"I love to watch children die" - from school, I confidently considered Mayakovsky a strange, sick pervert. All my ardent youthful maximalism shouted that such disgusting thoughts should not be put into words.
But from Mayakovsky, ten years after graduation, I remember only two phrases: "I take it out of wide trousers, a duplicate of a heavy load, read, envy, I am a citizen of the Soviet Union" and "I love watching children die." Phrases periodically pop up in memory at different moments, today again) but today for some reason there is an understanding that, if we assume that this phrase is not a maniac, for maniacs, then we can talk about the "death" of a child in a person.
"Peter Pan Syndrome" and other commonplace growing up ...
But on the other hand it is said sadly:
This is a common syndrome - not a disease, but Peter Pan sometimes commits suicide. He always hurts those who love him; thirsts for attention and love, but will easily spit into the soul of those who love. Many of us have experienced the temptation of this state ...
... With Peter Pan Syndrome there is constant mental discomfort ...
Chronology of symptoms:
12 to 17- four main qualities, present in varying degrees: irresponsibility, restlessness, loneliness, violation of the sexual role.18 to 22- denial turns into narcissism, male chevenism prevails in behavior.
22 to 25- a serious crisis, general disappointment in life.
26 to 30- Resigns himself to a chronic state of discontent by playing the role of an adult.
31 to 45- marriage, children, constant work, but not coming to a state of despair, which makes his life monotonous and boring.
After 45- depression and irritability increases ...
P.S. I'm even afraid to analyze whether I am susceptible to this syndrome (((
15. “I LOVE TO WATCH HOW CHILDREN DIE” (Extract from various sources) (section to the material by V. MAYAKOVSKY. BIRTHDAY)
Qui cum Jesu itis,
non ite cum jesuitis. *
* Walking with Jesus,
do not go with the Jesuits (lat.).
Children, children are me.
Velimir Khlebnikov
Dorthin will unser Steuer, wo
unser Kinder-Land ist!
** Our ship is heading there,
where is the country of our children! (F. Nietzsche).
Countless authors have written about Mayakovsky's “mysterious” and “cynical-sadistic” line “I love watching children die”. There were also quite a few defenders, starting with the influential Roman Yakobson. The line of the legal profession was summed up by Lilya Brik, whom the poet himself called “a sweet and dear Child”: “Life is full of suffering, and longing, and a feeling of loneliness. The sooner such a life ends, the better for a person.
The sooner a person dies, the better for him. Therefore - “I love to watch children die”. As the saying goes - "did not suffer for long." This is what the people used to say about dead children.<...>
This bitter expression is taken sharply paradoxically, as the only thing that can please a person who loves and pity people. Mayakovsky allowed himself a little poetic liberty - to give a conclusion not at the end of the poem, but at the beginning. "
Mayakovsky himself did not enter into the debate, and according to the testimony of one of the accusers, in 1928 he answered: “You need to know why it was written, when it was written and for whom it was written”. Let's follow his advice.
As you know, the young Vladimir Vladimirovich was a maximalist and did not exchange for “small poetic liberties”.
Let us give the full fourth poem "A few words about myself":
I love to watch children die.
Have you noticed the surf of laughter, the misty shaft
for longing trunk?
And I -
in the reading room of the streets -
so often I leafed through the volume of the coffin.
Midnight
with wet fingers felt
me
and a hammered fence
and with rain drops on the bald head of the dome
galloped crazy cathedral.
I see Christ fled from the icon,
chiton windward edge
kissed, crying, slush.
Screaming to the brick
I thrust a dagger into words of frenzied
swollen pulp in the sky:
"The sun!
My father!
Take pity though you do not torture!
It is my blood shed by you that flows dearly.
This is my soul
in tatters of torn clouds
in the scorched sky
on the rusty cross of the bell tower!
Time!
Even though you, lame bogomaz,
paint my face
to the goddess of the freak of the century!
I'm lonely as the last eye
from a man going to the blind! " (I, 48-49)
Blasphemous words are presented to the heavenly Father. It is he - “the father of skillful torture” (Khlebnikov) - who loves to watch children die. The first line is from the mouth of the Creator. The disagreeable “and I ...” indicates that this is not the one who confesses his cynical love for dying children: “I love to watch children die<...>
And I<...>as the last eye of a man walking towards the blind! ”. In the place of Christ who escaped from the icon, time will paint his sacrificial image: “And when my forehead<...>the fading frame will bloody ... ”(I, 47) [I will find myself]“ in the scorched sky on a rusty cross ”. What's happening? The rejection of God is accompanied by an appeal to another heavenly Father, all hope is only on him: “Sun! My father! Take pity though you do not torture! ”. The sun does not seem to be tormenting. Torment and death come from another testing and punishing right hand.
PHOTOS FROM THE INTERNET
I love to watch children die. Have you noticed the laughter surf of the hazy shaft behind the longing trunk? And I - in the reading room of the streets - so often leafed through the volume of the coffin. Midnight with wet fingers felt me and the clogged fence, and with drops of rain on the bald head of the dome, the mad cathedral galloped. I see Christ fled from the icon, kissed the windward edge of the tunic, crying, slush. I scream at the brick, I thrust a dagger into the swollen pulp of the frenzied words: "The sun! My father! Take pity though you do not torment! It is my blood that you shed pouring down the road. This is my soul in tatters of torn clouds in the scorched sky on the rusty cross of the bell tower! Time! Even though you, lame bogomaz, paint my face into the goddess of the freak of the century! I am lonely, like the last eye of a man walking towards the blind! "Note
A few words about myself. - I love watching children die. - In the memoirs of one of Mayakovsky's contemporaries, we read about their conversation in 1928:
"We were already walking, it seems, along Dzerzhinsky Street. Children ran out of school ... Obviously, they had an evening, or it was the second shift. Mayakovsky stopped, admired the children. He stood and looked at them, and I, like me someone pulled his tongue, said quietly:
- "I love to watch children die." We moved on.
He was silent, then suddenly said:
You need to know why it was written, when it was written and for whom it was written ... do you really think that this is true? "(" Mayakovsky. Collection of memoirs and articles ". L., GIHL, 1940, pp. 180-181).
Countless authors have written about Mayakovsky's “mysterious” and “cynical-sadistic” line “I love watching children die”. There were also quite a few defenders, starting with the influential Roman Yakobson. The line of the legal profession was summed up by Lilya Brik, whom the poet himself called “a sweet and dear Child”: “Life is full of suffering, and longing, and a feeling of loneliness. The sooner such a life ends, the better for a person. The sooner a person dies, the better for him. Therefore, and - "I love to watch children die." As the saying goes - “did not suffer for long”. This is what the people used to say about dead children.<…>This bitter expression is taken sharply paradoxically, as the only thing that can please a person who loves and pity people. Mayakovsky allowed himself a little poetic liberty - to give a conclusion not at the end of the poem, but at the beginning. " Mayakovsky himself did not enter into the debate, and according to the testimony of one of the accusers, in 1928 he answered: "You need to know why it was written, when it was written and for whom it was written." Let's follow his advice. As you know, the young Vladimir Vladimirovich was a maximalist and did not exchange for "small poetic liberties". The fanatic line was followed immediately by:
You surf of laughter hazy shaft spotted((I, 48))
per longing trunk?
No, they did not notice, and Mayakovsky himself did not reveal his cards.
The poet was a cubist in painting, and the technique of pictorial division, decomposition of the plane of the canvas was tried by him on a white sheet of paper. Mayakovsky shreds and splits words:
Y -(("From street to street", 1913))
faces.
Faces
at
Great Danes
years
res -
what.
Che -
cut ...
By redistributing the boundaries of words, the poet re-establishes the units and boundaries of speech, changes and measures the "faces" of words. In the lyrical space, he is his own land surveyor. Let us consider as a word only that which goes beyond its limits. By itself, such an exit beyond the limits Florensky considered necessary, but insufficient: “... The area into which the exit is made must be objective, that is, integral in itself, and not a random accumulation of uncoordinated and ununited elements. Only in this case, with its integrity, it can be called meaning of this work. In other words, this area should be constructive. " The cut of the wave-line in the finale of the poem "A few words about myself" is invisible: "... I am lonely, like the last eye / of a person walking to the blind!" The bottom line is: "I'm alone, like the last eye ...".
