Gon by the Bylinsky

When you tell the Muscovites about the dominance of the entire Moscow in literature, Muscovites are indignant: who would say, your St. Petersburg, there, where they made their way, everyone took - both the Kremlin and the White House. Then it becomes clear that the dominance of all of Moscow in literature is a form of revenge in St. Petersburg. Ignoring St. Petersburg literature - and still very peculiar in comparison with the rest of the literature in Russian - one, and the unbridled praise of the chosen of the chosen Moscow nonsense is the other half of this revenge.

That the deliberate nonsense is extolled in the liberal camp - this is familiar: either they have a Goralik - a living classic, then Ivanov is a critic, then Aizenberg is a poet. But a fresh example: the “literary newspaper” imposes, like potatoes, a certain Bylinsky.

Roman Valery Bylinsky “Adaptation”, which is now published by the book, was filed in the manuscript for National Best. Nominator, critic Leo Pirogov, to each of the members of the large jury sent a lengthy letter in which he asked: 1) “Adaptation” be sure to read; 2) Do not quit reading, because at first it can cause irritation, but this is only at first, because 3) if you read it to the end, it will “change your life”. When none of the jury members voted to “adapt” nor a score, Pirogov wrote in his journal that a certain influential Moscow figure (activist?) Phoned all members of a large jury, demanding that he could not vote for an “adaptation”. Well, if you have paranoia, this does not mean that no one is following you, and if such a figure was indeed in Moscow, then this means that there is at least one person with common sense and good taste in Moscow.

Since several reviews praising the “adaptation” have already been released, and everyone else to read this 600-page volume in scrap, you must finally tell everyone the truth about this book.

What is it supposed to do the reviewer, retelling the plot? Well, hold on. A lone forty -year -old screenwriter once instead of going to work, flies to Egypt. It spends some time in Hurghada, then returns to Moscow. In Moscow, he conducts a series of talk about life: with a normal girl, with a successful businessman, with a priest, with a psychiatrist, etc. Then he meets true love, who, suddenly rich, takes him to travel to Europe, and then to Cuba. From Cuba, true love runs away. Then he finds her in Moscow, and then the end of the world happens. A terrible judgment happens, the hero meets with the Lord God, they have a conversation about life, after which the hero enters the kingdom of God. Oh yes! All this time, the hero is non -stoply fucking with all the female individual in the way.

All this could be a comedy, or a psychedelic stream of consciousness, or a postmodern kunshtuk, but you can’t even call an “adaptation” - in fact it is nothing more than a rut.

Gon is primarily in language - at best, simply colorless and fresh, but in most cases awkward and flawed. Gon is also in artistic truth: everything except Moscow bars and Hurghades is described extremely unconvincing, and as for the characters, then there is already such violence over the believable that the teeth begin to whine. There are no such psychiatrists, nor priests, nor managers, nor downshifters, nor students, normal people do not behave like that, they don’t talk like that, they don’t fuck, finally, decisively, there is not a single character in the text that was not entirely sucked out of a finger. The only living page of the novel is the one that describes the memoirs of the hero’s mother about how she met German tanks in the village with a little girl. Only one page, and I don’t know if, in the context of the above, attribute this merit to the author or the one who shared this memory with him.

Of course, “adaptation” thinks to himself that she is a philosophical novel. But in fact, this is also a rut, because everything that with such a labeling pathos is opened and thought out here, a normally developing intelligent boy opens and thinks about twelve to twelves years. At the age of fourteen, a normally developing intelligent boy discovers that God can be determined as you like, so it's time to tie up and go to something more interesting, but if the development of development is discovered, the boy will continue with enthusiasm, to be infinitely amazed: “God is the Mariana depression!”, “God is an endless staircase!”, “God is a dude in the bar!” By the age of forty, “adaptation”, and will also think that he is a philosopher no worse than Dostoevsky. "What to do?", "Who is to blame?" And "how to lose weight, at night?"

Of course, such a boy listens to Doors, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin and thinks that because his heroes will constantly listen to them, the text will become better. Of course, such a boy has the main question - how so, they do not like me so beautiful, I, such a good, cannot adapt. The answer that begs itself is that in the world there is a conspiracy against good boys. Of course, when such a boy begins to describe bed scenes, it turns out nonsense, because with bed scenes he is familiar only to porn films. And of course, the only thing that such a boy can do is to take revenge on the world, destroying it. At least in the final of the novel. This boy is likened to the Persian king, who ordered the sea, and the boy does not even suspect that those who, together with Mamardashvili thought over him, thought out a very simple, but well -scattering morin, the six hundred pages of “adaptation” thought: the world does not have intentions towards me. It is stupid to destroy the world, and to do it in the final of the novel is funny.

So the assurances of the adept of the “adaptation” of Pirogov, that, they say, irritation from the first pages of the novel is then replaced by something magical-this is something like when the boy tells the girl, that it hurts only in the first minute. Do not believe it, girls: fourteen -year -old boys do not think about your pleasure; Only about your own.