Lev Pirogov. The paper expires from 11.10. We're surrounded

The paper expires from 11.10. We're surrounded


Lev Pirogov

Date of publication: October 11, 2000

Circle one

All of them have become somewhat cultured - they reproach me for the cult of vodka and alcoholic drinks. Have you ever tried to be left alone at half past three at night, with insomnia on your hands and without a single drink of alcohol? And no inspiration, just long-awaited emptiness between the lines?

Everyone is fine - there are many of them, and they are evil. And here - just this. You want to fall on your haunches, hug your knees, strain harder and either howl or crumble into pieces... Remember how in the book “Natasha Rostova”? With vertical take-off.

You just can't. I have agoraphobia. Especially at night. Under the blanket sometime or on the balcony, if there is harm to your health, you go out there to smoke. No, well, you have to attach yourself ontologically somehow... You take out a cigarette, watch how it burns, and as if you exist, but it burns, and as if you don’t exist.

Here... In smoking there is always this interruption of rhythm. When, after the third or fourth puff, like Mandelstam, the most perfect Zen Buddhism creeps into your head and you no longer correspond to the arrangement of letters on the keyboard. So it turns out that drinking is healthier - but it’s not, and guess what, you want to read a review... So, instead of swearing, you’d better chip in half a buck for the old man.

The inner circle

They report that Kuritsyn, a hypocrite and envious person, is being teased by an online hooligan . He thinks I’ll chew crackers for him when he’s old. Oh well.

I will not say , the light of my eyes, composed a weeping Ballad about bloody bonds. I highly recommend: here first, and then be sure to look here - the continuation. Anyone who doesn’t come and watch is no longer my friend.

Slava Nemirov - the main Russian poet now, to be honest - wrote relevant poems about Yugoslavia . I also recommend it, although with caution: for some reason they didn’t fall for the RJ administration at all...

Circle spectral

Which unobtrusively includes the main task - to review the literary press. Really, you feel like Christ on Bald Mountain, albeit immodestly, from this literary press. They will write something like this, even if you don’t read it. The old guys have forgotten how to conduct the literary process.

And the youngsters indulge them there too. Kir Kutalov wrote about this to himself in the past . Just baby talk, no revolution, no throwing a bomb. Or is it depression from my sobriety?

In short, I’m reluctantly writing about the literary press.

Firstly, of course, the only one to date, the most significant Literary Newspaper, came out. There are no links, so sorry. But there is hope that they will finally appear by the end of the week.

Alla Latynina wrote very nicely and mazterzki (about the tenth line it suddenly comes) about the Booker Prize in the light of the scantily clad chicks surrounding her. In the “Own Six” section (where we initially intended that Sergei Bubka would host it).

Pavel Basinsky wrote about the book “The Socialist Realist Canon” , which I myself had been sharpening my teeth on for a long time - lucky guy!.. And he called it something like: “Meresyev ate a hedgehog.” I also recently described this story (how I devoured it) - since then it has become our corporate feature. From Pavel’s most interesting article, if you urgently buy a newspaper at a kiosk, you will learn that Meresyev ate not only a hedgehog, but also a partisan chicken. From this, unrest and hunger began behind enemy lines. But Meresyev crawled and ate everything on his way. Jokes aside, this is a terrible story, and what we were only taught in schools!..

Masha Galina (if anyone says anything, I’ll kill you: my only niece) very talentedly, pitifully, in such an Odessa discourse (I beg you to put the emphasis correctly) spoke about the Academicians’ party a la Apollon Grigoriev, with which we are already familiar . But the readers don’t know!.. Masha wrote to them.

Sasha Shchipin - a wonderful person (and this is how it happened historically: other newspapers are always full of all sorts of manure, but we don’t have any) - expressed a deep thought about a comparative analysis of Pushkin and Zemfira. (There is such a singer.) And I answered him. Sasha and I are Kents, so we thought about it. Zakharov and Kuvshinov got it again ...

Eh, it's difficult.

Literature is over. We need to move on. In the Book Wagon, first of all, read about Vitya Erofeev’s new book. Vitya no longer writes books himself (bow to him for that), he is now a cultural organizer. Like an aging prima donna who surrounds herself with a lusty corps de ballet to disguise herself.

Unfortunately, in KO, instead of the corps de ballet, we got the bony wobbles of Vitya himself. He writes, as always, terribly, you can’t get through it, like a college student writing in an album. A man of amazing destiny.

