Our sacred craft has existed for thousands of years... With or without it, the world is bright. The first poet of the Amur region
"Is our sacred craft...»
Our sacred craft
Has been around for thousands of years...
With him, even without light, the world is bright.
But no poet has yet said,
That there is no wisdom and no old age,
Or maybe there is no death.
“The last lines suggest at least two different readings. “The poet did not say” this, because wisdom exists, and old age exists, and death exists, and refuting them, or, more precisely, defeating them, is not a matter of poetry, but of faith. However, thanks to several techniques - the comparison of “wisdom” with “old age”, the calculated surprise of which, not to say incorrectness, is intended to cause reader confusion; and the introduction of the affirmative-doubting “or maybe” - another meaning comes to the fore: “the poet did not say” this, but could. I could at least take a risk. The last line is syntactically independent, a crafty question: if poetry really shines in the darkness, then maybe there is no death? This can only be achieved by calling the craft sacred, and the sacred a craft. "Sacred Craft" makes no difference between words inspired by God and those inspired by Apollo. In this case, the six-line may also be referring to Ecclesiastes (chapter II, v. 13, 14, 16; chapter XII, v. 1), without directly challenging it. But if Ecclesiastes ends with the fact that “God will bring every deed into judgment, and every secret thing, whether it is good or bad,” then why “not a single poet said,” did not dare to say, words of hope before the judgment? - that's what the poem seems to be hinting at. "I'll give thee leave to play till doomsday, I let you play till doomsday“Akhmatova’s favorite passage in Antony and Cleopatra, the queen’s dying address to her devoted servant.”
Anatoly Naiman. "Stories about Anna Akhmatova"Last return
I have one path:
From the window to the threshold.
Day after day went by - this and that
As if it were happening
Ordinarily - but through everything
The loneliness was already visible.
It smelled like tobacco
With mice, an open chest
And surrounded by poisonous
Foggy...
“And, as always happens on the days of a breakup...”
And, as always happens on breakup days,
A ghost came knocking on our door first days,
And the silver willow rushed in
The gray splendor of the branches.
To us, frantic, bitter and arrogant,
Those who do not dare raise their eyes from the ground,
The bird sang in a blessed voice
About how we took care of each other.
“Ice is growing on the glass...”
Ice is growing on the glass,
The clock says: “Don’t be afraid!”
Hear what's coming to me
And I'm afraid of the dead.
Like an idol, I pray to the door:
“Don’t let trouble pass you by!”
Who howls behind the wall like a beast,
Who's hiding in the garden?
"Whom people once called..."
Whom people once called
A king in mockery, a God in reality,
Who was killed – and whose instrument of torture
Warmed by the warmth of my chest...
Christ's witnesses have tasted death,
And gossipy old women and soldiers,
And the procurator of Rome - everyone passed
Where the arch once stood,
Where the sea beat, where the cliff turned black, -
They were drunk in wine, inhaled with hot dust
And with the smell of sacred roses.
Gold rusts and steel decays,
Marble crumbles - everything is ready for death.
The most lasting thing on earth is sadness
And more durable is the royal Word.
THE MAGIC OF CREATIVITY AS A NEW TYPE OF KNOWLEDGE
“Our sacred craft has existed for thousands of years...
With him or without him the world is bright. But no poet has yet said,
That there is no wisdom, and there is no old age, and maybe there is no death.”
A.A.Akhmatova
CONTENT:
0. Introduction
Magical and creative consciousness are “twin brothers.”
Parallel evolution of magical and creative consciousnesses:
Poetic MYTH and magical RITUAL– similarities and differences:
5. Poetry and magic as types of practical action
6. Innovative creativity merging with magic
7. Multipolar Universe (poetic and magical worlds):
8. Dialectics of opposite principles:
Good and evil;
Light and darkness;
Life and death;
Love and hate;
Spirit and body;
Word and Deed;
Appearance and Essence (content and form).
