The work of the old man in the station buffet. The story of life - a golden rose

In general, there are many preconceived notions and prejudices about writing. Some of them can lead to despair with their vulgarity.

What is most vulgarized is inspiration.

Almost always it appears to the ignorant in the form of a poet’s eyes bulging in incomprehensible admiration, directed to the sky, or a goose feather bitten between his teeth.

Many people obviously remember the film “The Poet and the Tsar”. There Pushkin sits, dreamily raising his eyes to the sky, then frantically grabs the pen, begins to write, stops, raises his eyes again, chews on the goose quill and again writes hastily.

How many images have we seen of Pushkin where he looks like an enthusiastic maniac!

At one art exhibition, I heard an interesting conversation near a sculpture of a short-haired and seemingly permanently curled Pushkin with an “inspired” gaze. The little girl looked at this Pushkin for a long time, wincing, and asked her mother:

- Mom, is he dreaming? Or what?

“Yes, daughter, Uncle Pushkin dreams a dream,” the mother answered tenderly.

Uncle Pushkin is “dreaming a dream”! That Pushkin who said about himself: “And for a long time I will be kind to the people because I awakened good feelings with my lyre, because in our cruel age I glorified freedom and called for mercy for the fallen”!

And if “holy” inspiration “overshadows” (necessarily “holy” and necessarily “overshadows”) the composer, then he, lifting his eyes, smoothly conducts for himself those enchanting sounds that undoubtedly sound now in his soul - exactly as on the cheesy Tchaikovsky monument in Moscow.

No! Inspiration is a strict working state of a person. Emotional elation is not expressed in theatrical posture and elation. Just like the notorious “pangs of creativity.”

Pushkin said about inspiration precisely and simply: “Inspiration is the disposition of the soul to the lively acceptance of impressions, and, consequently, to the quick understanding of concepts, which contributes to the explanation of them.” “The critics,” he added, “confuse inspiration with admiration.” Just as readers sometimes confuse truth with plausibility.

That wouldn't be so bad. But when other artists and sculptors mix inspiration with “veal delight,” it looks like complete ignorance and disrespect for the hard work of writing.

Tchaikovsky argued that inspiration is a state when a person works with all his strength, like an ox, and does not at all flirtatiously wave his hand.

Please excuse me for this digression, but everything I said above is not a trifle at all. This is a sign that the vulgar and common man is still alive.

Every person, at least several times in his life, has experienced a state of inspiration - elation, freshness, a vivid perception of reality, fullness of thought and awareness of his creative power.

Yes, inspiration is a strict working state, but it has its own poetic coloring, its own, I would say, poetic subtext.

Inspiration enters us like a radiant summer morning, just casting off the mists of a quiet night, splashed with dew, with thickets of damp foliage. It gently breathes its healing coolness into our faces.

Inspiration is like first love, when the heart beats loudly in anticipation of amazing meetings, unimaginably beautiful eyes, smiles and omissions.

Then our inner world is finely tuned and true, like some kind of magical instrument, and responds to everything, even the most hidden, most imperceptible sounds of life.

Many excellent lines have been written about inspiration by writers and poets. “But only a divine verb will touch sensitive ears” (Pushkin), “Then the anxiety of my soul is humbled” (Lermontov), “The sound approaches, and, submissive to the aching sound, the soul becomes younger” (Blok). Fet said very accurately about inspiration:

Drive away a living boat with one push

From sands smoothed by the tides,

Rise in one wave into another life,

Feel the wind from the flowering shores.

Interrupt a dreary dream with a single sound,

Suddenly revel in the unknown, dear,

Give life a sigh, give sweetness to secret torments,

Instantly feel something alien as your own...

Turgenev called inspiration “the approach of God,” the illumination of a person by thought and feeling. He spoke with fear of the unimaginable torment for a writer when he begins to translate this insight into words.

Tolstoy said about inspiration, perhaps, most simply: “Inspiration consists in the fact that suddenly something that can be done is revealed. The brighter the inspiration, the more painstaking work must be required to fulfill it.”

But no matter how we define inspiration, we know that it is fruitful and should not disappear fruitlessly without gifting people with it.

REVOLT OF HEROES

In the old days, when people moved from apartment to apartment, prisoners from the local prison were sometimes hired to carry things.

We children always waited for the appearance of these prisoners with burning curiosity and pity.

