There lived a little man. Analysis of Rozhdestvensky's poem "On the Earth mercilessly small ...

A little boy from the last century, reading a poem by Robert Rozhdestvensky, has already become the "star" of the Internet in our time. Clear voice, burning eyes, emotional reading - this baby has become a symbol of an entire era. But few know his name and history.

Many Runet users, of course, more than once came across a video where a little boy reads a poem by Robert Rozhdestvensky "Once upon a time there was a little man." Here is the video

The video is really very touching, and many people have a question - who is this baby, and how did his life turn out. Someone claims that this is Valentin Karmanov, and someone calls the name Alexander Chernyavsky. In fact, the guy in the frame is Valentin Karmanov, and he owes his appearance in the frame to one of the best directors of the last century, Rolan Bykov.

In 1973, Rolan Antonovich was looking for suitable child for filming in the film "Car, violin and dog Blot." Frames with a boy reading a poem by Robert Rozhdestvensky about " little man"- part of the casting. Both boys - both Valentine and Alexander - can be seen in the short film "Invited to leading role". It is worth watching in full. It contains the desire to become an astronaut, and children's tears, and much, much more. Sheer cuteness. In the second minute of the film - little Sasha, who became the hero of the film, for the casting of which he came. And Valentin reads a poem at 7 minutes.

The boy read the same poem in the film "No Return". Later, Valentin starred in 5 more films. His last shoot was in 1980. And this is where the boy's film career ended. But in 2013, the already adult Valentin Karmanov appeared in the First Channel program “In Our Time” and again read Rozhdestvensky - not as emotionally as in childhood, but definitely not worse.

And Sasha Chernyavsky, who was chosen by Rolan Bykov for his film, after filming in the film "Car, Violin and Blot Dog" did not appear in the cinema anymore. It is known that in 2010 he and his friends created the group "All their own", but at present the group no longer exists.

And for lovers of poetry, we publish a poem by Robert Rozhdestvensky, which Valentin Karmanov read so emotionally.

On the ground
pitilessly small
there lived a small man.
He had a small service.
And a very small portfolio.
He received a small salary...
And one day -
lovely morning -
knocked on his window
small,
it seemed
war...
They gave him a small machine gun.
They gave him small boots.
The helmet was issued small
and small-
by size -
overcoat.

And when he fell
ugly, wrong
twisting his mouth in an attacking cry,
then all over the earth
not enough marble
to knock out a guy
in full height!
<Роберт Рождественский>

Let's remember another bright poem of Rozhdestvensky

This is a wonderful poem Robert Rozhdestvensky tells about the fate of a seemingly small person. Once upon a time there was a small, nondescript, gray little man. Everything was small for him: a small position in a small office, a small salary, a small portfolio and a small apartment, probably not even an apartment, but a room in a working hostel or in a communal apartment. And this person would have been very small and inconspicuous until the end of his life if the war had not knocked on the door of his house ...

The little man in the army was given everything that he used to have in pre-war life: everything familiar, dear, small ... He had a small machine gun, and his overcoat was small, and a flask of water - small, small tarpaulin boots ... And the task before it was as if a small one was set for him: to defend a section of the front two meters by two ... But, that's when he fulfilled his sacred duty to the Motherland and the people ... when he was killed and he fell into the mud, twisting his mouth with a terrible grimace of pain and death ... then there was no there is so much marble in the whole world to put a monument on his grave of such a size as he deserves ...

The chanting of the feat of arms of a simple Russian soldier is the main and only theme of this courageous poem. This poem has no classical form. It does not contain exquisite beautiful metaphors in the spirit of Blok or Gumilyov, but behind its formal simplicity hides the rough and cruel truth of life. The author showed us life as it is. And thank you very much for that!

I would like to touch here in passing on a topic that I have raised in my articles published on the excellent site: why a good modern poet will never achieve the same level of public recognition that worthy authors of the past achieved. The thing is, there are far more people than ever before. Moreover, there were very few literate and reading people before - just a few. These were mainly representatives of the nobility and the raznochintsy intelligentsia. And nowadays everyone is literate.

In any case, I want to believe it. There is no doubt that it is much easier to make a name for yourself among a hundred sympathetic readers than among a hundred thousand or a million. If in the 19th century you entered the aristocratic living rooms of Moscow and St. Petersburg, and if you won your readers there, then consider that you have conquered all of Russia. And if you are also a chamberlain of His Court Imperial Majesty or, at worst, a chamber junker (like Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin), then you will make your reader the Sovereign Emperor of All Russia, and this gave unlimited literary possibilities.

In our time, you need to have access to the media: on television, in the editorial offices of thick magazines and literary newspapers. And this does not always work out ... So it turns out that during the “Silver” and “Golden Ages” of Russian poetry, it was easier for a worthy author to make a literary career for himself than now. Moreover, the then readers knew a lot about literary sausage scraps, as they say ... Not like now.

With this article, I would like to honor the memory of my closest relatives who participated in the Great Patriotic War. They, too, like the lyrical hero of this poem, were so small ... and so big. May the memory of Ivanov Igor Mikhailovich(private sapper battalion); Ivanov Mikhail Nikolaevich(junior sergeant of a sapper battalion); Ivanov Yakov Nikolaevich(major general of artillery); Madykin Alexander Ivanovich(captain, deputy assistant commander of a sapper-construction brigade); Madykin Sergey Ivanovich(senior lieutenant of the engineer-construction troops, deputy company commander); Madykin Mikhail Ivanovich(sergeant of automobile troops); Frolov Boris Vasilievich(major-military doctor, head of the department of the hospital in Gorky). May the earth rest in peace to you, my dears!

Robert Rozhdestvensky

On the ground

pitilessly small

there lived a small man.

He had a small service.

And a very small portfolio.

He received a small salary...

And one day -

lovely morning -

Robert Rozhdestvensky "On the Earth is mercilessly small" http://goo.gl/9EL7ME

PLAN OF PARSING:

0. Quoting a poem. So that the reader, for himself, could draw certain conclusions.
1. PART ONE. According to the "famous scheme of four interpretations."
2. PART TWO. Extracurricular reading. With a few comments. In search of "little people".
3. PART THREE. Continuation of extracurricular reading. With a few comments. In search of "little people". But with a different character.
4. PART FOUR. A little about everything.
5. PART FIVE. Rhythmic analysis.
6. PART SIX. Summing up and evaluation of the poem.
7. PART SEVEN. Appendix. For the last extracurricular reading. With a few comments. In search of "little people". With another new hero.

0. I quote a poem:

===========================
On the ground
pitilessly small

And a very small portfolio.

And one day -
lovely morning -
knocked on his window
small,
it seemed
war...

They gave him small boots.
The helmet was issued small
and small-
by size -
overcoat.