Let's turn to the poem "Could you?" (1913):
I immediately blurred the map of everyday life,((I, 40))
splashing paint from a glass;
I showed on a platter of jelly
slanting cheekbones of the ocean.
On the scales of a tin fish
I read the calls of new [prophetic] lips.
And you
nocturne play
we could
on the downspout flute?
Not a leaf of a tear-off calendar, but a card of an ordinary day - jelly-like, shapeless, none. The day turns (at once, in one fell swoop!) Into a canvas. Mayakovsky is terminologically accurate: in cartography, coloring is called "filling", and then we have before us not a relief head of the Earth, but a flat square with a hemisphere-circle. Painting with a cut of lines cuts through the "map of everyday life" and it is already the face of the Earth, a geographical map of the universal scope. The dish is also a circle, on which a sector is also cut out - a portion of everyday jelly. In "Themes and Variation" Pasternak will describe day and the face of Pushkin already through this poem by Mayakovsky:
Tomorrow sounded in his mouth,((I, 185))
As on the lips of others "yesterday".
<…>Was wild
Opened off a cliff sector
Globe and wild
An impenetrable hand
Shedding salty nectar
Into the space of blind tackle,
Throughout days and days…
For a futurist, this sector cuts with "oblique cheekbones" into the ocean, like the bow of a ship. "Cheekbones" refers to the lower forward portion of the ship. But here the cheekbones belong to the ocean itself - the iron oval of the ocean's face. Dahl in his article "Nose" notes the physiognomic nature of geographical maps: "The transfer of the names of parts of the face to the formation of the banks is remarkable: mouth (mouth), lip, nose, forehead, cheek."
Navigation is an image of poetic self-knowledge.
Mayakovsky is well acquainted with the ancient oar navigation system. Under the command of the helmsman, there was a man called pausarius who regulated the evenness of the oar blows with his voice, hammer blow, or flute. Mayakovsky would not have been a futurist if he had not turned the famous Hamlet flute into a drainpipe. Moreover, the question uniting singing, music and urban landscape, "Would you / nocturne play / could / on the downpipe flute?" addressed to Arion-Pushkin, who, by his own admission, sang to the rowers. And Mayakovsky himself answers it ten years later in "Jubilee" dedicated to Pushkin: " You could- / you have a good syllable "(VI, 53).
Nikolai Aseev recalled: “Those who see the sea for the first time cannot immediately see it. I remember my own impression of the Black Sea, seen for the first time from the height of the Baydar Gate. It seemed to me incredible, a wall that rose vertically from the horizon, and immense in its width. This is how Mayakovsky, who met for the first time, felt. Unlike anything seen before, unusual, inexplicable. " Mayakovsky - the sea and the ship at sea. Noticing the surf means seeing the structure of the poem as the structure of a ship. A ship goes by and with its nose-trunk cuts the “everyday card”. Not on the bow and not on the sides, but in the stern, laughter will find its refuge: "uut" - the middle part of the stern. In the novel "Frigate Pallas" "by Goncharov:" I did not leave the Utah for the whole morning. I wanted to get to know the ocean. I already knew from the poets that he was “boundless, gloomy, gloomy, boundless, immeasurable and indomitable”<…>... Now I gazed eagerly into his face, as they gaze into a person whom they knew from a portrait. " Thus: “I love to watch how children are at peace". "Longing for ship stern" (Mandelstam) echoes Pasternak's:
But he found out. Dumb firmament((I, 588))
Vastness knows no complaints.
And l hut pouring death
He filed her for deck slabs.
Nietzsche wrote in Thus Spoke Zarathustra: “So I still love the land of my children, undiscovered, lying in the most distant seas; and let my ships seek and seek her ”(II, 87). We will have to travel quite a long way through the early poems of Mayakovsky in order to understand how and why he hides the hut-stern of the orphan ship-peace, hiding invisible laughter through the tears visible to the world.
* * *The first lithographed collection of Mayakovsky's "I" (1913) was a tetraptych, a fold of four poems that bore traces of a clear Christian theme, urbanistically refracted. The first poem is about the crucifixion, the second is about debauchery, the third is Pieta, the last is about the sacrifice and the cup.
1 On the pavement((I, 45))
my soul worn out
footsteps
they make tough phrases heels.
Where are the cities
hanged
and in pet le clouds
froze
towers
curves out -
go
one weep,
what a crossroads
races heels
policemen.
Not a poet in a city, but a city in a poet. The “topography of the soul” (Tsvetaeva) is such that the inner and the outer do not just change places - the border between them is blurred. They become indistinguishable. Along the worn out and trampled pavement of the soul, the poet himself goes to sob on crossroads... The pavement is not just a place of the soul, but also the level of speech. The soul goes into the heels of the maddened, winding speech along the pavement like a rope. Cities hang on the verb gallows, like on the giraffe's neck of a crane. In Khlebnikov's "Blue shackles": "When the Verb and Rtsy converged / And the world swayed on the verb ..." (I, 294). The enforcers of order are crucified mercilessly at the crossroads. Madness, execution and crucifixion - nothing more. Except for laughter. The poet mourns the world where the role of the Savior is played by ... the policeman. The poet himself, as a creator, is crucified on the word, the divine verb, and the only salvation is laughter. The second text is "A few words about my wife":
Seas of unknown distant beach((I, 46))
the moon is coming -
my wife.
My lover is red-haired.
Behind the crew
loudly stretches a crowd of constellations of variegated stripes.
Is crowned with a car garage
kisses at newsstands,
and the trail of the milky way with a blinking page
decorated with tinsel sequins.
And I?
The same, scorching, eyebrow rocker
ice buckets from the eyes of the wells.
You hung in the silks of the lake,
did the thighs sing like an amber violin?
To the edges, where the anger of the roofs,
you will not throw a shiny forest.
I'm drowning in the boulevards, fanned by the longing of the sands:
after all, this is your daughter -
My song
in an openwork stocking
at the coffee shops!
The moon is naturally chosen as a companion; by definition, it is a satellite, an accomplice. Her retinue and attributes betray a lady of the half-light, a cabaret diva - everything is loud, colorful and covered with tinsel. The harlot herself is in silks, her thighs sing like violins. She distributes kisses (kiss) in stalls, scorches her lover with the heat of garages, the crescent of her eyebrows with a yoke carries icy water to cool his ardor. A tabloid romance with a heavenly povia gives birth to a song that is thrown onto the panel by a whore. The poet is drowning in the quicksand of boulevards. Procession with lunar Traviata, Blok's Stranger. This is the second direction of the poetic crosshairs - debauchery.
The third poem - "A few words about my mother":
I have a mother in cornflower blue wallpaper.((I, 47))
And I walk in motley pavas,
swirling chamomile, measuring step, torturing.
The evening will play on rusty oboes,
I go to the window,
believing
what will I see again
sat down at home
a cloud.
And mom's sick
the rustles of the people run through
from the bed to the empty corner.
Mom knows -
these are the thoughts of a crazy heap
crawling out from behind the roofs of the Shustov plant.
And when my forehead, crowned with a felt hat,
the dying frame will bloody,
I will tell,
the howl parted by the bass of the wind:
"Mum.
If you feel sorry for me
vases of your flour,
knocked down by the heels of a cloud dance, -
who will caress golden hands,
the sign, broken at the Avanzo windows? .. "
Like the city and the moon, the image of the mother is above, “on cornflower-blue wallpaper”. Behind it is the prototype of the universal mother, exactly translating the meaning of her name - "exalted, exalted" - Mary, Mother of God: "... In the corner - eyes are round, - / with eyes in the heart eaten Mother of God "(I, 189). My own mother is drowning in divine confusion: “In the almshouses of the passing centuries, / maybe I can find my mother ...” (I, 51). So where is she - in the shrine or in the poorhouse? The poetic parent (not to be confused with the real Alexandra Alekseevna) in this poem merges together the iconostasis and God's shelter for the care of the decrepit and terminally ill.
