Lonely tree - Misha

Zhvanetsky left. Yuri Growth - About Friend

He lived a painfully joyful life.

He wandered among us, constantly different. I wanted to join the successful ones: to brothers on the pen, on stage, in life, trying to make sure that he is the first in his business. I worried, nervous, hurt.

He enjoyed his gift and hesitated him.

He called himself the “author” so that the self -sufficient writer of the elite would not determine him for an hour in a literary amphitheater instead of a literary stall, which he felt, worthy.

Bodryl and joked with careful eyes, waiting for an assessment. He could be rejoiced and for a long time to get bored in response to a friendly, and maybe delighted remark of the unconditional writer: “You, Misha, are genre!”

So, they did not accept in their own, excluded, determined another variety - outside the attractive series.

Yes, you, Misha, are really outside the series.

Those who, without reading, willingly accepts your self -denial - “author” - are sometimes made and not bad, but from another material. Not scarce.

You are not even a stranger to them. You are standing outside the current ranking, and therefore colleagues cannot determine you a place among yourself. You are different.

Each time, Misha, costs - with an abundance of good poets, prose writers and playwrights - just one writer endowed with the gift of ironic, satirical and paradoxical, and therefore truthful understanding of people and morals.

You are in this row.

Gogol had his own time. Saltykov-Shchedrin-his own. Zoshchenko has his own. You have ours.

You are greedy, Misha. You are not enough provincial cities where your playful tenok was bored of all windows, then. And millions of spectators and listeners with enthusiasm and alert observing the public, instant birth of a word now.

Did you want the heroes to whom you determine the exact place and an unmistakable direction, where would they move from us, applauded to you and showered with thanks? If this happened and they did not recognize yourself - you would be inaccurate. And you were accurate perfectly

You lived as used to it - tormented.

I open your books not to hear you, but to see myself. You know a lot about us.

Importably a lot. Unprofitable. With your texts, life does not get better. Without them - worse.

Forgive us.

We need you as a living landmark, as a narrow path of a firm in a firebox, like a lonely tree. Sometimes in color.