"Only the tongue remained"

Trouble. Natasha Isaeva was gone. There is no strength to say "died", the words do not add up.

“Serezhenka”, a few days before leaving, she wrote to me, congratulating her birthday, and then so many words of the magic ... at the very edge, at the terrible and beautiful haze of the abyss that flew into, living ... and otherwise she could not. On this region, giving all itself - with an inhuman courage and tenderness. And choosing himself in the same proximity to the edge-Arto, Kierkegaard, Kashmir Shivaism, Vasilieva ... And it burned on this region, especially in the last year, being a little longer on the other side, and I spoke about it, and my relatives probably saw it, and at the same time it was impossible to realize it-such a radiance came from it, and she did not be a little “not“ More precisely ... ”, because“ finishing ”for her has always been incomparably more important than“ survive ”.

She dodged from hospitals like from a faceless harness, all herself, alone, hoping for a patosm, that she would swim, breathe, somehow recover ... while continuing to feverishly repay debts-in a letter, voice, with all her heart. To whom? “We, much more proper to her.” She is ashamed, as she admitted the day before when she is sick, ugly and guilty around. It was guilty, as it seemed to her, for the incompleteness of dedication, joy and love, in the limit of which life was for her.

Possessing a fundamental academic education, she was recklessly directed in that fiery field of transgression, which she was so fond of talking on sofas, and she really lived in this fire and thereby had the right - burning. And she modestly signed where it was required - a historian of philosophy and religion. Although in reality it was not a “historian”, but a maximum practitioner, to break. And an outstanding indologist - in the same sense. Reasonable, passionate, suicidally generous. Without looking back at the reputational and other symbolic capital. And with the same measure of dedication, in recent years, it was not a theater expert, but the theater itself on the edge, beyond the edge ...

She was born in 1954 in Chisinau, graduated from the Faculty of Philosophy of Moscow State University and graduate school of the Institute of Oriental Studies of the Russian Academy of Sciences, defended her doctoral on the topic “From early Vedanta to Kashmir Shivasm”, worked as a leading researcher in the Old East in the Russian Academy of Sciences. In 2000, her husband, philosopher Sergei Isaev, rector of GITIS, earthly and heavenly love for which she carried through her whole life was killed. With him, she translated Kierkegaard and Antonen Arto - books that have become a precious event of the intellectual field of those years. Freely speaking several European languages, she will continue this work herself, having moved to Paris, until the last day, having transferred and commenting on almost the entire building of the work of Kierkegaard and Arto. At the same time, without leaving the indology, translating from Sanskrit, which she also owned, leading representatives of Hindu thought from the 5th century to Abkhinavagupta; She translates and comments on Shankara, writes about Buddhism. Along with this, Margerit Duras translated from the French play, from German-the books of the theater thinker Hans-Tis Leman ("Stextmatic Theater"). Since 2001, for twenty years, she has been cooperating with Anatoly Vasiliev, has been actively involved in all the significant events of the cultural field of Europe, writes a lot about the modern theater - in Russian, French and English, hundreds of its articles have been published, many of them are a phenomenon in modern European cultural studies. In different years, he works as a researcher in Oxford, teaches at the University of Paris, in Italy, in England. The title of cavalier of the Order of the Elegant Arts and Literature of the French Republic is awarded.

Marina Davydova writes Natasha’s memory in the magazine “Theater.”: “I'm afraid not everyone in our (theater) world understood the true scale of her personality. And Natasha’s personality was truly Renaissance. <...> The discussions about Advayta-Vedant were easily intertwined with discussions about the theater theory of Antonen Arto. She spoke in the modern theater those metaphysical depths that the creators of the theatrical worlds did not fully understand the fullest <...> her violent theater studies were equally unlike the superficial muttering of the theater of newspaper French reviewers, and the hypertensible approach of the mayors of European theater studies. ”

Her commented translations of one of the peaks of Hindu philosophy - Shankars, like the same great thinker - Abkhinavagupta - not even transfers and comments, but that degree of fundamental and at the same time lively, polemically hot involvement, when the conversation goes to face, over the barriers, here and now. Not to mention what a huge layer of Indian philosophy was first introduced and reflected in Russian culture. This has yet to be appreciated. Only to anyone and how - a difficult question, since it uniquely combined in itself the seemingly incompatible - real academicism and equally real freedom of view, obsession of feelings and the God of speech.

