Lev Pirogov. The paper expires from 23.10. Abulia from Perfumer

The paper expires from 23.10. Abulia from Perfumer
Practical poetics of intertextuality

Lev Pirogov

Date of publication: October 23, 2000

A good year for reading
A good year to get off the scent.
B.B. Grebenshchikov

If on Saturday you don’t immediately get up from the couch, but lie, lie, lie and lie until the evening, then insight will definitely come.

But if after this you still get up (attention, here’s a mistake) and, limping, run to coffee, cigarettes and the soul-draining computer, then the epiphany will immediately end and your spine will ache instead.

Have you noticed that we have our 13th anniversary issue?

And rightly so.

Reading time

The term, as far as I remember in my clouded brain (I only sniffed it!) of alcohol drunk by Sasha Ivanov (the philosopher), belongs to him. The word “time” here is absolutely conditional; without compromising the meaning, you can say “reading space” - it will be the same thing.

Space - sofa, time - Saturday. Everything else (emptiness, eternity, the twentieth century) cannot exist on Saturdays. Letter machines are allowed to consume their own food once a week.

Moreover, it is quite scary to produce letters. Recently, my favorite (because everyone else is crap too) Radio MV (107.8 FM) started having a talkative presenter. At the same time, it turned out that being loved was not due to the fact that they play fusion music there all night long (very stupid music), but all day long you can hear John Lennon or David Bowie (stupid people with weak voices). The popularity came from the fact that there was little advertising and there were no damn talkative presenters.

The work of which, alas and ah, is akin to what I do - to produce dull shaking of the microphone membrane (in common parlance - “words”). I won’t say that Western philosophers are all wrong, but so far the connection of words with previous thoughts and subsequent things (invented, said, received a salary), firstly, is not obvious, and secondly, it serves as the cause of moral reflections and moral suffering of the hero.

Foggy by the alcohol consumed by Sasha Ivanov (who does produce material objects - books), my brain (mine) grasped this term (“reading time”) as a saving speck, which for a thinker of my caliber is like a log or a transatlantic ferry. “A critic should not tell what a book is written about,” Sasha expounded, and I nodded my head at him so that at times it fell to the floor and rolled under the feet of the waiters (who will understand what they are written about!). “A critic should talk about your condition while reading."

The condition is serious, as you will see below if you have nothing else to read today.

As is known, the “time of writing” was the saving place into which the deceased author escaped responsibility, shifting the blame for what he had done from his concrete historical shoulders onto the ephemeral and therefore indestructible head of the scriptor.

“Reading time,” thus, allows us to proclaim the “death of the reader” - albeit epigonic, but very beneficial for health.

The dead reader does not belong to intertextuality, yearning for an object. He does not need to hide his subject-object complexes under a phenomenological mattress (“if you are talking about a cocktail, then you are a phenomenologist”). The dead reader does not need to justify himself by “intention” and “point of speaking.” It does not produce systems of description of systems describing systems of description. He doesn't need an item.

He is to read.

Even if you and I are inclined to consider the reading product “also a text.”

Book for the day after tomorrow

And this weekend, as always, turned out to be busy. Firstly, I went to the station twice to see off Dr. Kolotaev, who is soon publishing a book at the Agraf publishing house. Secondly, I drank beer with Mitya Olshansky. Thirdly, I finally read Pat Suskind’s novel about the Perfumer, which is so popular with all the girls.

When he was born, at first he sniffed everything. And then he said the first word: “Fish.” When Sharikov was born in Bulgakov’s book “The Heart of a Dog,” he also first said “fish,” but in reverse.

The perfumer in the book about the Perfumer was cunning. “And Grenouille obediently lay down at the feet of his master, never making a single attempt to get up,” the author reports about him. Another thing is Sharikov from the book “Heart of a Dog”.

- Allow me, you bastard, I’ll lick your galoshes! - that’s roughly what he says.

(Here, please draw your own philosophical conclusion.)

