Methodical piggy bank. The last leaves And the stranger the last leaves

Foreword

Nowadays, the books of Vasily Vasilyevich Rozanov are well known, among them "Solitary", "Fallen Leaves" (the first and second boxes), which made up his extraordinary trilogy. In 1994, “Fleeting. 1915 ”, fragments from“ The Fleeting 1914 ”and from“ Saharna ”(1913) were printed. But about Rozanov's book “The Last Leaves. 1916 "was not heard in the Russian studies. It was believed that the records were not preserved. But history has again confirmed that "manuscripts do not burn."

Rozanov is the creator of a special artistic genre that influenced many books by writers of the 20th century. His entries in "Solitary", "Fleeting" or "The Last Leaves" are not Pascal's "thoughts", not La Rochefoucauld's "maxims", not Montaigne's "experiments", but intimate statements, the writer's "tale of the soul", addressed not to the "reader ", But in the abstract" nowhere ".

“In fact, a person cares about everything, and he doesn’t care about anything,” Rozanov wrote in one of his letters to E. Hollerbach. - In essence, he is busy only with himself, but so especially that he is concerned only with himself, and he is busy with the whole world. I remember it well, and from childhood that I did not care about anything. And somehow it was mysterious and completely merged with the fact that everything was concerned. That is why the special fusion of egoism and egoism - "Fallen Leaves" and especially successful. " Rozanov's genre of "solitary" is a desperate attempt to get out of the "terrible curtain" by which literature is fenced off from a person and because of which he not only did not want to, but could not get out. The writer strove to express the "languagelessness" of ordinary people, the "shadowed existence" of man.

“Actually, we know very well - only ourselves. About everything else - we guess, we ask. But if the only “revealed reality” is “I”, then, obviously, tell “I” about this (if you can and can). The “Solitary” happened very simply ”.

Rozanov saw the meaning of his notes in an attempt to say something that no one had said before him, because he did not consider it worthy of attention. “I introduced into literature the most petty, fleeting, invisible movements of the soul, the cobwebs of being,” he wrote and explained: “I have some kind of fetishism of little things. "Little things" are my "gods". I play with them forever every day. And when they are not: the desert. And I'm afraid of her. "

Determining the role of "little things", "movements of the soul", Rozanov believed that his records are available both "for a small life, a small soul" and for a "large", thanks to the achieved "limit of eternity." At the same time, fictions do not destroy the truth, the fact: "every dream, wish, web of thought will enter."

Rozanov tried to grasp the exclamations, sighs, scraps of thoughts and feelings that were suddenly breaking from the soul. There were unconventional judgments that overwhelmed the reader with their harshness, but Vasily Vasilyevich did not even try to "smooth" them. “Actually, they flow in you continuously, but you don't have time (there is no paper at hand) to enter them, and they die. Then you will never remember. However, I managed to put some things on paper. Everything that was written down accumulated. And so I decided to collect these fallen leaves. "

These "accidental exclamations", reflecting the "life of the soul," were written down on the first pieces of paper that came across and folded, folded. The main thing was to “catch it in time” before it flew away. And Rozanov approached this work very carefully: he put down the dates, marked the order of entries within one day.

We offer the reader some notes from the book “The Last Leaves. 1916 "which will be fully published in the Collected Works of VV Rozanov in 12 volumes, published by the Respublika publishing house.

When publishing, the lexical and font features of the author's text are preserved.

Publication and comments by A.N. Nikolyukin.

Corrected by S.Yu. Yasinsky

Vasily Rozanov

LAST LEAVES

* * *

Stupid, vulgar, fanfare comedy.

Not very “successful for myself”.

Her "luck" comes from a lot of very apt expressions. From witty comparisons. And in general, from a lot of witty details.

But, truly, it would be better if they were not all. They covered up the lack of the "whole", the soul. Indeed, in "Woe from Wit" there is no soul and even no thought. In essence, this is a stupid comedy, written without a theme by Bulgarin's friend (very characteristic) ...

But she is nimble, playful, glitters with some kind of "borrowed from the French" silver ("Alcest and Chatsky" by A. Veselovsky), and ignorant Russians of those days and the following days liked it.

Through "luck" she missed the Russians. Lovely and thoughtful Russians have become some kind of balabolki for 75 years. “What Bulgarin did not succeed - I succeeded,” the flat-headed Griboyedov might say.

Lovely Russians: who hasn't eaten your soul. Who didn't eat it. Do I blame you for being so stupid now.

His very face is the face of some correct official Ming. foreign affairs are extremely disgusting. And I don't understand why Nina loved him so much.

"Well, this is a special case, Rozanov's." Is that so.

* * *

A dark and angry man, but with a bright face to the point of intolerance, moreover, a completely new style in literature. ( resume about Nekrasov)

It was he who “came” to literature, he was a “stranger” in it, just as he “came” to Petersburg, with a stick and a bundle, where his property was tied. "I came" to mine, get a job, get rich and be strong.

He, in fact, did not know how it would “come out”, and he didn’t care at all how it would “come out”. His book "Dreams and Sounds" - a collection of pathetic and flattering poems to persons and events, shows how little he thought to be a writer, adapting himself "here and there", "here and there." He could be a servant, a slave or a servile courtier - if it would "work out", if the line and tradition of people "in case" continued.

It happened to stumble on the kurtag, -
We were pleased to laugh ...
He fell painfully, got up well.
He was awarded the highest smile.

All this could have happened if Nekrasov had "come" to Petersburg 70 years earlier. But it was not for nothing that he was called not Derzhavin, but Nekrasov. There is something in the last name. The magic of names ...

Internal obstacles There were no "stumbles on the kurtag" in him: in the Catherine era, in the Elizabethan era, and best of all - in the era of Anna and Biron, he, as the 11th hanger to the "temporary worker", could have taken other ways and in other ways to make that "happy fortune", which 70 years "after" he had to do, and he did it naturally in completely different ways.

Just as Berthold Schwartz - a black monk - doing alchemical experiments, "discovered gunpowder" by mixing coal, saltpeter and sulfur, so, smearing various rubbish nonsense, Nekrasov wrote one poem "in his mocking tone" - in that later famous "Nekrasov's versification", in which the first and best poems were written, and showed him to Belinsky, with whom he was familiar and pondered various literary undertakings, partly "pushing forward" his friend, partly thinking of "using it somehow." Greedy to the word, sensitive to the word, brought up on Pushkin and Hoffmann, on Cooper and Walter-Scott, the wordsmith exclaimed in surprise:

What talent... And which ax your talent.

This exclamation of Belinsky, uttered in a squalid apartment in St. Petersburg, was a historical fact - decisively starting a new era in the history of Russian literature.

Nekrasov realized. Gold, if it is in the box, is even more precious than if it is sewn into the livery of the court. And most importantly, the box can contain much more of it than the livery. Times are different. Not a yard, but a street. And the street will give me more than the yard. And the main thing, or at least very important, is that all this is much easier, the calculation is more correct, I will grow "more magnificent" and "myself". On the kurtag "stumble" is old stuff. Time is a turning point, time is fermentation. The time when one goes away, the other comes. The time is not the Famusovs and Derzhavins, but Figaro-ci, Figaro-la "(Figaro is here, Figaro is there ( fr.)).

Instantly, he "rebuilt the grand piano" by putting a completely new "keyboard" into it. “The ax is good. Exactly an ax. From what? It could be a lyre. The time of the Arcadian shepherds is over. "

The time of Pushkin, Derzhavin, Zhukovsky has passed. About Batyushkov, Venevitinov, Kozlov, Prince. Odoevsky, Podolinsky - he hardly heard. But also Pushkin, with whom over time he began to "compete" as the ruler of the thoughts of an entire era, he hardly ever read with any excitement and knew only enough to write a parallel to him, like:

You may not be a poet
But you must be a citizen.

But the point is, he was completely new and completely alien. The newcomer to "literature" is even more than the newcomer "to Petersburg". Just as the "palaces" of princes and nobles were completely alien to him, he did not enter them and did not know anything there, so he was alien and hardly read Russian literature; and did not continue any tradition in it. All these "Svetlans", ballads, "Lenora", "Song in the camp of Russian soldiers" were alien to him, who came out of a devastated, deeply upset and never comfortable parental family and poor noble estates. Behind - nothing. But even ahead - nothing. Who is he? Family man? A link of a noble family (mother is Polish)? Common man? An official or even a servant of the state? Merchant? Painter? Industrialist? Nekrasov? Ha ha ha ...