The prisoners were brought in by mustachioed guards with huge bulldog revolvers on their belts. We looked with all our eyes at the people in gray prison clothes and gray round caps. But for some reason we looked with special respect at those prisoners who had ringing thin shackles tied to their belts with a strap.

It was all very mysterious. But the most surprising thing seemed to be the fact that almost all the prisoners turned out to be ordinary, exhausted people and so good-natured that it was impossible to believe that they were villains and criminals. On the contrary, they were not only polite, but simply delicate, and most of all they were afraid of hurting someone when carrying bulky furniture or breaking something.

We, children, in agreement with adults, developed a cunning plan. Mom took the guards into the kitchen to drink tea, and at that time we hurriedly stuffed bread, sausage, sugar, tobacco, and sometimes money into the prisoners’ pockets. Our parents gave them to us.

We imagined that this was a risky business, and were delighted when the prisoners thanked us in a whisper, winking towards the kitchen, and hid our gifts further away, in secret inner pockets.

Sometimes prisoners would quietly give us letters. We put stamps on them and then went in a crowd to throw them in the mailbox. Before throwing the letter into the box, we looked around to see if there was a bailiff or policeman nearby? As if they could find out what kind of letter we were sending.

Among the prisoners, I remember a man with a gray beard. He was called the headman.

He was in charge of carrying things. Things, especially cabinets and pianos, got stuck in the doors, it was difficult to turn them around, and sometimes they would not move to their new place, no matter how much the prisoners fought with them. Things were clearly resisting. In such cases, the headman said about some closet:

“Put him where he wants.” Why are you making fun of him! I have been translating things for five years and I know their character. Since the thing doesn’t want to stand here, no matter how much you press on it, it won’t give way. It will break, but not give in.

I remembered this maxim of the old prisoner in connection with the literary plans and actions of literary heroes. There is something in common in the behavior of things and these heroes. Heroes often fight with the author and almost always defeat him. But we are still talking about this.

Of course, almost all writers make plans for their future things. Some develop them in detail and accurately. Others are very approximate. But there are writers whose outline consists of only a few words, as if they have no connection with each other.

And only writers with the gift of improvisation can write without a preliminary plan. Among Russian writers, Pushkin possessed such a gift to a high degree, and among contemporary prose writers, Alexei Nikolaevich Tolstoy.

I admit that a brilliant writer can also write without any plan. A genius is so internally rich that any topic, any thought, incident or object evokes in him an inexhaustible stream of associations.

Young Chekhov told Korolenko:

- Here you have an ashtray on the table. Do you want me to write a story about her right now?

And he would have written it, of course.

One can imagine that a person, picking up a crumpled ruble on the street, will begin his novel with this ruble, as if jokingly, starting easily and simply. But soon this novel will go both in depth and breadth, filled with people, events, light, colors and will begin to flow freely and powerfully, driven by the imagination, demanding more and more sacrifices from the writer, demanding that the writer give him precious reserves of images and words.

And now in the narrative, which began with an accident, thoughts arise, the complex fate of people arises. And the writer is no longer able to cope with his excitement. He, like Dickens, cries over the pages of his manuscript, groans in pain like Flaubert, or laughs like Gogol.

So in the mountains, from an insignificant sound, from a shot from a hunting rifle, snow begins to fall down a steep slope in a shiny stripe. Soon it turns into a wide snowy river rushing down, and after a few minutes an avalanche breaks into the valley, shaking the gorge with a roar and filling the air with sparkling dust.

Many writers mention this ease of emergence of a creative state among people of genius and, moreover, those with the gift of improvisation.

No wonder Baratynsky, who knew well how Pushkin worked, said about him:

... Pushkin is young, this brilliant windy man,

Everything under his pen is jokingly life-giving...

I mentioned that some plans seem like a bunch of words.

Here's a small example. I have a story "Snow". Before writing it, I wrote on a piece of paper, and from these notes the story was born. What do these records look like?

