3D - stics

Anton Ivanitsky is convinced that the journalist is the main profession. The world swarms, changes, progresses, or regresses only so that journalists write about it.
The life of Anton Ivanitsky consists of three stages. At first he read books. Then he read books and wrote notes. Now he is reading books and other people's notes.
When Anton Ivanitsky was a reporter, he always looked for someone in unsuitable places: Chechens in Denmark, Catholics in Burma, Russians in Qatar, atheists in the Vatican, Portuguese in the Canadian North. What was the most curious, found. He did not find only the truth in the huts. About the author "dreamed of a prose writer, went to the poet!" - The drinking companion threw back the fifth “on the Payesat” and famously hit the table with a pile. The drinking companion is the wife of a poet, known for an alliteration work with a lyrical hero - a microbe. The wife after 250 g, of course, was felt, but on her feet stood tight. I was lying nearby.

Mizannships - in the legendary office of the sports department of one Moscow edition. The scenography is based on a massive multi -day binge. The time of action is the night from Thursday to Friday. The history of the cupboard of the office, the very image of this department of sports will find its chronicler, will find its Dovlatov. Not about the office. Not about Sergey Donatovich. And even more so not about sports.

“Everything will be fulfilled - tomorrow is Friday,” I quoted Lily Gushchina out of place. "I feel good with him!" - blurted out neonatalyanikolavna, enveloping the remark with a warm cloud of fresh fumes.

In a person who is professionally working with an uniformly word, two enemies are editor/corrector and poet. The ideology of editors/proofreaders is the linguistic heritage of D. E. Rosental. Give them the will - and anyone - even good - the text is put on in a sweet and disgusting Turgenev correctness.

The poet is able to kill everything that prose writer, publicist, playwright wrote in one phrase in a few poetic lines day and night, looking for words, polishing the sound series, harmonizing rhythmia with heartbeat, recalling their own life and inventing parallel reality. The thought is like a banal, but whenever she comes to mind, you are lamenting what the hell is not a poet. The textbook example is Shakespeare's Hamlet and the corresponding poems of Blok and Pasternak . I would read Stoppard in Russian, would he know these verses, would his hand rise to write his meaningless Rosencrance-Gildenster paraphrase ?

You can read Wilde's Salome, you can see the performance of the same name by Viktyuk or even look into the source. And you can:

“Yeshua - in Galilee,
Iokanaan - in the basement;
Tsarevna Salome Night
Raises the bedspread.

Salome, Princess, Dance for me!

But the tetrarch does not need to be angry -
What he wanted, he was not given.
The laughter of the Herodiada is heard.
Iokanaan - in the basement.

Salome, Princess, Dance for me!

Wings rustle, shadow of Baal ...
Something will become, something will be!
Iokanaan - in the basement,
His head is on the dish.

Salome, Princess, Dance for me! "

This is the poem “Wilde. Year of the 32nd from R.Kh. " The modern poet who writes under the pseudonym the young king . Here you have Wilde, and the Bible, and Viktyuk. Three in one. 3D.

Simply: I read and remember or read and forgot. Difficult to writers. Even more difficult for us, journalists. Roaring without rhyme. Preferring the speed of valency. Spitting on tongue -tied tongue. Multi -page reports filling on the claw.

And how good it would be. Editor: “Report! To the deadline. " You bring: “Now our roads are bad, the forgotten bridges are rotted, at the stations bugs and fleas do not fall asleep for minutes ...” (A. S. Pushkin for those who forgot). But no. You will not write this. And if you write, the editor will not appreciate. The prize will not be discharged. From the editorial office they will drive out. The only reward will be immortality.

You can’t become a poet yourself, be next to him (with her). You look, and grab the breaker of immortality.

We will leave, however, to 3d poets and directors. Journalism is still 2D, two dimensions, more precisely, two sides. So, let's see from the other side.

And on the other, to be scary with the poet. Akhmatova wrote: “My husband whipped me with a patterned belt doubled,” Gumilev was forced to travele to go around Petersburg friends, assuring them that this is only a poetic image, which was not related to reality. He himself was a poet. You are unarmed.

You part with the poet/poetess. If sadness is light, then you are very lucky. You are a haze on the hills of Georgia; Any wanderer who finds himself in Aragve will remember you.

And if not? If he/she decides that “your name is treachery”? All! In immortality, you - regardless of gender - you are lying to Gertrude. Thank you. Indeed, somewhere near the Magnit is more obsessed!

So it’s scary to be with the poet. And already the poet himself somehow does not want to be. After all, I do not want to be scared with you.

“I dreamed of a prose writer - I went out for the poet! I feel good with him! " - repeated the spouse after four hundred. And she went into the night, to a low large poet, to where a half -built belt or bright sadness. The fragrance was already non -stitched. Paul is dirty, but there was no strength to get up. The sports department needs a chronicler. Preferably Dovlatov, not a poet. Although any good poet is better than any good Dovlatov.

The author’s opinion may not coincide with the position of the editors of gzt.ru