Engelina. It's impossible not to write
Engelina Buryakovskaya all his short life (1944-1982) had lived in the western Ukrainian town of Lviv, graduated from the Lviv Conservatory, but did not become a pianist, has written some 30 odd stories, made more than 40 graphic works of etchings and watercolors - that's all she had. The book presents the stories and graphics E. Buryakovskaya, photos, documents and memories of her friends, and dedicated to her image of her husband, Lviv artist Alexander Aksinin (1949-1985), who died tragically in a plane crash on May 3, 1985
If life is just like life, the text just like the text as a substitute for communication. Beyond loneliness text is written. Another emerges through the process of writing. Just the familiar and unfamiliar, the first to know - there is truly limitless possibilities - in the middle of stories, messages and simple characters. The desire and opportunity to express themselves through the show of things and events as they are among the space of the paper that the border situation by the author is taken for truth, peace and the word. The world is likely to absurd for a man very upset his time in his invariable as untimely. Space and time are kaleidoscopic and fragmented, and in them we always talk. In Hölderlin we start with a conversation. Always need to talk to the world and others. The world we find in the birth and it doomed: it abandoned. Others can be navoobrazhat. The world of the unknown and the stranger, the other imaginary, the transience of the remaining days is too obvious. Loneliness in pain, and perception of the world dimmed to a minimum. The situation is not even the border, but rather for, and there is an attempt to break the cycle of unbearably real through the perception of unreality, absurdity, and that others pridumannosti. Others are not for dialogue. Monologue attempts to share with someone non-existent personal irrelevance. When the personal is almost gone. Living in almost and almost non-life. Not an expression of sense - a sense of meaninglessness. Aimlessness and incoherence, when one does not want any purpose or connection. Questions lifted, remains the answers. Answers without questions, no one had given and useless, and the text is for those who did not need. Probably, expressionism always cry to anyone and anywhere. No question, search, experiment, style and influences. Rather, communication, short-term and strained. In the presence of hope for the right chance random interlocutors in the limit identical ¬ nochestve silence. Word replaces the cry of pain and loneliness. Thus was born dumb text. Texts are piled in the world, and demand is becoming increasingly problematic. Possibility of communication as a universal loneliness. Growth opportunities for communication ¬ generates growth of loneliness among people. Creativity as a general loneliness and solitude as loneliness voluntary readers in the unit and the only ¬ uniqueness of words, laws and fading dreams realities. Harms and nuthouse, Khlebnikov and hunger and, again, crazy. It's impossible not to write. Uselessness of letters in the absence of speech, Bart and the zero degree, as usual style. The most meaningful was zaum in the borderlands - POUM? If, however, be considered a paradise very well selected library, or in an inversion of well-chosen library of paradise - whether a place in this library (or in heaven) for stories Gels Buryakovskaya? The question for me in advance unanswered. Questioning art in general complex. I always suspected that the responses are primary, or at least there is always a right question just happens. And, perhaps, literature - is the art of randomness posed. In a limited time, with the imminence of death, in constant pain stories filled with answers to no one questions. Because literature is not for libraries and especially not for heaven. Just for the here and now. Fullness of non-randomness of random signs of life from incurable, disease, death - only aliases. Trying to talk when she has not heard nor understood. Desire to talk, when it was almost no one. Attempt and a desire to chatter chatterbox among inability not only to talk - even to swallow. Have not seen her cry. And very rarely seen silent. Slurred speech gave way to exasperation gestures, facial expressions, not ¬ patient and gusty requirement of paper, writing, fragmentary and vague. Letter as a final resting place, and the letter as a precursor of speech in the distant past. The sign was originally designed for vision, we see more than hear. Biological doom. Back to basics. Spawn characters. Simvoloobrazovanie and attempt to gain meaning through the display of nonsense. Was it the geographical location of its place? Rather, the place for - to escape as well. For it is not safe haven - no escape. Because so often quoted early Wittgenstein and the limits of the world, and silence. The realization that others are destined to remain here and now, as an insult, and perhaps envy. Prose envy of her readers. And the ease of being in opposition to heavy and way of life that is natural to stay in bezmirnom - where neither the humility nor sublunary - space. Paper space in the absence of time.