“The forgotten book about the north. The main color of the north is foil. Steam over the river. Women rinse clothes in ice holes. Smoke. The inscription on Alexandra Ivanovna’s bell: “I’m hanging at the door, ring more cheerfully!” “And the bell, a gift from Valdai, rings sadly under the arc.” They are called "Darvaldays". War. Tanya. Where is she, in what remote town? One. The dim moon behind the clouds is a terrible distance. Life is compressed into a small circle of light. From the lamp. All night something is buzzing in the walls. The branches scratch the glass. We very rarely leave the house in the deadest part of the winter night. This needs to be checked... Loneliness and waiting. Old disgruntled cat. Nothing can please him. Everything seems to be visible - even the twisted candles (olive) on the roll, but so far there is nothing else. I was looking for an apartment with a piano (singer). Evacuation. A story about waiting. Someone else's house. Old-fashioned, cozy in its own way, ficus trees, the smell of old Stamboli or Mesaksudi tobacco. An old man lived and died. Walnut desk with yellow spots on green cloth. Girl. Cinderella. Nurse. There is no one else yet. Love, they say, attracts from a distance. You can write a story just about waiting. What? Whom? She doesn't know this herself. It's heartbreaking. At the intersection of hundreds of roads, people accidentally collide, not knowing that their entire past life was preparation for this meeting. Probability theory. Applied to human hearts. It's simple for fools. The country is drowning in snow. The inevitability of the emergence of man. Everyone receives letters from someone addressed to the deceased. They are stacked on the table. This is the key. What letters? What's in them? Sailor. Son. Fear that he will come. Expectation. There is no limit to the kindness of her heart. The letters became reality. Twisted candles again. In a different capacity. Sheet music. Towel with oak leaves. Piano. Birch smoke. Tuner, all Czechs are good musicians. Covered up to the eyes. Everything is clear!”

Here is what can, with great stretch, be called the outline of this story. If you read this entry without knowing the story, it will become clear that this, although slow and unclear, is a persistent groping for a theme and plot.

What happens to the most accurate, thoughtful and verified writing plans? To tell the truth, their lives are mostly short.

As soon as people appear in the begun thing and as soon as these people come to life by the will of the author, they immediately begin to resist the plan and enter into a fight with it. The thing begins to develop according to its internal logic, the impetus for which, of course, was given by the writer. The characters act in a way consistent with their character, despite the fact that the creator of these characters is the writer.

If the writer forces the heroes to act not according to the internal logic that has arisen, if he forcefully returns them to the framework of the plan, then the heroes will begin to die, turning into walking schemes, into robots.

This idea was expressed very simply by Leo Tolstoy.

One of the visitors to Yasnaya Polyana accused Tolstoy of treating Anna Karenina cruelly, forcing her to throw herself under a train.

Tolstoy smiled and replied:

– This opinion reminds me of the case with Pushkin. One day he said to one of his friends: “Imagine what kind of thing Tatyana ran away with me. She got married. I never expected this from her.” I can say the same about Anna Karenina. In general, my heroes and heroines sometimes do things that I wouldn’t want! They do what they should do in real life and as happens in real life, and not what I want.

All writers are well aware of this inflexibility of heroes. “I’m in the midst of work,” said Alexei Nikolaevich Tolstoy, “I don’t know what the hero will say in five minutes. I watch him in amazement."

It happens that a secondary character displaces the others, becomes the main character himself, turns the entire course of the narrative and leads it along.

A thing truly, with all its strength, begins to live in the writer’s mind only while working on it. Therefore, there is nothing special and nothing tragic in the breakdown and collapse of plans.

On the contrary, it is natural and only testifies to the fact that genuine life has broken through, filled the writer’s scheme and expanded and broken the framework of the writer’s original plan with its living pressure.

This in no way discredits the plan, nor does it reduce the role of the writer to merely writing down everything according to life’s promptings. After all, the life of the images in his work is determined by the consciousness of the writer, his memory, imagination, and his entire internal structure.

THE HISTORY OF ONE STORY

"Planet Marz"

I’ll try to remember how the idea for my story “Kara-Bugaz” came about. How did this all happen?

During my childhood in Kyiv, on Vladimirskaya Hill above the Dnieper, every evening an old man appeared in a dusty hat with a hanging brim. He brought a shabby telescope and took a long time to install it on three bent iron legs.

This old man was called “Stargazer” and was considered an Italian because he deliberately distorted Russian words into a foreign way.

Having installed the telescope, the old man spoke in a studied, monotonous voice:

- Dear senors and signorinas! Buona giorno! For five kopecks you are carried away from the Earth to the Moon and various stars. I especially recommend watching the ominous planet Marz, which has the tone of human blood. Anyone born under the sign of Martz can immediately die in war from a Fusilier bullet.

