Osip Mandelstam Émil'evich

[Тютчев]

Osip Mandelstam Émil'evich.

Biography

15/01/201110: 00

15 January marks 120 years since the birth of great Russian poet Osip Mandelstam

One of the great Russian poets of the XX century Osip Mandelstam Émil'evich born January 15 (January 3, Old Style) 1891 in Warsaw (Poland) family of master-tanners, the petty trader. Soon after birth, Osip, his family moved to the city of Pavlovsk near St. Petersburg and then in 1897 - to St. Petersburg.

In 1900 Osip Mandelstam entered Tenishevsky Commercial College. Great influence on the boys during the study had a professor of Russian Literature, Vladimir Gippius. The school Mandelstam began writing poetry at the same time fascinated by ideas, SR.

Immediately after graduation in 1907, the school Osip Mandelstam went to Paris, he attended lectures at the Sorbonne. France Mandelstam discovered the Old French epic poetry, Villon, Baudelaire, Verlaine. Acquainted with the poet Nikolai Gumilev.

In the years 1909-1910. Mandelstam lived in Berlin for a semester attending lectures at Heidelberg University, then went to Switzerland and Italy.

In October 1910 he returned to St. Petersburg. Mandelstam's literary debut was in August 1910 when the magazine "Apollo" was published five of his poems. During these years he was fond of ideas and creativity of the Symbolist poets, became a frequent visitor of Vyacheslav Ivanov, a theorist of Symbolism, which has gathered talented writers.

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In 1911, Osip Mandelstam, wanting to organize their knowledge, entered the historical-philological faculty of St. Petersburg University. By this time he was firmly entrenched in the literary milieu - belonged to a group Acmeists (from the Greek word "acme" - the highest degree of something blooming power), a structured Nikolai Gumilev "shop poets, which included Anna Akhmatova, Sergei Gorodetsky, Mikhail Kuzmin et al

In 1913, the publisher Akme "the first book Mandelstam's" Stone ". By this time the poet had already moved away from the influence of Symbolism. During these years poetry Mandelstam often published in the magazine Apollo. The young poet won fame. In December 1915 a second edition, "Stone" (published by Hyperborean), on volume nearly three times larger than the first.

In early 1916 at a literary evening in Petrograd M. met with Marina Tsvetaeva. On the evening began their friendship, a kind of "poetic" which culminated in several poems dedicated to the poets to each other.

1920-ies. were for M. time intensive and diverse literary works. We see new collections of poetry: "Tristia" (1922), "Second Book" (1923), "Stone" (3rd edition, 1923). Poems published in Petrograd, Moscow and Berlin.

Mandelstam has published several articles on critical issues of history, culture and humanism: "Word and Culture", "On the Nature of Words," "Wheat human", etc. In 1925, Mandelstam has released an autobiographical book, "Noise of Time." Came out a few books for children: "Two tram", "Primus" (1925), "Balls" (1926). In 1928 he published a book of poems last lifetime Mandelstam Poems, and a little later - a collection of articles on poetry and the novel "The Egyptian Stamp."

Mandelstam gave a lot of time translation work. Perfectly wielding French, German and English, he was taken (often with a view to earnings) for translations of contemporary foreign writers of prose. Special care attitude toward poetic translation, showing great skill.

In the 1930's., When the open persecution of the poet, and printed it increasingly difficult, the translation has remained the outlet, where the poet could save himself. During these years he has translated dozens of books.

In 1930 Mandelstam visited Armenia. The result of this trip was the prose of "Journey to Armenia" and the poetic cycle "Armenia", which was only partially published in 1933

In autumn 1933 M. wrote verse epigram against Stalin, "We live under him not feeling the country ...", for which in May 1934, he was arrested. He was expelled in Cherdyn in the Northern Urals, where he stayed for two weeks, fell ill and was hospitalized. Then he was sent to Voronezh, where he worked in newspapers and magazines, on radio. After the expiration of links M. returned to Moscow, but here it is forbidden to live. The poet lived in Kalinin (now Tver city).

In May 1938 Mandelstam was arrested again. Sentence - five years in the camps for counterrevolutionary activities. Stage was sent to the Far East.

Osip Mandelstam died Dec. 27, 1938 in the hospital barracks in camps in the Second River (now in the city of Vladivostok).

Name of Osip Mandelstam in the Soviet Union remained a taboo about 20 years.

The poet's wife Nadezhda Mandelstam and friends of the poet kept his poems, which, in 1960. it became possible to publish. Currently, all published works of Mandelstam.

In 1991 in Moscow was established Mandelstam Society, whose goal is to collect, preserve, study and promotion of the creative heritage of one of the great Russian poets of the XX century. In 1992 Mandelstam Society based at the Russian State Humanitarian University (RGGU).