The holy virgin is the embodiment of torment, maternal pity and mercy. She is a guide and mourner. Pieta (from lat., ital... pieta - "compassion, pity") - the name in the art of images of taking down from the cross and mourning. But the poet and mother seem to be changing places: he is seized with a feeling of pity for her torment on the cross: “If it becomes sorry for me/ your vases flour... ". He mourns the crucifixion, as he sobbed at the crossroads of the first poem: “... I go / weep alone, / that the crossroads / crucified / the policemen” (I, 45). This mother is poor and sick, hence the feelings of shame and torment in front of her. She is preoccupied with working at home and thinking about her daily bread. Shustov's plant is a manufacturer of strong drinks, and the mother decides whether the poet is her son, or simply a drunkard, drinks. And, being here, next to her son on earth, she is infinitely farther from him than the one on the icon. "And I walk in motley pavas, / swirling daisies, measuring step by step, torturing." Chamomile as a symbol of love (you love - you don't love) turns into a state of torment. Why? While the poet indulges in idle walks on the pavement ( franz... pave - "pavement"), the mother is seriously ill with tuberculosis. Chamomile was a symbol of tuberculosis patients. In 1913, the "Day of Chamomile" had an exact date - April 24 (7). On this day, charitable collections were held annually to combat consumption.
Mayakovsky will take a poetic revenge on his helplessness later - in the field of eradicating the diseases of Mother Earth, curing the consumption of spitting with the rough tongue of a poster. This is the only way a poet comes to the rescue: "Land! /<…>The smoke of hair over the fires of tin eyes / give me a shoe on the sunken breasts of the marshes ”(I, 51). So the Mother of God herself acts as an intercessor for her earthly children. Revenue acts as a high salvation and as a low monetary gain, a release from want:
I tell you, well-read and smart:((I, 86))
neither Pushkin, nor Shchepkin, nor Vrubel
no line, no pose, no contrived paint
did not believe - but believed in the ruble.
Later Pasternak will build his argument with the Father on the same word - the proceeds: “Oh, the sun, do you hear? "Get the money" "(I, 199).
The fourth text is about the Father. In this serious conversation, there is always a place for the frivolous. A comic quartering of the very concept of Motherland, Patria is found in the story of Mayakovsky: “Father subscribed to the magazine Rodina. Rodina has a “humorous” supplement. They talk and wait about the funny. The father walks and sings his usual "Alon Zanfan de la four at a time." "Homeland" has come. I open it and immediately (picture) yell: “How funny! Uncle and aunt are kissing. " Laughed. Later, when the application came and I had to really laugh, it turned out that before they only laughed at me. This is how our concepts of pictures and humor diverged ”(I, 10). The poet's story is deeply symbolic. Already here are declared the revolutionary and Christological themes that are so important for Mayakovsky. And two more lessons. Song - oh children... "Always," notes Mayakovsky. As in a fatherly joke, poetry is a division, an analytic of the word ("dividing by ..."); its reproduction, budding and crossing. According to Mandelstam, a poet is both a gardener and a flower at once. The second important lesson is that this experimental division of a word is interlingual in nature.
According to Pasternak: “The elders have their own there are reasons... / Undoubtedly, indisputably your reason is ridiculous"(I, 112). Wed from Mayakovsky: "Shod in gaiters / there is a reason for d'etra." This is what the poet himself called "an impossible volapyuk".
Our task is to get closer to this specific concept of Mayakovsky's humor. Let us give the full fourth poem "A few words about myself":
I love to watch children die.((I, 48–49))
Have you noticed the surf of laughter, the misty shaft
for longing trunk?
And I -
in the reading room of the streets -
so often I leafed through the volume of the coffin.
Midnight
with wet fingers felt
me
and a hammered fence
and with rain drops on the bald head of the dome
galloped crazy cathedral.
I see Christ fled from the icon,
chiton windward edge
kissed, crying, slush.
Screaming to the brick
I thrust a dagger into words of frenzied
swollen pulp in the sky:
"The sun!
My father!
Take pity though you do not torture!
It is my blood shed by you that flows dearly.
This is my soul
in tatters of torn clouds
in the scorched sky
on the rusty cross of the bell tower!
Time!
Even though you, lame bogomaz,
paint my face
to the goddess of the freak of the century!
I'm lonely as the last eye
from a man going to the blind! "
Blasphemous words are presented to the heavenly Father. It is he - “the father of skillful torture” (Khlebnikov) - who loves to watch children die. The first line is from the mouth of the Creator. The disgusting "and I ..." indicates that this is not the one who confesses his cynical love for dying children: "I love to watch children die<…> And I <…>like the last eye of a man walking towards the blind! " In the place of Christ who escaped from the icon, time will paint his sacrificial image: “And when my forehead<…>the fading frame will bloody ... "(I, 47) [I will find myself]" in the scorched sky on a rusty cross. " What's happening? The rejection of God is accompanied by an appeal to another heavenly Father, all the hope is only on him: “Sun! My father! Take pity even though you and do not torture! " The sun does not seem to be tormenting. Torment and death come from another testing and punishing right hand. The poem is overflowing with Christian symbols - an icon, a tunic, a cathedral, a cross, a face, a goddess, a bogomaz. There is a pagan-paradoxical communion of the Holy Mysteries - the body and blood of Christ, wine and bread ("swollen pulp of heaven", "shed blood"). Like Pushkin's Prophet, the hero of Mayakovsky - at the crossroads... But from this crossroads Mayakovsky leaves armed not only with a divine verb, but also ... laughter, however, also of Pushkin's origin. At one of the evenings at the Polytechnic, when Mayakovsky was asked "What is your real name?", He replied: "Shall I say? Pushkin !!! " In the center of Mayakovsky's conversation with Pushkin in "Yubileiny" with an exclamation mark is the word "Laughter!" “Glory to the laughter! Death to care! "- Khlebnikov declared (I, 149). Arion can be carried ashore and rescued only by the "surf of laughter". The Old Testament hero - a prototype of Christ - whom the Lord demanded to be sacrificed as a test of the power of faith and only at the last moment removed the dagger from the head of Abraham's only son, his name was Isaac, which means "Laughter." Mayakovsky is convinced that the price of Old Testament fidelity to the Creator is prohibitively high:
He is a god((I, 156))
but screams about cruel retribution,<…>
Throw it!
In a theomachic battle, the poet directs the Creator's cruel weapon against himself. Khlebnikov:
Always cruel and sad((I, 192))
The throat is tender with a wide razor! -
From all the heavenly cookware
You took a rebellion uprising,
And he will fall on an anvil
Under the hammer - a divine drawing!
Isaac's name appears in the description of the cathedral (Isaac's?): “... And with ka rain shower on the bald head of the dome / ska feces crazy cathedral ". Crazy like Basil the Blessed, the cathedral gallops like a Khlebnikov style, like a horse, like a trotter (“p yssak rustles in a mesh tunic "- I, 54). Instead of a senseless sacrifice, it is suggested to "pet the cats" because it is ridiculous. Christ, the "unprecedented bridegroom" escapes from the icon, like ... Podkolesin. In this impossible identity of the Savior and Gogol's character, who saved himself before marriage, Mayakovsky's "I" is revealed. Death is conquered by laughter - about this "A few words about myself." Midnight probes the face of the new Messiah and finds a broken nose. "I shout to the brick": kirpa - "kirpaty, snub-nosed". In 1928, Mayakovsky will briefly name his collection of "new poems" - "No. WITH".
As a real entrepreneur, Mayakovsky rejects both God and Abraham as unfit actors for the role of Father - one because of bloodthirstiness, the other because of submission. The poet - "cry-lipped Zarathustra", combines the tragic features of Christ and the comic essence of Isaac:
And I see - in you on the cross out of laughter((I, 156))
the tortured cry is crucified.