CONCLUSION
11. Literary Applications
INTRODUCTION
A magical action is a call from nothing (from parallel worlds) spirits to help the magician, poetic creativity– calling from poetic imagination poetic images, hiding, if not in the same, then in a very similar magical space.
Pushkin and Akhmatova said this well. In Alexander Sergeevich’s excerpt “Autumn”:
“And I forget the world and in the sweet silence
I'm sweetly lulled to sleep by my imagination,
^ And poetry awakens in me,
The soul is embarrassed by lyrical excitement,
It trembles and sounds and searches, as in a dream,
To finally pour out with free manifestation.
^ And then an invisible swarm of guests comes towards me,
Old acquaintances, fruits of my dreams.
Akhmatova in the poem “Poet”:
Just think, work is also a carefree life:
Eavesdrop on something from the music and, jokingly, pass it off as your own.
^ And putting someone’s cheerful scherzo into some lines,
I swear that the poor heart is groaning like that among the shining fields.
And then eavesdrop near the forest, among the pine trees, seemingly silent,
While there is a smokescreen of fog everywhere.
^ I take left and right, and even without feeling guilty,
Life has a little bit of evil and everything is in the silence of the night.
Question to ask: “Where do these images come from, where were they previously hidden?” Traditionally, the ancients answered like this: “God dictates these words and images to us.”
Poets confirm this idea. For example, Pushkin in The Prophet receives God’s command to create:
"Arise, prophet! And see and listen, be fulfilled by my will,
And, going around the seas and lands, burn the hearts of people with a verb!»
Afanasy Fet formulates the same possibilities of the creator differently:
^ But, enlightened and dumb, enveloped in unearthly power.
And to be alive, alive and only, alive and only - to the end!
Let us formulate the conclusions this verse leads us to:
The channel to Akash requires anonymity; it does not open well to “people who were famous during their lifetime”;
The goal of creativity is dedication, not hype and success;
The impostor will not take possession of this channel, but only the one who “hears the future call”;
The effectiveness of the channel is directly related to the unknown nature of the creator and his ability not to “distinguish between defeat and victory”;
You just need to be able to be yourself and not give up “a single bit” of your face.
True, there is a contradiction in the views of Pushkin and Pasternak: “How is it possible, “without distinguishing defeat from victory,” “to be your own high court"? Obviously, such a combination of opposite principles is characteristic of the specific nature of poetic, and indeed magical, activity, in principle.
The specifics of the appearance of creative images in the mind are explained by Anna Andreevna Akhmatova in the poem “Creativity”:
It happens like this: there is some kind of languor, the chiming of the clock does not stop in your ears,
In the distance, the rumble of fading thunder. Unrecognized and captive voices
It seems to me that there are complaints and groans, some secret circle is narrowing,
But in this abyss of whispers and ringings, one all-conquering sound arises.
It’s so incredibly quiet around him that you can hear the grass growing in the forest,
What is it in goes to the ground with a knapsack it’s dashing. But now the words are heard
And light rhymes are warning bells - then I begin to understand.
And simply dictated lines go into a snow-white notebook.
But who dictated the lines? - The poetess, in turn, received time to master the channel to Akasha, and the lines appear as if dictated by someone unknown. There is no doubt: we ourselves do not invent anything - we are either dictated from above, or: nothing works out at all.
^ Chapter two: “Parallel evolution of magical and creative consciousnesses »
A culture based on the spoken word, realized in personal memory bard or magician;
A culture based on written (often “sacred”) texts;
A culture that embraces diversity and totality cultural phenomena in society;
A culture based, on the one hand, on spiritual word, based on a dialogue with God, and on the other hand, on a “profane culture”, obviously desacralized and unspiritual, leads to a rupture in the “body of culture”, characteristic of modernity.
Of course, the rupture of the “body of culture” is evidence of an emerging crisis of culture, just as its integrity is evidence of the ability to adapt to ongoing changes.