In April 1998 as a joint project between the University and Mandelstam Society was inaugurated Cabinet mandelshtamovedeniya State Humanitarian University Scientific Library.

The material is based on information from open sources.

http://rian.ru/spravka/20110115/320737264.html

[GalARTA]

As I recently learned M. during his stay in Crimea, Feodosia, created by M. Voloshin, literary and artistic society "Cimmeric.
True, there are several months or more in the literary side.
If anyone that know about it - give the link.

[Тютчев]

Osip Mandelstam

Scriabin and Christianity

Pushkin and Scriabin 1 - two transformations of one sun, two becoming one of the heart. Double death artist is going to the Russian people and ignited the sun above him. They have revealed an example of the cathedral, the Russian's death, had died a full death, how they live full lives, their identity, dying, has expanded to the character of an entire people, and the sun is the heart of the dying has stopped forever at the zenith of suffering and glory.

I want to talk about the death of Scriabin as the highest act of his career. I think his death should not be off the chain of his creative achievements, and regarded as the last final link. With this latest Christian perspective death Scriabin's amazing. It is not only remarkable as a fabulous post-mortem growth of an artist in the eyes of the masses, but also serves as a source of creativity, his theological reason. If the tear covering the death of this creative life, it will flow freely from his reasons - death, lying around, like around its sun, and absorbing its light.

Pushkin was buried at night. Buried secretly. Marble Isaac - a magnificent sarcophagus - and not wait for the sun of the body of the poet. At night, put the sun in the coffin, and in the January cold of the sled runners squeaked, were taken away for burial ashes of a poet.

I remember the picture of Pushkin's funeral to call in your memory the image of the night sun, the image of the late Greek tragedy, Euripides created - a vision of an unhappy Phaedra.

In the fateful hours of cleaning and we offered up a storm over a Scriabin, whose sun-heart burns over us, but - alas! - This is not the sun of redemption, and the sun of guilt. Claiming Scriabin his character in the hour of World War I, Phaedra-Russia ...

... Time can go back: the whole course of modern history, with terrible force that turned away from Christianity to Buddhism and theosophy, testifies to this ...


There is no unity! "Many worlds, all located in areas that God reigns over the god." What it is: nonsense, or the end of Christianity?

Personalities no! "I" - is a transient state, you have a lot of showers and a lot of lives! What it is: nonsense, or the end of Christianity?

No time! Christian summer and numbered at risk, frail from years of our era is lost - the time rushing back from the noise and hiss as obstructions flow - and new Orfeo casts his lyre in the bubbling foam: art is no more ...

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Scriabin next step after Pushkin Russian Hellenism, further regular disclosure of Hellenistic nature of the Russian spirit. Enormous value of Scriabin for Russia and Christianity due to the fact that he - mad Ellen. Through him, Hellas intermarried with Russian dissenters, burneth himself in the tombs. Anyway, to them it is much closer than the western Theosophists. His chiliasm - purely Russian thirst for salvation; antique it is madness, t which he expressed this desire.


... Christian art is always action based on the great idea of redemption. It is infinitely varied in its manifestations, "the imitation of Christ, the eternal return to a single creative act, which started our historical era. Christian art is free. It is in every sense of the word "art for art's sake." No need to even the highest, not clouding his bright inner freedom, for the prototype it, what it imitates, is samoiskuplenie world by Christ. So, not a victim, not redemption in the art, and free and joyful imitation of Christ - that is the cornerstone of Christian aesthetics. Art can not be a victim, because she has already taken place, there can be redemption for the world, along with the artist already redeemed, - what remains? Joyous communion with God as Father would play with children, blind man's buff and hide and seek the spirit! Divine illusion of redemption, which consists in Christian art, explained exactly this game with us Deity, which allows us to wander along the paths of mystery so that we, as from himself attacked the redemption, surviving a catharsis, redemption in art. Christian artists - like the idea of redemption of the freedmen, and not slaves, and not preachers. All our two-thousand-year culture through the wonderful grace of Christianity is forgiveness of the world to freedom for the game, for the spiritual joy, for free "imitation of Christ."


Christianity became incarnate perfectly free attitude toward art, which is neither before him nor after it failed to make any man's religion.


Feeding the art, giving him his flesh, offering him as unshakable metaphysical basis of real facts of redemption, Christianity demanded nothing in return. Therefore, the Christian culture is not in danger of domestic impoverishment. She - is inexhaustible, infinite, since triumphing over time, again and again thickens grace in great clouds, and shed their life's rain. You can not with sufficient force to indicate the fact that his character eternal freshness and neuvyadaemosti European culture must favor of Christianity in relation to art.


Have not yet investigated the field of Christian speakers - the activity of spirit in the arts as a free self-affirmation of the core elements of redemption - in particular music.