You can also read a long online interview with Viktyuk in the Book Wagon, but I don’t know why. However, Sasha Gavrilov and I are preparing one solid Bomb on the soil of Oboz, so I’ll probably save my strength and won’t survey Oboz anymore today. Obnoxious, sort of.

This is it. Next we have the newspaper “Vremya MN”, in which a long, loose interview with Grisha Chkhartishvili presents him as a kind of superman, which is deeply correct. From this interview, for example, I learned for the first time (Grisha, which is correct, he has become secretive - he does not call) that Chkhartishvili no longer carries the magazine “Foreign Literature” around his neck.

He recently retired from there. It is easy to calculate that of those who remained, there is no one to carry this stronghold of intelligent thought. May they forgive you. I don’t know what will happen to Inostranka now. Should I go rummage through the pockets of my winter coat?..

Lifebuoy

Found!!! Found!!!

You won't believe it - I found it in my pockets!..

And already. And everything is fine. And the literature is filled with meaning, and what places are needed - what is needed, it’s just a pity that the review is almost finished. But it’s still good. Crickets - where do crickets come from in Moscow at five o'clock in the morning? - they accompanied me all the way to “24” and back. And October doesn’t take them.

The summer ended somehow stupidly, and we still haven’t decided whether we’re happy. Although, is it really bad to walk with a crunch from the schoolyard to the locksmith shop, dragging the tip in your foot and seeing a little sun in a puddle of gasoline? And sleep in reality, scratching behind your ears, and trumpeting the corpse: doo-doo-doo, my cows and horses?

But, doo-doo, is it bad that there was so much red in the orange peels, doo, and the sun shone in the sky like a black eye, and there were so many stars in the well, when, having become so dark under it that there were circles in front of your eyes, you turn a bucket of cold water over your ears , imagining yourself as a sea wolf, fanned by a fan of salty spray?..

At these moments, a muscular hand clutching a tarred rope seems like just a good step for a rapid takeoff along the cables of the unopened envelope of life. Dick Sand, the fifteen-year-old captain, the blacks Bud and Austin, plus the good-natured giant Hercules, salt and pepper to taste, on your skirt, in the men's toilet - this is life, this is happiness, this is love, and only one thing is bad about it: that you are always thirsty and there are mosquitoes that bite at night - oh, the summer is red, but there is something to remember, but what to remember in winter, nurtured by nine television programs? Even reviews, roughly speaking, are nothing to write about.

Hermeneutic circle

Why is such an incorrect, of course, train of thought formed? Because we don't trust each other. The reader thinks that Lev Pirogov, the Russian writer, is lying to him like a kid. It’s as if he’s not wallowing in a ditch with half a liter in his belly. In the silence of his office, they say, he composes his slander. Where is Moliere's face and Flaubert's hair. Eh, you-and-and...

Well, I’m good at myself too. I also don’t trust my Russian reader. I think my reader is a Neanderthal fool. Only about the liter is interesting to him, but about beer or even half a liter - God forbid.

No, well, not at all, of course, I’m not lying, but I’m embarrassed to tell the whole truth. (Do you feel like there’s already a philosophical discourse going on? We have a philosophical discourse in every issue, because the format is like that. Just put the emphasis correctly.)

I’ll quote you my favorite from Real Prose in a moment. What turned my guts so much in the evening. Which, in general, I was trying to mysteriously observe all night. But I couldn’t and I can’t do it no matter what. Because the Real is...

And let (and I don’t care) this be my Main Message. Anyway, the review failed due to agoraphobia.

“Sometimes, when you’re thinking about your (the main thing!), you say out loud: “I wish there was some alcohol...”, when suddenly a dark-skinned boy rises out of the ground and - as if continuing your internal conversation - just as thoughtfully drawls out: “in Do you prefer bottled or bottled?"

Taken aback by such a turn, you perk up and, nodding with your whole body, sob: “Bottle, bottle!” And you will immediately receive a 0.33 bottle, where it is written in Latin: Spirtu. However, the turnover there will be only 5%, and the wonderful liquid itself will turn out to be local beer with a myrtle taste and smell...

And you already feel good, you are trembling with tropical fever, and your body, fried by the sun and salted in turquoise waters, enjoys cold Spirtu even more than stupid, nostalgic alcohol. In addition, epic voodoo sex will be described as - just - sex at a distance... Oh, well - at least this... Under the fluttering of palm branches, which play with the wild monsoon or the humid breeze, which pleasantly manages to cool your inflamed skin, you will think and you will say again, but with knowledge of the matter: “Give me Spirtu.” And they will give it again..."

Ask: who is the Source?

And I blow for you.