Anton Priishelets (Anton Ilyich Khodakov) is a Soviet poet. Anton was born on December 20, 1892 (January 1, 1893) in the Saratov province - in the village of Bezlesye of the Balashov district in a peasant family. ... ...
Anton Prihelets worked as a journalist in Balashov, in 1922 he moved to Moscow, where he worked in the editorial office of Rabochaya Gazeta. Anton Priishelets was published in the magazines Krasnaya Nov ', Novy Mir, Nedra, Molodaya Gvardiya, Oktyabr and others. ... ...
In 1920, Anton Prizhelets published his first collection of poems "Zornye Calls", then - "Poems about the Village", "My Bonfire", "Grain", "Green Wind", "Sweet Path", "Bunch of Hay", "Polynya "," Izluchina "and others. In total, Anton Pryhelets has published 15 collections of poetry in his life. ... ...
Anton Prizhelets is the author of popular songs: "Lapwing by the road", "Oh you, rye", "Where are you running, sweet path", "My life, my love" and others. Among the co-authors of Anton Pryhelets' songs are such famous Soviet composers as S. Prokofiev, S. Katz, S. Tulikov, V. Muradeli. ... ...

* * * * * * * * * * *

Poetry reviews

"Poetry of the Native Land"
"Literary newspaper" No. 150, 17.12.1955

The poet tells how, as a child, the world of simple and soulful beauty was revealed to him. He carried his admiration for her throughout his life. Not only images and sounds saved his memory, he retained more: delight in front of the generosity of nature, clear and proud faith in man. He carefully selects the signs of his native land: the Volga flood, the steppe expanse, Saratov ditties ... He talks about the farmers and soldiers, about children and girls in simple and precise words. The truth of childhood impressions, confirmed by all subsequent life, became the truth of his poetry.
This is the charm of the book of poems by Anton Pryhelets "My fire" ("Soviet writer", 1955). There is no variety and complexity in it, but its constancy and unity is amazing. Her theme is the home country, the modest beauty of nature, the strength and talent of the people. In his poems, every apple tree and every steppe well is beautiful. The Khoper River, Senezhskoe Lake, Rastorguevo station, Volga stretches are not random poetic labels, but precisely named favorite places. What has been seen and experienced is not adorned or exalted. It remained common and familiar, only warmed by a lyrical feeling. Both landscapes and people are written in this way. The Alien can be taken with confidence, he performs without a pose. The poet does not know exclamation marks. He speaks respectfully about labor and heroism. The young fighter “did not dream of becoming famous as a hero,” but under fire he swam across the river with his comrades and for five hours defended himself from a cruel onslaught on a narrow patch of land. "Well, that's all he did." The Alien does not have "fierce" love, but a modest feeling burns in his poems and silent fidelity is affirmed.
The August steppe is warm,
The moth lightness of the dress
Bitter-smelling wormwood
And two Christmas trees at sunset. ... ...
You read the Alien's poems like the pages of a diary, where the chronicle of events and personal life are inseparable. Collective farm power plant on a small river. Blue jerseys of the gymnastics parade. Waiting for letters from the front. The grief of the parents who lost their son. In "Your portrait", written about this poem, the poet sincerely speaks to the reader. Hope and happiness are more embodied than sadness. The cycle of poems about the deceased soldier solemnly and lightly ends with the poem "Motherland". Closeness to nature and unity with people are the leitmotifs of poetic experiences, therefore, the feeling of the Motherland is so directly expressed in the poetry of the Alien.
The Alien Collection is called "My Bonfire". You can recall the famous romance of Polonsky and his other poem addressed to Tyutchev, where poetry is likened to a fire warming a tired companion: Tyutchev replied with the quatrain "To my friend Y. Polonsky" ("There are no more living sparks in your greeting voice"). The Alien has the same bonfire, only his "merry" light. Of course, this association is not accidental. In the Alien's poems, the intonations of Nekrasov, Lermontov, Tyutchev are sometimes heard, even the Fetov nightingales sing in his poems. This is organic for a poet. He continues the line of Russian poetic landscape, which goes from Lermontov's "Motherland" to Yesenin's "Anna Snegina". For poets of the past, the perception of nature was often burdened with tragic notes, for the Newcomer, the landscape is almost always animated by the fullness of happiness. The same is in the Alien's songs: they are written in the intonations of a Russian romance, but in their own, major and hearty tone. "Where are you running, dear path?" - as a folk song, music is necessary here.
The Alien's poems attract with freshness, but do not always leave the impression of completeness. It seems that the poet understands this himself: he varies the topic many times without offering final solutions. It is difficult to make a choice in his poems, they must be read all together. This can be perceived as a disadvantage. But we can also say this: before us is a lyrical story, unhurried and frank ... "