Once I was with my father on Vladimir Hill and looked through a telescope at the planet Mars.

I saw a black abyss and a reddish ball fearlessly hanging without any support in the middle of this abyss. While I was looking at it, the ball began to approach the edge of the telescope and hid behind its copper rim. The Stargazer turned the telescope slightly and returned Mars to its original place. But he again began to move towards the copper rim.

- Well, how? - asked the father. – Do you see anything?

“Yes,” I answered. “I can even see the channels.”

I knew that people live on Mars - Martians - and that they dug huge canals on their planet for unknown reasons.

End of free trial.

A thin old man with prickly stubble on his face sat in the corner of the station buffet in
Majori. Winter squalls swept through the Gulf of Riga in whistling stripes. There was thick ice off the coast. Through the snowy smoke you could hear the rumble
surf, hitting a strong ice edge.
The old man went into the buffet, apparently to warm up. He didn't order anything and
sat dejectedly on a wooden sofa, with his hands in the sleeves of his clumsily patched
fishing jacket
A white furry dog came with the old man. She sat huddled
to his leg, and trembled.
Nearby, at a table, young people with tight, red cheeks were noisily drinking beer.
the backs of their heads. The snow melted on their hats. Melt water dripped into glasses of beer and
for sandwiches with smoked sausage. But the young people were arguing about football
match and did not pay attention to it.
When one of the young men took a sandwich and bit off half at once,
The dog couldn't stand it. She walked up to the table, stood on her hind legs and,
ingratiatingly, she began to look into the young man’s mouth.
- Petit! - the old man called quietly. - Aren’t you ashamed! Why are you
Are you bothering people, Petya?
But Petya continued to stand, and only her front paws were shaking all the time.
and sank from fatigue. When they touched the wet belly, doggy
she caught herself and raised them again.
But the young people did not notice her. They were deep in conversation and every now and then
poured cold beer into their glasses.
Snow covered the windows, and a shiver ran down the spine at the sight of people drinking in
such a cold beer is completely ice cold.
- Petit! - the old man called again. - And Petit! Come here!
The dog quickly shook its tail several times, as if making it clear
to the old man that she hears him and apologizes, but she can’t help herself
Maybe. She did not look at the old man and even averted her eyes to a completely different place.
side. She seemed to be saying: “I myself know that this is not good. But you don't
“You can buy me a sandwich like that.”
- Eh, Petit, Petit! - the old man said in a whisper, and his voice trembled slightly from
grief.
Petya wagged her tail again and glanced casually, pleadingly at the old man.
She seemed to ask him not to call her again and not to shame her, because she had
she herself is not feeling well in her soul, and if it weren’t for the extremes, she would never, of course,
I started asking strangers.
Finally one of the young men, with high cheekbones and a green hat, noticed
dog.
- Are you asking, bitch? - he asked. -Where is your master?
Petya happily wagged her tail, looked at the old man and even slightly
squealed.
- What are you doing, citizen! - said the young man. - Once the dog
keep it, this is how you should feed it. Otherwise it turns out uncivilized. You have a dog
begs for alms. Begging is prohibited by law in our country.
The young people laughed.
- Well, I’ve soaked it, Valka! - one of them shouted and threw the dog a piece
sausages.
- Petya, don’t you dare! - the old man shouted. His weathered face and skinny, wiry
neck turned red.
The dog shrank and, lowering its tail, walked up to the old man, without even looking at him.
sausage.
- Don't you dare take a crumb from them! - said the old man.
He began frantically rummaging in his pockets, took out some silver and copper
small items and began to count it in the palm of his hand, blowing away the debris stuck to
coins. His fingers were trembling.
- Still offended! - said the high-cheeked young man. - How independent, please tell me!
- Oh, leave him alone! Why did he give himself up to you? - one of them said conciliatoryly
young people, pouring beer for everyone.
The old man did not answer. He walked up to the counter and put down a handful of small
money on a wet counter.
- One sandwich! - he said hoarsely. The dog stood next to him, tucking
tail. The saleswoman served the old man two sandwiches on a plate.
- One! - said the old man.
- Take it! - the saleswoman said quietly. - I won’t go broke on you...
- Paldies! - said the old man. - Thank you!
He took the sandwiches and went out onto the platform. There was no one there. One squall
passed, the second one was approaching, but was still far on the horizon. Even weak
sunlight fell on the white forests beyond the Lielupe River.
The old man sat down on a bench, gave one sandwich to Petya, and wrapped the other in
gray handkerchief and hid it in his pocket.
The dog ate frantically, and the old man, looking at her, said:
- Oh, Petit, Petit! Stupid dog!
But the dog did not listen to him. She was eating. The old man looked at her and wiped
his eyes on his sleeve - they were watering from the wind.

