Pretty simplicity

"This is American television. Do you have a minute?" - Without any “hello”, a ruddy young lady was rammed, in appearance, warehouse, the complete absence of any non -Russian accent and manner of holding a overseas impression in any way. There was a huge woolen microphone in her hand, and in mine - a ramp packed by the pressing of Ramstorovsky bag. I just left the store, and they are here - a lively young lady and two uncles - one with a camera, the second just like that. I think that just like that was just an American.

• And what does it want is television? I asked.

• It is interested in that ordinary people think about millionaires.

• About millionaires? I asked.

• Well, yes, about rich people, ”the young lady said, who remembered that he was dealing with a simple person.

• For all people - at least simple, at least difficult - I won’t take in any way, ”I said, looking into the cell. “But on my own behalf, I can say that personally, the millionaires do not interfere with me.” Moreover, I am sure that the more they will be in the country, the better it will be for the country, and therefore for me. But, I repeat, my opinion is hardly representative.

The young lady hastily said “thank you” and, having lost all professional interest in me, not to mention any other, rushed to the next ordinary person. This time, an aunt with a strict face turned out to be a simple person. Removing from them towards the house, I managed to hear only a few words pulled out of the context, from which “parasites”, “julier” and “transplant” seemed to me the most telegory.

I was glad for American television, which I, fortunately, did not manage to spoil the holiday of creative communication with "ordinary people." They still heard what they were counting on. I think they will not show me with my trivial speeches. And it’s a pity - it seems to me that in a new jacket and an intricately tied scarf, I looked good.

This uninteresting episode itself made me think. No, not about millionaires, but rather about the phenomenon of "simplicity". That this television tank turned to me as a "simple person" not at all because I have such a simple expression on my face, but because I only walked on foot and had a bag of food in my hand is just too clear. A person who climbs with three packages into the black “Mercedes” would hardly be “simple” for her. This is all clear and uninteresting.

Another "simplicity" is interesting. The deep, interpretation of the simplicity that it has grows, cherishes and feeds all power, holding it, this simplicity, on a leash - either long, then short depending on the political moment. And without a leash - without a leash, this simplicity is able to shift everything that is more complicated than it, including the power itself.

In the Soviet regime, everything was simple besides itself. And Ilyich was "simple like the truth." And the "simple Soviet man" went with them both in subjects and in the objects of history. And the "Simple Russian Baba" performed by the Order -bearing Maretskaya stood on the rostrum of a high assembly, showing a bright but low -income example. By the age of seventies, the conceptual space has already been so reduced so that along with ordinary collective farmers and simple workers appeared, once complex, and now quite simple engineers, ordinary doctors and simple ones - not to confuse with honored - artists.

Simplicity is seductive. Simplicity is invulnerable. Her weakness and her strength in integrity, monolist, non -properness. Any attempt to introduce into this system, so to speak, the system of analysis immediately destroys the entire system to the base. But the logic in these cases reveals its complete powerlessness, because to the question "Why?" There can be no other answer except "but that's why." A pocket calculator, for example, a thing more complicated than, say, brick. But in order to predict which of these achievements of the human mind the victory is ensured in the event of their physical clash, a special visionary gift is not required.

Simplicity is monochrome, simplicity is monologic. How can a person living in the color world talk to who live in black and white? In what language? In what categories?

The path of simplicity is the path to the void, to the original nothing. So between the Bogucharovsky men from the “War and the World”, there were always any obscure rumors, then about the transfer of them all to the Cossacks, then about the new faith that they will be turned into ... either in seven years to reign Peter Feodorovich, in which everything will be free and so it will be simple that nothing will be. ”

There will be nothing, while the simplicity in the person of its eternal carriers will listen to the notorious “voice of blood” - the most dense of the voices hiding in each of us, although at different depths of the occurrence. In the modern, that is, the complex world has long been blood and, I hope, is irrevocably devoid of the right to vote, becoming exclusively a medical factor. But the "voice of blood" is seductive because it is simple. Do not listen to him, this voice. He does not whisten anything good to you. He will not tell you anything except resentment, kitchen soup, stumps, deportations, terrorist acts, cleansing and special operations to maintain constitutional order using carpet bombing.

No need to listen to the "Voice of Blood". You will not hear anything there, besides the imperious call, pour someone else's blood. And his own, by the way, too.

Often confusing such concepts as "simplicity" and "clarity". In the same way as complexity and confusion are confused, how they confuse ambiguity and meaningfulness.

Sometimes quite complex natures, rhetorically dreaming of "falling into the heresy, in unheard of simplicity, are sometimes yearning for holy simplicity. Some, alas, succeed.

Simplicity cannot make difficulty like a mole of daylight. The difficulty for her is chaos and a mess. Remember how the Chekhov firce grumbled: "Guys at the gentlemen, gentlemen with men, and now everything is not tasting, you will not understand anything."

Simplicity cannot stand diversity, so it strives to solve all the damned issues by a simple division of mankind into two categories. On their own and strangers. On the Chinese and Nethodites. For motorists and pedestrians. On boys and suckers. On civilian and military ...

I remember how neighbor Olga Vasilievna, treating me, eight-year-old, tea, reproachfully sentenced to: "Why are you squirrel, just like a mathematician?" - "And mathematicians, or something, always squish?" I asked trustingly. “More!” Olga Vasilievna said with conviction. “I knew one thing.” And her eyes fogged. Over time, I met mathematicians. First with one, then with the other, then with the third and fourth. One of them, by the way, really terribly squinted with tea and soup.

One witty person said that all people are divided into two categories - into those who divide people into two categories, and those who do not do this. Okay, in my opinion.

And also, according to many, Russian reality is reduced to two fundamental elements, combined into the dialectical unity of a well -known folk proverb about simplicity and theft. Therefore, the question of what is worse is an eternal Russian question. Note: not what is better and what is worse. And therefore, apparently, someone seems so important and significant to the attitude of "ordinary people" to millionaires. And vice versa.