Irina Kaspe. Slow Spleen of the Old Man Oblomov

In the peeling replica from the monologue of the bookproof Zakharov, on the fourth page of the cover, we still can’t get around, so we will start right with it, with a replica. "You were convinced that B. Akunin's books on the adventures of Erast Fandorin is a class?!" ; Somehow it is not immediately remembered that the very first volume of Akunin - Azazel - released by I.V. Zakharov a couple of years ago, was disguised as a standard Poetle and equipped with a slurred wrapper. The publishing rhetoric was based on complete silence, and it was fulfilled with mystery only after a certain amount of time.

About the "copper jug ​​of the old man Khotabych" everything is known - immediately and over the edge. That this is a remake. That this is a product. That the bourgeois publisher operates the author. That the charm author (once again, see the fourth page of the cover, where he is with a naked torso and velvet gaze) dares in response and gives out something between "here is my manuscript. We will agree" and "maybe I will better remain myself?" Dirol White " - my favorite chewing gum!"

In order to brighten up the inevitable publishing intervention in the text, Sergei Oblomov, he is Sergey Klavdo , wise with narrative authorities, framework structures and identity problems: according to the novel, the writer presented in the third person, endlessly remembers the publisher by a not quite kind word, is overwhelmed by his own hero, and a couple of times is confused in the definitions of the definitions "I"-"another" and writes, writes, writes his wonderful commercial work.

In order to maximize the profit of profit, the most top -ends are chosen as keywords from the book publishing point of view: “generation” and “void”.

“It was empty in the jug. It was more correct, however, to say that there was a void in the jug. The real emptiness, the most empty of all the voids ... He took an empty glass and up to half filled it with emptiness from the jug. Then he raised half a void glass to the window and looked at the light. The empty.”

The generation should be described, and the void should be filled; If possible, unobtrusively. How to describe the generation so that it recognizes itself as a mile away is approximately clear: the Internet, “propaganda”, “four rooms”, hash with fly agaric and arrow with showdowns. Television target Yugoslavia and hypothetical AIDS in the background. How to fill the void is also, in general, it is clear: childhood; Our childhood is now the most gold lived. What else can cause a mean male tear, if not the black and white outlines of the “guest from the future” - it is from the past - in the penultimate chapter. The cover, the format, a characteristic flirting with the reader, numerous appeals, initiations, warnings and afterwords are very similar to imitate the panobratic-infinitive style of stories from school life.

Nevertheless, all this game in a hard book business causes a relentless feeling of something book, but far from hard. That's the same naive adventurers O'Genry wanted to earn a lot of money, but received an unbearable, immature tormentor and hot potatoes for the scruff.

Something is clearly not taken into account here. It is apparently dangerous to contact childhood. Say, if in childhood the publisher Zakharov Khottabych could be present as a cult figure, then in the childhood of a writer a pantry - except as a sign. As for the prostagonist -hacker, who is suitable for the writer in the younger brothers, and the publisher in his sons ... When it would not be a random biographical twist, it was unlikely that the genies and jugs would mean something in general. And a natural question arises: who is this obsessed reader who, according to the plan, should buy the circulation of the "copper jug"? To what generation is it, in fact, belongs to? How old is he? From sixteen to forty? From eighteen to thirty?

Maybe the bet was made on the age fork publisher/writer/hero. As a result, however, a chemer -like freak was obtained: from the publisher he has a nostalgia for Hotabych and an intrusive idea of ​​a new generation, from the central character - the age is a little more than twenty with all due age characteristics; But the backbone, the backbone on which all this is strung ...

The existential restlessness and stupid disrespect of the hacker Gena is hardly able to cause any response feelings among his cheerlers. The best moments in the book - and they happen in it, although they do not last long - reproduce a nagging, frying confusion. Young hero pours in an empty copper jug. And then he rinses the jug under the tap. And Hottabych does not appear.

In addition, the inhibited protagonist is also called a genie since school times; From constant inversions, any normal person will spin the head.

"-Eh, listen, uh, dear ... genie, in short,-this is me.

The uncle examined the genie with interest from head to toe, then as if even inside - through his eyes - and skeptically remarked:

- You look like a person. Probably, during my lonely desperate imprisonment, the perfumes have been greatly coarse. "

The action is too sluggish. Events are too obscure. Jokes are usually not funny. Time flows too slowly, then - excessively fussily, to the tongue twister, to tongue -tied, to porridge in the mouth:

"The time of the world flickers measuredly with a sound so that the measure of time is impossible to touch, like himself."

In fact, people are unusual to love worthlessness, inferiority and chaos in the brains. May her former classmates and classmates be forgiven for the reviewer: if some generation is involved here, then perhaps a few tranospott generation of twenty-twenty-eight-year-olds. Who else looked at the holidays of the "guest from the future." Who even before stupefying finds out relationships with time, really not knowing how this can be done.

It is no coincidence that linguistic and algebraic carts about the “binary of all computer” , about the fact that the genie is the word, and the pearl from the eastern chest is the Russian language, and remain carts. But time is serious, it is blood. The author’s freemen, which the publisher did not stick into. The epilogue is entirely devoted to time. For insurance, everything, of course, is written off on the computer nonsense of old Khottabych, who did the translator, but these are trifles. Time is a topic. Even almost a thought: “Time cannot be accurate, because it changes all the time,” and Sergey Oblomov feels that with this thought, as well as with time, something is supposed to do something, but how exactly, what, what? Unless to repeat to infinity, to tautology: time, time, time, and watch how it passes. The book is built on stupefying repetitions: from alliterations to a short content of chapters. And time ruthlessly flows through the fingers. Here it is, the most significant bummer. The primary source of all the small brooms, which the author joyfully summarizes at the end of each head.

Very touching. Only a young hacker clearly interferes underfoot.