In the ancient world of music was considered a destructive element. Greeks were afraid of the flute and the Phrygian mode, considering him a dangerous and seductive, and each new string cittern Terpandru 2 had to win with great difficulty. Distrustful attitude to music as a suspect and a dark element was so strong that the state has taken the music under his wing, declaring it to its monopoly, and the musical mood - a means - and a model for the maintenance of political order, civil harmony - evnomii. Actually pure music Greeks did not know - it belongs entirely to Christianity. Mountain Lake Christian music defended after a profound revolution that transformed Hellas in Europe.


Christian music was not afraid. With a smile, says the Christian world to Dionysus: "Well, just try to lead me to break my maenad: I am all - the integrity of the whole - the person, the whole - knit unity" - how strong the new music of this confidence in the final triumph of the individual, whole and intact and she - this belief in personal salvation - I would say, is a Christian music overtone, staining sonority of Beethoven in the Sinai white marble glory.


Voice - a person. Piano - a siren. Gap Scriabin with voice, his great passion for a siren pianism marks the loss of Christian identity feelings, the music, "I am."


Besslovny strangely nemotstvuyuschy chorus Prometheus - still the same seductive siren. Catholic Joy by Beethoven, the synthesis of the Ninth Symphony, this "white glory of triumph," is not available and Scriabin. In this sense, he broke away from Christian music, went his own way ...


Spirit of Greek tragedy woke up in the music. Music made a circle and returned from whence she came: Phaedra again summoning the nurse again Antigone calls for burial, and their drink offerings of inverse nice body. Something happened with the music, some wind broke a raid musikiyskie reeds, dry and sonorous. We demand the choir, we are bored with grumbling thinking reed ... Long, long time we played the music, unaware of the danger that lurks in it, and yet - perhaps out of boredom - we invented a myth that decorate its existence, the music threw us a myth - not fictional, but born, penorozhdenny, bagryanorozhdenny, royal descent, rightful heir to the ancient myths - the myth of Christianity forgotten ...


... Vineyards old Dionysus: I submitted my eyes closed and light, solemn little head, a little thrown back up. This muse recall - easy Mnemosyne, the eldest in the dance. With a light, delicate face falls off the mask of oblivion, clarifies the features, memory triumphs - albeit at the cost of death: dying means to recollect, to remember means to die ... To remember at all costs! Overcome forgetfulness - even if it was worth the death: this is the motto of Scriabin, that's heroic striving of his art! In that sense, I said that the death of Scriabin is a supreme act of his work, he throws on his dazzling and unexpected light ...


The battle is not over - the war in full swing. Anyone who feels the Greeks, and now must be on guard - as two thousand years ago. Peace can not be Hellenize once and for all how to repaint the house. The Christian world - an organism, a living body. Fabric of our world updated death. Struggle with barbarism of a new life, because in her bloom, not conquered death! As long as there is a death in the world, Hellenism b y d e t a creative force, because Christianity elliniziruet death ... Ellinstvo, fertilized with death, and have converted to Christianity. The seed of death, falling on the soil of Hellas, miraculously blossomed: our culture has grown from this seed, we are in chronology from the moment it took the land of Hellas.

All Roman fruitless, because the soil is stony Rome because Rome - Hellas is devoid of grace.

Scriabin's art is directly related to the historical problem of Christianity, which I call the Hellenization of death, and after it gets a deeper meaning ...

It's all there - the music - contains the atoms of our existence. So melody * in a pure form the only consistent sense of identity, such as knew him Hellas, so harmony is characteristic of complex poslehristianskogo feeling 'I'. Harmony was a kind of forbidden fruit for the world, not engaging in the fall. Metaphysical essence of harmony is closely connected with the Christian understanding of time. Harmony - is crystallized forever, it's all in the cross section of time in the context of the time, who knows only Christianity. All mystics vigorously reject eternity in time, taking this cross-sectional view, accessible only by the righteous, saying eternity as the core of the time: Christian eternity - this is the Kantian category, divided by the sword seraph. Center of gravity of Scriabin's music is in harmony: the harmonious architectonic is the music itself.

1915-1919

* Melos (Greek) - the song.



NOTE

1. Alexander Nikolayevich Scriabin (1871/1872-1915) - a famous Russian composer and pianist, in 1898-1903. - Professor at the Moscow Conservatory, the author of The Divine Poems (Third Symphony), "The Poem of Ecstasy, Prometheus. The article was written under the direct influence of the death of Scriabin, which followed 14 (27) April 1915



2. Terpandr - Ancient Greek poet and singer who accompanied himself on cithara; head lesbian school kifaredov, the earliest (VII century. BC. Er.) From the famous ancient Greek musicians, was born in Antissy on Lesbos.

[Тютчев]

That's monstrance, a golden sun ...