V.V. Rozanov
Last leaves. 1916 year
3.I.1916 Stupid, vulgar, fanfare comedy. Not very "successful for myself". E ° "luck" comes from many very apt expressions. From witty comparisons. And in general, from a lot of witty details. But, truly, it would be better if they were not all. They covered up the lack of the "whole", the soul. Indeed, in "Woe from Wit" there is no soul and even no thought. In essence, this is a stupid comedy, written without a theme by Bulgarin's friend (very characteristic) ... But it is fidgety, playful, glitters with some kind of silver borrowed from the French (Alcest and Chatsky 1 by A. Veselovsky), and I liked it ignorant Russians of those days and the days that followed. Through "luck" she made the Russians go bad. Lovely and thoughtful Russians have become some kind of balabolki for 75 years. "What Bulgarin did not succeed, I succeeded," the flat-headed Griboyedov might say. Lovely Russians: who hasn't eaten your soul. Who didn't eat it. Do I blame you for being so stupid now. His very face - the face of some correct official of the Ministry of Civil Engineering - is extremely disgusting. And I don't understand why Nina loved him so much. "Well, this is a special case, Rozanov's." Is that so. 10.I.1916 A dark and evil man, but with a bright face to the point of intolerance, moreover, a completely new style in literature. (resume about Nekrasov) It was he who "came" to literature, he was an "alien" in it, just as he "came" to Petersburg, with a stick and a bundle, where his property was tied. "I came" to mine, get a job, get rich and be strong. He, in fact, did not know how it would "come out", and he did not care at all how it would "come out". His book "Dreams and Sounds" 2, a collection of pathetic and flattering poems to persons and events, shows how little he thought to be a writer, adapting himself "here and there," "here and there." He could be a servant, a slave or a servile courtier - if it would "work out", if the line and tradition of people "in case" continued. At the kurtag it happened to stumble, We were pleased to laugh ... He fell painfully, got up well. He was awarded the highest smile3. All this could have happened if Nekrasov had "come" to Petersburg 70 years earlier. But it was not for nothing that he was called not Derzhavin, but Nekrasov. There is something in the last name. The magic of names ... There were no internal obstacles "to stumble on the kurtagh" in him: in the Catherine era, in the Elizabethan era, and best of all - in the era of Anna and Biron, he, as the 11th hanger to the "temporary worker", could would be on other ways and in other ways to make that "happy fortune", which 70 years "after" he had to do, and he did it naturally in completely different ways. Just as Berthold Schwartz - a black monk - doing alchemical experiments, "discovered gunpowder" by mixing coal, saltpeter and sulfur, so, smearing various rubbish nonsense, Nekrasov wrote one poem "in his mocking tone", - in that later famous "Nekrasov's versification", in which his first and best poems were written, and showed him to Belinsky, with whom he was familiar and pondered various literary undertakings, partly "pushing forward" his friend, partly thinking of "using him somehow." Greedy to the word, sensitive to the word, brought up on Pushkin and Hoffmann, on Cooper and Walter-Scott, the wordsmith exclaimed in surprise: - What a talent. And what kind of ax is your talent 4. This exclamation of Belinsky, spoken in a squalid apartment in St. Petersburg, was a historical fact - decisively starting a new era in the history of Russian literature. Nekrasov realized. Gold, if it is in the box, is even more precious than if it is sewn onto the court livery. And most importantly, the box can contain much more of it than the livery. Times are different. Not a yard, but a street. And the street will give me more than the yard. And the main thing, or at least very important, is that all this is much easier, the calculation is more correct, I will grow "more magnificent" and "myself". On the kurtage "stumble" is old stuff. Time is the turning point, the time of fermentation. The time when one goes away, the other comes. It's not the time of the Famusovs and Derzhavins, but Figaro-ci, Figaro-la "(Figaro is here, Figaro is there (fr.)). Instantly he" rebuilt the piano ", putting a completely new" keyboard "in it." An ax is good. Exactly an ax. From what? It could be a lyre. The time of the Arcadian shepherds has passed. "The time of Pushkin, Derzhavin, Zhukovsky has passed. He hardly heard of Batyushkov, Venevitinov, Kozlov, Prince Odoevsky, Podolinsky. epoch, he hardly ever read with any excitement and knew only enough to write a parallel to him, like: You may not be a poet, but you must be a citizen.5 But the point is that he was completely new and completely " a newcomer. "A newcomer to" literature "is even more than an alien" to Petersburg. "How completely alien were the" palaces "of princes and nobles, he did not enter them and did not know anything there, so he was alien and almost did not read Russian literature; and did not continue any tradition in it.All these "Svetlans", ballads, "Lenors", "Song in the camp of Russian soldiers" 6 were alien to him, who came out of a devastated, deeply upset and never comfortable parental family and a poor noble patrimony ... Nothing behind. But even ahead - nothing. Who is he? Family man? A link of a noble family (mother is Polish)? Common man? An official or even a servant of the state? Merchant? Painter? Industrialist? Nekrasov? Ha ha ha ... Yes, an "industrialist" in a special way, "of all trades" and in "all directions." Still, the word "industrialist" in its harsh philology comes here. "Industrialist" who has a feather instead of an ax. The feather is like an ax (Belinsky). Well, this is what he will "hunt". There is an industry with "patents" from the government and there are "industries" without patents. And there are Great Russian trades, and there are also Siberian trades, for the black-brown fox; on an ermine, and on a lost person. (interrupted, trying to remake it into a feuilleton. See feuilleton) 7 16.I.1916 I would not like a reader who "respects" me. And who would think that I am a talent (and I am not a talent). No. No. No. Not this, the other. I want love. Let him not agree with any of my thoughts ("all the same"). Thinks I'm constantly wrong. That I am a liar (even). But for me he does not exist at all if he does not love me madly. He does not think only about Rozanov. In every step. Every hour is different. He does not mentally consult with me: "I will act as Rozanov would have done." "I will act in such a way that Rozanov, glancing, would say yes." How is this possible? For this, I renounced from the very beginning "every way of thinking" so that it was possible! (i.e. I leave the reader with all sorts of ways of thinking). Me - no. In fact. I'm just a trend. To eternal tenderness, affection, indulgence, forgiveness. To love. My friend, do you not notice that I am only a shadow near you and that there is no "essence" in Rozanov? This is the essence - Providentia (Providence (lat.)). This is how God arranged it. So that my wings move and give air in your wings, but my face is not visible. And you all fly, friends, to all your goals, and truly I do not deny neither the monarchy, nor the republic, nor the family, nor the monasticism - I do not deny, but I do not affirm either. for you should never be connected. My disciples are not bound. But a little rude - not me. A little ferocity, rigidity - I'm not here. Rozanov is crying, Rozanov is grieving. "Where are my students?" And so they all gathered: in which there is only love. And this is already "mine". That is why I say that I do not need "intelligence", "genius", "Significance"; and so that people "wrap themselves up in Rozanov," as soon as they become in the morning, and play, noisy, labor, on the day of 1/10 minute they remember everything: "Rozanov wanted all this from us." And just as I renounced "the whole way of thinking" so that for the sake of always being with people and never arguing with them about anything, not opposing them with anything, not upsetting them - so "those that are mine" - let them give me one love but complete: i.e. mentally they will always be with me and around me. That's all. How good. Yes? 16.I.1916 Vasya Bauder (II - III grades of gymnasium, Simbirsk) 8 usually came to me on Sundays at 11 am. He wore a gymnasium coat, made of gray (dark gray), thick, extraordinarily beautiful cloth, which stood "staked" or like a starched one - and this was such a beauty that, putting it on only on his shoulders, somehow slightly squatted with pleasure to wear such a coat. He was from an aristocratic family and an aristocrat. First, it is a coat. But most importantly, they had painted floors and a separate living room, a small hall, the fathers office and a bedroom. Only Rune was even richer than them - they had a pharmacy, and Lakhtin. The boy Lakhtin (Styopa) had a separate, cold room with a squirrel in a wheel, and for Christmas a beautiful sister came and with her a friend, Yulia Ivanovna. I never dared to talk to them (young ladies). And when one turned to me, I flushed, rushed about and said nothing. But we dreamed of young ladies. Clear. And when Vasya Bauder came to me on Sundays, they sat with their backs to each other (so as not to scatter) at separate small tables and wrote a poem: TO HER There was never, absolutely no other topic. We didn’t know any "E °", because we didn’t know any young lady. He, relying on his magnificent coat, still allowed himself to walk along the sidewalk along which the schoolgirls walked, pouring out of the Mariinsky gymnasium (after school). My coat was a sack and disgusting, made of cheap sluggish cloth, which was "soft" on my figure. Besides, I was red and red (complexion). Therefore, he had the appearance of domination over me, in the sense that he "understands" and "knows", "how" and "what." Even an opportunity. I was living in pure illusion. I only had a friend, Kropotov, who signed the notes: Kropotini italo9, and these "published" Rune and Lakhtin. We argued. I had an ear, he had an eye. He argued, mockingly, that I did not write poetry at all, because "without rhyme"; on the contrary, it seemed to me that rather he, not me, was writing prose, p.ch., although he ended up with consonances: "horse", "me", "friend", "suddenly", but the lines themselves were completely without sound, without these rates and periodicity, which excited my ear, and later we learned that this is called versification. For example, I have: Morning breathes with aroma. The breeze sways a little ... But if "breathes" and "sways" did not work, then I boldly put another word, repeating that it was still a "verse" h. there is "harmony" (alternating stress). He ... He had just lines, ugly, for me - stupid, "perfect prose" but the "consonance" of the last words, these ends of the lines, which seemed to me - nothing. These were not the current white poetry: it was just literal prose, without ringing, without melody, without melodiousness, and only for some reason with "rhymes" on which he became obsessed. This is how we lived. I have kept his letters. Namely, as soon as I entered the 4th grade, I was taken by my brother Kolya to Nizhniy 10, must have "developed rapidly there" (the Nizhny Novgorod gymnasium was incomparable with the Simbirsk gymnasium), "ascended in my mind" and wrote to the "old homeland" (according to teaching) several arrogant letters to which he replied to me like this: [place here without fail, without fail, without fail !!! - Bauder's letters. See Rumyantsev Museum]<позднейшая приписка> ... 