This is the rebellious Isaac, rebellious laughter:
Now the old woman has given birth - time((I, 162-163))
huge
crooked mutiny!
Laugh!
Rebellious laughter is similar to Victor Hugo's disadvantaged hero - "the man who laughs." Tragedy is a world from which laughter has been stolen. Somewhere children! As Nietzsche said, there is always more in a word than it is said. "Det"- the core of living meanings, and not a law that unites an nth number of variationally equal terms. Mayakovsky is not appeased:
It's me((I, 172))
hit the sky with my finger
proved:
he is a thief!
In his poetic foolishness, he inverts the meaning of the phraseologism "to hit the sky with a finger", and for him this means not to miss, but to fall into the vulnerable target of divine omnipotence and notorious mercy. T-thief is a thief, this is Mayakovsky's verdict. Bloodthirsty threat: “I will reveal you, smelling of incense Yu from here to Alaska ”means not only deicide, but also an anatomical study of a corpse that smelled of incense at the commemoration. Mandelstam called it "anatomical lust" ("After all, the killer is a little anatomist" - III, 250). But more importantly, by this ripping open of the abdomen, the hero will reveal- will reveal and show - the acts of thieves of God the Father. The salvation of this world is entrusted to the Poet, who remained at the stern of the "verb endings" - "Yut" and sounds the alarm of the last hour:
I am a poet((I, 159))
I erased the difference
between the faces of friends and foes.
I was looking for sisters in the pus of the morgues.
He kissed the sick in a patterned manner.
Today
on the yellow fire
hiding deeper the tears of the seas,
I'll cock and shame the sisters
and the wrinkles of gray mothers!
On the licked plates of the hall
we will eat you, meat, century!
Shame on anger!((I, 53))
On the fire of kindled constellations
I will not allow my wild decrepit mother to heal.
The bragging of the futuristic Bedouin is elevated here to the rank of fearlessness, for the English "dreadnought" literally means "fearless." Mother Earth should not go to the stake like Gazdrubal's wife. The new poet gives a categorical rebuff to the old one - Balmont, challenging his "Hymn to the Sun":
On that bright day when the rulers of Rome
They entered Carthage for the last time,
They're at a feast of flame and smoke
They destroyed the stronghold of the high walls.
But the proud wife of Gazdrubal
Contrary to the victorious enemy,
Looking at the sun, she said to herself:
"Even now I can win!"
And surrounding himself with people, horses,
As on the throne, having ascended the fire,
She merged with glittering lights
And there was a triumph - an unfulfilled shame.
Gazdrubal is a Carthaginian commander who was defeated in a battle with the Romans and begged Scipio for pardon, while his wife, not wanting to surrender to the victor's mercy, threw herself into the flames of the fire with her children. In the name of "Gazdrubal" Mayakovsky chops off the tails of comets, barbarously dealing with any poetic predecessors.
On plate-plates it is proposed to taste the meat of the absorber Chronos itself (meat, beef, boeuf - the palindromic-reverse side of solar Phoebus). Let's take a step back. The torture questions of futuristic anguish are transformed by humor into the food of poetry. "Korma" provides a pun intended development of the topic of feeding. This was mastered by Annensky: “Wherever you become on the ship, / At the mast or fed, / Always serve your land: / She you nursed". In Mayakovsky's poem "Bullying" (1916):
With a peacock tail, I will dissolve fantasy in a colorful cycle,((I, 109))
I will give up my soul to the power of unexpected rhymes.
I would like to hear again how the newspaper columns poke
those,
who is at the oak that feeds them,
they dig the roots with their snouts.
Where do they disappear, feed of the flowery rhyme word? Devoured in newspaper bullying. Lyricism feeds criticism that undermines the very foundations of the full existence of literature. But the poet's mocking laugh is brighter, more colorful than an evil chuckle. The description of flora and fauna in "Bullying" contains words and parts of words developed in Mayakovsky's seascape poems. First of all - "feed", which punningly turns into "feed", "feeding": "who is at the oak, feed feeding them, the roots snouts ro hut". Even in this fable allegory, the poet remains at the stern of the poetic ship. He is ro I am creeping root, end; pork snout criticism - p O nasal nose, beginning.
A vengeful god who demands "cruel payment" is opposed by a thousand-year old man who calls to pet cats. “I pet all the dogs and cats I meet,” Mayakovsky himself admitted. Iron - smooth, smooth, turn into a plateau of laughter. Payment by mercy. A bonfire of the sun is being erected on Gazdrubalov " shame sisters "and" wrinkles gray-haired mothers ".
* * *Sergei Bobrov's response to the collection “I” by Mayakovsky was instantaneous: “In the brochure<…>the last poem is really quite pleasant, but Annensky's great influence is evident. " Later, Khardzhiev, to the best of his understanding, explained how Bobrov should be understood: "This statement is based on the purely external similarity of several words from the last stanza of Annensky's poem" Tosca of Recalling "with the opening lines of Mayakovsky's poem ...".
Firstly, Annensky is sociological no less than Mayakovsky, for which he acquired in modern literary criticism the reputation of the last Nadson (M. Gasparov, M. Bezrodny); what his few poets-heirs, including Mayakovsky, are well aware of. According to Korney Chukovsky, Mayakovsky "studied Innokenty Annensky very carefully." And these studies were not in vain. It should be about Annensky's poetics, and not about individual "booth" texts and a purely external resemblance to Mayakovsky, as Khardzhiev believed. Here is the "Longing of Remembrance" in full:
The same always opens up to me
Inked page.
I AM go away from people, but where,
From nights where to me bury?
All living things have become so far away
Everything that was unreal became so intelligible
And merged forgotten strings
Until dawn in dull black spots.
I'm all there in an impossible answer
Where mirage letters loom ...
... I love when in the house have children
And when they cry at night.
Love for children betrays in Annensky a conscientious reader of Dostoevsky:
But innocent childish tears
Do not wash with repentance,
Because Christ is in them,
All, with all its radiance.
Night comes, and to the poet it appears as a white page filled with ink. Tonguelessness and melancholy. The openness of the night ("The same is always revealed to me ...") means for the hero the impossibility of hiding, to hide from her heavy burden and omnipresent gaze. “To hide” means to hide, get away, but Annensky literally reads the word - to die, to die, without losing, however, the property of being alive. The poet reveals the connection "Children" with motive go somewhere: "in the House there is children ”, they give the status of existence, while the hero is endangered. Only a child's voice illuminates the night, inspires hope and gives strength to live until dawn. The very attitude to the verse is similar to the attitude of a mother to her children - sick children who are doubly loved:
But I love poetry - and there is no sacred feeling:
Only the mother loves so, and only sick children.
According to Mandelstam, the book has the body of a sick child: “Some of the pages shone through like onion husks. Measles, scarlet fever and chickenpox lived in them ”(II, 490). Nineteen-year-old socialist Mayakovsky calls the Creator to account, his "I" rebel. Sergei Bobrov was a comrade-in-arms and friend of the young Pasternak, it was he who introduced them, which is described in the "Security Charter". In the same place, Pasternak speaks of the ever-increasing similarities and coincidences with Mayakovsky, which forced him to look for a different path of poetry. Let's turn to two poems from "Gemini in the Clouds". First - about death children, symbolic death associated with initiation. A child dies when it loses its virginity. And children are resurrected, having tasted after Adam and Eve from the tree of knowledge and received a second birth. The text is preceded by an epigraph from Sappho: "Virginity, virginity, where do you go from me? ..". Further:
Yesterday, like a figurine of God,((I, 440-441))
The naked child was shattered.
Cry! This rain behind a ramshackle branch
Still not full of your tears.
Today with the first light they will rise
Children who fell asleep yesterday
With the sword of appeals, new ones will be pulled together
Flexion of the stiff hip.
The Tatars call their yard
They barely have time to smash
- They will look back at the old
Run the familiar path.
They will recognize the orphan
Northern gray, weed rain,
That horizon is gornozavodsky
Theaters, towers, slaughterhouses, post offices.