It turned out that such a shaky foundation is quite strong: according to some data, for tens of thousands of years, the memory of magicians and bards could serve as a reliable cultural basis for the existence of various societies. And the society was stable, however, and the role of poets in them was different: they could stop any battles and clashes of interests between different tribes with their words. They were the highest bearers of truth, they were listened to on all issues of Existence.
Another thing is that ownership " heavenly words“made them “messengers of heaven,” and therefore gave them such power over people. The possession of the “Divine spark of talent”, or in other words, the “magic channel of power”, which is shown with such breadth in the works of Carlos Castaneda, frightened people and distinguished the “messengers of heaven” from the ordinary human environment. Were they really heaven's messengers? There is no doubt that some of them could well have been like that. History has preserved their names for us among not so much magicians as religious prophets and preachers who left behind “cosmic messages.”
They are found in almost every culture. They became especially popular after the advent of writing. In ancient times, when people said “book,” they meant, at least in the Christian region, only one book—the Bible.
Poets could not ignore this circumstance, for example, William Shakespeare:
Like that actor who, timidly, forgot the words of a long-familiar role,
Like that madman who, falling into anger, loses his willpower in excess of strength,
So I remain silent, not knowing what to say, not because my heart is timid, - -
No, my love, which has no limits, puts a stamp on my lips.
So let the Book speak to you, let it, my silent intercessor,
He comes to you with confession and longing, and unconditionally demands retribution...
Will you understand the words of silent love, will you hear my voice with your eyes?
(Sonnet No. 25)
Of course, Shakespeare’s interpretation of the image of the “book” is broader than just the Bible, but this aspect also has its place.
In any case, the culture of the subsequent period was based on “sacred texts, because in the development of each national culture the decisive role was played by national religions, which have a certain fundamental “ sacred text", specific to any religion. (Bible, Avesta, Koran, Vedas, Book of Changes, etc.)
The magicians and wizards of the European Middle Ages, as well as medieval poets, did not imagine their creativity outside Christian tradition, until the Church ostracized all magic, making it a “satanic phenomenon” after the “witch hunt period.”
The fact that thousands of innocent victims died, that the status of the Church itself was lowered, turned out to be very vulnerable to the cause of the Church, first of all, in the eyes of the Christian God himself, whose main content is “Love.”
Further development of culture led to the fact that the separated magical and creative traditions were forced to rely on all the diversity to maintain their status modern culture, finding support for itself in its various guises and fragments.
Culture after the Renaissance acquired a fragmented character. Having lost Unity, it turned into an unsystematized bunch of different impulses, each pulling in its own direction. This had dire consequences for the culture itself, although the magical aspects of the culture suffered the most. They went underground, thanks to which the satanic element in them received an additional impetus for development. This is the dialectic of Being: “The places not occupied by us are now occupied by the enemy!”
In fact, this push was sanctioned by the persecution of the Church. “The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.” The Church, of course, did not imagine such a result. But when things are done without Love, the result is always the opposite: “you go right, you come left”...
Higher powers could not ignore this circumstance, so for modern development creativity characterized by increased dialogical character in the creative process. It becomes clear to most poets (more broadly, all creators) that their gift is the ability to enter into dialogue with God, even if this is what we call the energy-information layer earth's shell. But the point is not in words, but in essence.
Although for poets it’s all about words. Here is what Nikolai Gumilyov says about this in the poem “The Word”:
On that day, when God bowed his face over the new world, then
They stopped the sun with a word, they destroyed cities with a word.
And the eagle did not flap its wings, the stars huddled in horror to the moon,
If, like a pink flame, the word floated in the heights.
And for a low life there were numbers, like livestock, livestock,
Because a smart number conveys all shades of meaning.
The gray-haired patriarch, who subjugated both good and evil under his own hand,
Not daring to turn to the sound, he drew a number in the sand with a cane.
BUT we forgot that only the word shines among earthly anxieties.
And the Gospel of John says that this word is God.
We set Him as a limit the meager limits of nature.
And, like bees in an empty hive, dead words smell bad.
The magic word really had such power that it was able to stop the sun, like the word of Joshua, and destroy the city.