16.I.1916 "I" is "I", and this "I" will never become "you". And "you" are "you," and this "you" will never become like "I." Why talk. You go "to the right", I - "to the left", or you "to the left", I "to the right". All people are "not on the way to each other." And there's nothing to pretend. Everyone goes to their Destiny. All people are solo. 23.I.1916 So arr. Was Gogol not wrong at all? (The fundamental principle of Russian reality), and that is not the point. If Gogol was nobly accepted by a noble society: and began to work, "ascend", civilize, then everything would be saved. But this is not what happened at all, and it should be noted that there was something in Gogol that it was not this that happened. He wrote not at all with "bitter laughter" his "great poem"; He wrote it not as a tragedy, tragically, but as a comedy, comically. He himself was "funny" at his Manilovs, Chichikovs and Sobakevichs, laughter, "hilarious" is felt in every line of "M.D." Here Gogol will not deceive, no matter how cunning. Tears appear only at the end, when Gogol himself saw what monstrosity he had done. "Finis Russorum" ("The End of Russia" (lat.)). And now the society took the meanly ("comically") written thing mean: and this is the whole point. The Chernyshevskys - Nozdrevs and Dobrolyubovs Sobakevichs laughed at the top of their lungs: - Oh, so here she is our bitch. Hit her, hit her, kill her. The era of killing by "loyal subjects" of their fatherland appeared. Until March 1, 11 and "us", to Tsushima12. 23.I.1916 Action "M.D." and it was this: that something Gogol had spied on here and there, really met him, really flashed before his eye, the EYE, and in what brilliantly, senselessly and intuitively, he guessed the "essence of the essence" of the moral Sivukh of Russia - through his painting, imagery, through the great schema of his soul - generalized and evolved. Grains, particles grew throughout Russia. "Dead souls" he did not "find", but "brought". And here they are the "60s", the laughing "womb", here are the scoundrels Blagosvetov13 and Kraevsky14, who would "teach Chichikov." Here is a perfect copy of Sobakevich - Shchedrin, a genius in swear words. It is through the genius of Gogol that we have the genius in the abominations. Earlier the abomination was untalented and powerless. Plus, she was naturally flogged. Now she herself began to flog ("accusatory literature"). Now the Chichikovs began not only to rob, but they became teachers of society. - Everything ran after Kraevsky. To Kraevsky. He had a house on Liteiny. "Pavel Ivanovich has already fledged." And into the trumpet "Father. Notes" gave the "Gospel to the public." 26. I.1916 Now you walked past a tree: look, it's not the same. It took from you a shadow of curvature, guile, fear. It will "shake" and grow as you grow. Not quite - but a shadow: And you cannot die on a tree and not change it. Breathe into a flower - and not distort it. And walk across the field - and not numb it. This is what the "sacred groves" of antiquity are based on. In which no one has ever entered. They were - for the people and the country as a repository of the moral. Among the culprit, they were innocent. And among the sinner - saints. Didn't anyone come in? In historical time - nobody. But I think in prehistoric times "Caryatids" and "Danaids"? These, these very groves were the place of conception, and because of this, the most ancient temples on earth. For the temples - of course, arose from a special place for something as special as conception. This was the first transcendence that a person met (conception). 2.II.1916 We talked about Gogol, discussed different aspects of him, and two things flashed through him: - Any thing exists insofar as someone loves it. And "things that absolutely no one likes" - her and "no". Amazingly universal law. Only he said even better: that "someone's love for a thing" causes the very "thing" to be; that, so to speak, things are born of "love", some kind of a priori and pre-worldly. But he had it with warmth and breath, not as a scheme. Surprisingly, the whole cosmogony. And in another place, after a while: Gogol's things do not smell of anything15. He did not describe a single scent of a flower. There is not even a name for the smell. Apart from Petrushka, which "stinks". But this is already specifically Gogol's jargon and its mannerisms. Incl. it is also not a smell, but a literary smell. He says that Gogol is disgusting, uninteresting and unbearable. And that he has nothing but invention and composition. (With Tigranov Faddey Yakovlevich) 16 He has a mother and a lovely wife, blonde (skin) and light-haired: pale, powerless hair color, with a shimmer in gold. He said that this is the most ancient root of Armenia, that it is in the oldest and provincial areas that there are entirely red-haired peasant women. "Thank you, I didn't expect" 17. He himself is a small beetle, a theorist and philosopher. 5.II.1916 And "fallen leaves" from my readers are flying at me. What are my "I" to them? A never seen person and with whom he will never meet in the distance (the town of Nalchik, in the Caucasus). And how much joy they bring me. For what? And I was thinking "for what", giving "someone", an unknown person, with "fallen leaves"? For I did not give to the public, but "to someone over there." So mutual. And how glad I am, feeling that a sprout from a strange distant tree has touched my face. And they gave me life, these alien leaves. Strangers? No. My. Their. They entered my soul. Truly, these are grains. They do not lie in my soul, but grow. At a distance of 2 weeks, here are 2 sheets: "18 / I.916. Tomsk." As I understand the sadness of "Solitary", the sadness for the fallen leaves is close ... They are carried far away by a blizzard, circling over the frozen ground, will forever separate from each other friend, falling asleep with a snow veil ", - my poor Olya sang and fell silent at 23. She lived coldly! - my guilt, my pain until my death. One dark autumn night, sadness came to me as a sudden premonition of future misfortunes - I was 5 years. Since then she often visited me until she became a constant companion of my life. I fell in love with Rozanov - he feels sad, understands the yearning, shares our sadness. How are you marks in determining mental states depending on circumstances and age my metaphysical age, full memories and premonitions, I was a pagan in happiness. Not believing in a future life means little to love. All my life I buried - my father, mother, husband, all children died; longing, despair, pain and dullness possessed my soul - after the death of my last daughter Olya I can't d to omit the thought that she is not there, her beautiful soul does not live. If the beautiful and moral do not die, are not forgotten in our souls, then by themselves do they really cease to exist for further improvement? What is the meaning of their life? It is advisable to close the pipe in order to keep the heat when the wood burns itself, but if the fire is still burning and people are warm and light from it, close the pipe, you will get stink and fumes. Someone brought the fire of life into us and did not determine the duration of its burning - is there a right to extinguish it? It sometimes happens that the wood burns, but a smut remains that cannot burn in any way, then I do not throw it away, but immediately use it for kindling another stove or pour it in, and after that I also use it as material for fuel, let it go for heat; my soul is also burned in the fire of suffering, but has not yet burned out to the end - it is dark and dull, like this smut - it has neither color nor brightness, no life of its own - it goes to the flood, and yours - a warm, bright fire - is impossible close the pipe. Thank you, dear, good one, for the tears with which I took my soul away while reading "Solitary" and "Fallen Leaves" - for me they are like rain in the desert. Oh, what a painful and full of vicissitudes life has been lived, for which it was given to me, I would like to understand A. Kolivov "Other:" February 1st. I stumbled upon accidentally uncut pages in the first box of Fallen Leaves. I was glad that there was unread. About Tanya. How Tanya read you Pushkin's poem "When the noisy day falls silent for a mortal", she read while walking by the sea. How good your pages are. Okay - everything, everything - from the beginning. What is your wonderful - Tanechka. I got excited. Everything that you have told is so clear and good. Then I read the last lines - Mom's words: "You don't need to go to the market" 18. Truth. But not every soul is a market. Vasily Vasilyevich, my dear, after all, 9/10 is nothing, nothing, well, they don't understand anything! Do you know how they say about you? "Is this the Rozanov who is against the Jews?" Or - "is that the one in the New Time?" It takes tremendous courage to write like you, because this is more naked than Dostoevsky. "-" My dear and beloved Vasily Vasilyevich, I received your letter a long time ago, it gave me great joy, I immediately wanted to write to you, but I didn't have to, but then Irina * 1 got sick, and now, for the second week, Evgeniy * 2 is sick, I am taking care of him myself. I got completely lost. Yesterday I was expecting people, and Evgeny says: "Hide Rozanov." I understood and put your books in the dresser. I can't give them. I can not. They get hooked. Offended. There are books that I can't give to anyone. You have words that books should not be "given to read". This coincided perfectly with our old, painful question about books. For this - we are scolded and accused by everyone around. If you don’t save the book - they will see it - you just have to give it - even if it’s better not to return it at all - for "it has lost from its purity." People simply cannot understand that giving a book is 1000 times more than putting on your dress. But we sometimes give, give with a tender thought to give the best, the last, and this is never, never understood: after all, a book is a "common property" (so they say). Thank you, dear and dear, for the kindness, thank you for taking pity on me in your letter, I accept everything from you with joy and gratitude. How is your health now? Devoted and loving you Nadya * 3 A. "* 1) Little daughter, about 3 years old. * 2) Husband, school teacher. * 3)" Nadya "(as a young one) I named her in the first reply letter, since I also have a daughter Nadia 15 years old<примеч. В.