Alexander Ageev. Hunger 27

Hunger 27
Practical gastroenterology reading

Alexander Ageev

Publication date: April 17, 2001

The epic nature of my notes here (what I read is what I write about) from time to time comes into conflict with their publicity. Not everything I read can be said about something interesting for others, but an epic is an epic - it pulls the tongue, provokes chatter, and breaks through, for example, with a promise to say something about Solzhenitsyn, as in the last issue .

I am quite clearly aware that even in a purely journalistic manner I am failing in naming this name: most of my readers have long and forever decided in their attitude to both the art and the worldview of Alexander Isaevich, their ears wither and their attention turns off when they talk about it is heard or read.

Mentally looking around, you find yourself in a strong cage of liberal intellectual stereotypes, in a crowd of indifferent like-minded people. Which means, generally speaking, only one thing - I haven’t thought in that direction for a long time.

In the early 90s, when Solzhenitsyn’s journalism began to appear in the press, as if participating in the then tense ideological showdown between liberals and patriots, there was still a sense of danger (how could compatriots be seduced by the military-Orthodox utopia of the North-East), and I wrote two -three articles “against” Solzhenitsyn, quite stereotypical, as it seems to me now. Then it became clear little by little that in our God-saved fatherland no ideas are dangerous due to the lack of their visible influence on real life. Either the “ideas” have compromised themselves (not any specific ones, but in principle), or life has collapsed into such everyday lowlands that it has become more profitable to “think quickly and briefly” than to think long and slowly.

And Solzhenitsyn - this wild-flaming, pathetic anomaly - did not fit into such a life, even as its enemy and critic. They listened to his comments even without gloating, but as if with compassion: well, the man has become detached from reality, he has been a hermit in his Vermont for too long, and here we are, you know, living a stunningly varied life that has deeply plowed us. Let him continue to be a hermit, alone with his greatness, but we, vain ones, need to spin around in order to earn money for the kids every day.

Such, in a word, due to a historical misunderstanding, is a living national relic, the Trinity-Lykovsky elder, who is remembered when he refuses St. Andrew the First-Called, awards Valentin Rasputin with a prize or gives an audience to Putin.

Against this background, Solzhenitsyn’s not-so-long-ago “attack” on Brodsky was perceived as senile awkwardness, which it would be wise not to notice, which is what the majority did. And Natalya Ivanova’s lonely sharp rebuke was almost a sophisticated compliment to Alexander Isaevich - he was recognized as alive and sane, an argument with him was not considered a priori senseless.

All this is somehow sad, annoying and suggests some deep-seated ill health in our literary life. Fragmentation is fragmentation and pluralism is pluralism, but for some reason, with complete freedom, the feeling of crampedness, thinness and provincial poverty of events does not leave. Just re-read the prose of Leonid Dobychin - it evokes precisely this painful feeling: the flesh of life is all in emptiness and holes, from one bright spot to another - a huge expanse of littered wasteland, and these bright spots are like some sailor or a sticker on a bottle of cologne.

What does Solzhenitsyn have to do with it? And I don’t even know: some figure of absence, in a word, brought the thought of him here.

And here’s another thing: I read in the April “New World” “A grain fell…”, and there an image of a completely different life was created. A hermit is a hermit, but this life is jam-packed with events: someone slanders, someone sues, the press is angry, left-wing intellectuals despise. In short, tons of the most passionate, most fiery polemics in all directions of the world - life, struggle, youth. Although what a youth - the author is over sixty, he is burdened with “The Red Wheel” and a host of other worries. Here they say something like this: “In recent years I have become quiet - in inner peace, from the fulfillment of the main work, the blood becomes somehow not battle-like, my shoulders are tidied up - and this concoction does not grab my attention.” But then there are parentheses: “(But only the impudence of his lawsuit.)” And after a space - it started: “The tone of the book is such a vulgar swagger, as if a tavern footman had sat down as the main guest.”