They'll find out at the giant
Traces of someone else's creating hands,
They will hear the exclamation: "Stand up,
Couple of vital services! "
Alas, they should henceforth
All its cloudy volume,
And all the flight of granite lines
To furrow under the steam together.
Oh, throw it back in the alluvial crown
A face clipped with a kiss.
See what great springs
Carries a bloody moment!
And the knight of ancient Poland,
Whose gallop is buried in the swamps,
Sleep! You will not be abandoned anymore
In the arms of virgin chills.
This is not a fall, but a flight to the mysteries of life. A giant blessing children is both a modern Metropolitan City and the most ancient City of Paul, erected by the creative hands of his own children. To move to the new, it is necessary to violate the prohibition and status (smash "god stat uetku "), throw off your old clothes. "Hail of the Tatars" - "We buy old things" - symbolically unites those things that disappear in a new poetically intense transition from old to new (virginity, childhood, clothes). The poem begins with the cry "Cry!" and "Look!", and ends with a comforting "Sleep!" The poetic commonality of these appeals is determined by the author himself: they unite, pull together ("they will pull together with the sword of new appeals") loss and gain, death and birth, destruction and construction ("to break" means both - destruction and structuring), the pairing of the poetic task itself - the “four vital services,” that is, rhyme. The same pairing of the poetic obverse and reverse of "dressing" and "in and Denia "is laid in the rebus basis of another Parsnip text from his originally twofold, paired collection" The Twin in the Clouds ":
Everything put on today coat(<1913, 1928>(I, 53))
AND touched for the overgrowth of drops,
But none of them will notice
That again I washed down with bad weather.
Raspberry sheets will become clotted,
Thrown back up seamy side.
The sun is sad today, how are you -
The sun is like you today northerner.
[Oh delight when hardwood neg
Raging - Akrida hangover,
When light and drizzle laugh
Saves parting words explosions.]
Everything put on today coat,
But we will also live no loss.
Today nothing can replace us
A clouded drink.
This is an etude dedicated to poetry itself. Outerwear, crimson leaves, and booze are demonstrators of the poetic craft. The text develops like a leaf from a willow bud: the Greek p a l t o serves as a verbal ovary, meaning “to touch something, to shake, to shake”. That is, Pasternak turns the Greek word itself into the seamy side of the Russian phonetic fabric - "coat". For people dressed in coats, poetry, like the wrong side of things, remains hidden. Inspiration is like the other side of the moon - it is invisible, even if others touch and hurt rhythms and rhymes of a poetic drop. Poetry makes the secret clear, shocks, turns phenomena over, like crimson leaves, silvering the reverse side. Even then, the poet is left alone with his Muse, the northerner is a Muse, and not a lover or girlfriend. The frantic delight of poetry, like laughter through tears, will not be noticed and is irreplaceable in this world ("no one will notice ...", "nothing will replace ..."). Goethe wrote in "Selective Affinity" that art is a distance from life in order to connect oneself more closely with life, to attract the world in order to remove it. Again the paradox: even when touching and bumping into the poet, people do not notice him. But this does not bother the poet, because he feels the touch and touches himself, touches those who touch him. In touching - the event of the meeting of the poet and the world. The surrounding people were moved by poetry, even if they themselves did not notice. Then they will notice. The poetic destiny is to touch souls. The poet transforms his very invisible being into an equally invisible, but significant profit of touching (touchant) participation in the world.
One of the main themes of the twin myth of Parsnip's collection is the dressed “children of the day” (the sun, laughter, the east) and the naked “children of the night” (the moon, sadness, west), who make up the single choral face of the two-faced Janus of poetry - they are “hearts and companions »A cross-cutting novel of the City, which, like ancient Alexandria, has the gates of the Sun and the Moon. Only poetry is able to carry out transportation over outposts and barriers, using "transit" - an astronomical "transit" telescope (along Dahl), connecting the past and the future:
So, only you, my city,((I, 450))
With the insomnia of the observatories
With outskirts loss, -
So, only you are my city,
What's in the controversial pink dawns
You dip in the doors passage.
There: in the twilight the bluish temper,
Where the airy gray fades
Abandoned entrance.
Here: to the unburning distance
V experienced asks for an exit,
By noon the people are crowded.
And like in a through telescope,
Where, jinxing sublunary eyes,
I recognized the stargazer twin,
Door with door, blame each other,
Gold and blue flakes
They trick and perish in disarray.
Parsnip from the first word, from the first breath sets the rhythm and tact of this urban epiphany: "SO, Only you, my city ..." and consolidates the success - "SO, Only you, my city ...". East, noon - an exit into the past, the West controls the future time. This is where Nabokov's guide to Berlin originates, where the underground pipes of the city with an ear-piercing inscription "OTTO" eavesdrop and spy on someone's "memory of the future."
Oh, then everything is one semblance((I, 432))
My murmured lips,
When from days, as if from under the brows,
I stare into immortality trumpet.
The trumpet is already sounding. The immortal bell begins with the "knees of days" (Mandelstam) - endlessly sounding elements of the voice located along the axis of the gaze. In fact, this is a look turned into a voice. Both the look and the voice. And if Pasternak begins with a structure, with one end resting against the mouth of the mortal body - the mouth, and with the other - against the visible “mouth of eternity” (Derzhavin), then the very finite and weak (like any mortal) voice of the poet, rising from the vanity of the day, makes like themselves the whole world, up to unattainable eternity. Mayakovsky follows the same idea of the unity of gaze and voice. He transforms his body into a cosmic instrument, which is both a swinging ladder of endless hearing and a telescope:
The tense ear is unscrewed with a corkscrew.((IV, 117-118, 134))
I can drill them
or
target the bottle with hearing
and uncork the bottles with your ear.<…>
I hear
with some telescopic ear:
major
the world of millstones
bass.
Turns out of its wasps and. <…>
I am,
like a hundred-versty telescope,
quietly folded his neck.
Non-arising and non-dying being is articulated in the voice of the poet. The world is supported by singing. Is this why, in Mandelstam's Egyptian Mark, the Italian singer embraces the globe with her voice? But let's start a quote from the story just above: “Respect for the Ilyin map has remained in Parnok's blood since the fabulous years, when he believed that the aquamarine and ocher hemispheres, like two large balls drawn into a grid of latitudes, were empowered to carry out their visual mission by the incandescent office themselves bowels of the earth and that they, like nutritional pills, contain a condensed space and distance. Is it not with such a feeling that the singer of the Italian school, preparing for a tour flight to still young America, voices a geographic map, measures the ocean with its metallic timbre, checks the inexperienced pulse of pyroscaf machines with roulade and tremolo ... On the retina of her pupils, the same two Americas are overturned, like two green game bags with Washington and the Amazon. She updates the geographical map with a salty sea route ... ”(II, 467).
“Hearing is seeing,” according to Heidegger's paradoxical definition. Like Pasternak, Mandelstam constructs a single organ of vision-voice: the Italian embraces in her voice the "aquamarine and ocher hemispheres" that appear in her eyes. The two large balls of the hemispheres are the eyeballs, and the grid of longitudes and latitudes is similar to the retina of the eyes. The globe is a look with a languid articulate speech and the infinity of a voice that holds the earth, like a painting without a nail. Khlebnikov's "poem from me and the Globe" (V, 315) means not just the alignment and bodily comparability of the creator and the Globe, but their essential unity. We are not talking about a separate poem, but about a poetic creation as such. According to both Khlebnikov and Mandelstam, it turns out that the author, like Gogol's Nose, is less than the whole and incredibly larger than it.