And when he fell
ugly, wrong
twisting his mouth in an attacking cry,
then all over the earth
not enough marble
to knock out a guy
in full growth!

1969
===========================

PART ONE. According to the "famous scheme of four interpretations."

Gasparov. Selected works 1-3. Applications. Medieval Latin Poetics in the System of Medieval Grammar and Rhetoric. Part two: Sermon. Quote:

===========================
... the tradition of interpreting Scripture unexpectedly met with a completely different tradition - with that "interpretation of the poets", which was part of the school grammar curriculum. The techniques were the same; the question was raised as to how the given text should be correctly understood; other texts of similar content were used for verification; to clarify the meaning of each word, other cases of using this word were used; as a result, the text appeared as an indicative part of a large ideological system, acquiring many additional meanings. These meanings were classified according to the famous scheme of four interpretations - literal (historical), allegorical, tropological and anagogical so that in the literal sense "Jerusalem" meant the city in Judea, in the allegorical sense - the holy church, in the tropological sense - the soul of the believer, in the anagogical sense - the kingdom of heaven ( “what happened”, “what to believe”, “what to do”, “what to hope for”).
===========================

Now it’s not the essence of many controversial interpretations of a particular word according to the principle of “four” (interpretations), as Gasparov writes, and their interaction with each other - which he does not write about, but as a starting point for our analysis, we will try to determine the essence of the expression “little man” in a poem by Robert Rozhdestvensky. SUMMARY:

1. In a LITERAL HISTORICAL sense, this is a simple citizen who stood up to defend his country. Voluntarily or by order, the question is interesting. But it was.
2. In the ALLEGORICAL sense, this is a cog in a large system, from its point of view it can be: meaningless, not noticeable and not needed by anyone. However, he is a part of this system - even if this system does not notice him. It certainly needs to be believed. Although - this is the way it is.
3. In the TROPOLOGICAL sense (in this case in the metonymic) there is Synecdoche - one as many and vice versa - where one "little man" who became a soldier turned into a victorious people. How fair this is is also an interesting question. What to do with it? We'll figure it out later.
4. In the ANAGOGICAL sense, as far as I can judge from the examples, this "little man" must recognize himself as a "system" - this is my opinion. And what else can he hope for - that he benefits society without any remuneration for his labors? In Robert Rozhdestvensky, this anagogical meaning is embodied in stone - in granite - a monument to the "Liberator Warrior".

Now, let's look at these "four" positions in more DETAILS:

1. In addition to certain condensed formulations, there are also detailed ones. The definition of “little man” is a citizen, as you understand, is incomplete. Because each of us is a citizen of our country - both a banker and a pilot ... Both a plowman and a worker ... And what qualities Robert Rozhdestvensky endowed his “little man” with - let's see:

===========================
there lived a small man.
He had a small service.
And a very small portfolio.
He received a small salary...
===========================

As you understand, and as I hope I understand it, our “little man” was either an accountant, or a bank employee, or a cultural worker, or someone else, as they would say in Europe, an ordinary clerk. Cog, even in its own coordinate system.
A very remarkable detail in the description of this "little man" is "a very small briefcase." The word "very" is a Vychka (literary term). Remove it and feel "rhythmic laughter". However, this Vytyka, to be sure justified. And, it is rhythmically highlighted. "Very" - a very small portfolio. Allegorically speaks of the very insignificance of the position of our "little man". As one person correctly noted - Gogol's Akaki Akakievich of the 20th century. More than... -

===========================
GOGOL N.V. STORY OVERCOAT. LITTLE MAN AKAKY AKAKIEVICH BASHMACHKIN http://qoo.by/3een

The protagonist of the story The Overcoat is Akaki Akakievich Bashmachkin. Gogol calls him a little man. Akaki Akakievich worked as a titular councilor (civil rank of the IX class) in St. Petersburg. His salary was 400 rubles a year. He was very fond of his work, manual copying of papers, and approached it with great responsibility and scrupulousness. However, in the department, his role was insignificant and therefore young employees of the department often laughed at him.
One day, the little man noticed that his overcoat was worn out, he took it to the tailor to have it repaired, but the tailor refused and said that a new one had to be sewn.
Akaky Akakievich had to greatly reduce his expenses, which were already small. When Akkaky received a salary for the holiday, he went with a tailor for material for a new overcoat.
When the little man came to work in a new overcoat, he was invited to a name day to the assistant head of the clerk. Returning home late at night, Akaky Akakievich lost his overcoat and was forced to wear an old one, because of which he fell ill and died.
Later, the ghost of the titular adviser began to appear at the Kalinkin bridge. He pulled [l] fur coats, overcoats and overcoats from passers-by.
===========================

Well, it’s not a fact that our “little man” was like that, however, it’s so usual, the life of such “little people” is by no means sugar. Well, for what reasons, Robert Rozhdestvensky decided to glorify this "little man" remains a mystery to us. Although, perhaps, somewhere it will be possible to find the author’s thoughts on such an unsightly little, but in general, the main character of the poem. But later - if there is. Now, this will both interfere and distract us from the analysis.

Unfortunately, Gasparov has nothing in what is called "surrounding reality" accompanying the main character. How to parse it and whether it is possible from the position of "four interpretations" is unknown. But let's try.
Since in the historical sense there is nothing here but indirect associations, taken, rather, by attributes to one of the three approximate signs of the poem, namely, machine guns and helmets are attributes of war: 1. an unnamed country - the Soviet Union - “On Earth is mercilessly small”; 2. unnamed war - the Great Patriotic War - "a small, it seemed, war ..."; and 3. unnamed monuments to the Liberator Warriors - “there was not enough marble” - and all this may seem paradoxical to someone, and even with author's position and even more so, but from the point of view of the verse, it absolutely does not mean that this poem is about the Soviet Union; however, according to the historical meaning of the poem, we took everything we could, therefore, we move on to the next point: allegorical.