The book about the Perfumer, which I have not read for so long and so talentedly, immediately reminds me of many things. Reminds me of my sociopathic friend (you read a story about him a week ago ), who loves the word “pisces” more than any other word.

Although fish, taken in their pure form (as waterfowl), are not very archetypal. Despite the fact that they have their own sign in the Zodiac - the number “sixty-nine”. They say it was invented by the Chinese. (Half is black, half is white. Like “fish” and “abyr” in the example we are considering.)

And there was another song like this, back in sixty (when I was born), nine years ago - “We share a crust of bread, and half that. Let someone be an avalanche and something be an avalanche; half for you and half for me!”

My grandmother and I loved to sing it in chorus.

“love came and went too quickly, explanatory credits rushed past the window, fellow travelers below drank cognac and he lay indifferently on his top shelf and tried to understand something, and then only for the sake of a catchphrase, but in fact he just lay there and that’s all

sniffed"

However, as soon as some artist inserts a fish into his still life (you can even use the form of a roach on the Pravda newspaper, like Oscar Rabin), the still life immediately acquires a clearly expressed philosophical meaning (here, please insert yourself which one).

We can say that the topic of sniffing arose by accident. Taken in a philosophical form, fish do not smell (and very much so). It’s just that when I wrote the previous (in the sense that it’s in italics) passage, my cynical co-author (and the novel “Mucius”, available to online readers in the form of a long, dreary story , was actually written exactly like a novel, co-authored with a sociopath) attributed the word “sniffed” ".

Having weighed the results obtained on the scales of my talent ( “I just lay there and that’s it,” “I just lay there and sniffed everything” ), I finally leaned towards the second, life-affirming (like a fish inserted into a still life) option.

The topic of sniffing turned out to be quite relevant. The editors of RJ, the same one that so paternally patiently cuts out your swear words from the guest book , dear readers, all week demanded from me the biography required by the staff to satisfy your, dear readers, morbid curiosity. Trying to degenerate it, I held out until Saturday, and Saturday, as it happened historically, is a day of rest for the Jews.

Am I a Jew, or so you hoped, who?

Biography

"and from the previous evidence about him, one should highlight the heart-shaped head that he acquired while depicting a bunny under the Christmas tree for the New Year, because an iron fell on him and since then, iron, his favorite word became, as soon as he wants to eat, he shouts: mom iron iron ! and mom cries in heaven he can’t give tits to his rosy-cheeked boy, so he lay there hungry and that’s all

sniffed

on this familiar morning: the boiling milk at the bottom of the saucepan, the smell of washed dishes, sausage, ice on the glass of the veranda, and even especially the washstand - the little muzi smelled everything and remembered everything, how he put it in a box"

The next word after “fish” that was spoken by the Perfumer turned out to be the word “firewood” - this fact is also deeply shocking, because the paths trampled after the shovel in the snow that had fallen overnight (“if it snows, we will only know about it in the morning”) they take their autobiography right to the woodpile, because in the morning they are supposed to light the stove.

The smell of a cold and dusty (from the summer) log seemed to me to be the most serious leitmotif of the text , but a search for the word “log” gave a completely different result than I expected: most of the logs turned out to be the names of the main character of the novel .

"Grenouille was sitting on the firewood, his legs stretched out and his back leaning against the wall of the barn, he closed his eyes and did not move. He saw nothing, heard nothing and did not feel anything. (...) A few days later he was completely out of his mind from intense olfactory impression and, when the memory flared up in him with renewed vigor, he muttered to himself, as if conjuring: “ Firewood, firewood .”