Pasternak conditionally divided his "revolutionary" poems into two books - Lermontov's "My Sister - Life" and Pushkin's "Themes and Variation". And both collections, by his own admission, carried the hot breath of Mayakovsky, who whispered the epigraph to "Sister - my life": "As in a fat ear / Squeeze a quiet word into them" (I, 652). The very first poem of the collection - "In Memory of the Demon" presents not Lermontov-Vrubel's sad fallen Angel, but a Georgian colossus that returned to another century with an "avalanche" - love. The demon poet, tracing droning pairs of rhymes with his wings, appears as a phosphorically luminous Dennitsa, Lucifer as a bearer of light: “But the sparkle was torn / In his hair and, like phosphorus, crackled” (I, 109). He is consistently and fully described through negation - he does nothing of what his prototype did ("did not sob," "did not weave," "did not hear"). She does not sing a lullaby ("Sleep ...") in honor of Tamara na zurna. The new Demon vows to return in the last line: "I swore by the ice of the peaks: / Sleep, friend, I will return with an avalanche." And he returns in the first, closing the text in a ring-like manner: "I came at night / In the blue of the glacier from Tamara ..." (I, 109). Mayakovsky realized that Pasternak was cleaning the Demon under him. In the poem "Tamara and the Demon" (1924), he sees in such pictures a typical "hysteria" for poetry. "Pasternak writes to himself about this after being brutalized by blots," Mayakovsky remarks sarcastically. He himself comes to the Caucasus for a fellow, demonism is of no use to him - he has his own special power. Instantly pacifying the queen, who for him is no better than the washerwoman. But Lermontov assured that “passion and no equal” to it, and the poet who was waiting for love offers Tamara: “We will love each other. / Simply ". But "simply" means:
Yes so,((VI, 77))
so rock
spread out to the fluff.
From hell to steal
and from God I am!
What is Demon to you?
Fantasy!
Spirit!
Besides, it's a bit old -
mythology.
From the point of view of Mayakovsky, Parsnip's Demon, even renewed, is the same outdated mythology, because “the story is further / no longer for books” (VI, 78). The poet striking with his own modesty demands that the poetic zurna roared with a working whistle: “I am waiting / for the beeps / to roar the zurna” (VI, 72). Mayakovsky cannot return to the place designated by Pasternak, because he has never been there: "I have not seen the Terek ..." (VI, 74). Tamara reciprocates, and the “happy couple” together with Lermontov celebrate the union of loving hearts over a bottle of Georgian wine.
The living flute appears in Pasternak's "Definition of Poetry" (section "Engaging in Philosophy" of the collection "My Sister - Life"):
This is a duel of two nightingales.((I, 134))
These are sweet stale peas
These are the tears of the universe in the shoulder blades,
This is from remotes and flutes - Figaro
Hail falls down on the garden bed.
"Man thinks, therefore, I exist," says the universe "(Paul Valery). And it exists philosophically. The nightingale trill, born in the throes of rivalry, fits into the shoulder blade of peas like a universal thread of tears. Tightly sealed trill. The pod is the silent flute of nature. It is a closed metaphor for a poetic shell with pearls of tears to be opened. The vegetable garden spreads over to the theater “on the beds of armchairs”, “red parterre beds” (Mandelstam - I, 267, 149). This is where music is thrown. Mozart's The Magic Flute and The Marriage of Figaro are about to reunite. But Figaro sings his famous aria from The Barber of Seville by G. Rossini. With one amendment: “the deadly adverb“ here ”” is an accurate and urgent definition of the place of the soul, which is inseparable from the homeland burned by the storm. The thunderous summer of 1917 is life, winter turned into the face of death. The "Pushkin" collection "Themes and Variations" is Mozart's requiem for an era, a century whose spine has been broken. "We are few ..." - Arion's result of subtraction from versification, which began "There were many of us on the boat ...". The very first lines of the book betray the intermittent breathing of the mournful theme:
Running over the fences embrasures,
Formed gaps in the wall,
When the night announced by truck
Stories, unknown in spring.
The tick-free approach of the van((1921; I, 176))
Pulls crutches out of niches
Only by the roar of the accomplished runs,
Kicking up dust from afar
This first poem in the collection was called "Inspiration". One revolution after another fatally knocked the poets out of the generational chain of sounding slate ode. Pasternak's variations on Pushkin's African-marine theme carry too distinct sounds of notes from the scores of Blok and Gumilyov to believe in the dating proposed by Pasternak. For the first time publishing variations in 1922 in the magazine "Krug", the poet signed "1918. Ochakovo platform ". Pasternak summed up the symbolic calendar of his collections (summer - life, winter - death) by the strange fixation of their "dedicatory" names:
Now not the peers of the poets,((I, 400))
The whole breadth of country roads, between and lech
Summer rhymes with Lermontov
And with Pushkin geese and snow.
And I would like that after death,
How we lock up and leave
Tighter than the heart and the atrium
We were charged together.
The confluence of the face of Revolution and Poetry for the novice poet has already been declared in the "Muse of the nine hundred and ninth" (collection "Above the Barriers", I, 490). Two nines emphasized the time of the choice of the Muse of poetry (in this case, the Muse of epic poetry Calliope) from her nine sisters and made this choice directly dependent on the Muse of the 1905 revolution:
Reputed to be the youngest daughter((I, 490))
Thunderstorm, from the name of the showers,
You pollinated daughter
Thunder like the wings of urticaria!
In the 1923 poem Storm Butterfly, the bloody essence of the revolution will paint the wings of the Infanta butterfly red and the Big Peacock of the Big Day will burst out of the chrysalis. (The epic Muse of Pasternak's "High Disease" is infected with the duplicity of devotion and betrayal. Execution is the orthoepic norm of the song.) But in the summer of 1917, the carefree childishness of a newborn life, it would seem, is not yet too darkened by the "longing for the trunk", it still stretches "in thirst for trunks." summer (flowers, insects), witty and mischievous. Pasternak writes his free variation of "children of the day", a variation on a theme set by Mayakovsky. The poem was called "Our Thunderstorm" and followed the fifth in the section "Engaging in Philosophy" (after "definitions" - poetry, soul, creativity and diagnosis of "diseases of the earth"). The text went according to the category of life, the natural animation of the language of poetry, the persistent predominance of healthy laughter of the day over the longing of the night, it was a cleansing inoculation of an intoxicated shower:
Thunderstorm, like a priest, burned the lilac((I, 138-139))
And covered with sacrificial smoke
Eyes and clouds. Straighten
Dislocated ant lips.
The ringing of the buckets is knocked on one side.
Oh, what a greed: the sky is not enough ?!
A hundred hearts are beating in the ditch.
The thunderstorm burned the lilac like a priest.
In the enamel there is a meadow. Its azure
Whenever they were chilly, they scraped it off.
But even the finch is in no hurry
Shake off the diamond hops from the soul.
They drink another thunderstorm by the tubs
From sweet caps of abundance,
And the clover is stormy and crimson
In the burgundy spray of painters.
Mosquitoes stick to raspberries.
However, the trunk is malarial,
Right here, fanatic,
Where is the luxury of summer pinker ?!
Throw an abscess through the blouse
And starred as a red ballerina?
To plant a goad of mischief,
Where is blood like wet foliage ?!
Oh, believe my game, and believe
Migraines thundering after you!
So the anger of the day is fate to burn
Wild game in the cherry bark.
Believe it? Now, now
Bring your face closer, and in illumination
Your holy summer
I will blow it up on fire!
I will not hide from you:
You hide your lips in jasmine snow
I smell that snow on mine
It melts on mine in my sleep.
Where can I put my joy?
In poetry, in grafted octopus?
Their lips are cracked
From the poisons of the writing sheet.