2. If taken as a whole, then allegorically, the whole poem is a caricature, a caricature. Everything about it is wrong. Everything. Even the last two lines about full-length monuments rather emphasize the caricature of the poem. But let's see in more detail. First line:

"On Earth mercilessly small ..." [for kindness] -

Only [so] this line does not seem to me a caricature. In order to understand this, it is necessary to replace the word "ruthlessness" - as the highest form of cruelty, with aggression or the same cruelty and get the Earth small for its cruelty or the Earth known for its small cruelty - and how to understand this? You will say ...: compared to the Universe, our Earth ... oh yes - very, very small: a grain of sand in the ocean of the Cosmos - but what does ruthlessness have to do with it? The epithet is still the same, and besides, it is a part of the Epithet, belonging to its other part - a small one. And so, the poet, subordinated cruelty to the small miracle of the Earth. The earth is small - yes, but according to the poet, it is also mercilessly small.
We considered the lines of the protagonist in a historical sense. We will not consider them allegorically. Moreover, already - Akaki Akakievich is one hundred percent. Now let's look at the rest of the "paints" accompanying our hero:

===========================
And one day -
lovely morning -
knocked on his window
small,
it seemed
war...
They gave him a small machine gun.
They gave him small boots.
The helmet was issued small
and small-
by size -
overcoat.
===========================

“The war knocked on the window”, didn’t look in - okay. However, rather correctly, because the war is noisy and knocks out glass. Suddenly. It's clear. Associations with a window - for some reason, rustic. And that's okay. “It seemed like a small war” is another cartoon. And dealt with the war. Let's move on to its attributes. Honestly? "Little Machine" is not a briefcase, it's another caricature. And the point is not even that there are (and even if there could be) small automata in the literal sense of the word - and over this expression we hold back laughter, but in an allegorical sense, what does this mean? It feels like the author completely forgot about his "little man" that he began to give out on the mountain from line to line. It’s good that a tank or an airplane didn’t give out a small one to our little hero. Next... And here, we fall into a trap. More precisely, they realized that they hit. OK. Agree.
A trap, they say - from the contrary, a person was literally big, so much so that everything that is not inherent in him thanks to light hand the author turned out to be small. Thank you, the last line: "and a small - in size - overcoat." It's funny! However, if the overcoat turned out to be small IN SIZE, then this is a trap. Well, it's accepted. And you don’t even know what to think now ... - “matrix-reloaded”. Let's break it down and get into trouble. Eh. And we don’t have examples of analysis from the “interpretations of poets”. OK. So let's recap here.
Firstly, except for “a little man” - “there once was a little man” (1o11oooooo1 - if so, otherwise “there lived and there was a little man” 1o1oo11oooo), all other lines with the main epithet of the protagonist, the most that neither on is - direct speech. How far all this justifies or has the right to life in this poem is difficult to judge. However, this is the place to be. At least in this verse and in my current state. And we'll see.
In this case, I don’t see the point in disassembling the rest of the points - tropological and anagogical. Maybe later, before, I will quote one small passage from the life of one "little man", in some way similar to the hero of Robert Rozhdestvensky. Yeah.
Second, let's go.

PART TWO. Extracurricular reading. With a few comments. In search of "little people". Boris Kremnev. Beethoven. Part one. Some consecutive paragraphs:

===========================
Bandmaster Beethoven lived, although not in need, but in her constant environment. Around him was a poor, destitute people, dying from disease and exhaustion. Rarely did the Electorate of Cologne go through a year without starvation, when entire villages died out en masse. His country - the holy Roman Empire of the German nation - was fragmented into many dwarf states, given over to the power of cruel and greedy princes-autocrats. Unlimited lords, they sought to outdo each other in luxury and debauchery, and they drew funds from the same almost dry source. Various requisitions fell upon the people. In the electorate of Cologne, for example, road tolls, a toll for crossing the Rhine, taxes on salt, and tribute from Jews were levied. Fees were not levied except from the air. Here is one of the great number of police regulations of that time: “Whoever does not prepare a tub of water for the night, pays 12 kreuzers fine; whoever walks down the street with a pipe in his mouth - 10 kr.; who does not have a stable lantern - 12 cr.; who climbs over the fence - 20 kr., who Sundays drinking or making noise in a tavern - 15 kr. (for each must drink his glass in silence!); which of the young people will meet outside the city or in the gardens on Sunday or a holiday during the service - 10 kr .; who does not submit the prescribed number of killed sparrows - 6 kr. for each unrepresented unit, and whoever submits another bird instead of a sparrow - 12 kr.; who plays cards in a tavern - 40 kr., and who allows the game at home - 50 kr.; a man in the street who calls another "you" pays 8 kr.
But the funds coming from countless extortions were not enough. And then the rulers were human trafficking. They sold their subjects for cannon fodder. Here is what Emperor Frederick II of Prussia wrote about the Elector of Cologne Clemens August:
“The Elector of Cologne put as many mitres on his head as he could get. He was Elector of Cologne, Bishop of Münster, Paderborn, Osnabrück, and moreover Commander of the German Order. He maintained from eight to twelve thousand people and traded them as a cattle dealer trades in bulls.
Ludwig Beethoven, with his characteristic perspicacity, realized that in the society in which he lives, an humble person has only one way to protect himself from complete lack of rights - to achieve security. Money gave independence. Big money brought freedom. They guaranteed against many vicissitudes, with which life in a state where despotism reigns is fraught.
Ludwig was wealthy. He decided that he needed to make a fortune. Over the years, he invested the accumulated capital in the business and acquired a wine cellar.
Trade went briskly and brought a good income. According to a contemporary, "the court bandmaster van Beethoven had money on deposits ... He sold his wine to the Netherlands, from where merchants and connoisseurs came to him and bought wine."
It would seem that both he and his family - by that time he had married Maria Joseph Pohl, and in 1740 their son Johann was born - were waiting for prosperity. But exactly what promised prosperity turned into disaster.
Kapellmeister devoted most of his time to serving at court and entrusted his wife to conduct trade. Gradually, Maria Josepha turned from a seller of wine into the most ardent consumer of it. Even the regulars of the cellar could not compete with her.
The further, the more. Maria Iosefa was so addicted to wine that from morning to evening she did not part with a mug. It got to the point that many mothers in the city predicted for their sons, who had an excessive love for alcohol, the future of Frau Beethoven, which frightened the youths a lot.
There was trouble in the house. Ludwig Beethoven, who most of all loved calm and sedateness, now lived in the incessant noise of scandals, screams, drunken hysterical fun.
Johann grew up in such an environment. Naturally endowed with good abilities, he inherited a beautiful voice and musicality from his father. But from his mother he inherited a flabby will and a thoughtless attitude to life. Abilities did not help, but rather harmed him. Difficulties teach a person to overcome obstacles, develop character. Johann, both in childhood and in his youth, everything was easy. Thanks to his father, at the age of twelve he sang in court chapel, at the age of sixteen he took the position of candidate for court musicians, and by the age of twenty-four he had already become a full-fledged court musician.
That is why Johann grew up to be a careless rake, who does not know how and does not like to work.
In addition, the mother somehow, in a fit of drunken tenderness, decided to bring joy to her only son and treated him to wine. And since she believed that she loved her son, these treats were repeated repeatedly. And little by little, Johann got used to wine from childhood, and when he grew up, he became addicted to drinking.
So another drunk appeared in the family.
Decisive measures were needed. And the old Kapellmeister accepted them. He married his son. With drunk Maria Josepha, he acted cooler - he imprisoned her in a monastery near Cologne.
The blind walls of the monastery turned out to be more reliable than marriage - the old woman spent her life in the holy monastery until her death, disturbing no one.
The son, after his marriage, drank even more.
Unfortunately, Johann got caught good wife. Maria Magdalena Keverich was an unusually gentle and kind creature. Small in stature, thin and fragile, she looked not like a woman who had already managed to be a widow and bury her first child before her marriage to Johann, but like an angular and timid teenager, frightened looking at the world with sad gray eyes. Resigned and meek, she seemed to have been made to be pushed around. And that was just what Johann needed. Every year he became more and more swaggering, bullying his wife. It often happened that he beat her, not in the least embarrassed by the presence of children. He beat for the fact that he could not get money, which he himself drank away shortly before.
So the empty varmint turned into an eternally drunk family tyrant. No wonder that the neighbors, according to a contemporary, "could not remember that Madame van Beethoven had ever laughed - she was always serious."
And, of course, Frau Beethoven said to one of her neighbors for a reason:
"If you obey my good advice then stay unmarried. You will have a wonderful, calm life, you will live for your own pleasure. For what is marriage? A little joy at the beginning and a continuous chain of suffering later.
Some years " family happiness”, Constant fear of her husband, overwork at home, where everything went to dust, severely exhausted Mary Magdalene. Next to her husband, she looked like an old woman, although she was six years younger than him.
In the end, the old Kapellmeister gave up on his son. With one wave of a small, but strong hand he chopped off a worthless branch and began to live alone, closed and unsociable.
It was as if his son didn't exist for him now. What else stirred the old man's heart was pity for his daughter-in-law. He tried to help her, but he did it on the sly, secretly from Johann. He knew that he would take away the money, and drink it away, and beat his wife.
Probably out of good feeling for Mary Magdalene, grandfather agreed to be godfather little Ludwig. And if three years later the old Kapellmeister had not died, who knows, perhaps Beethoven's childhood would have turned out quite differently.
===========================

