Pushkin and postmodern

Tyrania is beneficial postmodernism.

Where is the author, au? There is no author.

Where is evil? There is no evil - everything is relative, you see, Bratello.

Where is good? There is no goodness where you got. Good is the path, he has a lot of paths, you’ll go to the right - you will speak at “Constantinople”, you will go left - you will print in a UFO near Prokhorova.

There is no good and evil - there is etiquette.

The writers have his own: about love - not comme il faut, about injury - you can, about the soul - sucks, about psychology - cool.

Own in power: they are not there. The haste was fogged. Yours, the rest - well, you understand.

The opposition has his own: this 200 hours stood with a useless poster, we defend him, and he turned the mountains, but 10 years ago he blurted out something wrong-all, disappear, fascist.

There is no good and evil - there is no conscience.

There is no author - there is no responsibility.

There is no responsibility and conscience - there is no person.

And there is no that very Russian intelligentsia, about which so much is said about the phenomenon, but not reprimanded.

And if she were, one word from last year would not hurt in the brain - Dmitriev. That's who was able to distinguish between good and evil, that’s who called for mercy - to the fallen ditches of Sandarmokh, who are fallen into the camp, to the camp dust, devoid of family, life, future, names, graves. But what is grace? This means condemning disgrace. And who showed this disgrace? That's it. In the time of Pushkin - the king, so the calls for mercy were shed at that time. In the days of camps and shooting ditches - then the Chekists, today - their grateful descendants who spin Dmitrieva for pulling into the light and condemnation of their predecessors.

And the second word would not hurt like that - Navalny, sitting on a fake business instead of his poisoners. And the third word is “memorial”. In three words, three whales stands the past year, and a giant turtle is swaying under them - torture. This design was still not far along the waves of the calendar, and the legs clearly feel it when you look forward, for the new, almost not for a year with three swan and zero. Swans swing, a thick fog swirls behind them, in which, however, the vague icebergs - deprivation of citizenship and the return of the death penalty are already different.

If we had an intelligentsia, the whole last year it would be covered with a thick layer of angry posts in defense of Dmitriev, Navalny, “Memorial” and the requirements to hide for the long years of all the FSins, investigators, FSBSHNIO involved in torture. From these indignant messages, there would be no whales or turtles, and the Kremlin towers would drown in them knee -deep. And no ice mountains, contrary to reason and conscience, would not loom in the fog.

Pushkin was happy that he glorified freedom and “grace to the fallen”, the eldest friend and mentor Zhukovsky reinvented these lines in order to allow him to be sunk on the monument, and therefore Pushkin was great, but Zhukovsky was not. The line “... In my cruel century I glorified freedom” disappeared, and with it it seemed to hung in the void and the next - about mercy to the fallen. From the lips of the freedom, she is natural, from the mouth of the slave (and for the autocrat everyone who is not he is a slave) is seditious. Kramola is that the slave dares to call for mercy. Grace can come only from the king, this is his prerogative, and not some there, in dust, underfoot. Therefore, in Soviet times, charity (based on pity and mercy) spoke as a harmful bourgeois reel: who, the best in the world, the Soviet state did not take care of someone? Do you understand more than a worm?

And there is nothing to say about the chanting of freedom.

But the educated Russian avant -garde does not float “on the waves of my memory”, but on the waves of intellectual fashion, whose field of view of which does not include human experiences, emotions, joy and sadness. And the avant-garde artistic rowing somewhere nearby, looking not at a person, but somewhere to the side. The main task of the directorial theater is to arrange lush self -presentation at the expense of the author of the play, which, as a rule, is dead and cannot object. Both writers and artists massively become the same directors of themselves, attracting the audience with tricks.

And I recall the funeral of Alexei Devotchenko , an actor who was embodied by his conscience, participated in the march of the world , in the march of truth and many other actions, in protest against the policy of the Russian leadership, he abandoned two state prizes and the title of Honored Artist of Russia. I remember how I approached the actors who had scattered at the cold Komarovsky cemetery, and how they frowned and pulled, painfully croaking-“Well, this side of his activity is somehow not close to me at all ... Well, I don’t know why he did it ... I don’t know ... I don’t understand ... I don’t share ... Is there little theater? ..” ”

He had little theater.

And it seems to us - it seems, there is a lot of theater.

Standing one foot on last year's whales and a turtle, and the other on brand new, still just floating to the surface, I catch myself that I am attached to a completely different figure - the chairman of the constitutional court Valery Zorkin. His golden words that a moratorium on the death penalty is a concession to the “values that are unusual for national consciousness”, this state husband has fucked up last year, but his remark about “the possibility of a return to this measure of punishment in the future” is clearly fixed by the year that had just come. And what, and rushes, and will float into a bright distance on three swans.

To be honest, there is no particular hope that when it comes to business, someone will seriously resist these intentions, no. You understand this with your mind - but the whole creature opposes the thought that after everything that we did to cancel the death penalty Tolstoy and Korolenko, after all the executions of the twentieth century, we return to the same bloody circle.

“On May Twelve, I sat in the bed of journalists and remembered forever the twilight hour of this day, presenting a request, the speech of deputies, embarrassed, full of forebodings,” wrote Vladimir Korolenko in his article “Household phenomenon.” “Among the times the Deep Tish, the invisible flight of a decisive historical minute, it was a kind of dead Point: The question was in which direction the Russian political life will move from it, where the center of its severity will move, to the beginning of humanity and renewal, or backward, to the old techniques of arbitrariness, which is not even considered with its own laws. ” It was 1906. Until 1917 there was a little. After more than a hundred years, stomping at a dead point continues. And it is not clear how much soul remains to confront barbarism. Perhaps we will check it out in the coming year.

If postmodern does not win, we are unlikely to see the sky in diamonds, but at least the line “that in my cruel century I glorified freedom” from the monument to Pushkin will not cut down. May be.

But if postmodern wins, and it will still be unmarried to distinguish good and evil, then he will not rust up for some new Zhukovsky, and the line of freedom can not resist. Yes, and mercy to the fallen will not stand, remember my word - it does not hold without freedom.

Sofya Rogacheva - journalist

The "Opinion" expressed in the heading of the point of view may not coincide with the position of the editorial office