The soul asked for mercy...

Reflection lesson

based on the story by K. Paustovsky

» Old man in the station cafeteria »

Sculpture garden of the Odessa Literary Museum. Paustovsky, depicted as a sphinx, knowing everything in this life and keeping secret knowledge: about the world, about people, about Odessa, looks at those around him with philosophical wisdom.

“The Sphinx is a symbol of time, the keeper of wisdom.”

Marlene Dietrich , who visited the Soviet Union, knelt before the writer and kissed his hand, although she had only read one of his short stories - “Telegram”. “Only a great master can write like this,” the actress said in an interview with one of the Soviet newspapers.

The writer Paustovsky did not live here, Why is everyone around singing about him? Why among the mossy everyday life, Stupefied by endless troubles, People strive for this house, Like butterflies from darkness into light? And not with the curiosity of mouthless people, And with hope, timid as a chick, To a truly people's museum We go, completely distraught. To warm your soul from the cold And scoop up a living word, So that through the thunderstorms the Golden Rose She showed the way for everyone. This quiet corner of Moscow, Kuzminsky park, wooden house... The writer Paustovsky lives here -
Come for tea in the evening .

Konstantin Georgievich was called a wizard. He knew how to write in such a way that a person reading his books would have the eyes became magical.
They also said about him that “in the official and boring sea of newspapers, he was an island with flowering grass.”

The lights on the platform remain on until late.
Express trains and the wind rush past...
He sits and sits by the window all evening -
Who showed him this place?
Are there any brothers and children somewhere?
Nameless village. Deserted station.
Man in the station cafeteria.
There is no briefcase in my hands, no suitcase at my feet,
No worries about a reserved seat ticket.
As if he had crossed the threshold of alienation,
Man in the station cafeteria.
The Orbit program is a detective story.
The “third” man stood exhausted near the counter.
He is emotionless and dry. And silent as a shadow
Man in the station cafeteria.

“Don’t you dare take a crumb from them! - said the old man.

He began frantically rummaging in his pockets, took out some silver and copper change and began counting it on his palm, blowing away debris stuck to coins . His fingers were shaking.”

There is no more destructive vice
How to shelter indifference in the heart
To cure this heart disease
Don't be afraid to have compassion, pity, love.

Indifference is the most terrible disease of the soul

Alexis Tocqueville

The only person who showed concern for the old man was the saleswoman.
Young people can be called indifferent because they behaved rudely, tactlessly towards an elderly, possibly sick person, mocking and humiliating him.
The already difficult situation of the old man from their ridicule was aggravated by an even greater awareness of his loneliness and defenselessness.
However, despite this, one can note the dignity of the old man, his independence, and pride.

The mood of the heroes

Old man

Dog

Sitting dejectedly, he called quietly
The voice trembled with grief

She sat, pressed against her leg, trembling, could not stand it, ingratiatingly began to look into her mouth
she him
hears and apologizes, looks away

The dog quickly shook its tail several times, as if letting the old man know that she heard him and apologized, but could not help it. She did not look at the old man and even looked away in a completely different direction. She seemed to be saying: “I myself know that this is not good. But you can’t buy me such a sandwich.”

lonely

independent

proud

old man

poor

sense of dignity

YOUTH

BARMAID

Kind
Heart
Understanding
Feeds
Sympathizes
Generous

Human

Indifferent
Rough
Soulless
Humiliate
Insult
Drinking

Hams

Why does the dog beg?
What is the relationship between a dog and an old man?
What is the life of an old man like, what details speak about it
How does an old man react to a dog begging, and what does he experience?

How do young people feel about the old man and the dog?
Why do they still throw food at her?
How do they behave?

Why doesn't the dog take food from the hands of young people?
-Why is she taking a sandwich from the barmaid?
-What is the role of landscape in the story?