But, perhaps, in this royal family,
to the gates of the word has already been otverzty ancient singers
will be found a way for me, as for yarn in jewel
previously drilled diamond.
Engelina Buryakovskaya
Fly
The fly buzzed. In the eyes rippled from her movements. Pillow draws to itself, covering his head from all sides. Forget. A fly buzzed. Kill, destroy, shred, but not to hear. Not to hear. Pretended to be asleep and wait for the sit, and then kill him. But the light was left. He furiously paced, and before I had time to swerve, hit me, leaving a painful burn on his forehead. I rushed to the side. He sailed. The coming darkness was pressing. Terrified, bounced sharply and raced to the lamp. Not having time to slow down, hit and burned again. Quietly. You can stay close, not approaching close. Moved its wings again and suddenly struck the hot glass. Sudden movements have always bothered me a lot of trouble. I envied her lying on the bed. Contours of the body under a blanket allocates huge mounds. Go to it! I moved the leg, then turned and ran toward the wall opposite. Not designed, highly hurt and fell down into the crack between the folds of blankets. It was dark and creepy. I crawled through the rough surface, clinging to the hairs and bumps. Bright red lip was very close. A shadow loomed, quickening the pace. Shadow approaching. Flat, hard, inescapable. Once out on the ridge, looked back. Boundless expanse of white and anyone. A top lamp. But first-to-face. Go was difficult. Blanket rise before me, and I am constantly losing direction. It's good that she has black hair. Landmark. A longing for a lamp overwhelmed. Maybe to her, and then to face? Waving his wings, soared sharply upward. Now the lamp. Just be careful not to burn yourself. Slowly approached the light, and he shamelessly hit in the eye, blinding. Approaching close, was on the glass. And at the bottom of the face, yellow with black hair and red lips. Gently turned [to] not to offend vulnerable place on the glass, and downward to the head. Down-to-head before your eyes.
Graphics Engeliny Buryakovskaya
If life is just like life, the text just like the text as a substitute for communication. Beyond loneliness text is written. Another emerges through the process of writing. Just the familiar and unfamiliar, the first to know - there is truly limitless possibilities - in the middle of stories, messages and simple characters. The desire and opportunity to express themselves through the show of things and events as they are among the space of the paper that the border situation by the author is taken for truth, peace and the word. The world is likely to absurd for a man very upset his time in his invariable as untimely. Space and time are kaleidoscopic and fragmented, and in them we always talk. In Hölderlin we start with a conversation. Always need to talk to the world and others. The world we find in the birth and it doomed: it abandoned. Others can be navoobrazhat. The world of the unknown and the stranger, the other imaginary, the transience of the remaining days is too obvious. Loneliness in pain, and perception of the world dimmed to a minimum. The situation is not even the border, but rather for, and there is an attempt to break the cycle of unbearably real through the perception of unreality, absurdity, and that others pridumannosti. Others are not for dialogue. Monologue attempts to share with someone non-existent personal irrelevance. When the personal is almost gone. Living in almost and almost non-life. Not an expression of sense - a sense of meaninglessness. Aimlessness and incoherence, when one does not want any purpose or connection. Questions lifted, remains the answers. Answers without questions, no one had given and useless, and the text is for those who did not need. Probably, expressionism always cry to anyone and anywhere. No question, search, experiment, style and influences. Rather, communication, short-term and strained. In the presence of hope for the right chance random interlocutors in the limit identical ¬ nochestve silence. Word replaces the cry of pain and loneliness. Thus was born dumb text. Texts are piled in the world, and demand is becoming increasingly problematic. Possibility of communication as a universal loneliness. Growth opportunities for communication ¬ generates growth of loneliness among people. Creativity as a general loneliness and solitude as loneliness voluntary