Before turning specifically to our main character in the story of Boris Kremnev, let me recall a certain moment from my own life that so succinctly fell on what the author of Beethoven writes about. About taxes on sparrows... However, here's Europe for you. That's Germany for you. Fragmented, really. Another point, how much they are not strongly believers, is clearly described in this book - although it is not called directly. And if only our authors wrote about it.
Once upon a time, on TV I watched a program about the reign of Mao Zedong. There, about the same plot was. When every Chinese - a peasant engaged in agriculture, was obliged to destroy pests in rice fields (or wheat, I don’t remember) - ordinary sparrows. Obliged, I emphasize. And a certain number of them. The carcasses had to be provided to the persons appointed for this. The narrator was so surprisingly indignant at such tyranny of Mao's tyranny that, to be honest, he infected me - and what else to call it! And here, on you - civilized Europe! And how many years did it go to today's civilization ... And does it live? Materially, maybe. But ... - I wonder if we had similar cases tyranny of the authorities... But who should Russia become in 20-30 years after the well-known events... - who? However, we digress a bit. Let's continue. We haven't finished yet - if that.
Oh, "the layman who calls another "you" - pay[...] 8 kr." - may such educational wisdom not fade through the ages! .. People! Respect the great personality in others, not only in yourself... Oh heaven... Let's continue at last! -

===========================
The courtyard of the house of the baker Fischer, where Johann Beethoven lived with his family, was paved with cobblestones. But no matter how tightly the stones fit one to the other, grass made its way between them. She was not watered, she was not looked after, the stone squeezed and choked her, and yet she indestructibly reached for the light. The young organism, strong and strong, was filled with vital juices. The grass was green. The grass grew.
Ludwig grew up the same way. When he was very young, he crawled around the yard, crushed his nose on the cobblestones, smeared blood, dirt and tears on his face with his fist, and crawled on. Nobody took care of him, nobody looked after him. On the contrary, having become bigger, he himself took care of his younger brothers: he dragged them into the yard for a walk, pulled their hair when they quarreled and played pranks, did not allow them to run away into the street, where the hooves of a horse or carriage wheels lay in wait for the kids.
From an early age, Ludwig lived alone, without a parental eye. The mother was just about ready to do the chores around the house. Vain attempts to make irreducible ends meet killed her strength.
In addition, lately Maria Magdalena began to get tired very quickly. Her already long face seemed to stretch even more. Cheeks sunken, cheekbones pointed and burning with fire. She often leaned against the wall and, burying her face in her hands, coughed for a long time.
The only thing she could give her children was an affectionate look and a soft, tired smile.
It turns out that this is not so little. Beethoven kept a warm, grateful memory of his mother all his life. Sparks of caress tore apart the unkind darkness of his childhood.
He grew up left to himself, from childhood he faced life one on one, got used to its pushes and did not pay attention to them.
He drew all his strength in himself and relied only on himself. Therefore, probably, much of what prevents people from living did not touch him. In the cold he went naked, in slush and bad weather he ran barefoot. On dark evenings, when other children timidly huddle up to adults, he slipped into the attic and gazed for a long time into the distance shrouded in a hazy haze, where the mighty Rhine rolled its waters menacingly.
He didn't care what they said about him. He believed in himself early and firmly. “When Ludwig van Beethoven grew up,” recalls Cecilia Fischer, “he often walked around dirty, untidy. Cecilia Fisher told him:
“You're going dirty again, Ludwig. You need to take care of yourself, be clean and tidy.
He answered her:
- Well, so what? When I become an important master, no one will even notice.
At the age of six he went to primary school. His suit, with holes and patches, caused a lot of ridicule. But then, when the boys became too importunate - they pulled at the dress, pinched - he abruptly cut off all the harassment. This was done very simply: Ludwig beat the boys. Calmly, decisively. And since he was strong, much stronger than his peers, they immediately left him alone and tried not to hurt him anymore.
Much later, more than twenty years later, he wrote to one of his friends: "Power is the morality of people who are different from the rest, it is my morality."
But this mighty man never used force to harm others, but only with its help protected himself from the harm that others tried to inflict on him.
The nickname "Spanyol" - "Spaniard", firmly stuck to him, did not hurt him at all. He got this nickname because he was dark-skinned and black-haired.
During the five years spent at school, Ludwig learned little - reading, writing and the rudiments of Latin and arithmetic. Until the end of his days, he was in dire need of the most elementary knowledge - he wrote with spelling errors, and he never really learned to count. When to him, already worldwide famous composer, it was required to calculate the fee to multiply 251 by 22, he wrote out the number 251 twenty-two times in a column and added it up. He forever retained a naive respect for people who knew how to quickly count and owned the secrets of multiplication and division, incomprehensible to him.
But musical development it went very fast. However ugly the methods were, the training bore the richest fruits. No matter how barbarously the soil was cultivated, it gave excellent shoots - it was very fertile.
I must say that the teachers were not so bad either. In any case, they knew their craft perfectly. Johann Beethoven's drinking buddy Tobias Pfeiffer was not only a frequenter of taverns, but also an excellent musician. He sang well, played the piano well, and played the oboe superbly. He, albeit with drunken persistence, and sometimes cruelty, sought from his student what every musician needs - fluency of fingers, the ability to read from a sheet, that is, quickly, on the move, without first learning, to play this or that piece. He taught Ludwig music, although he did not educate him musically. But at first, like laying the foundation, and this was necessary, although, of course, it would be much better if both were harmoniously combined.
===========================