On a table by my bed, a new, a book of translated arts, read by a pinch before going to bed, has not had time to read it, tell her ... to tell her ...

In the picture, we are standing in the lobby of the Moscow Theater of Stanislavsky, where we arrived - she is from Paris, I am from Munich. I flew on purpose, at my own expense, to be near, to say about the important presentation of my film about the ancient Hindu mystery Tayyam . Who is capable of this, like that? A few. It is they who are the first to leave. Already the last.

I wrote to me how I was walking along the Paris streets and stopping, stinging, allegedly looking at the windows, so that passers-by did not pay attention: my heart jumps out, post-shaped ... Give me a little time, I wrote, I have been waiting for your “Smile of Shakti” and I already see how I will write, starting with the layers of the ocean with the myriad of the eyes of a light-dark eros ... but not mixing with each other with a friend a friend, and being in a single ...

Three days before her death, I congratulated me on my birthday with wonderful words under our photo. My dear, I answered her in the commentary, and we would stand nearby - eternal eyelids ...

Eternal eyelids are now orphan, such a hole is inconsolable, howling - in the rest of the rest. Do not even utter: bright memory ...

My dear, she writes recently, do not worry, please ... and finishes the letter: everything, I’ll go to do gymnastics, otherwise I’ll die suddenly.

Unbearable. All these days with Natasha’s departure. The native, it is impossible to real, which at the present time has almost no left. But besides human, only now every day is opened up that for me, as for many, it was obvious, just near us, we, as it often happens, is very underestimated: what kind of heavenly worker it was, how much it was done - in philosophy, and in indology, and in theater studies - hymalayas of research, translations, articles ...

I re -read our patchwork correspondence these days. They exchanged notes so often, with breaks, especially when he left for India, while in reserves, without communication. The beginning of the correspondence in 2014 , when they knitted on Facebook, and met a year later in Moscow in the Stanislavsky Theater at the presentation of my novel “Adam Bridge”, where she spoke, speaking of the novel. Three years later, in the same theater, before showing my film about the magic rite of Teyam, taking the microphone by the end of the presentation, she uttered the extraordinary, difficult and simply said about it, as she could - apparently, God passes her, passionate, smart and bravely defenseless angel, in the secret, where the entrance was opened by very few.

Probably not the time now to publish what will be below. I would not dare to do it when not two reasons. Even removing in the text a heightened personal one, which is not entitled to publish. But such a sudden departure is too unbearable and the desire to at least somehow extend her presence among us. Moreover, during her lifetime, she, especially in recent decades, modestly kept in the shadows - Vasilieva, who helped in every possible way (her book about him goes to UFO, but she did not wait), and in general - in the shadow of everything that was so obsessed with - art, culture, people. The second reason - unfortunately, I was much less active in correspondence with her (in speech, not in feelings), but this is now, partly justifying this publication, because it is not me first of all visible here, but she - such as we, close to her, remember her. The beginning of the correspondence is February 2014 , she is in Paris, I am in Munich, behind the scenes-Maidan, Crimea, and the connection is interrupted in January of this year, on the eve of her death.

N.: Sergey, you are in Kiev, right? How sorry that we are all so scattered! Of course, it would be better if I prefer poetry and real prose to read like this, in the old fashioned way). I am ashamed to burden you and create some difficulties. Are you not going to Moscow or the same Paris? For my part , I would very much like to convey to you my Kierkegaard. And this Indian book, which just came out, I would give it to you too. I need to figure out how best to do it. And thanks again! I am terribly flattered, of course, but besides this - just glad!

S.: And I'm very happy for you, Natasha! In Kyiv, I have not been living for a long time and rarely visit. Basically - in Munich, or in India, or in Crimea. Now I'm in Holland. When I will return to Munich, it will probably already be late to send you a book to Paris?

N .: In Munich, from Paris-no problems! Where are you usually in India?

S.: As a rule, away from tourist places. Jungle, reserves and villages in an unusual outback.

