Adelaide Metelkin. Florence,

Porchl of Buker blitzkrings on the front subordinate to me - a ball of a rolling ball, just in the September forest, which underwent the invasion of mushroom pickers. The divorced buttons , the raped Underwoods and the crushed drawers for written belongings are scattered. He writes , agonized , flattened by a boot of Valui. Susyato licks in a cheese ravine, a sucked by other people's juices and hyperlinks of a false shoulder .

And with edible mushrooms - interruptions. Only the phlegmatic boletus Yuri Arpishkin ("Time Mn") rolls on the compilers of the dictionary "Russian writers of the 20th century" another barrel of honestly earned edification. Yes, a brood of strong stolen boats - a block of reviews in the magazine "Poster" stooped overnight in the middle of the path.

If the totality of texts knew how to sleep and eat, yearn and dream, mad and despair, I would certainly have fallen in love with a myriad of a computer set named Lev Danilkin. It would be a tragic, unrequited passion. Firstly, the age distance. Secondly - geographical. Now I will return to today's Afisha and I will explain everything about "secondly."

This time we have a reference Danilkin , Danilkin on his Best. Among the five books selected and approved by him are not a single domestic origin. The “Cosmos” of Vitold Gombrovich , the “last orders” of Graham Swift , the “poor-nasads” of Alasdera Gray , “Dr. Di Di” House Peter Akraida . And - Last but by no Means Least - "Hannibal" by Thomas Harris , "Great Roman, Best Book of the trilogy" About the Luda Lecter.

And in my opinion, Leva, this novel is shit. (Will you allow you to call you left? You will not consider familiarity? I’m scared to pronounce, I’m almost in your mother.) “Red Dragon” and especially “Silence of the lambs” are really magnificent: multi -layer, ambiguous books, in which the “unrealized remnants of humanity” were breathing through the reinforcement of the detective plot, which is so much about so much. Bakhtin’s respected Bakhtin is unlikely. "Hannibal" - hopelessly two -dimensional; Instead of Saspensa - a wretched Freudian frame; It turns out that the boy lecturer was eaten by an adored sister, and the girl Starling was eager to sleep with her own dads; From here, the legs of all Hannibal and clarissic problems grew. And now, after many years and liters of venous blood, they merge in psychotherapeutic ecstasy. Click! Related pieces of puzzle after long adventures found each other. The rib of a dinosaur returned to the father’s joint.

I noticed: you, Leva, are pleasure from reading only when you hear such dry clicks in the text. And vice versa: you are not on the gut of a "wet" art like "dancing in the dark", saturated with nervousness and depression; More precisely, soaked in that it seems to you nervousness and depression. The work of art should be stylish, comfortable, irrelevant, like a sweater from the NAF -Naf store, you think. And therefore, from the three novels of Harris, you choose the last, not disturbing your soul with complex questions; Of the three collections of the novels of Roalda Dahl, it is not the first with his irrational insights, but the second with his moraine impeccable forms.

I suspect that you condemn the journalist Valery Panyushkin precisely for the "humidity", for the slobber -loving self -love a la remark and Hemingway. So what will I tell you. Before becoming a fashion reporter, Panyushkin studied something in Florence for a long time. And he published in one of the Mostovschikov’s “capitals” memoir material about this stage of his big way. There was no mention in that material, only dry registers of products, goods, educational services and prices for all this good. That's the Point, Leva, That's The Point.

Half of the action of the Roman "Hannibal" takes place in Florence. And Harris writes about this city exactly like Panyushkin: fresh, superficially, from the point of view of a prosperous nearby tourist. From the point of view of the consumer . As if it is not about the greatest treasury of arts, but about the entertainment complex. Look right, look left. Here we have a vegetable market to delight the stomach, and here is the tomb of Santa -crochet for photographic souvenirs.

You already feel what I am glooming about, Leva, but you are not completely feeling. Let me remind you of another book that you exalted to heaven : about V. Thomas Pinchon. There is also a Florentine fragment. Absolutely, I will report to you, ridiculous. For example, the old year old man rents an apartment on the "eighth floor of the house number 5 on Piazza-Dladla-Signoria" , and the staircase- "dark, dirty and stinks of a fried octopus." Where would I come from an eight -story building house in Florence of 1899, and even on Signoria Square - to the Holy of Holy, in the administrative heart of the city? The Godolphin Sr. meets Victoria Ren in the Gothic Church, which in Florence you will not find with fire. Standing opposite the "birth of Venus" in Uffizi, GUCHENO turns and "notices four policemen heading for him in a gallery." Meanwhile, neither from the "Hall of Lorenzo Monaco" , nor from any other Uffitian hall the gallery is simply not visible.

Hunt. V., Leva, is an unsuccessful novel. Failure. Of course, not because he is replete with actual blunders. And because he was composed by a young and talented person who firmly believed: all the earthly cities, all the fate of living and living, can be led to a single denominator. Lay out on the shelves of solid dandy hypothesis, like a sweater in a closet. And the pinchon laid them out. The cabinet, that is, the novel, was attached for a long time, but collapsed to the finale. He choked with moisture , inappropriately released from sweaters.

Now you understand me to the end, Leva. Literature is not a paid boutique. Literature is Florence, a mirage in reality, the city is stranger than paradise, endlessly, infinitely beautiful, not taking into account anyone of everyday needs. The city in which you still have not visited. The trouble is correctable: a) the boundaries are open and b) you are not Panyushkin. So what is the time for you to buy a ticket?