Well enough. We won't talk for a long time. Yes, and it's inappropriate. However, "a healthy mind in a healthy body." The life of Ludwig van Beethoven (who died, by the way, in complete poverty), is not an example for others. However, if a person is strong (in anything) he can afford to be weak. It is these people who, in any difficult years for the country, can be its defenders and heroes. Somewhere and "akakieviches" can ... - somewhere there - somewhere very far away. If we imagine that they ... as "Mary Magdalene" are able to endure adversity so that there is not enough marble on Earth, only, I emphasize, "Beethovens". Why "them"? Why not "Mozarts", for example? Small, by the way, was a man - in relation to physique. However, was he a small person, in terms of spirit? Definitely - no. But Mozart was, rather, a child - a brilliant child. Indeed, there may not have been such people among creative people at all ... The same Boris Kremnev has something to say about Mozart. But this, that's all, not just great people, but also famous ones. And here, our next hero (where there is one there and the other ...) - Santiago, - I ask the reader to forgive me for another long quotation ...

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PART THREE. Continuation of extracurricular reading. With a few comments. In search of "little people". Quotes from Ernest Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea:

===========================
- Fish, - he said, - I love and respect you very much. But I will kill you before the evening comes.
Let's hope I can do it, he thought. A small bird approached the boat from the north. She flew low over the water. The old man saw that she was very tired.
The bird sat on the stern to rest. Then she circled over the old man's head and sat down on the line where she felt more comfortable. - How old are you? the old man asked her. - Probably, this is your first trip?
The bird looked back at him. She was too tired to check if the line was strong enough, and only swayed, clasping her with her tender paws.
"Don't be afraid, the rope is tight," the old man assured her. - Even too hard. You shouldn't be so tired on a windless night. Oh, not those birds have gone today!
“But the hawks,” he thought, “are coming out to sea to meet you.” But he did not say this to the bird, and she would not have understood him anyway. Nothing, she herself will soon find out everything about the hawks.
"Rest well, little bird," he said. - And then fly to the shore and fight, as every person, bird or fish fights. The conversation with the bird had cheered him up, as his back had become quite stiff during the night, and now he was in real pain. "Stay with me if you like, bird," he said. - It is a pity that I can not set sail and bring you to land, although now there is a light wind. But I have a friend here that I can't leave. At that moment, the fish suddenly rushed and threw the old man on his nose; she would have dragged him overboard if he had not put his hands on him and let go of the line.
When the line twitched, the bird took off, and the old man did not even notice how it disappeared. He felt the wood with his right hand and saw that blood was flowing from his hand. "That's right, the fish got hurt too," he said aloud and pulled on the line, checking to see if he could turn the fish the other way. Pulling the line to failure, he again froze in the same position.
Are you sick, fish? - he asked. - God knows, it's not easier for me myself. He looked around for the bird, because he wanted to talk to someone. But the bird was nowhere to be found.
"You haven't been with me for long," thought the old man. - But where you flew, the wind is much stronger, and it will blow all the way to land. How did I let the fish hurt me with one swift tug? That's right, I'm completely stupid. Or maybe he just looked at the bird and thought only about it? Now I will think about business and eat tuna to gain strength.” "It's a pity that the boy is not with me and that I have no salt," he said aloud.

As the sun went down, the old man, to cheer himself up, remembered how one day in a Casablanca tavern he had competed in strength with a mighty Negro from Cienfuegos, the strongest man in the port. They sat for a whole day against each other, resting their elbows on the line drawn in chalk on the table, without bending their arms and tightly clasping their palms. Each of them tried to bend the other's hand to the table. Bet was made all around that people were coming and going from a room dimly lit by kerosene lamps, and he did not take his eyes off the Negro's arm and elbow and his face. After the first eight hours had passed, the judges began to change every four hours to sleep. Blood oozed from under the nails of both opponents, and they all looked into each other's eyes, and at the hand, and at the elbow. The bettors went in and out of the room; they sat on high chairs against the walls and waited to see how it would end. The wooden walls were painted bright blue, and the lamps cast shadows on them. The negro's shadow was huge and moved on the wall as the wind swayed the lamps.
The advantage shifted from one to the other all night long; the negro was given rum and lit cigarettes for him. After drinking the rum, the negro made a desperate effort, and once he managed to bend the arm of the old man - who was not an old man then, but was called Santiago El Campeon - almost three inches. But the old man straightened his arm again. After that, he no longer doubted that he would defeat the Negro, who was a good guy and a big strong man. And at dawn, when people began to demand that the judge declare a draw, and he only shrugged his shoulders, the old man suddenly strained his strength and began to bend the negro's hand lower and lower until it lay on the table. The fight began on Sunday morning and ended on Monday morning. Many of the bettors demanded a tie because it was time for them to go to work in the port, where they loaded coal for the Havana Coal Company or sacks of sugar. If not for this, everyone would want to bring the competition to the end. But the old man won, and won before the loaders had to go to work.
For a long time afterwards he was called the Champion, and in the spring he let the negro win back. However, the stakes were no longer so high, and he easily won the second time, because the Negro from Cienfuegos' faith in his strength was broken in the first match. Then Santiago participated in several more competitions, but soon gave up this business. He realized that if he really wanted to, he would defeat any opponent, and decided that such fights were bad for him. right hand which he needs for fishing. Several times he tried to compete with his left hand. But his left hand always let him down, did not want to obey him, and he did not trust her.
“The sun will bake it well now,” he thought. “She won’t dare to get numb again to spite me, unless it’s very cold at night. I wish I knew what this night holds for me.”
A plane flying to Miami passed over his head, and the old man saw how the shadow of the plane frightened and raised a flock of flying fish into the air. “Since there are so many flying fish here, there must be mackerel somewhere nearby,” he said, and leaned harder on his back in the forest, checking if it was possible to drag the fish at least a little closer. But he soon realized that this was impossible, because the string again trembled like a string, threatening to snap, and water drops jumped along it. The boat moved slowly forward, and he followed the plane with his eyes until it disappeared.
===========================

Please, why does a person need strength if he is not able to use it for real, as this or that athlete or gangster would say. Please laugh at this man, but what does he care about your laughter...
Perhaps enough quotes already. We return to our analysis.