In the "meager limits of nature", outside the impulse to Heaven, magic word lost its gift, because it turned out to be desacralized and could not serve as a channel of communication with Akasha, since it did not possess the corresponding magical power.
As a result, we are dealing with a rupture in the body of culture, because the directions of development of “sacred” words and “profane” words diverged in opposite sides. Such a gap cannot pass without leaving a mark on the fate of humanity. It gave rise to what is now called the danger of a global environmental cataclysm on the planet.
3. Chapter Three:
^ “POETIC MYTH AND MAGICAL RITUAL – SIMILARITY AND DIFFERENCE”
A. MYTH AND RITUAL:
There are two types of cultures: a culture built on REVELATION and a culture built on MYTH. The culture of REVELATION is a culture that relies on the genuine help of the Gods. The culture of MYTH is based on pseudo-revelation, on information that ultimately turns out to be either false or unstable and disintegrating under the blows of time. Thus, the culture of MYTH is a culture built in TIME, while the culture of REVELATION is based on ETERNITY. Ritaul is a way of maintaining the culture of MYTH. The way to maintain the culture of REVELATION is through sacred ritual and personal prayer.
The effectiveness of the ritual depends on the accuracy of its execution. The effectiveness of the ritual depends rather on the divine power bestowed upon its performers. Even if they deviate from the rules in the process, the ritual itself can lead to the desired result, if there were suitable performers.
Naturally, measures must be observed, because with any deviations the whole meaning of his creation disappears.
In mythological cultures, strict adherence to ritual is part of the culture that cannot be violated under any circumstances. According to ancient speakers mythological consciousness deviations from the ritual should cause anger and ostracism from the gods, which will fall on the heads of its bad performers.
Therefore, “good performance of rituals” became part of the profession of performers specializing in them, who, in the course of cultural development, turned into clergy.
Numerous rituals on which the preliterate culture of the ancients rested, in fact, served to sacralize the customs that had long been established among certain peoples. Although they were, of course, based on deep foundations, many of them had long since become obsolete, but they were carried out because they were consistent with tradition. And in ancient times, culture was based on fundamental traditions. Their holiness was respected by both the priests and the people themselves, for it was clear to everyone that any deviations from traditions would cause not only the wrath of the gods, but also the possible collapse of society.
It is not for nothing that ancient societies are spoken of as “traditional”. Tradition is supported because it is part of the MYTH, and on the other hand, it is realized in sacred rituals and customs. MYTH, tradition and ritual are fused in the mind of a pagan into a kind of systemic integrity, outside of which he cannot imagine himself or his entire life.
Rituals in ancient societies most often had a group character, but gradually as they were sacralized and fed from outside higher powers, they more and more acquired a personal character, closest to God, who always has such specificity.
Over time, group rituals turned into church rituals and received their own life and their right to exist. But we must remember that the most powerful rituals are personal, and not group, rituals, first of all prayers, fasting, bodily abstinence, etc.
In our opinion, one’s own spiritual creativity also belongs to a certain type of prayer.
Not because the mirror broke,
Not because the wind howled in the chimney,
Not because in the thought of you
Something else has already leaked out.
Not because of that, not because of that at all
I met him on the threshold.
January 7, 1944
And in the starless January night,
Wondering at the unprecedented fate,
Returned from the abyss of death
Leningrad salutes itself.
Interieur
When the moon lies with a slice of Charjui melon
On the edge of the window, and stuffiness all around,
When the door is closed and the house is bewitched
An airy branch of blue wisteria,
And in a clay cup there is cold water,
And snow towels, and a wax candle
It burns, like in childhood, calling moths,
Silence rumbles, not hearing my words, -
Then from the blackness of Rembrandt's corners
Something will suddenly form a cloud and hide there,
But I won’t start, I won’t even be afraid...
Here loneliness caught me in its net.
The owner's black cat looks like an eye
centuries,
And in the mirror the double doesn’t want to help me.
I will sleep sweetly. Good night, night.
Tashkent
De profundis... My generation...