Not gold and silver ,
And in life above everything else
Goodness was valued in people.
Good and a hearth under the roof.
And no matter how much anyone wants,
Let it be in the safes
And it didn’t mean
The goodness of selfless deeds
It was paid with spiritual tribute.
And with this simple faith,
Suddenly looking around the whole world,
Become wise like Leo Tolstoy
Explosive, like Blok's poems.
And everyone of yours will find your trace
(All good things will not be lost)
Immortality is brought to the earth
People who create joy...
Dropping hair silver
And rushing into endless distances,
Hurry up to do good
While you are not tired yet.

What impression did the story make on you? Why?
Which of the heroes showed responsiveness to the old man?
Can young people be called indifferent? Why?

What is the difference between responsiveness and indifference?
What human qualities contribute to the manifestation of responsiveness?
Have you ever encountered indifference?
What can an indifferent attitude towards others lead to? ?

There are many evil ones
In any human destiny.
And they will only say a kind word -
And your heart is lighter.
But such a kind word
Not everyone knows how to find
To cope with a friend's sadness,
You can overcome adversity along the way.
There is no kind word more valuable
The cherished word of that
But rarely, my friends, still
We say it out loud.

How easy it is to offend an old man! You say something awkward to him - Immediately the look of a homeless puppy: Nobody needs me now! You've forgotten what you said And there is a burning wound in his heart, Tears come to my eyes, Like a child from deception. Life is gone. And tomorrow night will come. Will pick it up. Neither get up nor look back. But it’s so easy to help him - Just smile like a child! What awaits us? Perhaps HEAVEN or HELL? It may be that nothing will happen. The old people are standing right above the abyss. Always remember this, PEOPLE!

Formula and portrait of kindness.
ACTIONS + WORDS = KINDNESS A

Learning to be kind is difficult. The path to kindness is not easy, so a person should stop more often and reflect on the actions he has done and the words he has spoken. Every person, big and small, has their own path to Kindness.
So take care of your soul and do not let it become overgrown with weeds, fill your soul with sunshine, kind words and good deeds. Hurry up to do good before it's too late. You have to hurry with the good, otherwise it may be left without an address.

Paustovsky Tarus was buried, She carried it in her arms and didn’t drop it, didn’t scream, didn’t rush, only tear after tear rolled down. Everyone left, she was left alone And then a thunderstorm struck...

Over a high fresh grave the sky groaned, thunder roared, blazed with furious force. The funeral service was held for Paustovsky's era.

A thin old man with prickly stubble on his face sat in the corner of the station cafeteria in Majori. Winter squalls swept through the Gulf of Riga in whistling stripes. There was thick ice off the coast. Through the snowy smoke one could hear the crashing surf, hitting the strong ice edge.

The old man went into the buffet, apparently to warm up. He didn’t order anything and sat dejectedly on the wooden sofa, with his hands in the sleeves of his clumsily patched fishing jacket.

A white furry dog came with the old man. She sat pressed against his leg and trembled.

Nearby, at a table, young men with tight, red heads were noisily drinking beer. The snow melted on their hats. Melt water dripped into glasses of beer and onto smoked sausage sandwiches. But the young people were arguing about a football match and did not pay attention to it.

When one of the young men took a sandwich and bit off half at once, the dog could not stand it. She walked up to the table, stood on her hind legs and, ingratiatingly, began to look into the young man’s mouth.

Petit! - the old man called quietly. - Aren’t you ashamed! Why are you bothering people, Petya?

But Petya continued to stand, and only her front paws kept trembling and drooping from fatigue. When they touched the wet belly, the dog remembered and picked them up again.

But the young people did not notice her. They were deep in conversation and kept pouring cold beer into their glasses.

Snow covered the windows, and a shiver ran down the spine at the sight of people drinking completely ice-cold beer in such cold weather.

Petit! - the old man called again. - And Petit! Come here!

Eh, Petit, Petit! - the old man said in a whisper, and his voice trembled slightly with chagrin.

Petya wagged her tail again and glanced casually, pleadingly at the old man. She seemed to ask him not to call her again and not to shame her, because she herself was not feeling well in her soul and, if not for the extreme, she would, of course, never have asked strangers.

Finally, one of the young men, with high cheekbones and a green hat, noticed the dog.

Are you asking, bitch? - he asked. -Where is your master?

Petit happily wagged her tail, looked at the old man and even squealed a little.

What are you doing, citizen! - said the young man. - If you keep a dog, you should feed it that way. Otherwise it turns out uncivilized. The dog is begging you for alms. Begging is prohibited by law in our country.