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PART FOUR. A little about everything. I don’t know how justified such a long quotation, however, what I want to notice in our poem. Are we right about the “trap” that caught your humble servant, we will touch on this in more detail in a rhythmic analysis, which, at first, was not planned, but if the quotes did not convince the reader about the difference between “little people” and their capabilities, then, personally, our opinion is unequivocal - it is these people who are capable of great deeds. Somewhere and "akakievichi" are capable, I repeat. However, the problem of the Akakievichs is their downtroddenness and inability to stand up for themselves. And who knows how they feel about it. All the rest .., - and by no means “Akakievichs”, rather those who laugh at “them”, for this, excuse me, is the same weakness of a person - to laugh at “like” ones - for what? - for the fact that a person cannot stand up for himself, is weak, frail, and, somewhere, does it really look comical? And you yourself, how far have you gone from “them”? Isn't this renegade - the same "little innocence" that seems big against the background of the "Akakievichs". And, please, about whom did Robert Rozhdestvensky write his poem? Is it about "Private Ryan"? However, this is rather an echo of a system capable of such an alleged manifestation of justice. If the reader does not know - watch this film. I'm sure he will touch many women. No, our hero is a man full of energy, able to work both in the field and at the factory, however, here he is - in a simple service, where you do not have to show your physical endurance. And at the same time, why doesn't he try to release his mental energy - what is it all for then? A person deprived of ambition is a “little person” ... I would like to believe Robert Rozhdestvensky, however, there are simply very, very few such people. Gradually we are released from the "trap". Such people - and there are more of them than you can imagine - have nothing to do with portfolios. Reminds me of the teacher from the movie We'll Live Until Monday. Where can you find such teachers? What was this briefcase for? And the service ... With my light hand:

===
there lived a small man.
His job was small.
He received a small salary...
===

Everything. What, how, why, where - you will not understand and you will not filter out. And is it necessary? Please, here it is the impersonal Synechdocha of the image of one "little man" and "liberator people". But who is this "little man" - Akaki Akakievich, Beethoven, Santiago? - all. But not at Robert Rozhdestvensky. He, like a real idealist, paints a picture of "his little man" and clothe all the people with "him". In this case, the other can take "another little man" and also compare "him" with the whole people - and who, in the end, will be right - is unknown. Or, of course, everyone.
I don’t know, perhaps Robert Rozhdestvensky is right (there are no answers to poetry in our minds) from his point of view and meaning, in particular. Or, more correctly, in terms of meaning, to a greater extent. But what about Rhythmic? This is definitely worth talking about. So,

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PART FIVE. Rhythmic analysis. I quote the poem without taking into account the author's breakdown - highlighting capital letters and numbering lines and parts:

===========================
I

4. And a very small portfolio.

5. He received a small salary ...
6. And one day - on a fine morning -
7. Knocked on his window
8. A small, it seemed, war ...

11. The helmet was issued small
12. And a small - in size - overcoat.

13. ... And when he fell - ugly, wrong,
14. In an attacking cry, twisting his mouth,
15. There was not enough marble on the whole earth,
16. To knock out a guy in full growth!
===========================

In the author's breakdown, the first part is presented in the form of one stanza and the subsequent free division of lines. The second part is also free in this sense. But as you can see, the poem as a whole has a clear structure of square stanzas. Which, in the first part, are presented in the form of the same type of stanzas of the clause structure: three More and one Less - BBBm - endings for large lines, in each stanza are different, for smaller ones - only masculine: 1. DDPm 2. PZhZhm 3. DPPm; D - dactylic ending, P - peony, F - feminine, m - masculine. Almost all large endings, except for two lines in the second stanza - MORNING and WINDOW - are derivatives of the word "small". Actually, this word “kills” the entire Rhythm of the first part of the verse. And at the same time he holds a poem that cannot be called prose. The first part is either a prose poem or vers libre. Both that and another - on the refrain parallelism of Anakruza. That is why I did not want to talk about Rhythmic. But since we started, the Rhythmics of the first part, being on the territory of Dolnik - as Gasparov would say, Three-parter, is a little crumpled and a little clumsy. The presented Dimensions of this (for pronounced ones I designate the first full-impact forms, for general ones - I show):

1) Ferekratey (HD3) - 11 - 1o1oo1 ...
2) Amphibrachium (Am3) - 4 - o1oo1oo1 ...
3) Anapaest (An3) - 8, 9, 10 - oo1oo1oo1 ...
4) Glyconium (HD4_a2) - 3, 5, 6, 7 - 1o1oo1o1 ...
5) Pcbs (HD4_a3) - 1 - 1o1o1oo1...
6) Chorey (DL x4) - 2 - 1o1oo11...
7) Amphibrachium (Am4 = RJA5_a4) - 12 - o1oo0oo1oo1 ... = o1o0o0o1oo1 ...

Its effect, coupled with the constant Refrain of one word (in different ways), to put it mildly, causes nothing but rejection. As I said before - a caricature of the verse. The word "small" as you know, has a diminutive connotation. Against the backdrop of serious content, we get a comic plot. And here, at the very end of the first part - an expansion and ... a trap. The twelfth line is not the fourth - “And a very small briefcase” - where you remove the word “very” and you get “Rhythm’s laughter”: “and a small briefcase”, but the twelfth line could well afford to do without the compound word “in size” - “and a small overcoat”, a pentonic wind is not a peonic one. Please compare the two elements of Rhythm without the words already mentioned in the two cases:

1. On Earth, mercilessly small
2. Once upon a time there was a small man.
3. He had a small service.
4. And a small briefcase.

9. They gave him a small machine gun.
10. He was given small boots.
11. The helmet was issued small
12. And a small overcoat.

There is definitely a difference. However, the author did not go for it. Why? Very interesting. From the point of view of prosaic syntax, I have a feeling that nothing indicates a “trap”, because a small OVERCOAT IN SIZE speaks of a person’s small physique. Whereas for some reason something else came to my mind, completely opposite [what lies between the lines]. - small [not] ACCORDING TO [his large] OVERCOAT SIZES. This, logically, corresponds to a small helmet (not on his big head), small boots (not on his big feet) and, especially a small machine gun, this comical cartoon becomes understandable - when a person is big, so much so that, indeed, the machine gun is in his hands like toy. But can you trust these [between the lines]? Since [they] come from Rhythmics, the pause after the first word is essential. Yes, with a missed beat - o1000 ^ 001o - so [they] sailed. "Between the lines" I mean. And the verse, as if switched. Or, your obedient servant from him. Especially, I do not like logic in verses (especially in skewed ones). But here, it's hard to argue. Moreover, the verse is civil and some logic should be present in it. The same first line, I remember. - And again [between the lines] ... - "On the Earth mercilessly small" [for kindness] ...