M. OE

Here's monstrance, as the sun is gold,
Hung in the air - a great moment.
There will hear only the Greek language:
Taken into the hands of the whole world as a simple apple.

Solemn worship zenith
The light in the circular temple of the dome in July,
To complete the breast out of time, we breathed a sigh
On that meadow where time is not running.

And the Eucharist, as an eternal noon, lasts -
All commune, play and sing,
And the sight of all the divine vessel
Inexhaustible joy flowing.

[Самвел]

Osip Mandelstam. Fourth Prose



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 "The international literary fellowship, 1971, Coll. cit. in 3 volumes. T. 2 p. 177-192.
 OCR: Andrei Nikitin, Perensky (pdf-mp3-library "ImWerden")
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      1



     Veniamin Fedorovich Kagan approached this case with a wise prudence
Magi and Odessa Newton and mathematics. All conspiratorial activities
Veniamin Fyodorovich rested on the basis of an infinitely small. Recovery Act
Benjamin F. saw a snail's pace. He allowed himself shake
professor of the box, to answer the phone at all times, do not exclude themselves,
do not make excuses, but mainly tried to detain dangerous for
disease.
     The presence of professors, and even mathematics, in an incredible work of salvation
five lives by intelligible, completely weightless integral
moves, called troubles, caused universal satisfaction.
     Isai Benediktovich from the first steps behaved as if the disease
contagious, clingy - like scarlet fever - so that it - Isaiah
Benediktovich - could, God forbid, shoot. Fussed Isai
Benediktovich without avail. He seemed to be rushed to the doctors and begged for
prompt disinfection.
     If you give Isai Benediktovich will, he would take a taxi and rushed to be
Moscow at random, without any plan, imagining that such a ritual.
     Isai Benediktovich hard and always remember that St. Petersburg had
survived by his wife. He even got himself a sort of secretary - a small, austere and
very sensible companion-cousin, which has nursed him - Isai
Benediktovich. In short, referring to different persons at different times,
Isai Benediktovich like doing myself vaccine shot.
     All relatives Isaiah Benediktovich died on walnut Jewish
beds. Like a Turk goes to the black stone of Ka'ba, so these Petersburg
bourgeois, derived from rabbis patrician blood and touched by
Isaiah translator to Anatole France, pilgrimage to the most that neither is
Turgenev and Lermontov resorts, preparing themselves to move into the treatment
underworld.
     In St. Petersburg, Isai Benediktovich lived pious Frenchman who ate his
potage, acquaintances picked innocuous as croutons in soup, and went, according to
profession, to the two buyers-transferable junk.
     Isai Benediktovich was good only at the beginning of trouble when
mobilization occurred, so to speak, alarm. Then he faded,
smyak, stuck out his tongue, and pool their savings themselves relatives sent him to
Petersburg.
     I always wondered where does a bourgeois squeamishness and
the so-called decency. Honesty - this is what unites with the bourgeois
animals. Many party members rest in bourgeois society, for the same reason,
why adults need to communicate with the rosy-cheeked children.
     Bourgeois, of course, innocent proletarian, closer to the uterine world to
baby, kitten, angel, cherub. In Russia, very few innocent bourgeois, and
This is bad for digestion true revolutionaries. Must be preserved
bourgeoisie in its innocent appearance, it is necessary to take her amateur games
lull in Pullman springs, wrapped in snow-white envelopes
Rail sleep.


      2



     Boy in goatskin leather boots, a velveteen poddevochke, forehead
visochkami is surrounded mamushek, grandmothers, nyanyushek, and beside him stands
cook or kucherenok - a boy from the servants. And this whole bunch of lisp,
hoot and prisheptyvayuschih archangels settle on young master:
     - Vdar, Vasya, vdar!
     Now Vassenka vdarit and spinsters vile toads, pushing each
each other and adhere to a lousy Kucherenko:
     - Vdar, Vasya, vdar, as long as we hold your curly, as long as we
around poplyashem ...
     What is it? Genre picture on Venetsianov? Etude serf artist?
     No, this training tousled baby under the leadership of the Komsomol
agitmamushek, grandmothers, nyanyushek to it, Vasya, stamped, so that he
Vasenka, vdaril as long as we hold your swarthy, as long as we are around
poplyashem ...
     - Vdar, Vasya, vdar ...


      3



     Lame girl came to us from the street, long as bestramvaynaya
night. She puts her crutch aside and sit down in a hurry as soon as possible to
to be similar at all. Who is this bezmuzhnitsa? - Light Cavalry ...
     We shoot each other's cigarettes, and his right kitayschinu, zashifrovyvaya
in the animal-cowardly formula grand, powerful, taboo notion of class.
Animal fear knocks on machines, animal fear leads China to edit
klozetnoy sheets of paper, scribbling denunciations, hits the bed-requires a penalty for
captives. As a boy drowned popularly kitten on the Moscow River, so our
adult children playfully pushing for a big change oil shake: - Hey,
Nabal, PUSH, so much so that no one could see the same one who pinch - such
sanctified mob rule.