The young people laughed.

Well done, Valka! - one of them shouted and threw a piece of sausage to the dog.

Petya, don't you dare! - the old man shouted. His weathered face and skinny, sinewy neck turned red.

The dog shrank and, lowering its tail, walked up to the old man, without even looking at the sausage.

Don't you dare take a crumb from them! - said the old man.

He frantically rummaged through his pockets, took out some silver and copper change and began counting it on his palm, blowing off the debris stuck to the coins. His fingers were trembling.

Still offended! - said the high-cheeked young man. - How independent, please tell me!

Oh, leave him alone! Why did he give himself up to you? - one of the young men said conciliatoryly, pouring beer for everyone.

The old man did not answer. He walked over to the counter and placed a handful of loose change on the wet counter.

One sandwich! - he said hoarsely. The dog stood next to him with its tail between its legs. The saleswoman served the old man two sandwiches on a plate.

One! - said the old man.

Take it! - the saleswoman said quietly. - I won’t go broke on you...

Paldies! - said the old man. - Thank you!

He took the sandwiches and went out onto the platform. There was no one there. One squall passed, the second was approaching, but was still far on the horizon. Even weak sunlight fell on the white forests beyond the Lielupe River.

The old man sat down on a bench, gave one sandwich to Petya, and wrapped the other in a gray handkerchief and hid it in his pocket.

The dog ate frantically, and the old man, looking at her, said:

Ah, Petit, Petit! Stupid dog!

But the dog did not listen to him. She was eating. The old man looked at her and wiped his eyes with his sleeve - they were watering from the wind.

That, in fact, is the whole little story that happened at Majori station on the Riga seaside.

Why did I tell it?

When I started writing it, I was thinking about something completely different. Strange as it may seem, I was thinking about the meaning of details in prose, remembered this story and decided that if it is described without one main detail - without the fact that the dog apologized to the owner with all its appearance, without this gesture of the small dog, then this story will become rougher than she actually was.

And if we throw out other details - a clumsily patched jacket, indicating widowhood or loneliness, drops of melt water falling from the hats of young people, ice-cold beer, small money with rubbish stuck to it from the pocket, and, finally, even squalls flying in from the sea white walls, then the story would become much drier and bloodless.

In recent years, details have begun to disappear from our fiction, especially from younger writers.

Without details, a thing cannot live. Any story turns into that dry smoked whitefish stick that Chekhov mentioned. The whitefish itself is missing, but one skinny sliver sticks out.

The meaning of detail is that, according to Pushkin, a little thing that eludes the eye will flash large, into everyone’s eyes.

On the other hand, there are writers who suffer from tedious and boring observation. They fill their writings with piles of details - without selection, without understanding that detail has the right to live and is necessary only if it is characteristic, if it can immediately, like a ray of light, snatch any person or any phenomenon from the darkness.

For example, to give an idea of the heavy rain that had begun, it is enough to write that its first drops clicked loudly on the newspaper lying on the ground under the window.

Or, to give a terrible feeling of the death of an infant, it is enough to say about it as Alexey Tolstoy said in “Walking through Torment”:

“Exhausted Dasha fell asleep, and when she woke up, her child was dead and the light hairs on his head stood up.”

“While she was sleeping, death came to him...” Dasha said, crying, to Telegin. - Understand - his hair stood on end... One was suffering... I was sleeping.

No amount of persuasion could drive away from her the vision of the boy’s lonely struggle with death.”

This detail (the light child's hair standing on end) is worth many pages of the most accurate description of death.

Both of these details are right on target. This is the only detail that should be—determining the whole and, moreover, mandatory.

In the manuscript of one young writer I came across the following dialogue:

“- Great, Aunt Pasha! - Alexey said as he entered. (Before this, the author says that Alexey opened the door to Aunt Pasha’s room with his hand, as if the door could be opened with his head.)

“Hello, Alyosha,” Aunt Pasha exclaimed warmly, looked up from her sewing and looked at Alexei. - Why haven’t you come in for a long time?

Yes, there’s no time. I held meetings all week.

All week you say?

Exactly, Aunt Pasha! All week. Is Volodka missing? - Alexey asked, looking around the empty room.

No. He's in production.

Well, then I went. Goodbye, Aunt Pasha. Stay healthy.

“Goodbye, Alyosha,” answered Aunt Pasha. - Be healthy.

