boat. Hand in hand, Ignatiev was silent with anguish; locked in his chest, tossing and turning gardens, seas, cities, their owner was Ignatiev, with him they were born, with him were doomed to dissolve into nothingness. Poor world of mine, your master is overwhelmed with longing. Residents, paint the sky a twilight color, sit on the stone thresholds of abandoned houses, drop your hands, lower your heads - your good king is sick. Lepers, walk the deserted alleys, ring the brass bells, bear bad news: brothers, longing is going to the cities. The hearths are abandoned, and the ash has cooled, and the grass is making its way between the plates where the market squares were noisy. Soon a low red moon will rise in the ink sky, and, emerging from the ruins, the first wolf, raising its muzzle, will scream, send a lone cry up into the icy expanses, to the distant blue wolves sitting on branches in the black thickets of alien universes.

Ignatiev did not know how to cry and therefore smoked. The light flashed in small, toy-like lightning. Ignatiev lay, yearned, felt the tobacco bitterness and knew that there was truth in it. Bitterness, smoke, a tiny oasis of light in the dark - this is peace. A water tap rustled behind the wall. An earthy, tired, dear wife sleeps under a torn blanket. Little white Valerik scattered, frail, painful sprout, miserable to spasm - a rash, glands, dark circles under the eyes. And somewhere in the city, in one of the lighted windows, drinking red wine and laughing not with Ignatiev is the unfaithful, unsteady, evasive Anastasia. Look at me ... but she grins and looks away.

Ignatiev turned on his side. Melancholy moved closer to him, waved her ghostly sleeve - ships sailed out in a row. The sailors drunk with the natives in the taverns, the captain sat on the governor's veranda (cigars, liqueurs, a pet parrot), the watchman left his post to gawk at a cockfight, at a bearded woman in a motley patchwork booth; the ropes quietly untied, the night breeze blew, and old sailboats, creaking, leave the harbor no one knows where. Sick children and little gullible boys sleep soundly in their cabins; snore, holding a toy in a fist; the blankets slide, the deserted decks sway, a flock of ships floats away into the impenetrable darkness with a soft splash, and narrow lancet tracks smooth out on the warm black surface.

Melancholy waved her sleeve - spread the endless rocky desert - frost glistens on the cold rocky plain, the stars froze indifferently, the white moon indifferently draws circles, the bridle of a stepping camel sadly tinkles - a rider, wrapped in a striped Bukhara frozen cloth, approaches. Who are you, rider? Why did you let go of the reins? Why did you cover your face? Let me take your numb hands away! What is it, rider, are you dead? .. The rider's mouth gapes with a bottomless gap, his hair is tangled, and deep sorrowful grooves have drawn tears flowing on his cheeks for millennia.

Sweep the sleeve. Anastasia, wandering lights over a swamp bog. What is it booming in the thicket? Don't look back. A hot flower beckons to step on the springy brown tussocks. A rare restless fog walks around - it will lie down, then it will hang over the kind alluring moss; a red flower floats, flashes through white clouds: come here, come here. One step - is it scary? One more step - are you afraid? Shaggy heads stand in the moss, smiling, winking with their whole face. Resounding dawn. Don't be afraid the sun won't rise. Fear not, we still have fog. Step. Step. Step. Floats, laughs, a flower flashes. Don't look back !!! I think it will be in hand. I think that all the same it will be given. It will, I think. Step.

And-and-and-and-and, - groaned in the next room. Ignatiev jumped into the door with a jerk, rushed to the barred bed - what are you, what are you? The confused wife jumped up, twitched, interfering with each other, sheets, Valerik's blanket - to do something, move, fuss! The white head tossed about in a dream, wandered: ba-da-da, ba-da-da! Rapid muttering, pushing away with his hands, calmed down, turned around, lay down ... He went into dreams alone, without my mother, without me, along a narrow path under the fir arches.