     The clerk at Ordynka maid kit - kill him!
     Shortchange the cashier at a nickel - kill it!
     Director podmahnul foolish nonsense - kill him!
     A man hid in a barn rye - kill him!

     We were walking the girl, dragging on crutches. One foot in her shortened,
and brogue-like wooden prosthetic hoof.
     Who are we? We have schoolchildren who do not learn. We Komsomol
freemen. We buzotery with the permission of all the saints.
     In Philip Filippychev toothache. Philip Phillipich not come and
come to class. Our concept of learning also applies to science as to the hoof
leg, but we're not embarrassed.
     I come to you, my friends, artiodactyls, pounding the wooden leg in a yellow
socialist mall-mill, established rabid fantasy
cab-economic planner Guibert element posh hotel on Tverskaya
night telegraph or telephone station from a dream of a world bliss
exercised as a permanent lobby with a buffet of continuous office with
salute clerks of the postal and telegraph dry air from which
Persha in the throat.
     There is a continuous accounting the night under a yellow flame railway stations
lamps of the second class. Here, as in Pushkin's tale, the Jew with a frog
crown, that is going on a continuous wedding kozlonogogo Firth, rushing
theatrical spawn, with a pair for him from the same bath unclean - Moscow
Editor-undertaker that manufactures glazetovye coffins on Monday,
Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. He rustles paper shroud. It opens the veins
months of the Christian year, another store their pastoral-Greek names
- January, February and March ... It was scary and illiterate farrier
accidents, deaths and events, and as happy as a clam at high tide, when the splashing fountain
black horse blood era.


      4



     I joined the newspaper Moskovsky Komsomolets directly from
caravanserai Tsekubu. There were twelve pairs of headphones, almost all
damaged, and a reading room, converted from the church, no books, where he slept
snails on the round sofa.
     I hated the workers in Tsekubu for my straw baskets and for
I'm not a professor.
     During the day I went to look at the flood, and firmly believed that the obscene water
Moscow River floods drown academic Krapotkinskuyu embankment and Tsekubu phone
will cause the boat.
     In the morning I drank sterilized cream straight from the bottle on the street
bottle.
     I took on the professors' shelves of someone else's soap and washing up at night, and no
never been caught.
     There came people from Kharkov and Voronezh, and everyone wanted to go to
Alma-Ata. They took me for her and advised what the republic
profitable.
     Night Tsekubu locked like a fortress, and I knocked the stick out of the window.
     Every decent man phoned Tsekubu on the phone, and servants
handed him a note in the evening, as a memorial piece of ass. There lived a writer
Green, who servant brushed her dress. I lived in Tsekubu like everyone else, and
I will not be touched, yet I had not moved down in the middle of summer.
     When I moved to another apartment, my coat was lying across the cab,
as it happens from leaving after a long stay hospital or at
released from prison.


      5



     Reached the point that I appreciate the craft of verbal only wild meat only
crazy build-up:

     And to the bone injuries
     All gorge screaming falcon -

     that's what I want.
     All the works of world literature, I'm sharing the resolution and written
without permission. First - this is filth, second - stolen air. Writers
who write the pre-authorized by the things I want to spit in the face, I want to beat them
stick to the head and put all the table in the House of Herzen, before placing
Every cup of tea and a policeman giving everyone in the hands of a urine sample Gornfelda.
     These writers, I would forbid to marry and have kids. How can
they have children - because children must continue for us, for us the main
finish saying - while the fathers of pre-sold ryabomu line for three generations
forward.
     Here is a literary page. I have no manuscripts, no notebooks
books and archives. I have no handwriting, because I never write. I'm the one in
Russia working with a voice, and around gustopsovaya bastard wrote. What I have to go to hell
writer! Get out, you fools!
     But I have a lot of pencils and all the stolen goods, and colorful. They can be
sharpen britvochkoy "Gillette."
     Plastinochka Gillette razor with a slightly serrated edge kosenkim always
seemed to me one of the noblest products of steel industry.
Good Gillette razor cuts the grass, sedge, bent, not broken in his hand -
not the calling card Martian, not a note from the correct line with
drilled a hole in the middle.
     Plastinochka Gillette razor - the product of dead Trust, which includes
shareholders flock of American and Swedish wolves.