В.Розанова> ... 14.II.1916 What cannibalism ... After all, these are critics, i.e. in any case, not average educated people, but outstanding educated people. Beginning with Harris, who was in "The Morning of Russia" 19 2-3 \u200b\u200bdays after the book ("Ued." .d., from "Ued." and "Op.l." one impression: "Naked Rozanov" 20, "Oo-oo-oo", "Cynicism, dirt". Meanwhile, how clear is it to everyone that in "Ued." and "Op.l." there is more lyricism, more touching and loving, than not only among your scoundrels, Dobrolyubov and Chernyshevsky, but also than in all Russian literature of the 19th century. (except for Dost). Why "go-go-go" -? From what? Where from? I'm not a cynic, but you are cynics. And already a long-standing 60-year-old cynicism. Among the dogs, in the kennel, among the wolves in the forest, a bird sang. The forest howled. "Ho-ho. Not our way." Cannibals. You are only cannibals. And when you climb with the revolution, it is very clear what you want: - To bite the neck. And do not shout that you only want to bite the throat of the rich and noble: you want to bite a person. P.ch. I am, in any case, not rich and not famous. And Dostoevsky lived in poverty. No, you are a gilded noble rabble. Your breakfasts are quite hearty. You get from both Finland and Japan. You pretend to be "poor jacket" (Peshekhonov). You are betraying Russia. Your idea is to kill Russia, and in its place for France to spread, "with its free institutions", where you will be free to swindle, p.ch. The Russian policeman is still holding you by the coattails. 19.II.1916 Three times more has been written about "Koroba 2" than about 1 st 21. Today someone is from Khabarovsk. Thanks. "Lukomorye" 22 did not put its company up for publication. What did not "show" - about this Rennikov23 said: - "What are they boors." H'm. Um ... Let's not be so direct. All the same, they did a good deed: I already had about 6,000 debt in the printing house; suddenly they offered to "publish at their own expense." I'm happy. And that Cor was immortalized. 2nd, so intimately dear to me - endless gratitude to them. Still young people. Mark Nikolaevich24 (fam. Forgot). Showed "Family Question" 25, all with notes. I was surprised and thought - "This is who publish me." But he's young: everyone cared about the cover. "What kind of cover we will make for you." I was silent. What kind, except for gray !!! But they put out grape leaves. Well, the Lord is with them. Micah. Al.26 and Mark Nikolaevich are eternal memory for them for "Korob-2" Without them I would not have seen the light. 19.II.1916 And now the "Rozanov current" in literature will begin (I know what will begin). And they will say: “You know: after reading R-va, you feel pain in your chest. .. "Lord: at that time, let me pull my leg out of the" Rozanov flow ". And stay alone. Lord, I do not want the recognition of the multitude. I madly love this" multitude ": but when it is" it ", when it remains" myself "and in a way, too," one. "Let. But let me -" I. "About myself, I would like 5-7, and no more than 100 in all of Russia" truly remember "Here is one wrote to me:" When I pray - I always pray for you and yours. "Here. And nothing else. May 20, 1916 ... the fact is that" precious metals "are so rare, and rough - come across quite often. This is in metallurgy, this is in history. Why is there so much iron, why gold is so rare? Why do you have to go to India or Africa for diamonds, and feldspar is everywhere. Everywhere - sand, clay. There is an iron mountain "Grace" 27. Can you imagine a golden mountain? only in fairy tales. Why in fairy tales, and not in reality? Isn't it all the same for God to create, nature - to create? Who “could”, could “this.” But - no. Why not? then the plan of the universe, some about the thought in it. So it is in history. Is Granovsky readable? Everyone prefers Kareev, Schlosser28, and in the sense of "philosophy of history" - Chernyshevsky. Nikitenko was a rather perceptive person and expressed a personal impression from Mirtov ("Historical Letters") that this was Nozdrev29. Nozdryov? But under Chichikov he was beaten (or beat them - the devil only knows), and in the era of Soloviev and Kavelin, Pypin and Druzhinin, he was elevated to the degree of "genius persecuted by the government." What is it? Yes, there is a lot of iron, but little gold. But only. Nature. Why am I still sad? Why do I have such grief in my soul, from the university. "Since they don't read Strakhov, the world is stupid." And I can't find a place for myself. But they don't read Zhukovsky either. Nobody reads Karamzin at all. We do not read Granovsky: Kireevsky, Vol. [V]. F. Odoevsky - how many bought them? They are printed by benefactors, but no one reads the printed ones anyway. Why do I imagine that the world should be witty, talented? The world should "multiply and multiply," and this does not apply to wit. In the gymnasium I was annoyed at the immeasurable stupidity of some students and then (in grades VI-VII) I told them: - "Yes, you need to get married, why did you go to the gymnasium?" Great instinct told me the truth. Out of mankind, the vast majority of 10,000 9999 have the task of "giving children from themselves", and only 1 - to give "something" over and above this. Only "something": a prominent official, an orator. The poet, I think, is already 1 in 100,000; Pushkin - 1 per billion "Russian population". In general, there is very little gold, it is very rare. The story goes "on the edge", "near the swamp". She, in fact, does not "walk", but drags along. "There is a fog crawling over there, a-huge." This "fog", this "general" is history. We are all looking for play, brilliance, wit in her. Why are we looking? History must "be" and does not even have to, in fact, "go". It is necessary that everything "continued" and not even continued: but that one could always say about humanity: "but it still exists." "There is". And God said, "Be fruitful and multiply," without adding anything about progress. I myself am not a progressive: so why am I so sad that everything just "is" and does not creep anywhere. History screams from within itself: "I don't want to move," and that's why they read Kareev and Kogan. Lord: this is my consolation, but I am so worried. Why am I worried? 29.II1916 He is a nightingale, and he will sing his song from every cage in which he is put. Will Maeterlinck build him a cage and call him "Blue Bird" 30. The new T.Ardov31 rolls his eyes and sings: "Oh, you are a blue bird, a wonderful vision that the Brussels poet created for us. Who was not attracted in his youth by blue skies and a distant starry star ..." "With a green stick" 32 And Nazhivin will say 33: "Green stick, a magical dream of childhood! Do you remember your childhood? Oh, you do not remember it. We then lay at the breast of our Mother Nature and did not bite her °. This is us, now adults , we bite it. But come to your senses. We will be brothers. We will gaze at each other's noses, we will bury guns and all kinds of militarism in the ground. And we, collectively gathering, will remember the green stick. " A Russian poet where to start, and he will continue. And the bankers know this. And they buy up. Saying: "They will continue. First, we will show them the Blue Bird and throw the Green Stick." (XL-year anniversary of "N.Vr.") 34 9.III.1916 All my life I have lived with people who are deeply unnecessary to me. And he was interested from afar. (behind a copy from Chekhov's letter) 35 I lived in the monastery backyards. Watched the bells ringing Not that he was interested, but they still call. I was picking my nose. And looked into the distance. What would come of friendship with Chekhov? He clearly (in a letter) called me, called me. I did not answer the letter, which was very nice. Even disgusting. Why? Rock. I felt that he was significant. And he did not like to get close to significant ones. (I read at that time only his "Duel", which gave me a disgusting impression; the impression of a fanfarer ("von Koren" is a vulgar reasoner, to "strangle himself" [from him]) and a mental braggart. boat by men, lay on her back: disgusting, His wondrous things, like "Women", "Darling", I did not read and did not suspect). So I did not see either K. Leontiev36 (I called to Optina), and with Tolstoy, to whom it was so natural and easy to go with Strakhov - I saw one day. For the heat (extraordinary) of his speech, I almost fell in love with him. And I could have fallen in love (or hated). I would hate it if 6 saw the cunning, the workmanship, (perhaps). Or immense pride (perhaps). After all, my best friend (friend - patron) Strakhov was internally uninteresting. He was beautiful; but this is other than greatness. I have never seen greatness in my entire life. It's strange. Shperk was a boy (the boy is a genius). Rtsy38 - the whole curve. Tigranov is a loving husband of his lovely wife (blond Armenian. Rare and marvel). It's strange. It's strange. It's strange. And m. fearfully. Why? Let's accept that this is rock. Backyard. Back streets. Mine is a passion. Did I love this? So-so. But here's the conclusion: not seeing a lot of interest around me, not seeing the "towers" - all my life I looked at myself. A devilishly subjective biography came out, with interest only in his "nose". It's negligible. Yes. But in the "nose" worlds also open up. "I only know the nose, but the whole geography is in my nose." 9.III. 1916 Nasty. Nasty, nasty life of mine. Dobrovolsky (secretary of the editorial office) did not call me "deacon" for nothing. And he also called it "sucking" (the seeds of the berries were sucked and spat out). Very similar. There is something like a deacon in me. But priestly - oh no! I dangle "about the service of God." I serve the censer and pick my nose. This is my profession. I hang out in the backyard in the evening. "Where will the legs go." With indifference. Then I'll fall asleep. I am essentially forever dreaming. I lived such a wild life that I "didn't care how to live." I'd like to "curl up, pretend to be asleep and dream." Everything else, of course everything else, I was indifferent. And here my "nose" unfolds, "Nose - World". Kingdoms, history. Longing, greatness. Oh, a lot of greatness: how I loved stars from high school. I went to the stars. Wandered between the stars. Often I did not believe that there is land. About people - "absolutely incredible" (that is, they live). And the woman, and the chest and stomach. I approached, breathed it. Oh, how I breathed. And now she is gone. There is no her and she is. This woman is already the world. I have never imagined a girl, but already "married", i.e. married. Copulating, somewhere, with someone (not with me). And I especially kissed her belly. I never saw her face (didn't care). And the chest, belly and hips to the knees. This is "Mir": that's what I called it.