"What is he?" - “Temperature again. I'll go to bed here. " - “Lie down, I brought a blanket. I'll give you a pillow now. - “This is how it will be until morning. Close the door. If you want to eat, there are cheesecakes. " “I don’t want, I don’t want anything. Sleep. "

Longing waited, lay in a wide bed, moved over, made room for Ignatiev, hugged him, laid her head on his chest, on the felled gardens, shallow seas, the ashes of cities.

But not all of them have been killed yet: in the morning, when Ignatiev is asleep, from somewhere out of the dugouts Zhivoe comes out; rakes burnt logs, plants small sprouts of seedlings: plastic primroses, cardboard oaks; drags cubes, erects temporary huts, fills the bowls of the seas from a children's watering can, cuts out pink pop-eyed crabs from a blotter and simple pencil draws the dark, winding line of the surf.

After work, Ignatiev did not immediately go home, but drank beer with a friend in the cellar. He was always in a hurry to take the best place - in the corner, but he rarely succeeded. And while he was in a hurry, avoiding the puddles, quickening his pace, patiently waiting out the roaring rivers of cars, longing hurried after him, clinging among the people; here and there, her flat, dull head emerged. There was no way to get rid of her, the doorman let her into the cellar, and Ignatiev was glad if a friend came quickly. Old friend, school friend! He was still waving his hand from a distance, nodding, smiling with rare teeth; thinning hair curled over an old, worn jacket. His children were already adults. His wife left him long ago, and he did not want to marry again. And with Ignatiev it was the opposite. They happily met, and dispersed irritated, dissatisfied with each other, but the next time everything was repeated from the beginning. And when a friend, out of breath, nodded to Ignatiev, making his way among the arguing tables, then in Ignatiev's chest, in the solar plexus, the Living One raised his head and also nodded and waved his hand.

They took beer and salty dryers.

I am in despair, - Ignatiev said, - I am simply in despair. I'm confused. How complicated it is. The wife is a saint. She quit her job and is sitting with Valerochka. He is sick, sick all the time. Legs do not walk well. Such a small stub. A little flickering. Doctors, injections, he is afraid of them. Shouts. I can't hear him crying. The main thing for him is leaving, well, she just gives it all. All blackened. Well, I just can't go home. Yearning. My wife doesn't look me in the eye. What's the use? Valerochka "Turnip" for the night read, all the same - the same longing. And all the lies, if the turnip is already stuck, you can't pull it out. I know. Anastasia ... You call, you call - she is not at home. And if at home, what should she talk to me about? About Valerochka? About the service? Bad, you know, - it crushes. Every day I give myself my word: tomorrow I will get up as a different person, I will cheer up. I will forget Anastasia, I’ll earn a lot of money, I’ll take Valerochka to the south ... I’ll renovate the apartment, I’ll run in the morning ... And at night, I’m melancholy.

I don’t understand, - said the friend, - well, what are you doing? Everyone has about the same circumstances, what's the matter? We live somehow.

You must understand: here, - Ignatiev pointed to his chest, - alive, alive, it hurts!

What a fool, - a friend was brushing a tooth with a match. - That's why it hurts because it's alive. How do you want?

And I want it not to hurt. But it's hard for me. And here I am, imagine, I am suffering. And the wife suffers, and Valerochka suffers, and Anastasia, probably, also suffers and turns off the phone. And we all torture each other.

What a fool. Don't suffer.

But I can not.

What a fool. Just think, world sufferer! You just don’t want to be healthy, vigorous, fit, you don’t want to be the master of your life.

I got to the point, ”Ignatiev said, grabbed his hair with his hands and stared dully into the foam-smeared mug.

Baba you. Revel in your imaginary torment.

No, not a woman. No, I don't get drunk. I am sick and I want to be healthy.

And if so, be aware: the diseased organ must be amputated. Like an appendix.

Ignatiev raised his head, amazed.

That is, as?

I said.

In what sense amputate?