      7



     I am a Chinese, no one understands me. Hulda blockhead! Go to Alma-Ata, where
people walk with raisin eyes, which runs the Persian with eyes like fried eggs, where
Sart walks with the sheep eyes.
     Hulda blockhead! Go to Azerbaijan!
     I had a patron - the People's Commissar Mravyan-Muravyan, ant Commissar
Armenian land, this land of Judah's younger sister. He sent me
telegram.
     Death of my protector - Commissar Mravyan-Muravyan. In the ant
Erivan was not black people's commissar. He did not arrive in Moscow
international carriage, wide-eyed and curious, as the minister of Turkey
village.
     Hulda blockhead! Go to Azerbaijan!
     I had a letter for the drug Mravyanu. I carried him to the Secretaries
Armenian mansion on the very clean, street embassy in Moscow. I was almost
went to Erivan with a trip to the ancient Narcompros read
round-headed young men in a poor monastery-university terrible
Course seminaries.
     If I went to Erivan, three days and three nights I went to the stations
in large cupboards and ate sandwiches with caviar.
     Hulda blockhead!
     I'd read on the way the best book Zoshchenko and I would enjoyed as
Tartar, who stole a hundred rubles.
     Hulda blockhead! Go to Azerbaijan!
     I'd take with courage in the yellow straw basket with a bunch
liquor-smelling clothes and my coat was hanging on to the gold nail. And I would
zyshel at the station in Erivan with a winter coat in one hand and with an old man
stick - my Jewish staff - in another.


      8



     There's a lovely Russian verse, which I never tire of repeating in Moscow
dog night, from which, as an obsession, shatters horned demons.
Guess, my friends, this verse - he wrote the runners on the snow, it is the key
vereschit in the castle, he frost shoots into the room:
     ... I never shot dungeons ... Here are a symbol of faith, that
genuine canon of this writer, the mortal enemy of literature.
     In the House of Herzen one dairy vegetarian, a philologist with Golovenko Chinese
- A sort of walking, Hao-hao, Shango, Shango, when chopping the head of the breed that
on tiptoe, walk the bloody Soviet soil, a Mitka Good -
Lyceum scum, allowed the Bolsheviks to use science - to guard
special museum rope udavlennika Sergei Esenina.
     And I say - to the Chinese blessing, in Shanghai it - to kitaezam - there he
place! What was the mother of philology and what was ... There was all blood, all
intransigence, and became psyakrev became vseterpimost ...


      9



     Among the killers of Russian poets, or candidates for these killers were added
dim name Gornfelda. This paralytic Dantes, the uncle with Monya
Basseinaya, preaching morality and the state, comply with an order
utterly alien to his regime, which he perceives as some
indigestion.
     Gornfelda die from as stupid as the bicycle, or on the beak
parrot. But literature can be a killer and a parrot. For example, I just
killed a parrot named after His Majesty King Albert and Vladimir
Galaktionovich Korolenko. I am very glad that my killer is alive and in some ways
I survived. I feed him sugar and listened with pleasure as he insists
from Eulenspiegel: "Ashes knocks on my heart," interspersing this phrase on the other,
no less beautiful: "There is not suffering more flour, the words" ... Man
able to call his book "The Agony of the word" is born with a printing of kainic
literary assassin on his forehead.
     I only once met with Gornfeldom a dirty version of some
unprincipled magazines, where crowding, as in cupboard Kvisisana, some
ghostly figures. There were no ideology and no one to complain
if you hurt someone. When I recall the orphanage - we could then
live! - Big tears welling in her eyes ... Someone introduced me to
biped critic, and I shook his hand.
     Uncle Gornfeld why you went to complain to the Birzhovka, ie
Red Evening Gazette, in the twenty-ninth year, the Soviet? You'd better
Mr Propperu wept in purely Jewish literary vest. You would
better told his grief banker with sciatica, Kugel and tallit ...


      10



     Nikolai Ivanovich is a secretary - though pravdochka, done
squirrel, a small gryzunok. She eats a nut every visitor to
the phone runs as a very inexperienced young mother to a sick child.
     One scoundrel told me that the truth in Greek means Mriya.
     Here is belyanochka - the real truth with a capital letter in Greek, and
however, it is the other truth - that fierce partisan virgin -
truth-party ...
     Secretary, frightened, and compassionate as a nurse, did not serve,
and lives in the run-up to the office, in a telephone predbannichke. Poor Mriya from
entrance room with a phone and classic newspaper!
     This secretary is different from others in that a nurse was sitting on the verge
power, protecting the carrier power as gravely ill.


      11



     No, let me plead! So let put on record! ..
Give me, so to speak, to attach themselves to the cause. Do not deprive me
convincingly beg you, my process ... Proceedings are not over yet
and I assure you, will never end. What was before, only
overture. The singer Bosio will sing in my process. Bearded students
plaid, mingling with the gendarmes in a cape, led by
goat regent, in the frenetic delight conclusion as dance tune, the eternal memory
Police will make a coffin containing the remains of my case from prodymlennoy Halls
District Court.

     Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,
     Where's your mom?
     Smallpox
     Went from Fospa.
     Your mother okrivela,
     Dead thread sewn case ...

     Alexander Ivanovich Herzen! .. Let me introduce myself ... Seems to
your home ... You, as landlord, in some way responsible ...
     Deigned to go abroad? .. It has happened a nuisance ...
Alexander! gentleman! how can that be? " Absolutely no one to turn!


      12



     At one year of my life adult men from the tribe, which I
I hate all their mental powers and to which I do not want and never
will belong to, have had the intention to commit me collectively
ugly and repulsive ritual. The name of this ritual - a literary circumcision
or dishonored, which is done according to custom and calendar
needs of the writer's tribe, where the victim is scheduled for choice
Elders.
     I insist that writing in the form in which it was formed in
Europe and especially in Russia, is incompatible with the honorary rank of Jew
which I am proud. My blood, burdened by the legacy of sheep, the patriarchs
and the kings, rebels against the roguish gypsy tribe writer. More
I stole the baby squeaky camp dirty novel and much-something years
provalandal on their routes, obscene, vainly trying to train me to his
a single craft, the only art - theft.
     Writing - a race with a nasty smell of leather and dirtiest
ways of cooking. This race, nomadic and nochuyuschaya at its
vomit, expelled from the city, pursued in the villages, but there and everywhere
close to the government, which it assigns a place in the yellow blocks, as
prostitutes. For literature, there and everywhere serves one purpose:
helps keep the heads in obedience to the soldiers and helps Judges mend
massacre of the doomed.
     Writer - a cross between a parrot and pop. He ass in the highest
sense of the word. He spoke in French, if his master French, but
sold in Persia, say in Persian: "ass-fool" or "Polly wants
Sugar. "parrot has no age, knows the day or night. If the owner
bored, it is covered by black cloth, and it is for literature
surrogate for the night.


      13



     Chenier had two brothers - all belongs to the despised youngest literature
Senior executed it himself executed.
     The guards love to read novels and more than anyone else, need to
literature.
     On such a year of my life bearded adult men horny
fur hats have brought me a flint knife to castrate me. Judging
around, it was the priests of his tribe: they smelt of onions, novels and
goat meat.
     And it was terrible, as in infant sleep. Nel mezzo del `cammin di
nostra vita - life in the middle of the road I was stopped in the dense
Soviet forest robbers who called themselves my judges. They were old men
with sinewy necks and small heads, goose, unworthy to carry the burden
years.
     The first and only time in my life I needed literature, and she had me
crumpling, paw and squeezed, and it was terrible, as in infant sleep.


      14



     I am morally responsible for the fact that publishers do not ZIF
agreed with translators Gornfeldom and Karjakin. I - furrier
precious furs, nearly asphyxiated from the literary fur bear
moral responsibility for what inspired the St. Petersburg boor desire
cite as libelous anecdote hot Gogol's coat, torn
night in the square: the shoulders of the oldest Komsomolets - Akaky. I tear off
with a literary coat and trample it underfoot. I'm in the same jacket in
tridtsatigradusny frost triple mileage on Moscow's Boulevard Ring. I
run away from the yellow hospital Komsomol passage toward death
cold, just not to see Judas twelve lighted windows bawdy
house on Tverskaya Boulevard, just not to hear the ringing of silver coins and bills
printed sheets.


      15



     Dear romance with the Tver parkway, you and I together wrote
a novel that you do not even dreamed of. I love to meet his name in the
official papers, agendas of the bailiff, and other hard
documents. Here, the name sounds quite objectively: sound, new to the ear and,
I must say, very interesting. Me and myself sometimes curious: what it is I
it's not that I do. What kind of fruit is this Mandelstam, who
so many years has something to do and everything, the scoundrel, resort to ploys? ..
How long will it still will shift? That is why me and not go during rainy day -
other every day and I was respectable the contrary - the reverse flow of time.
     I am guilty. Two views here can not be. From the guilt does not get out. In
irredeemable live. Izvorachivaniem save. How long have I still shuffle?
     When it comes to a tin of summons or Greek in its simplicity
reminder of social organization, from when I demand that I
issued accomplices stopped furtively activities have, where I take
counterfeit money, and gave a receipt on his own recognizance from the fated my boundaries, I
immediately agree, but then, as if nothing had happened, start again
shift - and so on without end.
     Firstly, I escaped from somewhere, and I want to return, settle,
to find and send. Secondly, I was mistaken for someone else.
Certify no forces. In the pockets of rubbish: last year's encrypted notes
Phones of dead relatives and whose addresses unknown. Thirdly, I
signed with Beelzebub or GIZ'om grandiose, impossible contract for
Whatman paper, grease mustard and pepper - abrasive powder, in
which has pledged to return double the amount purchased all, otrygnut in
quadruple the amount of all misappropriated and sixteen times in succession
to do the impossible, the unthinkable, the only thing that could
I was partially justified.
     Every year, I hardened. As a conductor's steel tongs
I'm all riddled and stamped his own name. When they call me
by my name, I shudder every time - can not get used -
what an honor! If only once in the life of Ivan Moiseich who called! .. Hey, Ivan, Cheshi
dogs! M., Cheshi dogs! Frenchy - Sher-master, dear master, and
I: M., Cheshi dogs! To each his own.
     I - an aging man - stub heart scales master's dogs - and
all of them small, all of them with little ... With the dog tenderly staring at me
Russian writers and beg: podohni! Where does this anger lackey is
Kholuy contempt for my name? At least the horse was a gypsy, and I'm in the same
person and horse, and Roma ...
     Tin povestochki a pillow ... Forty-sixth dogovorchik instead
corolla and one hundred thousand lighted papirosochek Zamesto svechechek ...