AUTUMN VERSES FOR CHILDREN

A true omen

The wind drives the clouds
The wind groans in the pipes
The rain is slanting, cold
Knocks on the glass.
There are puddles on the roads
Frown from the cold
Hiding under a canopy
Sad rooks.
A true omen
That the summer goes by
What honey mushrooms are asking
Themselves in a box,
What's in a hurry with gifts
Autumn is bright again
What is missing at school
Talker-call.

(G. Ladonshchikov)

Autumn signs

Thin birch
Wearing gold.
So there was a sign of autumn.

The birds fly away
To the land of warmth and light,
Here's another
Autumn is a sign.

Rain drops
All day from dawn.
This rain too
Autumn is a sign.

Proud boy, happy:
After all, he is wearing
School shirt,
Bought in the summer.

Girl with a briefcase.
Everyone knows: this is -
Autumn walking
A true omen.

(L. Preobrazhenskaya)

Fall

Summer leaves wet babbling
Verse and thinned.
Maple leaf like a swan
Circles on the water.
Birches gathered in flocks
Only the winds are waiting.
Smoke branches, grows -
Somewhere the leaves are burning ...
And in the garden, in a white mist
Heard a hundred miles away
The sound of falling ripe apples
Overripe stars.
(I. Gamazkova)

Look how beautiful the day is

Look how beautiful the day is
And how clear the sky is
As ash burns under the sun,
Maple burns without fire.

And circles over the clearing
Like a firebird, the leaf is crimson.

And crimson like rubies
Rowan berries turn red
Waiting for guests -
Red-breasted bullfinches ...

And on the hillock, in red leaves,
Like in lush fox fur coats,
Majestic oaks
They look sadly at the mushrooms -

Old and small
Scarlet russula
And purple fly agaric
In the middle of wormholes ...

Meanwhile, the day is coming to an end
Goes to sleep in the red tower
The sun is red from heaven ...
The leaves are dying out.
The forest is dying.
(I. Maznin)

Carpet runners

Behind the autumn clouds somewhere
Crane's conversation fell silent.
On the paths where summer ran
The multi-colored carpet has settled down.

The sparrow was sad outside the window,
The houses were unusually quiet.
On the autumn carpet paths
Winter comes imperceptibly.
(V. Orlov)

Night leaf

I was sitting today
Before dark
Near open
Window.
Suddenly on the windowsill
Lay down
Golden
A small piece of paper.
It's damp outside the window
And it's dark.
So he flew in
Out my window.
He shivers.
And that is why
The tail is moving
Him.

(V. Orlov)

Autumn awards

Rocked,
Rustled
In the dark thicket
Pines, ate!
Meet the wind
So happy:
He hands them
Awards!
Attaches
"Order of the Maple"
On uniform
Pine green.
Order red,
Cutout,
With golden
Border!
And a handful
Medals
Of every ate
The winds gave!
Gold
Yes pink -
"Osinovs",
"Birch"!

(A. Shevchenko)
Gathered and flew

Gathered and flew
Ducks on a long journey.
Under the roots of an old spruce
The bear makes a den.
The hare dressed in white fur,
The bunny became warm.
Carries a squirrel for a month
Reserve mushrooms in a hollow.
Wolves prowl in the dark night
For prey in the forests.
Between the bushes to the sleepy grater
A fox sneaks in.
Hides a nutcracker for the winter
The old moss nuts are clever.
Needles are pinched by wood grouses.
They came to winter to us
Northern bullfinches.

(E. Golovin)

Sheet

Quiet, warm, gentle autumn

shine.
On sidewalks, lawns, alleys
she pours them, not at all regretting, –

sheet.

sheet.

moment – and, passing the wide cornice,
down!
(A. Starikov)

Autumn in the forest

Autumn forest every year
Pays in gold to enter.
Look at the aspen -
All dressed in gold
And she babbles:
"I'm cold ..." -
And shivers from the cold.

And the birch is happy
Yellow along:
"What a dress!
What a beauty! "
Leaves flew quickly
Frost came suddenly.
And the birch whispers:
"Chill! ..."

Loose and oak
Gilded fur coat.
The oak caught on, but it's too late
And he makes a noise:
"Freezing! Freezing!"
Deceived the gold -
Not saved from the cold.

(From A. Gontar, translated by V. Berestov)

Fall

Slow down, autumn, do not rush
Unwind your rains
Spread your mists
on the unsteady river surface.

Slow down, autumn, show
Turn yellow leaves for me,
Let me make sure, slowly,
How fresh your silence is

And like the bottomless sky is blue
Over the hot flame of aspens ...

(L. Tatyanicheva)

Fall

All the trees fall asleep
Leaves are showered from the branches.
Only the spruce does not crumble -
She does not fall asleep in any way.
Fear does not give rest:
Do not oversleep the New Year!

(M. Schwartz)

Fall

A boring rain falls on the ground
And the expanse wilted.
Autumn turned the sun out
Like a light bulb fixer.

(M. Schwartz)

Fall

Fall,
fall...
The sun
Damp in the clouds –
Even at noon shines
Dull and timid.
From the cold grove
In field,
to the path
Blown out hare –
The first
Snowflake.

(T. Belozerov)

Autumn seamstress

So that the crumb-earth winters without hassle,
She sews a patchwork quilt for her.
Sew the leaf neatly to the leaf,
Pine needle fits the stitch.

Leaflets to choose from - any will come in handy.
Here next to the purple lilac lies,
Although the seamstress is very fond of golden,
Brown and even spotted will do.

They are held together by a spider web thread.
More beautiful than this, you will not find a picture.

(T. Gusarova ■ )

Leaf walker

Red rain falls from the firmament,
The wind carries red leaves ...
Leaf fall,
Changing seasons
Leaf walker on the river, leaf walker.
The sides of the river are freezing
And there's nowhere to go from the frost.
The river is covered with a fox fur coat,
But shivers
And he can't get warm.

(V. Shulzhik)

Colored autumn

Colored autumn – evening of the year–
Smiles at me lightly.
But between me and nature
Thin glass emerged.

This whole world – in full view,
But I can't go back.
I'm also with you, but in the carriage,
I'm also at home, but on the way.

(S. Marshak)

White blizzards are coming

White blizzards are coming
Snow will be lifted from the ground.
Fly away, fly away
The cranes flew away.

Do not hear the cuckoo in the grove,
And the birdhouse was empty.
The stork flaps its wings -
Flies away, flew away!

Patterned leaf swing
In a blue puddle on the water.
A rook walks with a black rook
In the garden along the ridge.

Crumbled, turned yellow
The sun's rays are rare.
Fly away, fly away
The rooks also flew away.
(E. Blaginina)

Sheet

Quiet, warm, gentle autumn
carries withered leaves everywhere,
paints lemon, orange
shine.
On sidewalks, lawns, alleys
she pours them, not at all regretting, -
hanging over the window in the web
sheet.
Open the window wide. And a gullible bird
It sits in my palm, spinning around,
light and cold, gentle and clean
sheet.
Wind gust. The leaf takes off from the palm,
here he is already on the next balcony,
moment - and, bypassing the wide cornice,
down!
(A. Starikov)

The golden grove

Fall! The golden grove!
Gold, blue,
And over the grove flies
A flock of cranes.
High under the clouds
The geese respond
With a distant lake, with fields
Say goodbye forever.
(A. Newcomer)

Autumn has come

Autumn has come
It started to rain.
How sad
The gardens look out.

The birds reached out
To warm lands.
Farewell is heard
Crane biting.

The sun does not spoil
Us with our warmth.
Northern, frosty
It blows chill.

It's too sad
Sad at heart
From what summer
Do not return already.
(E. Arsenina)

Leaf fall

Ice crunches under the foot
I can not see anything. Darkness.
And the leaves rustle - invisible,
Flying from every bush.
Autumn walks the roads of summer
Everything is quiet, it's easy to rest.
Only in the sky is festive from the light -
The sky lit up all the constellations! ..
They are similar to gold leaves,
Stars are falling from the sky ... flying ...
As if in a dark, starry sky too
Autumn leaves fall.
(E. Trutneva)

Leaf fall

Leaf fall,
Leaf fall!
Birds fly yellow ...
Maybe it's not birds
Are you going on a long journey?
Maybe this
Just summer
Flies away to rest?
Will rest
Will gain strength
And back to us
Will come back.

(I. Bursov)

Falling leaves lesson

And in pairs, in pairs after her,
For her sweet teacher
We solemnly leave the village.
And in the puddles from the lawns, foliage poured!