De profundis... My generation
Tasted little honey. And so
Only the wind hums in the distance,
Only the memory of the dead sings.
Our work was not over,
Our hours were numbered
Until the desired watershed,
Until the peak of the great spring,
Until the frantic bloom
All that was left was to breathe once...
Two wars, my generation,
Illuminated your terrible path.
Tashkent
To the right are vacant lots...
To the right are vacant lots,
With a streak of dawn as old as the world,
To the left, like gallows, are lanterns.
One two Three…
And over everything there is still a loud cry
And the face of the dead month
It came to nothing at all.
Tashkent
Until May 1944, I lived in Tashkent, eagerly catching news about Leningrad, about the front. Like other poets, she often performed in hospitals and read poems to wounded soldiers. In Tashkent, I first learned what the shadow of a tree and the sound of water are like in scorching heat. I also learned what human kindness is: in Tashkent, I was seriously ill a lot.
Anna Akhmatova.
"Briefly about yourself"
...In May 1944, I flew to spring Moscow, already full of joyful hopes and anticipation of an imminent victory. In June she returned to Leningrad.
The terrible ghost pretending to be my city amazed me so much that I described my meeting with him in prose. At the same time, the essays “Three Lilacs” and “Visiting Death” appeared - the latter about reading poetry at the front in Teriokki. Prose has always seemed to me both mystery and temptation. From the very beginning I knew everything about poetry - I never knew anything about prose. Everyone praised my first experience, but, of course, I didn’t believe it. She called Zoshchenka. He ordered some things to be removed and said that he agreed with the rest. I was glad. Then, after her son’s arrest, she burned it along with the entire archive.
Anna Akhmatova.
"Briefly about yourself"
From an airplane
For hundreds of miles, for hundreds of miles,
For hundreds of kilometers
The salt lay, the feather grass rustled,
The groves of cedars turned black.
Like the first time I'm on her,
I looked at my homeland,
And I knew: it’s all mine -
My soul and body.
I will mark that day with a white stone,
When I sang about victory,
When I'm heading towards victory,
Overtaking the sun, she flew.
And the spring airfield
The grass rustles under your feet.
Home, home - really home!
And there is such languor in the heart,
My head is spinning sweetly...
In the fresh roar of May thunder
Winner Moscow!
May 1944
LAST RETURN
A. Akhmatova at the writers' meeting. Leningrad. Early 1946
There was still a stamp on everything...
There was still a stamp on everything
Great troubles, recent thunderstorms,
And I saw my city
Through the rainbow of the last tears.
To the city of Pushkin
And the Tsarskoye Selo security canopy...
June 1944
Pushkin
Fountain House
I'd rather be up to my shoulders
She drove the damned body into the ground,
If only I knew what I was heading towards
Overtaking the sun, she flew.
June 1944
Leningrad
Just before leaving Tashkent, Anna Andreevna received from her longtime friend Vladimir Georgievich Garshin, professor of medicine and nephew famous writer, a telegram with a marriage proposal, and even with a question: does she agree, with official registration marriage, take his last name. Anna Andreevna smiled ironically to herself: what tenderness, they say, given our poverty and our, alas, by no means tender age (Garshin was her age). However, she agreed, condescending to the understandable ambitions and fears of the “groom”. But while the bride was getting to Leningrad, an extraordinary incident occurred in the life of Garshin, who was widowed during the blockade: he dreamed prophetic dream; in that dream, the deceased wife appeared to the learned pathologist and made him promise not to marry Akhmatova, not to introduce this witch from Bald Mountain into their venerable professorial house. Garshin met Anna Andreevna at the station, and even, it seems, with flowers, and immediately told about what had happened. Anna Andreevna again settled in the Fountain House. Soon the Punins also returned from evacuation, but not in the same composition: their daughter Irina was widowed (her husband, the father of little Anna, was killed in the war). Punin married again, and Irina Nikolaevna also married a second time. Anna Andreevna's life froze again and turned into a painful wait for her son to return from the war. In fact, she knew: the Gumilevs are not killed by enemy bullets, other deaths are destined for them, but someone blurted out in front of her that Lev Nikolaevich was fighting as part of the death row, that is, “penalties”. Contrary to the mother's superstitious fears, the son returned. Alive and unharmed. And he even got reinstated at the history department. They now lived together, the two of them, and even somehow made ends meet.