Medical. They are doing it now.

The friend looked around, lowered his voice, began to explain: there is such an institution, it's not far from Novoslobodskaya, that's how they operate there; of course, while this is semi-official, in a private way, but it is possible. Of course, the doctor needs to be put on his paw. People come out completely refreshed. Didn't Ignatiev hear? In the West, this is put on a grand scale, and in our country - from under the counter. Sluggishness because. Bureaucracy.

Ignatiev listened stunned.

But at least they ... experimented on dogs first?

The friend tapped his forehead.

You think and then speak. Dogs don't have it. They have reflexes. Pavlov's teachings.

Ignatiev pondered.

But this is awful!

And what's so terrible about that. Outstanding results: Thinking ability is unusually sharpened. Willpower grows. All idiotic fruitless doubts are completely stopped. Harmony of the body and ... uh-uh ... the brain. Intelligence shines like a spotlight. You will immediately set a target, hit without a miss and grab the highest prize. Yes, I do not say anything - what am I, forcing you? If you do not want to be treated, go sick. With your dull nose. And let your women turn off the phone.

Ignatiev was not offended, shook his head: women, yes ...

A woman, so you know, Ignatiev, whether she is even Sophia Loren, must be told: Get out! Then he will respect. And so, of course, you are not quoted.

How can I tell her that? I bow, tremble ...

In-in. Tremble. ...

What is the soul? Can you tell a soulful person from an indifferent person? Are you familiar with the states when "cats scratch in their souls" or "the soul sings"? Soul - 1. The inner mental world of a person, his consciousness Betrayed by the soul and body. 2. This or that character trait, as well as a person with certain traits. Low d. 3. The inspirer of something, the main person. D. society. 4. About a person (in idioms) There is not a soul in the house. 5. In the old days, a serf peasant. Dead Souls. Dictionary by S. I. Ozhegov and N. Yu. Shvedov

“Blank slate” “Every night longing came to Ignatiev. Heavy, dim, with her head bowed, she sat on the edge of the bed, took the hand - a sad nurse from a hopeless patient. So they were silent for hours - hand in hand. Behind the wall, an earthy, tired, dear wife sleeps under a torn blanket. Little white Valerik scattered about - a frail, painful sprout, a miserable spasm - a rash, glands, dark circles under the eyes. Melancholy waited, lay in a wide bed, moved over, made room for Ignatiev, hugged him, laid her head on his chest. To the felled gardens. Shallow seas, the ashes of cities. But not all have been killed yet: in the morning, when Ignatiev is asleep, from somewhere out of the dugouts comes the Living; raking burnt logs, planting small sprouts of seedlings: plastic primroses, cardboard oaks, dragging cubes, erecting temporary huts. From a children's watering can he fills the bowls of the seas and with a simple pencil draws the dark winding line of the surf. "

“It's bad, you know,” it presses. Every day I give myself my word: tomorrow I will become a different person, I will cheer up, I will forget Anastasia, I will earn a lot of money, I will take Valerochka to the south ... I will repair the apartment, I will run in the mornings ... And at night - melancholy. “I don’t understand,” the friend said, “why are you freaking out? Everyone has about the same circumstances, what's the matter? We live somehow. - You must understand: here, - Ignatiev, pointing to his chest, - alive, alive, it hurts! - What a fool, - a friend was brushing a tooth with a match. - That's why it hurts because it's alive. How do you want? - And I want it not to hurt. But it's hard for me. And here I am, imagine, I am suffering. And the wife suffers, and Valerochka suffers, and Anastasia, probably, also suffers and turns off the phone. And we all torture each other ... I am sick and I want to be healthy. - And if so, be aware: the diseased organ must be amputated. Like an appendix. Ignatiev raised his head, amazed. - In what sense amputate? - In medical. They are doing it now. "