They, with the alphabet in the fight,
Burning blush on you
The thunderstorm is a constant image of poetry. From Pushkin's "Where are you, thunderstorm - a symbol of freedom?" - before "Poetry, thunderstorms are good for you!" Mandelstam. In fact, Pasternak has two thunderstorms, which is why he insists on "Our ..." But then what is "Not Our Thunderstorm"? Thunderstorm priest performing his heavenly and sacred rite. The first is directed upward, the second, "our" - to the smallest details and nuances of the earth's landscape. The first is the priestly sacrifice, the second is the secular healing of the world below. At some point, the thunderstorms are no longer distinguishable: “Oh, what a greed: the sky is not enough ?!”. This same thunderstorm, but directed towards the good and satisfaction of earthly suffering. Now the formidable element is at home, like an ambulance. The healing of the tongue is what the poem is about. Medicine as another literary meta-subject. Pasternak's "Doctor" was not called as soon as Nabokov's "Dead", indignant, like Akhmatova, that he did not heal anyone. This is not true. Doctor - language, Explanatory Dictionary of the Living Great Russian language, as it is called by Dahl. From the novel itself: “Now he was afraid of nothing, neither life, nor death, everything in the world, all things were the words of his vocabulary"(III, 89). It is not for nothing that Goethe's Wilhelm Meister ends the difficult path of self-knowledge as a doctor, a surgeon. “The noble art of poetry here again revealed its healing power,” according to Goethe (VIII, 181). Zhivago is both the one who heals and what is being treated. Like is treated by like, and living things can only be from living things. Mandelstam, like Pasternak, saw the soteriological meaning of working with language: “We have no Acropolis. Our culture still wanders and does not find its walls. But every word of Dahl's dictionary is a nutlet of the Acropolis, a small Kremlin, a winged fortress of nominalism, equipped with the Hellenic spirit for an indefatigable struggle against the formless element, nothingness that threatens our history from everywhere ”(I, 225). The healing and salvation of the language is the guarantee of the salvation of the very historical being.
Medical terminology begins to dominate from the first lines - dislocation, palpitations, malaria, migraine, poison, abscess, blood. But this is diagnostics and semiotics of language. "In the illumination of the Holy Summer" Divine Summer, as it was already with Khlebnikov, gives birth to white snowy Apollo, who demands the poet to sacrifice. But the day of anger promises laughter. "Where is my joy put mine? " - the joy will have to be put into poetry, making the secret clear. The secret must melt, how snow on the lips. The dispensary for this verse is inherently ludicrous. The word must be dropped ("Let's drop the words ..." - I, 167), and when it cracks and breaks, carefully examine the terms - the details of the life of the Logos. The “almighty god of details” is the Dictionary, the Lexicon and everything connected with it. The poems have ancient contradictions with the alphabet, they are "fighting with the alphabet" - from alpha to omega, from "A" to "Z", from "asters and daliy", "August" and "alabaster" - to "amber and zest" , up to "Yagailov and Yadwig". Pasternak - for the fullness of the acquired being, which does not know the division between the sacred sacrifice to Apollo and the insignificance of the world. It is here that Mayakovsky shared word synthesizing new speech experience. As in a childish joke about A and B and in Mayakovsky's poetic mischief, Pasternak hides his joy in the "grafted octopus" of a sheet, crushing and cutting the line:
They have cracked mouth A
From Z to B writing sheet.
They, with the alphabet in the fight ...
From "A" to "Z", from alpha to beta. The poet, in rivalry with that thunderstorm, wins in the name of this, our, and his poetic thunderstorm opens his eyes, and does not obscure them with smoke. If a thunderstorm cracks down on an ant, then the poet heals it, straightens the dislocation. But the language for describing a thunderstorm and a poetic challenge is one. One hundred hearts beating in a ditch is a multitude of things pulsing to the rhythm of the falling rain. Drops knock the buckets on one side and with an unimaginable noise the tubs are filled with the moisture of some sweet abundance. The fanatical mosquito, threatening with a malarial bite, in fact, behaves like the fabulous prince Guidon in front of his princess Swan. He is filmed (in a snapshot, in the photo?) As a ballerina of Swan Lake. The stich-prick of such a mosquito is the first impulse of inspiration and the mark of poetry. The "malarial trunk" has been transformed from an instrument of suffering and a painful illness into a sign of laughter, a secret inoculation of childishness and mischief. Following Mayakovsky, Pasternak could say: "I am a poet, I have erased the difference between the faces of my own and those of others." The anger of the day, the "malice of the day" will sprout with "care" - a graft, a graft to the poetic tree:
* * *So the anger of the day is fate to burn
Wild game in the cherry bark.
Pasternak ends his memoir about his youth in 1930. The Coming One is destined to answer the question: “So this is not a second birth? So is this death? " (IV, 234). Pasternak himself does not hesitate, his answer is in the title of the collection and in the very idea of the "Second birth". He resurrects his idol in his own element of "eternal childhood":
"Outside undressed there was still a shivering shiver, and the sparrows and kids cheered themselves up with a gratuitous cry.<…>
He was lying on his side, facing the wall, gloomy, tall, under the sheet up to his chin, with his mouth half open, like a sleeping man's. Proudly turning away from everyone, he even lying down, even in this dream stubbornly rushed somewhere and left somewhere. <…>It was the expression with which start life, and not with whom it ends. He pouted and was indignant.
<…>... The youngest came to the apartment sister the deceased Olga Vladimirovna. She appeared demanding and noisy. Her voice floated into the room before her. Climbing the stairs alone, she was talking to someone loudly, obviously addressing her brother.<…>"Do you remember, do you remember, Volodichka?" - almost how alive she suddenly recalled and began to recite: And I feel, "I" for me few Someone breaks out of me stubbornly. Hello! Who's talking ?! Mum? Mum! Your son is perfectly ill. Mum! His heart is on fire. Tell the sisters, Lyuda and Olya, He has nowhere to go get away. <…>He is with childhood was spoiled future, which was given to him quite early and, apparently, without much difficulty ”(IV, 237-239).
In the futuristic future itself, it is purely verbally written blow be; from Mayakovsky: “Budetlyans are people who will be"(I, 329). And it is not the loud mourner Olga Vladimirovna Mayakovskaya who grieves over the body of her brother, but Sister Life reads to the poet his immortal future. Mandelstam, very far from him, meets the "ocean news" about Mayakovsky's death in the south. But now the distances and disagreements turn out to be imaginary, and Mandelstam assesses the poet on the same level, to his full height: “'Growth' is a werewolf, not a reformer. He's also a folkloric fool, crying at a wedding and laughing at a funeral - you can't bear to wear it. It is not for nothing that we are the most tactless at the age when our voice breaks. Mayakovsky's critics have the same attitude to him as the old woman who treated the Hellenes for an inguinal hernia to Hercules ... ”(III, 381). Mandelstam becomes a guide and a compass by which we compare the turns and jump-like movements of the magnetic needle of Mayakovsky's "scheme of laughter". A poem by Mandelstam, published in Novy Mir and dated May 14, 1932, is dedicated to his memory:
Oh how we love hypocrite
And we forget without difficulty
What we are in childhood closer to death,
Than in our mature years.
Another resentment pulls from the saucer
Sleepless child,
And I really don't have anyone pout
And I am alone in all paths.
But I don't want to sleep like a fish((III, 60–61))
In a deep swoon of the waters,
And free choice is dear to me
My suffering and worries.