Our boys defended us...
Our boys defended us,
Who is lying in the swamp? Who's in the forest?
And we have limit books.
We carry a black and brown fox.
Until the end of May 1944
Our sacred craft
Su
exists for thousands of years...
With him, even without light, the world is bright.
But no poet has yet said,
That there is no wisdom and no old age,
Or maybe there is no death.
Akhmatova A. A.
Leonid Petrovich Volkov (1870 - 1900) - Amur poet, writer, Cossack officer. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his soul, Leonid Petrovich Volkov was probably still inspired by the similarity of his fate with the fate of Lermontov. But what for Lermontov resulted, although tragic, but, we dare to think, rather, even a played chord, for Volkov, alas, seemed to be an everlasting routine, an everyday viscous inescapability.
Leonid Petrovich Volkov
He lost his mother at the age of three. And at the age of eight, Volkov was left an orphan. Acquaintance with the poet Apollon Maykov helped him become a real poet. At eighteen, Volkov left the institute. It was necessary to decide how to live further, which direction to go, which field to choose.
.jpg)
Parents of L.P. Volkov.
From Lieutenant Lermontov in Volkov there were very few Pechorins left and very many, with a clear predominance, of the Maksimov Maksimychs. A dreamy love for as yet unexperienced distant travels pushed Volkov to the farthest corner of the empire. On the advice and patronage of Colonel Vinnikov, he became a volunteer of Amursky Cossack army, with which I went to the Amur...
L. Volkov furrowed the region lengthwise and crosswise: the Lower Amur, Primorye, Khingan, and the Zazeya Plain. All this time Leonid Petrovich did not leave literary studies, publishing his poetic creations in Siberian and Far Eastern publications. Two collections of poems “On the Amur” (Blagoveshchensk, 1895) and “On Far East"(Blagoveshchensk, 1899). He published his first poem in 1887, while a student at the Orphan Institute. Later, poems appeared in the newspaper "Far East", and since 1897 in the Blagoveshchensk "Amurskaya Gazeta".
.jpg)
Blagoveshchensk. View of Bolshaya (Lenin) Street, 1911.
His poems are dedicated to the pioneer heroes of the Amur: Count Nikolai Nikolaevich Muravyov-Amursky, the first Orthodox pastor of Blagoveshchensk Father Alexander Sizoy, Gennady Nevelsky, grandfather Denisov, an old Amur Cossack who remembered Ant's alloys. They breathe the heroism of feat, the unfading theme of Russian military courage and valor.
CELEBRATING THE REGIMENTAL HOLIDAY
Today, on the holiday of the Troops,
Quite satisfied each other,
One friendly family
We are gathered here in a close circle.
Cossacks welcome all guests.
Satisfied with them without exception:
We are all close to each other,
In the Tsar's service we are all brothers.
Unity the army is strong,
Mighty Mother Russia.
She is not afraid of the enemy's anger,
Dashing enemies are not formidable.
May everyone's friendship be strong.
Then in battle, I believe sacredly,
The soldier will support the Cossack,
The Cossack will help out the soldier.
During horrors of war,
Sweeping away all obstacles from the path,
Mutual revenue is strong
The Russian troops will not flinch.
There is a lot of evil in military strife,
And its harm is clear to everyone,
And the honor of the double-headed eagle
Everywhere, always without stains.
I raise my glass
And I drink with all the Cossacks:
God grant that the ideal of brotherhood
Reigned over our troops.