Another thing is that to make a Taktovik out of this poem is a trifling matter. Why Robert Rozhdestvensky did not do this remains a mystery. Elementary:

===

Once upon a time there was a small man
===

Dolnikovy Rhythm.

===
On a mercilessly small earth
There lived a little man
===

Tactical Rhythm. Or

===
On Earth small and ruthless
Once upon a time there was a small man
===

Tacto-dolnikovy Rhythm. Roughly speaking, no, in order to get a poem with a clearly defined Rhythm, the author gave out - the clerk. Like some revelations of Ecclesiastes:

===========================
1 The words of Ecclesiastes, son of David, king in Jerusalem.
2 Vanity of vanities, said the Ecclesiastes, vanity of vanities, all is vanity!
===========================

But we won't believe it. Let's move on to the second part. Here. This is Rhythm. Dynamic. It is felt. Also, or better to say at all, we do not pay attention to the breakdown of the author, we immediately speak for Sizes, which, to some extent, are standard and at the same time two of them are rare - based on two common ones that meet each other from time to time (An4 and Sappho). But in order:

1) Anapaest (An4 / Dimeter) - 13 - oo1oo1 / oo1oo1oo
2) HD5_b2 (Anapest Dimeter) - 14 - 1o1oo1o / 1oo1
3) Sappho (HD5_a3) - 15 1o1o1 / oo1o1oo
4) Falekh (HD5_a2) - 16 - 1o1oo1o / 1o1

Rhyming scheme - cross stitch. Alternance - d / m. True, Rifmant - ROT-GROWTH - is frankly discordant. In the language of the valley, the second part is the Four-Hard Dimetral Takto-Dolnik. That's all. A. No. If you try to read this verse aloud, then of course, the elements of tact, if not present, then they can be depicted. But this is a declamatory Rhythm. We do not understand it.

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PART SIX. Summarizing. It's hard to judge. But let's try. If main character of this poem is similar to "Dubinushka" from the "Belarusian Station", if he is able to combine Akaky Akakievich, Santiago and Beethoven, then this verse is certainly good. If not, and the protagonist of the poem is some downtrodden intellectual, or even worse, a “sticky intellectual” (the prototypes of those who laugh at the “Akakievichs”, but always play up in front of those in power - for whom a stab in the back, on the sly, is not even discussed .. But) whom Robert Rozhdestvensky is trying to cheer up in this way (and how!), forget - Everest with Chomolungma will give birth to Everjo Mungloresto rather than we will wait for such "intellectuals" of valor. “A healthy mind in a healthy body”, “cherish honor from a young age”, “I’m going to you” - such people have neither one nor the other nor the third. And if the former still have a chance - to act, then the latter have too much intelligence to understand - what, how and why in our life. Therefore, the poem is neither a plus nor a minus. But for the “size” trap, from me personally - respect and respect. Author or verse, it doesn't matter.

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PART SEVEN. Appendix. One more final extracurricular reading. With a few comments. In search of "little people". And how did I forget about him. According to some intelligence reports - the highest form of heroism. Something like this. And where do you find such people? Please. More Yokai. Sons of a man with a heart of stone. The last section of one and three consecutive chapters:

===========================
The gendarme didn't say a word. He just took off his helmet for a minute while the woman unwrapped the package.
Mrs. Baradlai suppressed the excitement of her heart with an effort of will. It's not time to give free rein to your feelings!
With firm, resolute gait she went up to the chest of drawers, opened the drawer, and taking out something wrapped in paper, handed it to the gendarme. It was a hundred gold pieces.
“Thank you,” she said.
In response, the gendarme muttered some words about God (what did he care about God!), again saluted and left the chambers.
Now it was possible to give free rein to grief!

BEFORE THE MAN WITH THE STONE HEART

Yes, now you can.
It is possible for a mother, distraught with grief, who has lost her head, to run with her son's bloodied clothes through the enfilade of the hall, to the portrait of her husband, a man with a heart of stone, and there fall to the floor. With a sob showing him these clothes!
– Look!.. Look!.. Look!..
Now it is already possible to cover with kisses, pour tears over these expensive clothes.
“After all, he was my most beloved son!”
You can in a frenzy appeal to the portrait:
- Why did you take it away? It was you who took him from me! Has he ever offended anyone on earth? He was innocent, like a child, like a boy. No one has ever loved me like he did! He was with me when he was a child, and he answered my call, becoming an adult! left his beloved, gave up rank and glory to go with me. Who needed him to die? Who needed to break his heart? After all, he was meek as a dove, and only smiled softly if someone offended him! Malice never nested in this soul. Did I send him to his death? Not true! I did not doom him to death, Even though at our parting I uttered bitter words: “I mourn not those of my sons who are doomed to death, but you who will remain alive!” But still he shouldn't have taken revenge on me so cruelly! Such a monstrous thought could not have originated in his soul, it was you who prompted it! It is so similar to the thoughts born in your cruel heart! You decided to cast me down - well, here I am lying prostrate! You wanted to trample me under your feet, and you trample me! You planned to force me to admit that even after death you are free to strike me with your hand - I feel this and writhe in pain. I have no reason to lie to you, pretending that I have superhuman strength. I have had a bitter fate, I am unhappy, as only a mother can be unhappy, burying her beloved son. And you, you are ruthless! You are a father calling his sons to follow him to the next world! Oh, have mercy on me. I won't fight you, I'll submit, just don't take the rest! My other son is standing on the edge of the grave. Do not push your second son there with your formidable hand, do not call him, do not take them all from me one by one. And do not visit me, as you swore at your death hour. Lord be my witness, I only wanted the best. I didn't know that all this would bring such pain.
The woman lay unconscious now, prostrated before the portrait. Nobody bothered her.
But the portrait gave no answer. He still remained silent.

The fatal fate has come true. An inevitable fate in which nothing could be changed. Eden could not now announce publicly:
- Eugen Baradlai is me, not the other one!
Such a gesture would not only be senseless and useless, but also cruel to the family, for which he now became the only support. It remained only, grieving and reverent, to bow before the bright memory of the brother who sacrificed himself.
“Among us, he alone turned out to be a true hero!”
True words. After all, ambition motivates a person to die for a cause that you worship and believe in. And to die for a cause that you worship but don't believe in is a sacrifice that exceeds the strength of an ordinary person. Eden and Richard were simply glorious fighters, but Jenyo became a true hero.

Has this fatal, bloody mistake ever been clarified?
Quite possible. Both sides had so many secrets, so many circumstances of this tragedy had to be carefully hidden, that neither one nor the other never dared to make anything public. And by the time this sacred deceit could have come to light, the condemning voice of the whole world would have condemned with such unanimity such a sad fact that the authorities preferred to consign everything connected with this case to oblivion. In addition, after all, for the deeds of one person, another paid with his life. The debt was paid.
Eden was now "bene lateb - securely covered!
In an instant, the roles changed: Yenyo got a heroic end, Eden's lot was peaceful work, a contemplative, silent life and hope for better times.
But there was still Richard!