      16



     How much would I have worked, if I wore on the back of horses, if
twisted melnichi mill, still I never going to workers. My work
at whatever he put it, is perceived as mischief, as lawlessness, as
accident. But such is my will and I agree to it. Signed by both
hands.
     Here a different approach: for me a donut hole is valuable. And what about the
bublichnym test? Bagel can gobble up, and the hole will remain.
     The present work is - Brussels lace, it important - how could one
holding pattern: air, punctures, absenteeism.
     But I, brothers, work for future use is not, in my experience it is not
credited.
     We have a bible of work, but we do not appreciate it. This story Zoshchenko.
The only person who showed us working, we are trampled in the
dirt. And I demand that the monuments for Zoshchenko to all cities and towns
The Soviet Union, or at least, for my grandfather Krylov in the Summer
Garden.
     Here is someone skipping breathe, that's who Brussels lace lives!
     Night at Ilyinke when Gum'y and trusts sleep and talk in their native
Chinese, on the night Ilyinke go jokes. There are Lenin and Trotsky in the
embrace, as if nothing had happened. One vedryshko and Constantinople
fishing rod in his hand. There are two Jews, two inseparable - one questioning the other
responsible for, and one keeps asking, keeps asking, and all the other twists, all
cool, and they did not disperse.
     Goes the German organ-grinder with Schubert leerka-wall, such a loser
such sharomyzhnik ... Ich bin arm. I am poor.
     Sleep, my darling ... Em-es-pe-o ...
     Wii reads the phone book on Red Square. Lift my eyelids ...
Give Tseka ...
     There are Armenians from the city of Erivan with green dyed herring. Ich bin
arm - I am poor.
     And in Armavir on the city coat of arms is written: The dog barks, the wind carries.

[Moriakoff]

One of my favorite poetov.Strashno underestimated, although many of his poems sung by the people ... His poems are so precise and insightful that I have on the strong emotional impact, and for the ability to perceive the subtle reality, I call him a "man without skin."
   At one time, based on his works, I have made the work: "What are they singing clocks grasshopper ..." or "... I'm hanging on your own eyelashes ..."...
   His quote: "How much would I have worked, if I wore on the back of horses, if turning the millstones, still I never going to workers. My work is seen as mischievous as the lawlessness, as a coincidence. But this is my way, and I agree to it, using as an epigraph, and to present his life ...

[Кирилл Сызранский]

Сообщение от Moriakoff

scary is undervalued, even though many of his poems sung by the people ...

This is what Mandelstam poems "sung by the people"?

[Moriakoff]

Сообщение от Cyril Syzransky

This is what Mandelstam poems" sung by the people "?

Well ... this-thing about "the city familiar to tears" ...
LENINGRAD

I returned to my city, familiar to tears
Veins, baby swollen glands.

You're back here, so swallow at once
Fish oil Leningrad river lamps,

Find out more same December day,
With ominous tar mixed with egg yolk.

Petersburg! I did not want to die!
You have my telephone numbers.

Petersburg! I still have my address
Where I can voices of the dead.

I live on a back staircase, and the temple
Strikes me out with flesh call

And all night waiting for the guests of expensive,
Moving shackles chains on the doors.

[Кирилл Сызранский]

Сообщение от Moriakoff

Well ... this-thing about "the city familiar to tears "...

In the song "St. Petersburg" replaced "Leningrad" - again;

this song people do not sing - two.

[Moriakoff]

Сообщение от "Cyril Syzransky

In the song" St. Petersburg "replaced" Leningrad "- again;

this song people do not sing - two.

Do not nitpick ... singing and will sing!
Sometimes, as gryanem over a glass of tea, and Alexander Gertsevicha and Leningrad!