Pasternak, as often happens, writes prose parallel to his poetry (Death of a Poet, 1930). He describes a boy who is children state in one jump goes into what is children- "in the category of the legends of the young." An unexpected, childish, homely "sulking and indignant" - an address to the formula for Mayakovsky's appearance. "Pouted" does not mean an insult to a little rascal and a mischievous person, but exaggeration and transcending, the overflow of the hero over the edge ("... The stream ran over the edges / of the Big Case"). This blowing out corresponds to jumping out of oneself (“'I' is small for me O"), The release of the free spirit from the tight bounds of the body. "Indignant" - from the same area. The debater, flashing like gunpowder, Mayakovsky is a discharge, a flash, a volcanic eruption. “Your shot was like Etna ...” - Pasternak will address him as a living (I, 391). This is not about a fatal calculation with life, but an attestation of his life itself. This is what Mandelstam called Mayakovsky's folklore stupidity, that is, some kind of eternal incongruity with circumstances. For Pasternak, he is a butterfly, tearing a cocoon with indignation "flashing" and taking off like a storm. This is a sigh of lightning and the Atlantean moment of birth. “We call death for birth,” wrote Mayakovsky himself (II, 22). “In ages,” wrote Pasternak, “Greece was well versed. She was wary of mixing them up. She knew how to think of childhood in a closed and independent way, as the main integration core. How high she has this ability can be seen from her myth of Ganymede and from many similar ones. The same views entered her concept of a demigod and a hero. Some share of risk and tragedy, in her opinion, should be collected early enough into a visual, instantly visible handful. Some parts of the building, and among them the main arch of fatality, must be laid at once, from the very beginning, in the interests of its future proportionality. And, finally, in some kind of memorable likeness, perhaps death should be experienced as well.<…> Raised on the unrepeated exactingness of anyone, on the superhumanity of deeds and tasks, she absolutely did not know superhumanity as a personal affect. From this she was insured by the fact that she prescribed the entire dose of the unusual in the world to childhood. And when, upon its reception, a person with giant steps entered a gigantic reality, the gait and situation were considered ordinary "(IV, 157-158). Mandelstam picks up and develops the Pasternak theme. Arguing and indignant, agreeing or disagreeing, poets speak the same language. In the "Security Charter": " The face returned to the times when he himself called himself beautiful, twenty-two years old, because death ossified facial expressions that almost never fall into her paws"(IV, 237). Is not hypocrisy, namely measure of face taking off the death mask alive poet. Mandelstam will describe the posthumous smile of another child - the "firstborn of the century" Andrei Bely:
Now a measure of flax, then a measure of fiber,((III, 84))
And it pours in tar, not believing in itself,
From nothing, from a thread, from a dark, -
Shine for a gentle, freshly removed mask
For plaster fingers that do not hold a pen,
For enlarged lips, for strengthened caress
Coarse-grained peace and goodness.
From the point of view of Mandelstam, Mayakovsky gave up, could not stand the dazzling light of the day of death: "You can blow on milk, but blowing on being is a little funny" (IV, 150). He remained an offended and incomprehensible child. He was not alone. And we must hold and endure this light. The courage to be lies in the fact that there is no one to sulk at and nowhere to go at the point of free choice. When Mandelstam said that “we live back,” this meant that we do not die in advance, like Mayakovsky. But suicide paradoxically exonerates the author of the line "I love watching children die."
“On this ship there is a cabin for me ...”, writes Mandelstam in 1937 (III, 365). He will not let in the final edition of "Travel to Armenia" the record about how he accepted the "news of the death of the primordial poet": "In the same place, in Sukhum, in April I received the ocean news of the death of Mayakovsky. Like a mountain of water hitting the spine with ropes, it choked the breath and left a salty taste in my mouth.<…>In good poetry, one can hear how the cranial sutures are sewn, how the mouth gains power [and sensual bitterness] and [the air of the frontal sinuses, how the aortas wear out] is ruled by the ocean salt blood ”(III, 381). These notes remained in the drafts. The thought makes an incredible somersault, and the poet himself, calling it a "logical leap", describes an arc and leads Mayakovsky with his werewolf to the fable, parable element of Lamarck's animals in the chapter "Around Naturalists": "The kangaroo moves in logical leaps. This marsupial in Lamarck's description consists of weak, that is, reconciled with their uselessness, front legs, of highly developed, that is, convinced of their importance, hind limbs and a powerful thesis called the tail. The children have already settled down to play in the sand at the foot of the evolutionary theory of Krylov's grandfather, that is, Lamarck-Lafontaine. Having found refuge in the Luxembourg Gardens, she was overgrown with balls and shuttlecocks. And I love it when Lamarck deigns to be angry and all this Swiss pedagogical boredom is shattered to smithereens. The Marseillaise bursts into the concept of nature! " (III, 203).
The "powerful thesis called the tail" divides the animal, like a ship, into three parts, with the main emphasis on the rear. Children sit at the stern of this evolutionary theory ship. But Lamarck does not stand the smoothness of the series and breaks the line: his “nature is all in rifts”, he “will be angry” and in one fell swoop cuts through the “pedagogical boredom”. And, like Mayakovsky, the Marseillaise bursts in: Allons, enfants de la patrie.
Notes:
Not a single rose, not a single carnation
They can't bloom so beautifully
How two souls in love do it
Facing each other.
Walking with Jesus, do not go with the Jesuits ( lat.).
Our ship is striving there, where is the country of our children!
An amazing poem by a young and talented guy who writes under a pseudonym April of the Alchemists.
The subtle feeling and celebration of Vladimir Mayakovsky warm the souls of his devoted fans.“You have gone, as they say, into another world, -
Emptiness, crash into the stars.
No newspapers for you, no feelings with someone else's wife.
No, Vladimir is not a mockery!
The grief is lumpy in my throat, not a laugh.
I see, as in the arshins of the room, hesitating
You drop the bag of your own bones.
Stop Mayakovsky, are you out of your mind!
Give me deadly chalk to fill my cheeks !?
You knew how to bend that,
That no one in the world could! "
(Mayakovsky "Sergei Yesenin")"I love to watch children die" 1
Without knowing lifelong enmity.
Citizens, comrades, answer, -
As a sacrifice, whose ideas did the leaders burn you !?Leave the gossips to your lead,
Our poet did not love them terribly,
Stop hand-to-hand marches
Seeing this is beyond all power.Will not reveal to us the reasons for the loss
Neither the patron nor the line honored handwriting,
Among all the glorified hysterics
I walk past these bows ...Mayakovsky lived up to his throat in the drama,
Where the master and the boor - grin of spring,
Where the swarm of the people is wounded by the storm
And the fear of worldly fuss is close.
And who will hear quietly - "God!"
Is it superstitious to deaf eunuchs !?Maybe under this hellish garden
Was it terribly tender to stand !?
Shame crushed by a stupefied herd,
Where brains walked cut brains.LEF is overlaid with deceitful friends,
The spirit is humiliated by a greedy wife,
Labor is immobilized by its articles, -
The rain of bile did not pass by.Self-love does not allow pity
And love becomes more painful.
What has become of a dream from greedy looks
In the red osprey of the fallen lights !?Tenderness is a treasure in his death mask
But verses are already in bayonets,
Will become hell of heavenly songs fairy tales
From such inexperienced attacks.Yes - cruelty is forced to roar
Lust for overweight feelings -
A heap of handwriting bumps swept away
The world is scared in an arc bending.Maybe the past is worthless,
Maybe the scream did not justify the singer.
Who among you is not worthy of a shiver
On the oval of a plump face !?Here is a huge mercantile Morok
Surrounds you with dogmas
And fat you die soon
How stingy to endure getting off.Communism is great in its ideas,
But the people could not live outside the cage,
The prophet drowned in a crowd of plebeians,
Equality quickly broke the thread.And when the roar of the choir dies down
Above the scale of the cars there, -
Only a burn is looking for red gunpowder,
Leaving us only smoke cipher ...“So what did Zarathustra once say to you?
That poets lie too much?
But Zarathustra himself is a poet.
Now do you believe
What is he telling the truth now?
Why do you believe? "
F. Nietzsche "Thus Spoke Zarathustra"1 Countless authors have written about Mayakovsky's “mysterious” and “cynical-sadistic” line “I love watching children die”. There were also quite a few defenders, starting with the influential Roman Yakobson. The line of the legal profession was summed up by Lilya Brik, whom the poet himself called “a sweet and dear Child”: “Life is full of suffering, and longing, and a feeling of loneliness. The sooner such a life ends, the better for a person. The sooner a person dies, the better for him. Therefore - “I love to watch children die”. As the saying goes - "did not suffer for long." This is what the people used to say about dead children.<...>This bitter expression is taken sharply paradoxically, as the only thing that can please a person who loves and pity people. Mayakovsky allowed himself a little poetic liberty - to give a conclusion not at the end of the poem, but at the beginning. " Mayakovsky himself did not enter into the debate, and according to the testimony of one of the accusers, in 1928 he answered: “You need to know why it was written, when it was written and for whom it was written”. Let's follow his advice. As you know, the young Vladimir Vladimirovich was a maximalist and did not exchange for “small poetic liberties”. The fanatic line was followed immediately by:
Have you noticed the surf of laughter, the misty shaft
for longing trunk?No, they did not notice, and Mayakovsky himself did not reveal his cards.