PRISON TELEGRAPH

But didn't Jenyo send a message to Richard?
Of course yes. After all, he was a prisoner in the same dungeon as Richard.
The prison had a reliable, non-stop working telegraph. He served all the cells, it was impossible to interfere with him, no force would take him away from the prisoners.
The walls served as such a telegraph. There is no such thick wall through which you can not hear the tapping.
When in the next cell they knock on the wall once, this means the letter “A”, two quickly following each other blows - “B”, three short knocks - “C”, and so on. The entire alphabet was transmitted in a similar way. (Forgive me, the patient reader, that I pester him with the ABC - this great school of life.)
It was unthinkable to interfere with this kind of communication, it went around the entire building. Everyone understood the knock, learned its simple wisdom on the very first day, and mute conversation was carried on without interruption. Any request that arose in one of the wings of the prison went on, was transmitted from cell to cell, and finally reached where it was answered; and the answer made its way back to the questioner in the same order.
On the day when Enya was destined to see the sunset for the last time, only one question was tapped out by all the walls of the prison:
How did the trial end?
- A death sentence.
- To whom?
- Baradlai.
- Which one?
- The old man.
This cryptogram passed through Richard's chamber. He asked again.
The wall repeated once more:
- The old man.
Richard, in the habit of young people to reward each other with nicknames, has long called his younger brother "old man." This affectionate nickname contained both tenderness, and a joke, and the definition of the serious nature of Yenyo.
If everything that the prison walls once told each other left their mark on them in the form of a bas-relief, archaeologists could read much more in these images than on the walls of Nineveh!

FIRST STRIKE OF THE DAGGER

The triumphant Alfonsina Plankenhorst, with the ecstasy of quenched passion in her eyes, threw a newspaper with a notice to Edith.
- Here you go, read it!
The poor girl, like a lamb facing a tiger, did not try to defend herself: she did not even tremble, she only lowered her head.
The newspaper reported on the execution of former government commissioner Eugen Baradlai. That was a completely reliable official message.
Edith did not know Eugen. The real one. And yet she felt a sharp heartache for him: after all, he was one of the Baradlai brothers.
But she didn't dare cry for him. Such tears were considered a crime, there were paragraphs in the law that forbade expressing even the slightest sympathy for the seditious.
The charming fury, opening her huge sparkling eyes wide, parting her crimson lips in a smile over a row of beautiful snow-white teeth, hissed into her relative's ear:
- I have already outlived one!
And so she struck the air with her clenched fist, as if she were squeezing an invisible dagger in it, the poisoned edge of which is capable of overtaking the victim at any distance.
This one is already dead. I killed him! she exclaimed, and, without opening her fist, struck her breast, her beautiful breast, which could have become the receptacle of all the bliss of paradise.
Then she seized Edith by the shoulders and, glaring into her eyes with a gaze sparkling with malicious triumph, exclaimed:
“The priest’s daughter is a widow, turn, next!” Now it will be your lover!
To complete her cruelty, she presented Edith with a bundle containing a piece of black crepe.
- Here, take it! This is for your mourning dress.
And Edith thanked her for the present.
... If Alfonsina only knew who she had killed from the world! The man whom she showered with kisses in the old days, who loved her more than anyone and continued to love her until the hour of her death, who forgave her even when the familiar handwriting told him whose hand had prepared his grave.
===========================

Enyo is a hero, yes. But not a fighter ... But how brightly, such people characterize others - supposedly intelligent, well-mannered, highly moral and other renegades. Both pronounced and hidden. Where, about the second, we know well from the words of the first. And that is all.

Pees: I only hope that my large volumes of quoting did not violate anyone's fiery feelings. If yes... Oh... Ladies and gentlemen! Well you know what to do.

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Another analysis for the Reviewer Magazine - a poem by Valery Gamayunov, "Invasion of the Grays" -

Now we have a program called "Property of the Republic" about songs based on verses by Robert Rozhdestvensky. Alexander Mikhailov recalled the poem.

The kid reads a poem by Robert Rozhdestvensky

Robert Rozhdestvensky - On a mercilessly small Earth

there lived a small man.
He had a small service.
And a very small portfolio.
He received a small salary...
And one day - on a beautiful morning -
knocked on his window
small, it seemed, the war ...
They gave him a small machine gun.
They gave him small boots.
The helmet was issued small
and a small - in size - overcoat ...
... And when he fell - ugly, wrong,
twisting his mouth in an attacking cry,
there was not enough marble on the whole earth,
to knock out the guy in full growth!

01. "The attraction of the earth" - Lev Leshchenko
02. "Ship" - Victoria Daineko
03. "Love has come" - Valeria
04. "Song of the Gypsy" - Vladimir Presnyakov
05. "Echo of Love" - Zara and Alexander Marshal
06. "From Dawn to Dawn" - Tatyana Bulanova
07. “My years are my wealth” - Alexander Mikhailov
08. "Song of a distant homeland" - Quatro
09. "Call me, call me!" - group "Factory"
"10. "Nocturne" - Tamara Gverdtsiteli and Dmitry Dyuzhev
11. "Thank you" - Renat Ibragimov

6 546 0

The poem tells about the fate of a seemingly small person. Once upon a time there was a small, nondescript, gray little man. Everything was small for him: a small position in a small office, a small salary, a small portfolio and a small apartment, probably not even an apartment, but a room in a working hostel or in a communal apartment. And this person would have been very small and inconspicuous until the end of his life if the war had not knocked on the door of his house ...

The chanting of the feat of arms of a simple Russian soldier is the main and only theme of this courageous poem. This poem has no classical form. It does not contain exquisite beautiful metaphors in the spirit of or, but behind its formal simplicity lies the rough and cruel truth of life. The author showed us life as it is. And thank you very much for that!

I would like to touch here in passing on a topic that I have already raised in my articles published on the excellent Tree of Poetry website: why a good modern poet will never achieve the same level of public recognition that worthy authors of the past achieved. The thing is, there are far more people than ever before. Moreover, there were very few literate and reading people before - just a few. These were mainly representatives of the nobility and the raznochintsy intelligentsia. And nowadays everyone is literate.

In any case, I want to believe it. There is no doubt that it is much easier to make a name for yourself among a hundred sympathetic readers than among a hundred thousand or a million. If in the 19th century you entered the aristocratic living rooms of Moscow and St. Petersburg, and if you won your readers there, then consider that you have conquered all of Russia. And if you are also a chamberlain of the Court of His Imperial Majesty or, at worst, a chamber junker (like), then you will make the Emperor of All Russia himself your reader, and this gave unlimited literary possibilities.

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