"Look! On dark Christmas trees in the undergrowth
Maple stars burn like pendants.
Bend over for the most beautiful leaf
Streaked with crimson on gold.

Remember everything, how the earth falls asleep,
And the wind falls asleep with foliage. "
And in the maple grove it is brighter and brighter.
More leaves are flying off the branches.

We play and run under the falling leaves
With a sad, pensive woman by my side.

(V. Berestov)

Autumn talk

Kalina spoke to Kalina:

– Why are you, friend, in a mess?
Why such a cloudy look?

What kind of pain does your heart ache? ..

Kalina answered Kalina:

– That is why the rupture gnaws at me,

That winter is already on the doorstep

That a blizzard is already on the way

It's not for nothing - think for yourself! –

Our branches flew yesterday! ..

(A. Kaminchuk)

Autumn wind

Rain. Clouds over the ground
An uninterrupted succession.
Dry under the bush
An empty nest.

The wind spins and rushes -
Swirling leaves, noise and moan,
Maybe turn into a storm
Was he thinking this time?

The rain subsides in the evening.
Dreams wander in the night garden.
And curled up in a ball, the wind
Sleeps soundly in an empty nest.
(N. Zverkovskaya)

Autumn wind

Someone walks at the gate -
It will touch the branch
Then he will collect the grass
And toss it up.

It will begin to bend the mountain ash
At a clogged dacha,
Here I took to blowing on a puddle,
Like hot tea.

And does not freeze without a coat
On a chilly blue evening ...
This someone is nobody
He is the autumn wind.
(L. Derbenev)

Elk echo

An elk sounded anxiously:

Summer was - it was over.

And the forest alarm

Rolled along the road.

He flew up to the clouds with the wind,

I ran along the fox trails.

And yellow echoes from the trees

Dropped autumn leaves.
(V. Stepanov)

Cranes

Over the brown cornfield
Hemp
Fly lazily
Cranes.
Are flying
They echo.
They look at everyone
Say goodbye
With Christmas trees
Green,
With birches
And with maples,
With valleys
With lakes
With dear ones
The vastness.
(G. Ladonshchikov)

Autumn hare worries

What's on a hare's mind?
Prepare for winter.

Get it outside the store
An excellent winter down jacket.

White and white whiteness
To run in it until spring.

The former has become a little cold
Yes and – gray, and – too small.

He is in the winter of the enemy pack,
Like a target on a hillside.

It will be safer in the new
Not more noticeable to dogs and owls.

White snow and white fur –
And warmer and more beautiful than all!

( T. Umanskaya)

Last leaves

Are flying over the fields
Last leaves,
Last leaves
They fly around in the forest.
And the sun, barely
Breaking through the clouds
Drops the last non-heating ray.
Can't hear on the river
not a song, not a word.
The anglers are gone
With the last catch.
But they believe stubbornly
both people and birds:
Everything will be born again!
Everything will happen again!

(A. Newcomer)

Autumn tale

The tale begins
Autumn is quiet.
She walks through the woods
Like a moose cow
Not to be seen
Do not hear
As it goes for the branches.
But behind her we are with you
Let's hurry ourselves.
You see flashed
Bunches of September rowan.
See, the mushroom turned red
Under the ringing aspen.
Hangs in a light smoke
There is a spider web on the pine tree.
Summer got confused in her
Aspen leaf.
(G. Novitskaya)

The forest also smells like mushrooms

The forest also smells like mushrooms
And the sheet didn't come off
At the aspen.
And from the browned mountain ash
Even the heat of summer
Didn't disappear.
I have not told everything yet
Stream,
Living under the roots.
But the rain
Already hurrying after us
As if forests
I have not seen!
(G. Novitskaya)

On the road, on the path

On the road, on the path
The forest has lost its leaves.
Spider web
He climbed into my collar.

The night has become darker
And the woodpecker was not heard knocking.
More often the rain wets the branches,
There will be no thunder sound.

In the morning already on a puddle
The first ice appeared.
And the snow is spinning lightly
Know the frost on the way, it goes.
(L. Nelyubov)

Autumn tasks

In the morning in the forest
Over a silvery thread
Spiders bustle –
Telephone operators.
And now from the tree
Until the aspen,
Like wires sparkle
Cobwebs.
Calls are ringing:
– Attention! Attention!
Listen to autumn
Tasks!
– Hello, bear!
– I'm listening to! Yes Yes!
– Just around the corner
Cold!
Until winter came around
To the threshold
You need urgently
Find a den!
The calls are ringing
Squirrels and hedgehogs
From the top
And down to the lower floors:
– Check soon
Your pantries –
Are there enough supplies
For wintering.
The calls are ringing
At the old swamp:
– Herons have everything ready
For departure?
– Everything is ready for departure!
– Good luck!
Don't forget again
Look in!
The bells are ringing at the linden tree
And the maple:
– Hello! Tell me
Who's on the phone?
– Hello! By the phone
Ants!
– Close up
Your anthills!
– Tell me, is it a river?
– River, river!
– Why for crayfish
No place?
And the river answers:
– This is bullshit!
I will show you,
Where crayfish hibernate!
– Hello guys!
Good afternoon guys!
On the street already
It's chilly!
It's time for the birds
Hanging out feeders –
On the windows, on the balconies
At the edge!
After all, the birds –
Your faithful friends,
And about friends to us
You must not forget!

(V. Orlov)

Doctor Autumn

On the thorns of the hedgehogs
There are two mustard plasters.
It means that someone put them,
But where is this doctor?
The forest sighed
And threw the leaves ...
– I guessed it! It's Autumn!

(E. Grigorieva)

From dawn to dusk

Forests are turning
In the painted sails.
Autumn again
Leaves again
Without beginning, without end
Over the river
And by the porch.

Here they are floating somewhere -
Then back
And then go ahead.
From dawn to dusk
The wind tears them apart.

Whole day
Slanting rains
Pulling threads through the woods
As if they were repairing painted
Golden sails ...

(V. Stepanov)

Until next summer

Leaves quietly Summer
clad in foliage.
And it remains somewhere
in a dream or in reality:
silver fly
in the spider's nets,
undrinked mug
fresh milk.
And a glass stream.
And a warm earth.
And over the forest glade
buzzing bumblebee.

Autumn comes quietly
dressed in fog.
She brings rains
from foreign countries.
And a heap of yellow leaves,
and the aroma of the forest,
and dampness in dark holes.

And somewhere behind the wall
alarm clock until dawn
chirps on the table:
"Until boo-doo-shche-go-ta,
to boo-doo-shche-go ... "

(Tim Sobakin)

Letter

Angry autumn breeze
I plucked a leaf from the bush.
Spun around with a leaf for a long time.
Circled over the trees
And then on my knees
Put down the yellow leaf.
I touched my face with cold:
“Get the letter!
Autumn sent it to you,
And another bunch of yellow ones,
Red,
Different letters
I gave it up.

(E. Avdienko)

Fall

Rustled underfoot
Leaves with yellow sides.
It became damp, it became naked,
We need to get ready for school.
I'm barely a notebook
Posted in my portfolio
Among rowan berries,
Maple and aspen leaves
Acorns and russula ...
And, probably, Olezhek,
My deskmate asks:
"What's all this?" "This is autumn" ...
(T. Agibalova)

Ryabinushka

Look! Aspens blushed

In shawls of yellow birches are ...

At the forest diva of rowan

Beads are burning with a scarlet ruby.

Dressed up like a princess

At a splendid autumn feast.

Her forest mermaid, probably,

She braided her braid in the morning.

(L. Chadova)

Autumn miracle

Now it's autumn, bad weather.
Rain and slush. Everyone is sad:
Because with the hot summer
They do not want to leave.

The sky is crying, the sun is hiding
The wind sings plaintively.
We made a wish:
Let summer come to us again.

And this wish came true,
The kids are having fun:
A miracle now - Indian summer,
It's hot in autumn!
(N. Samoniy)

Autumn cries quietly in a dance

Loose her braids in autumn
A blazing fire.
More often frost, less often - dew,
The rain is cold silver.

Autumn bared her shoulders
All the trees in the neckline -
Soon the ball, farewell evening ...
The foliage is already waltzing.

Chrysanthemums with wonderful fur
Color the autumn outfit.
The wind is not a hindrance to the ball -
Louder music a hundred times!

Loose her braids in autumn
The wind flutters the silk of your hair.
More often frost, less often - dew,
The scent of late roses is sweeter.