“Only the weak regret the needless sacrifices. He will be strong. He will burn everything that raises barriers. He will lasso, strap to the saddle, tame the elusive Anastasia. He will raise the earthy, lowered face of his dear exhausted wife. Contradictions will not tear him apart. Clearly, the worthy will be justly balanced. here is your place, wife. Owl. Here is your place, Anastasia. Kings. Smile, too, little Valerik. Your legs will get stronger, and the glands will pass, for daddy loves you, pale city potato sprout. Dad will get rich. He will call dear doctors in gold glasses, with leather bags. Gently passing you from hand to hand, they will carry you to the fruity shores of the ever-blue sea, and the lemon, orange breeze will blow away the dark circles from your eyes. Who is this walking, slender as a cedar, strong as steel, springy steps, not knowing shameful doubts? This is Ignatiev. His path is straight, his earnings are high, his eyes are sure, the women are looking after him. "

“Behind there was the clatter of a wheelchair, dull moans - and two elderly women in white coats drove a writhing, nameless body, all in bloody bandages dried on - both face and chest, - just a mouth with a black mooing gap. Also, this? Him? .. They ripped it out, right? The nurse laughed mirthlessly. - No, he was transplanted. You will be removed, another will be transplanted. Do not worry. This is an inpatient. - Ah, so they do the opposite too? And why such ... - Not a tenant. They do not live. We take a subscription before the operation. Useless. Don't survive. - Rejection? The immune system? - flaunted Ignatiev. - Extensive heart attack. - Why? - They can't stand it. They were born that way, lived their whole lives, did not know what kind of thing it was - and suddenly here you are - give them a transplant. The fashion has gone like that, or something. There are queues, roll calls once a month. There are not enough donors. - And I, therefore, a donor?

“Get out your scalpel, knife, sickle, whatever is customary for you, doctor, do a blessing, cut off the branch. Still blooming, but already inevitably dying, and throw it into the cleansing fire. Ignatiev began to look and saw the doctor. on his head, like a stepped cone, sat a hat — a white tiara with a blue stripe, a starchy ziggurat. Swarthy face. The eyes are down on the papers. And powerfully, a waterfall, but scary - from ears to waist down - in four tiers, forty spirals twisted a hard blue Assyrian beard - thick rings, resin springs, night hyacinth. I, Doctor of Physicians, Ivanov. He had no eyes. From the empty eye sockets, a black hole emanated into nowhere, an underground passage to other worlds, to the outskirts of the dead seas of darkness. And there you had to go. There were no eyes, but there was a look. And he looked at Ignatiev. "

Find vocabulary changes “It's nice to feel a dull patch in your solar plexus. All the choir. - Okay, beard, I got it. Give it five. Whether SchA in social security or where to go? Not, social security after, but schA write where to and signal to whom it is supposed that the doctor, who calls himself Ivanov, takes bribes. Write in detail, but so it is with humor: they say, there are no eyes, but denyushki vi - it is coming! And where are those who are supposed to look? And then in the social security. So and so, I can no longer keep this baby at home. Unsanitary conditions, you know. Please provide a boarding school. They will be kobenny, you have to give it up on your paw. It’s as usual. This is in the order of things. Ignatiev pushed open the door of the post office. "

Conversation on the content of the story What will be the future of our hero? Will he be happy? What does the author want to say with such a finale? Explain the meaning of the title of the story? What are the signs of postmodernism in Tolstoy's story? What meaning does the author put in the title of the story?

Longing Go away, longing! Tatyana Ezhevskaya Tatyana Ezhevskaya Why, longing, are you gnawing at your soul And eating, savoring the pieces? You are a kind of feminine, too ... Let's put an end to it now. Leave, leave without regret, No need to gnaw and torment the soul. Give it to me in possession, I will not break our contract. I will not disturb you again. Fly, longing, live in peace. I'll just forget about you, so that the soul does not hurt. And from the torn pieces I blind the beautiful living, And I will round off all the corners, Diving into happiness with my head

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