Volkov served in the Far East for twelve years. Life rolled along measuredly and peacefully. L. Volkov died in battle during the capture of Sakhalyan. The Chinese suicide bomber managed to blow up a box of shells underneath him. The blast wave lifted Volkov in the saddle and threw him and his horse to the side. This explosion ended the life of the commander of the hundred, Leonid Petrovich Volkov. On the ship "Sungari" the hero's body was brought to Blagoveshchensk and interred in a military cemetery.
Ship coastal defense"Matsue"
(former Russian steamship "Sungari") in October 1906
In the Zazeya region liberated from the Chinese, Cossack settlers named one of their villages in honor of the brave Cossack Volkov. Nowadays, in the village of Volkovo there is a local museum, where you can still learn a lot about the life of this extraordinary person: a poet, a prose writer, a warrior.
Days of tireless work,
Down the Amur, without knowing any obstacles,
Muravyov sailed on rafts.
There were people with him, powerful in will,
Brave in spirit and full of strength.
They were not bent by the harsh fate,
The nasty wind didn't knock me off the road.
Neither the Tsar nor Russia will forget them.
The Far East is busy without a shot...
Soon half a century, like sea waves
They lie down noisily on the Russian sand!..
1894
The reason for canceling your trip to me can be twofold and lie in complete indifference, or the deepest respect for my gray hair and work, so as not to disturb creative process, taking me out of the work atmosphere.
The poet’s gift cannot be taken away; he needs nothing but talent.
The poet is as naked as a falcon, no one can give him a pen and no one can take away his pen. - Anna Akhmatova
Great glory, disgrace - I have gone through everything and the conditions are the same, two ends of a rod or stick called life or fate.
None of our contemporaries, as a rule, understand time or know their era. In the first ten years of the twentieth century, even in secluded corners, the thought of impending fundamental changes did not creep in, that beyond the threshold was the era of the Great October Revolution, the USSR and the first world war for planetary domination.
Anna Akhmatova: The stage hides a person, the stage reveals his most secret corners. The stage is like a chopping block or a place of execution.
Those who disrespect me do not come from principle, and those who respect me do not come from shyness. As a result, the hall is empty, I am alone.
I consider all kinds of memoirs to be fake. Human memory is unique, but it is not able to systematize and remember everything; subjectivity is also present, so deception is inevitable.
Read the continuation of Akhmatova’s quotes on the pages:
You can forgive betrayal only in words.
The poet is always right
The curtain is the line between life and death of an actor.
And the one we call music,
A gentleman is never rude by accident.
For lack of a better name,
You can look into the poet's soul only through the images he created.
There is nothing more depressing than delving into the mud of other people's lusts.
Bad poetry is not always an indicator of a lack of poetic gift.
We didn't know that poetry was so enduring.
For God there are no dead people.
We didn't know that poems were so enduring
The most boring thing in the world is other people's dreams and other people's fornication
Monday starts on Saturday.
I was in the great glory, experienced the greatest disgrace - and became convinced that in essence it was the same thing
It's scary to say, but people see only what they want to see and hear only what they want to hear. On this property human nature 90% of monstrous rumors, false reputations, and sacredly treasured gossip hold on. I will only ask those who disagree with me to remember what they heard about themselves.
Not the poet who created the rhyme, but the one who gave life to the lines.
A well-bred person does not offend another out of awkwardness. He only offends on purpose.
You can forget betrayal, but you can never forget resentment.
The future, as we know, casts its shadow long before it enters.
To live like this in freedom, to die like this at home.
The poet is always right.
Treason can be forgiven, but resentment can never be forgiven.
The best way to forget forever is to see it every day.
The rays of calm eyes are stronger than anything in the world.
Real tenderness cannot be confused with anything, and it is quiet.
It's scary to say, but people see only what they want to see and hear only what they want to hear. 90% of monstrous rumors, false reputations, and sacred gossip rest on this property of human nature. I will only ask those who disagree with me to remember what they heard about themselves
The future, as we know, casts its shadow long before it enters.
A well-bred person does not offend another out of awkwardness. He only offends on purpose
Could Biche, like Dante, create,
Or will Laura glorify the heat of love?
I taught women to speak...