This - beyond any assessment of the rightness or wrongness of Solzhenitsyn - one can’t help but envy. One feels ashamed of the stereotypical senile condescension with which many of us are accustomed to treating Solzhenitsyn.

And you think: what a contrast Solzhenitsyn’s present life must be to that recent time: no one slanders, no one sues, no one demands answers to any questions. Here you will not only receive Putin, you will be happy with Oleg Pavlov as if you were your own.

Anyway. While reading Solzhenitsyn, I remembered another book that everyone was discussing back in the winter - the correspondence between Dovlatov and Efimov published by Zakharov. I remembered it because of the intersection of some realities (Scammell’s book about Solzhenitsyn, Karl Proffer and his last anti-Solzhenitsyn article, etc.), but mainly because there are also all sorts of passions and horrors (especially in the accompanying “apparatus”, where the blanket is clearly pulled towards Efimov): a quarrel between two worthy people, one of whom died, and the other took it upon himself to make public the correspondence up to the last mutually insulting letters.

Then, I remember, I did not want to enter into a discussion, since the book did not so much outrage me as confuse me. And we are not talking about Efimov’s right to publish and comment (why not?). I felt embarrassed for another reason.

After all, if we perceive this book as an epistolary novel, and Dovlatov and Efimov - not as famous writers, but as ordinary literary heroes created by the imagination of a certain hypothetical author, then Dovlatov in the plot looks more humanly noble, larger, more charming. Meanwhile, the book was compiled by Efimov, a fairly experienced writer and publisher, who could not help but predict the inevitable effect of perception. In a word, some complex feeling of gratitude arises to Efimov: he could have hidden this plot - ethically and humanly it would have been safer. But he didn’t hide it.

I admit that I wanted to correct it after the fact, to place emphasis, to clarify, but I’m not a fool - the final product still turned out to be pro-Dovlatov. So I respect you.

Despite the fact that I suddenly received an unexpected blow from Igor Efimov.

Here’s the thing: in addition to “Hunger,” on Saturdays I write a column, “Nota bene,” in the newspaper “Vremya MN.” Well, let me tell you, this column also appears in the electronic version of Vremya: in some strange font, sometimes without paragraphs. There is no point in referring to old numbers: those who follow the link are usually answered with takogo nomera net. And then suddenly I went to the Moscow News website and, seeing the “ Observers Archive ” button on the main page, I clicked. And I found myself with my notes in a very decent graphic form - with a photograph, paragraphs and the native Times New Roman font.

I don’t even know how to feel about this: either to get excited about copyrights (I have only the connection with Moscow News that they are, purely technically, the publisher of Vremya MN), or to say thank you for the extra “circulation”.

And most importantly, each material is accompanied by an interactive with, as usual, stupid questions (“This material is a) good, b) bad, c) no”, etc.) plus “opinion”. But I don’t re-read myself, that is, I don’t get to the end of the file, so I discovered this interactive just yesterday. Well, “opinions” - as usual, if you rely on them, you either have to hang yourself right away, or, on the contrary, become proud forever. But among the ordinary ones I suddenly see:

Igor Efimov ( efimov@ieee.org ; 2.04.01). I think the review is “by default”: the material is “none” and the length is “just right” - the best characteristic of this cutesy verbal husk with a sticking out finger... I still don’t understand who he refers to himself as, this curly bearded one ( probably like a sophisticated ancient Greek" :o) "esthete" who "knows everything you need - that's for sure"? I wonder if he knows that the ancient Greeks not only depicted a curly beard as a small demon and depicted theatrical scenes... Or is this not included within the framework of protruding-fingered “refinement”?

Fortune telling from photographs is cool! Well, okay there, Slava Kuritsyn despises Bykova for her clothes (clothes can be changed). But what should I do with curly hair? However, maybe this is not the same Igor Efimov at all - you never know there are many of them in the world?

But if that one - wow, how I understand Dovlatov!

Or become proud about the “refined ancient Greek”?