Literature lessons

It was previously believed that Russia is a literary country. So it was. The literature really at all times served as the only glue with which the swellful connection of the times was carried out. She occupied the place where others have a story. History also existed in Russia, but it has always been more literature than science.

The lively exchange of quotes from classics within the cultural community was not only symbolic capital: quotes and allusions served as passwords-reviews that allowed people to be in this community itself.

There was still such a thing as the "educational role of literature."

School literature greatly resembled a cemetery, where the graves of positive heroes were located on the right hand, and negative on the left. In a separate row, extra people have found eternal rest. On one grave it was written, for example, something like "here rests Tatyana's dust - a bright exponent of a Russian national character." On the other - "Emma Bovari lies here - a victim of hypocritical bourgeois morality." On the third - briefly: "Prince L.N. Myshkin, an idiot."

On the examples of Russian and world literature, on the examples of literary heroes, their thoughts, feelings and actions, they were intensively raised by young men who thought about living.

Look, children, what funny Gogol officials. Do not be like that. And do not be with such limp sorsens as Oblomov. And do not be as nickels as Plyushkin. And do not hide the axes under the jacket, like Raskolnikov. And do not boast of like Khlestakov. And do not talk as funny and clumsy as the heroes of Zoshchenko.

And be like Dubrovsky, like Pavka Korchagin or at worst like Andrei Bolkonsky. Like Danko with a heart muscle in his hand. Like Nilovna in a disheveled scarf. Like ichtyander with cod gills. Like Stirlitz in a SS uniform, which is now sewn. And if you fall asleep in a lesson in the lesson, then let you have the fourth dream of Vera Pavlovna. Wake up as scalded and will not fall asleep.

One of my friends told how her mother, a school teacher, said a little: "And Natasha Rostova would never have done anything!" And when certain young people began to appear in the daughter of her daughter, my mother said: "Of course, not Andrei Bolkonsky, but a sweet boy, educated." Fortunately, the girl was Natasha. And then, by the way, she married Peter. Not for long, however.

One way or another, but for lack of other reliable moral imperatives, it was literature and its characters that served at least some behavioral landmarks. Not the moral code of the builder of communism take into account - think for yourself. Not the laws of young pioneers! Not an elaborate sermon! Only this was not enough!

Now it has become considered that literary centrism came off the stage, giving way to not at all humanitarian pragmatism. It seems to me that this is not entirely true. Literature is still the ball. And they also study on her samples. Although another.

An interesting generation of the power and catching public came, which, like its Soviet predecessors, acts according to fiction. But their behavioral models and actions in the brightest way demonstrate relativity, convention and ambivalence imposed as a pioneer tie, but not included in the blood of moral categories. The fundamental, seemingly, division of literary heroes into positive and negative ones, found its final failure. Apparently, the Soviet school overlapsed us all the images of landowners and extra people.

Those previous, were no better, of course. And in some ways worse. But they fear how masked and hid their shameful kinship with all reptiles, scoundrels and cretins, which the world classic was teeming.

Therefore, they watched so jealously to ensure that something about them would not appear on the stage or on the screen. And there was a lot about them, starting with the "non -standard" director's reading of "grief from the mind" and ending with the Schwartsevsky "dragon". Starting with Chaadaev and ending with Shalamov.

They had a difficult relationship with the classic. On the one hand, they, not without violence, planted her, thus affirming their historical legitimacy. On the other hand, she terribly interfered with her inanimate freedom and old -regime ideas about freedom and personal dignity. Therefore, they so violently heated the cracks through which the enemy could have leaked. But the enemy, of course, seeped, because they were heated as mediocre and hackshore as they did everything else. They tried to cover the whole public life with one piece of Rogozh. But Rogozha was originally holey, and over time it became more and more. But only through these holes both light and air penetrated.

The current ones have no need to prohibit something. Because all this has nothing to do with them. This is all not about them - so they think. And they think correctly. They took and changed the signs, thus becoming absolutely invulnerable to all sorts of “sorry for the satire” and “confusion of lead abominations”. This is their know-how.

Why not take bribes, as they say. So the mayor took it. And he gave. Ah, is he funny and ridiculous? First, so what? And secondly, it is not he is ridiculous, but ridiculous one who carries past his pocket. And if the mayor is ridiculous with something, then only by the fact that he was so shameful.

They seemed to say: “Why is it bad. Normally. And if you are so smart, then why are you so poor? Helped you“ Your Lyahs ”, your Gogoli-Mogoli? And that. And they helped us.

Satira, say? Saltykov, say, Shchedrin? "City of Zhupov"? And what, normally a man wrote everything. So we will do everything. Anti -utopia? Well, let's go here, we’ll see what kind of anti-utopias. Orwell? Why? The right kid. I explained in an accessible way that the piplu can be vone on the contrary. What is bad about. What is a shameful? I am ashamed to be a sucker, and then what? Cool? Cool. Simple? It is simple, but only you come up with it. But we were ankling. "

They were completed, this is true. And this must be admitted.

The difference between those and these are not only that the first pockets were filled with “ideas”, which were very disturbed during walking, and in the pockets the latter has literally nothing but two or three credit cards. The difference is that the former were the spiritual descendants of the provincial gymnasium students, second-year-olds, in the heads of which, among the random heap of the codes of revolutionary phraseology, separate quotes from “Onegin” and “Russian women” stuck there and there. And the current ones lead their genealogy from those blatants of the 30s that comprehended world culture with the help of Trotsky enemies, for the balija and bread crust of “pissing novels”, that is, the language, understandable to the client, “Odyssey”, “Faust”, “Captain's daughter” and “Anna Karenina”.

And now they can say: “We are unrealistic, boys, if we think about it. These, like them, the dashing 90s of all sorts of Americans treated us seriously, kind of like their, only lagging behind. Well, the presentors, of course, were others. And right now, in short, they look at the psychos with a certificate, which have a diesel fuel in the underground, and in the souillon. Which, whoever will be sent to them, do not need to, let it be, in short, they told me to be one of the Danish prince.

How not to understand.