But, God, how to silence them!
Real tenderness cannot be confused with anything, and it is quiet.
Our sacred craft
Has existed for thousands of years...
With him, even without light, the world is bright.
Or maybe there is no death.
To live like this in freedom, to die like this at home.
More arrogant and simpler than us.
Like a dandelion near a fence,
Like burdocks and quinoa.
Don't try to keep it for yourself
Given to you by heaven:
We spend, not save.
What is war, what is plague? - they see the end soon,
But who will protect us from the horror that
There is no death - everyone knows that
Repeating this has become boring,
Like a rose that blooms thoughtlessly,
Oh, there are unique words
The most durable thing on earth is sadness,
Stronger than anything in the world are the rays of calm eyes.
Everyone's love will sooner become mortal dust,
Despair seasoned with fear
Love conquers deceitfully
In a simple, unsophisticated chant.
And the one we call music
Will he save us? .
...everyone you truly loved,
They will remain alive for you.
There is a cherished quality in the closeness of people,
I know how short memory is.
To live like this in freedom,
Dying is like home.
And there are no more tearless people in the world,
More arrogant and simpler than us.
Who are you fighting against?
Stronger than anything in the world
Rays of calm eyes.
Our sacred craft
Has existed for thousands of years...
With him and without light the world is bright
But no poet has yet said,
That there is no wisdom and no old age,
Or maybe there is no death.
Gold rusts and steel decays,
Marble is crumbling. Everything is ready for death.
The most durable thing on earth is sadness,
And more durable is the royal word.
Happy is he who is in the midst of torment,
Among the worries and passions of a noisy life,
Like a rose that blooms madly,
And it’s easier on the waters of a running shadow.
Happiness
everyone you truly loved
They will remain alive for you.
There is a cherished quality in the closeness of people
She cannot be overcome by love and passion...
To live like this in freedom,
Dying is like home.
And there are no more tearless people in the world,
More arrogant and simpler than us.
...The air of exile is bitter -
Like poisoned wine.
If only you knew what kind of rubbish
Poems grow without shame...
Like a dandelion near a fence,
Like burdocks and quinoa.
Everyone's love will sooner become mortal dust,
Pride will be humbled and flattery will be silent.
Despair seasoned with fear
Almost impossible to bear.
Love conquers deceitfully
In a simple, unsophisticated chant.
You can't confuse real tenderness
With nothing, and she is quiet.
Our sacred craft
Has existed for thousands of years...
With him, even without light, the world is bright.
But no poet has yet said,
That there is no wisdom and no old age,
Or maybe there is no death.
Don't give me anything to remember:
I know how short memory is
don't try to keep it for yourself
Given to you by heaven:
Convicted - and we know it ourselves -
We spend, not save.
And the one we call music
For lack of a better name,
Will he save us?
To live like this in freedom,
Dying is like home.
And there are no more tearless people in the world,
More arrogant and simpler than us.
Who are you fighting against?
Stronger than anything in the world
Rays of calm eyes.
I have a lot to do today:
We must completely kill our memory,
It is necessary for the soul to turn to stone,
We must learn to live again.
Oh, there are unique words
Whoever said them spent too much.
Who are you fighting against?
Gold rusts and steel decays,
Marble is crumbling.
Everything is ready for death.
The most durable thing on earth is sadness,
And more durable is the royal word.
Stronger than anything in the world
Rays of calm eyes.
There is no death - everyone knows that
Repeating this has become boring,
Let them tell me what they have.
He is happy who has passed through torment,
Among the worries and passions of a noisy life,
Like a rose that blooms madly,
And it’s easier on the waters of a running shadow.
Whether it’s war or plague, they see a quick end,
The verdict has almost been pronounced on them.
But who will protect us from the horror that
Was it once called the run of time?
Methods of studying history and modern historical science Classical and modern Russian historical science
Strategy for the development of raw materials resources of the Urals
Mesomeric effect, or how to draw resonant (boundary) structures In terms of resonance theory, explain the direction of the reaction