Autumn cries quietly in a dance
The lips tremble in a whisper.
In the puddles, a sad look hides.
The birds circle pitifully.

Stretching out the sheet like a hand
Waves a sad "Goodbye" ...
Autumn, feeling parting,
Whispers tearfully: "Remember ..."
(N. Samoniy)

Sad autumn

The leaves flew away
Following the flock of birds.
I'm on a red autumn
I miss you day after day.

The sky is sad
The sun is discouraged ...
It's a pity that autumn is warm
It doesn't last long!
(N. Samoniy)

Plums are falling in the garden ...

Plums are falling in the garden
A noble treat to wasps ...
Yellow leaf bathed in the pond
And welcomes early autumn.

He pictured himself as a ship
The wind of wanderings shook him.
So we will sail after him
To the unknown moorings in life.

And we already know by heart:
In a year there will be a new summer.
Why is universal sadness
In every line of poetry?

Because there are traces in the dew
Will the showers wash away and the winters get cold?
Because all the moments
Fleeting and unique?

(L. Kuznetsova)

Fall. Silence in the dacha village ...

Fall. Silence in the dacha village,
And desertedly ringing on the ground.
Gossamer in transparent air
Cold as a crack in glass

Through the sandy pink pines
The roof is turning blue with the cockerel;
In a light haze, a velvet sun -
Like a peach touched by a fluff.

At sunset, lush, but not abrupt,
The clouds are waiting for something, frozen;
Holding hands, shine
The last two, the most gold ones;

Both turn their faces to the sun,
Both fade at one end;
The elder one carries the feather of the firebird,
The youngest is a feather of a fire chick.
(N. Matveeva)

Late fall

Played back the colors of autumn
A riot of color fades
And trees with light graying
Dress up with the first snow.

Only pines and ate
They don't take off their fur coats
Not in the heat and not in the blizzard -
The greens are gently preserved.

And really, wonderfully
White and green
Combine beautifully
Only a freezing winter!

(E. Yakhnitskaya ■ )

Complains, cries

Complains, cries
Autumn outside the window
And hides tears
Under someone else's umbrella ...

Pestering passers-by
Bothers them –
Different, different,
Sleepy and sick ...

That plagues boring
Windy longing
Then she breathes cold
Moist city ...

What do you want
Strange madam?
And in response – annoying
Whipping through the wires ...
(A. Travyanaya)

Autumn is approaching

Gradually gets colder
And the days became shorter.
Summer is running fast
A flock of birds, flashing in the distance.

Already the rowan has turned red
The grass has become withered
Appeared in the trees
Bright yellow foliage.

In the morning the fog swirls
Motionless and gray
And by noon the sun is warming
As if in the summer heat.

But as soon as the wind blows
And the autumn foliage
Flashes in a bright dance
Like sparks from a fire.
(I. Butrimova)

Golden autumn of wonderful beauty

Blue sky, bright flowers
Golden autumn of wonderful beauty.
How much sun, light, gentle warmth,
Autumn gave us this Indian summer.
We are glad to the last warm, clear days,
On the stumps of honey agarics, in the sky for cranes.

As if an artist with a bold hand
I painted birches with gold paint,
And, adding red, painted the bushes
Maple and aspen trees of wonderful beauty.
It turned out autumn – Eye-catching!
Who else can draw like that?
(I. Butrimova)

Leaf fall

Fallen leaves rustle underfoot
The whole earth, covered with a multi-colored carpet,
And autumn maples cold flames
A farewell fire sparkles in the sun.

And the wind plays with a rowan branch
And the bunches flicker in the autumn foliage.
There has long been a sign among the people
That there are a lot of mountain ash - for a cold winter.

Golden eyes of the last daisies
Reminded again about the lost heat
And dew drops, like living tears,
From their white eyelashes flow at dawn.

And the wind keeps driving the fallen leaves
And the cranes are flying like a wedge.
For me a train that rushed from summer to autumn
He will wave a yellow ticket in the distance.
(I. Butrimova)

Bored outside the window

It was getting lazy outside the window ... So what?
I am enjoying this fine day.

I look into the sky-lakes, I melt in them,
In the sky-high distance floating away.

I inhale the scent of leaves with a bitter taste.
I admire the lace of the cobweb.

And I rejoice at the moment I lived
Drawing unearthly inspiration.

It was getting lazy outside the window ... So what?
I enjoy this fine day ...
(N. Pristi)

September saddens us with tears of rain ...

September saddens us with tears of rain ...
Grasses have hidden under the silver more than once,
In the puddles in the morning there are transparent frames,
The rowan under the window blushed like a child ...
The river runs, hurries, trying to avoid
Painful sleep and long captivity ...
And the maple birch whispers with inspiration,
How he knows how to wait patiently ...
(O. Kukharenko)

September is smart ...

In red boots, in a yellow suit,
September came out in a fashionable outfit.
In a curl of wheat, to the envy of the virgins,
The viburnum ruby \u200b\u200bis skillfully woven.

Dandy walks across the meadows,
Brings gifts to his friends.
Aspen in a grove, in a birch forest
They are waiting for the color of honey and gold in braids.

Gave all the colors out September generous,
But there was not enough pine and cedar,
And linden and oak are not enough ...
September is calling for his brother's help.

In an amber dress coat, to the ringing of streams,
October is feasting in gardens and parks,
And gold pours in various samples.
November, all in white, is already on the road.

(I. Rasulova ■ )

October came

October came. Raised under the crowns
Your torch – the forests broke out.
One pine tree with green fire
Laughs in the fall in the eyes.
The wind is walking along the alleys
With foliage at the wedding gold.
And the forest is sad for the bird trills,
Pouring pensive calm.
(L. Bochenkov)

November

Maples are flying faster and faster
The low vault of heaven is getting darker,
You can see more and more how the crowns are emptying,
The forest grows numb more and more,
And more and more often hides in the darkness
The sun cooled to the ground ...
(I. Maznin)

Sections: Primary School

The purpose of the lesson:

to acquaint with the emotional and aesthetic content of the poem "Snowflake" by A. Pryhelets;
develop the ability to find the characteristic properties of the content of a work, understand the language of the poet, develop imagination, aesthetic sensitivity;
to develop an interest in reading, curiosity, spiritual qualities: tenderness, charm, beauty.

Equipment:

Audio recordings: "Winter" - M. Krutitsky. "Winter Evening" - P. Tchaikovsky.
"Dance of Snowflakes" - A. Filipenko Illustrations about winter (various landscape images) compositions of snowflakes, multimedia - landscapes of winter phenomena.

Organizing time

Relaxation.
- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!

W. - Everyone smiled and looked around? What are we going to talk about today, and what time of year will our topic of the lesson be related to?
D. - There are a lot of illustrations about winter nature and delicate snowflakes, which means we will talk about winter.
W. - You children are right. Now we will listen to a musical excerpt from the work of M. Krutitsky "Winter". And you tell me what you heard in the music, what did you present?

Listening to the excerpt.

D. - I introduced the sorceress - Winter, drifts, falling snow.
D. - It seems to me that everything around is white, like a large fluffy blanket covered the ground.
D. - Snowflakes fall, they fly, play, they have fun.
D. - Everything is quiet, everything is covered with snow, the animals sleep them warmly, and on the top the wind and snow flies.

W. - You guys are right, I also imagined a soft white blanket around, everything glitters - sparkles, and snowflakes dance their waltz and quietly fall from the sky and fit into large drifts and flaunt, playing with the sun's rays.

W. - Look out the window, how much, how much snow this year, how many snowflakes have come down to us.
W. - Is it good?
D. - Yes.
W. - Remember the lesson in natural science, with what proverb we met about the benefits of snow. A lot of snow - a lot of bread!

W. - That's right, children. Winter brings us not only benefits, but also beauty! See what illustrations about winter landscapes I've prepared for you. They hang silently and show an image of winter nature. Let's "revive" them. I will give you excerpts from the works of poets, and you will correlate them in accordance with the artistic image.

I distribute cards with fragments of works to children. They look for suitable images in the illustrations - for their passages and stand near them. (Using class space).

Cards.

1. "The first snow flickers, winds, falling stars on the shore" -

Pushkin "Prettier than Copper Parquet".

2. Snow blizzards and fogs
Submissive to frost always
I will go beyond the seas, oceans-
Build palaces out of ice

N.Nekrasov "Frost-voivode"

3. It is snowing and laying a shawl!

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