readers in the unit and the only ¬ uniqueness of words, laws and fading dreams realities. Harms and nuthouse, Khlebnikov and hunger and, again, crazy. It's impossible not to write. Uselessness of letters in the absence of speech, Bart and the zero degree, as usual style. The most meaningful was zaum in the borderlands - POUM? If, however, be considered a paradise very well selected library, or in an inversion of well-chosen library of paradise - whether a place in this library (or in heaven) for stories Gels Buryakovskaya? The question for me in advance unanswered. Questioning art in general complex. I always suspected that the responses are primary, or at least there is always a right question just happens. And, perhaps, literature - is the art of randomness posed. In a limited time, with the imminence of death, in constant pain stories filled with answers to no one questions. Because literature is not for libraries and especially not for heaven. Just for the here and now. Fullness of non-randomness of random signs of life from incurable, disease, death - only aliases. Trying to talk when she has not heard nor understood. Desire to talk, when it was almost no one. Attempt and a desire to chatter chatterbox among inability not only to talk - even to swallow. Have not seen her cry. And very rarely seen silent. Slurred speech gave way to exasperation gestures, facial expressions, not ¬ patient and gusty requirement of paper, writing, fragmentary and vague. Letter as a final resting place, and the letter as a precursor of speech in the distant past. The sign was originally designed for vision, we see more than hear. Biological doom. Back to basics. Spawn characters. Simvoloobrazovanie and attempt to gain meaning through the display of nonsense. Was it the geographical location of its place? Rather, the place for - to escape as well. For it is not safe haven - no escape. Because so often quoted early Wittgenstein and the limits of the world, and silence. The realization that others are destined to remain here and now, as an insult, and perhaps envy. Prose envy of her readers. And the ease of being in opposition to heavy and way of life that is natural to stay in bezmirnom - where neither the humility nor sublunary - space. Paper space in the absence of time.
But, perhaps, in this royal family,
to the gates of the word has already been otverzty ancient singers
will be found a way for me, as for yarn in jewel
previously drilled diamond.
Engelina Buryakovskaya
Fly
The fly buzzed. In the eyes rippled from her movements. Pillow draws to itself, covering his head from all sides. Forget. A fly buzzed. Kill, destroy, shred, but not to hear. Not to hear. Pretended to be asleep and wait for the sit, and then kill him. But the light was left. He furiously paced, and before I had time to swerve, hit me, leaving a painful burn on his forehead. I rushed to the side. He sailed. The coming darkness was pressing. Terrified, bounced sharply and raced to the lamp. Not having time to slow down, hit and burned again. Quietly. You can stay close, not approaching close. Moved its wings again and suddenly struck the hot glass. Sudden movements have always bothered me a lot of trouble. I envied her lying on the bed. Contours of the body under a blanket allocates huge mounds. Go to it! I moved the leg, then turned and ran toward the wall opposite. Not designed, highly hurt and fell down into the crack between the folds of blankets. It was dark and creepy. I crawled through the rough surface, clinging to the hairs and bumps. Bright red lip was very close. A shadow loomed, quickening the pace. Shadow approaching. Flat, hard, inescapable. Once out on the ridge, looked back. Boundless expanse of white and anyone. A top lamp. But first-to-face. Go was difficult. Blanket rise before me, and I am constantly losing direction. It's good that she has black hair. Landmark. A longing for a lamp overwhelmed. Maybe to her, and then to face? Waving his wings, soared sharply upward. Now the lamp. Just be careful not to burn yourself. Slowly approached the light, and he shamelessly hit in the eye, blinding. Approaching close, was on the glass. And at the bottom of the face, yellow with black hair and red lips. Gently turned [to] not to offend vulnerable place on the glass, and downward to the head. Down-to-head before your eyes.
Graphics Engeliny Buryakovskaya
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