Alexey went to the door, opened it and went out. Aunt Pasha looked after him and shook her head:

A lively guy. Motor".

This entire passage consists, in addition to carelessness and a sloppy manner of writing, of completely unnecessary and empty things (they are underlined). All these are unnecessary, non-characteristic, non-defining details.

The search for and determination of details requires the strictest choice.

Detail is closely related to the phenomenon that we call intuition.

I imagine intuition as the ability to reconstruct a picture of the whole from a single particular, from a detail, from one property.

Intuition helps historical writers to recreate not only the true picture of life in past eras, but their very air, the very state of people, their psyche, which, of course, was somewhat different compared to ours.

Intuition helped Pushkin, who had never been to Spain or England, to write magnificent Spanish poetry, to write “The Stone Guest”, and in “A Feast in the Time of Plague” to give a picture of England that was no worse than Walter Scott or Berne - natives of of this foggy country.

Good detail gives the reader an intuitive and correct idea of the whole - or of a person and his condition, or of an event, or, finally, of an era.

A thin old man with prickly stubble on his face sat in the corner of the station buffet. Winter squalls swept through the Gulf of Riga in whistling stripes. There was thick ice off the coast. Through the snowy smoke one could hear the crashing surf, hitting the strong ice edge.
The old man went into the buffet, apparently to warm up. He didn’t order anything and sat dejectedly on the wooden sofa, with his hands in the sleeves of his clumsily patched fishing jacket.
A white furry dog came with the old man. Oka sat pressed against his leg and trembled.
Young people with tight, red heads were noisily drinking beer at a table. The snow melted on their hats. Melt water dripped into glasses. beer and sandwiches with smoked sausage. But the young people were arguing about a football match and did not pay attention to it.
When one of the young men took a sandwich and bit off half at once, the dog could not stand it. She walked up to the table, stood on her hind legs and, ingratiatingly, began to look into the young man’s mouth.

Peggy! - the old man called quietly. - Aren’t you ashamed! Why are you bothering people, Petya?

But Petya continued to stand, and only her front paws kept trembling and drooping from fatigue. When they touched the wet belly, the dog remembered and picked them up again.
But the young people did not notice her. They were deep in conversation and kept pouring cold beer into their glasses.
Snow covered the windows, and a shiver ran down the spine at the sight of people drinking completely ice-cold beer in such cold weather.

Petit! - the old man called again. - And Petit! Come here!

Eh, Petit! Petit! - the old man said in a whisper, and his voice trembled slightly with chagrin.

Are you asking? - he asked. -Where is your master?

Petya happily wagged her tail* looked at the old man and even squealed a little.

What are you doing, citizen! - said the young man, - If you keep a dog, you should feed it. Otherwise it turns out uncivilized. The dog is begging you for alms. Begging is prohibited by law in our country.

The young people laughed.

Well done, Valka! - one of them shouted and threw a piece of sausage to the dog.
Petya, don't you dare! - the old man shouted. His weathered face and skinny, sinewy neck turned red.

The dog shrank and, lowering its tail, walked up to the old man, without even looking at the sausage.

Don't you dare take a crumb from them! - said the old man.

He began frantically rummaging in his pockets, took out some silver and copper change and counted it in his palm, blowing off the debris stuck to the coins. His fingers were trembling.

Still offended! - said the high-cheeked young man. - Which independent one, please tell me.
Oh, leave him alone! Why did he surrender to you? - one of his comrades said conciliatoryly, pouring beer for everyone.

The old man didn't say a word. He walked over to the counter and placed a few coins on the wet counter.

One sandwich! - he said hoarsely.

The dog stood next to him with its tail between its legs.
The saleswoman served the old man two sandwiches on a plate.

One! - said the old man.
Take it! - the saleswoman said quietly. - I won’t go broke on you...
Thank you! - said the old man.

He took the sandwiches and went out onto the platform. There was no one there. One squall passed, the second was approaching, but was still far on the horizon. Even the faint sunlight fell on the white forests across the river.
The old man sat down on a bench, gave one sandwich to Petya, and wrapped the other in a gray handkerchief and hid it in his pocket.
The dog ate frantically, and the old man, looking at her, said:

Ah, Petit, Petit! Stupid dog!

But the dog didn’t listen to him. She just ate. The old man looked at her and wiped his eyes with his sleeve - they were probably watering from the wind.
According to K. G. Paustovsky