Convention and absolute

Once upon a time, one of my young acquaintances, at the age when total skepticism takes possession of us in relation to the covenants of the elders, suddenly announced that winter, spring and all this notorious change of seasons were pure convention. Maybe she missed the lesson at school when they explained about the unconditional inclination of the earth's axis, but I still managed to call it to order, asking whether she also considers the difference between thirty degrees of frost and thirty - warmth. She had to admit: she does not think.

But the date of the New Year is really pure convention, since there is no accuratebrush in the earth's orbit. Our first of January was inherited from the Romans, who chose him from purely pragmatic reasons: it was urgent to bring the date of the entry of new consuls so that the army warring in Spain could lead a more competent commander. Since then, this date has overgrown with many traditions - especially in Russia, where it has been also a surrogate of Christmas with its Christmas tree and gifts for decades. In addition, it serves in our life something like a checkpoint on which we are trying to get rid of bad habits and get useful-as a rule, not very successfully, as far as I can judge from my own considerable experience.

And there is another custom: we, at least the day before, recall all those who no longer pass this checkpoint with us, those who remained forever in the past year. From this mournful list, I want to choose only one person today, the separation from whom I caused me a special bitterness, although during his lifetime I, to my shame, did not make any efforts to see him. This is the Moscow poet Olga Chugai . She did not enjoy any particularly wide fame, but when she was gone on one of the December days, she suddenly found: not only me, but many other people remembered the duty to Olga, which we no longer had the opportunity to return.

Once we studied together at the Faculty of History of Moscow State University, but I met her not there, but in one of the Moscow literary studios, which I visited in those years. She was only three years older, but the relationship that developed between us resulted in a certain guardianship - above me, on her part, with a shade of motherhood, but at the same time quite professional. She had a technique rare at that time, a typewriter, on which, sitting in Olina’s apartment, I tapped my unsuccessful virs for hours, in four sacramental copies to carry in the editorial office where, of course, I was expected by inevitable refusal. I got acquainted with other literary ambitious people who are looking for a breakthrough in large literature - and not only Moscow or, like me, visitors from the province, but also St. Petersburg, with whom I then resumed contact on their native soil.

While we are alive, let them be alive with us - those with whom we did not have time to finish and who are late for saying thanks

In addition, in those days, I was accepted every now and then from one or another faculty where I studied alternately, the living space became already, but I always knew that Olya had not only a familiar writing machine, but also lunch. It seems that this instinct of maternal patronage was in her blood. There are people who, successfully or not, work all their lives exclusively for the benefit of their own reputation, while she put a considerable part of her life in strangers.

But youth is stingy with gratitude, and although I instinctively understood how lucky I was with this friendship, but once left without looking back - forever, as it seemed then. And if I remembered, it is rare. And then, years later, I met with Olya again, only once, she came to one of my Moscow speeches, after which I really wanted to talk and remember everything. But the guests pushed me for a minute, and when he grabbed, she was no longer. As it turned out, forever, but now I have to remember alone. However, Leningrad State University - many have left similar memories.

Looking back at the past life, for some reason you think that if you did not ask anyone much for help and did not look into the eyes of anyone, then everything was done exclusively with his own hands. But once you understand that if it were not for some very important people who were met on the way in time, there would essentially be nothing. You see, alas, too late, when there is no one to thank.

Gathering to meet the New Year with those whom, fortunately, we have not yet lost, we often forget about these empty places, because the holiday, it would seem, is a place of joy, not sorrow. But besides sorrow, there is also gratitude - each has its own, and unite these toasts for those who have left with the year that we escort is not always simple. But if there were not them, there would not be us, and the share of happiness that still remains for us should rightfully divide with them. And while we are alive, let them be alive with us - those with whom we did not have time to finish and to whom we were late for saying thanks.

Alexey Tsvetkov-New York poet, publicist and political commentator

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