Nevertheless, the woodpile, entirely made of dusty and truly different-smelling fragments - whether from a cherry orchard, oak or wine barrels - it doesn’t matter, is a woodpile of bifurcation: traces of it stretch partly to the death of King Arthur, partly to ordinary cats:

“I decided to go up to Nathan, stick my nose into it and breathe bitterly, and Nathan breathed hotly, his nose is small with two holes in the middle, not warm but downright hot air comes out of them, and all of it calmly and comfortably smells of fleas, basement urine and something else indescribably beautiful, to the point of tears, the desire to hide between his skins and live there, because Nathan’s butt definitely smells like worms in the winter, that is, you can hear it vigorously and you can imagine all kinds of shit mixed in this subtle and whimsical aroma, let’s say rabbit pellets, sheep nuts, pig diarrhea, cow pellets and buns and Napoleon cakes vomited for the New Year 1971, let’s say, and it smells like hay from there, and snow and straw and French perfume, but in short, these merino dogs from there smell no less than albinos.”

Of course, albinos were inherited by Mucius the Perfumer from the medieval Albigensian heresy, which, according to rumors, permeates Bulgakov’s book (but a different one). Personally, discussions about the relationship between light, peace, good and evil have always left me indifferent, because what difference does it make what it looks like if it is much more important to establish what it smells like?

Ballad of the Death of King Arthur

and oblo and mischievous and easier to breathe
on the cloud obalenets in the land of lakes
aka astronauts or whatever you call them looking from apples
Arthur on apple pie frees himself from his shackles

it's good for him to see the truth in the woodpile
inhale the freshness of frogs and village barking
hear the creaks of the bed watch the kamarov
getting burned, drinking shit from the toilet and enjoying the sounds of balalai

There seems to be a deep philosophical analysis of this stunning text somewhere in here . Needless to say, on one of my visits to the station (to see off Dr. Kolotaev), the young man Obolenets (however, far from being a young man, but quite the father of his almost one-year-old daughter, degenerated by his wife Nadka) was me at this station (namely Paveletsky, where The Kutalovs, and Olshansky, and Sasha Shchipin live nearby, and whoever you want) is strictly met?

Thick strands of intertextuality are laid layer by layer on the head, exhausted by the complexities of the world, so that it does not finally crack or fall apart.

After all

loneliness is a ray of sunshine
who has no one to share with
how to share bread vodka canned beans
strong tobacco and a strong male palm of friendship
a strong word about a rumpled pillow
and Annushka’s breast resting on it
tart tears of fatherhood and motherhood
bitterness of loss vision of world problems
own comfort and iron
stupid state of the world that I found myself in
or the intelligent state of all things in the world
sad thought about the prospects of marriage
or the clever idea about the pillow above
last thousand last cigarette last inch last breath last sob on the already mentioned pillow
after the battle in the hands of your beloved - everything can be divided
and here is a ray, that one ray
no one will share with you
Perhaps this is loneliness in the highest sense
maybe this is despair
this is probably abulia

Of course, by “Annushka” we should understand the tram from the novel already mentioned above, although in the city where the events described above took place (and where the former youth Obolenets lives along with Doctor Kolotaev, the cat Nathan and even the cult network Yatsutko) trams do not run.

"Have you ever lived in a city where there is no tram?"

But there are trolleybuses. And on a piercing autumn day, when the sun is already like that, you know: it’s shining, but it’s not warming, and everything smells, smells like autumn, I came to work and there (there was a table at work) I saw a Bible lying on the table.

You won’t believe it, dear readers, but I stupidly sat down at this table and opened this Bible right at the Book of Ecclesiastes. Having read the text about Turn, turn, turn, a group known to you, since you have read this far, filled with some very autumnal wisdom, I did this.

Got up. He left the office and, in general, left work. I got on the trolleybus (the first one I came across). I reached the final stop. (The trolleybus stood up and began to stand, not intending to go anywhere further.) I got off the trolleybus and continued moving until I fell.

When I fell, there was a forest belt around me, with leaves falling from the branches below me, and this same undivided ray of sunlight hanging from above.

Now that the clock at the bottom right of the computer screen reads 6:24, I await his second coming with some fear.

I hope we didn’t quarrel - because, really, you were still interested?

Well, someone tell me that we can share the ray.