N.: I envy you! I have been before many times, but more and more in scientific need. Well, on the coast. It is almost impossible for a woman alone if far from the resulting paths. I would like - but in another life.

<...>

S.: Natasha, dear, is everything good for you? Drink a word, worried - what's wrong with you?

N.: Seryozha, my good. I am alive, but I just can’t get out of the peak. Here she entered the corkscrew, and then - how lucky. I already talked about myself, about my problems, but I can handle it. I watched Anhelik Liddell. This is the new director, the Spaniard, I look at the third performance: “You are my destiny” (“The abduction of Lucretia”), that is, “You are my fate”, but “narrowed” - precisely after violence - and until death, until love. Ah, what an Angelika! I sobbed, then laughed at the whole performance. And it was not only spectacular - very thinly done, surprisingly! By the way, in the continuation of my last torment - up to the smallest coincidences. You won’t believe it, but she herself calls Parajanov in the program (only here instead of a grenade is a grape brush that she presses on different rags) and- twice (!) -Arto ... All this is no coincidence-she very subtly caught this modern layout, a modern clash: a black passion that holds everything, which is alive (in contrast to Papier-Masheshniy Wilson and the right one and the right European education). Outside of justice, outside of rationality, outside ... What a pity that one of the Russians (Bogomolov or Vasiliev) did not put this performance. Bogomolov has the case when I choose the stunned Mitenka of all Karamazovs, although I repeat Ivan with my fate and with all the layout. And Vasiliev, who is all about the same thing: that only the rapist is ultimately loved to love. Only with him you will connect, you will go to get married with him and go into the ground. You know, Angelik introduced into the performance such a strange, transparent Russian-Ukrainian trio of singers with absolutely crystal voices and folk songs interspersed; It seems to me that she knew what she was doing, built so intentionally. And when I am talking about reflection (in order to somehow deal with these dirty, bloody and terrible roots), I mean such a study-not a philosophical theory, but something given in experience, through the current forms of art-so as not to get out and hide-but also get in my own experience, in experience-that is, clearly. This is precisely the history of the Russian rapist-zver in Ukraine. And the story of our kinship. In general: who does not jump is Moskal! I just jumped at the end, stood clapping my hands over my head. Just like on a rock concert (but the theater should be so for the audience-ideally). At the same time, almost a quarter of the hall left, and they began to leave 15 minutes after the start: this means that not from boredom, but out of protest. The French are shocked by vulgarity, and I, unrequited, just for this, Angelika cordially fell in love with a year ago when she staged a very risky performance about Brayvik - the eternal Peter Pan. I will break, but I take Vasilyeva to her - let him bit your nails! Maybe he will understand at least like this - from a loved one, from the same sores ...

S.: My God, I have not read it yet, but happy that you are here.

<...>

N.: I'm sorry that I am such a fool, I really stumbled.

S.: Natasha, dear, hooks, staggering and will stagger - on both sides. And those who stand firmly and right in this three times with a braid and three times a twisted world ... doubts cause doubts at least from the point of view of geometric logic. Give me time to deal with this.

N.: I know this in myself (not in idiotic, caricature, vile - but I know). If it’s quite simple - I was always with Dostoevsky, and not with Tolstoy. Otherwise, she would not have gone either to the shivaites, nor to Kierkegaer, nor to Arto. Otherwise, I would not have seen the same Vasiliev. But there is Russia as a regime, but there is a culture that I do not give a damn about culture, on the Russian word (and all Russian poetry - hence this, from this vent, which is eating). What a pity that you have not seen Anhelik with me! She is not afraid of anything. But he knows that you can only pay for this with death, and these games are all around death. It is here, in normal, regular Europe, no one understands and does not want to understand ...

S.: It seems to me that I am generally like on another planet - in recent years I see only trees and heaven. Natasha, dear, will still change and develop, do not rush to undermine yourself, even for such a high idea, you are not a shahid.

N.: Actually, Shahida. Yes, and it is not worth it (although somewhere remotely-it is very worth it).

S.: In general, the Last Judgment is transferred to the failure to appear of the defendants :) .

<...>

N.: Seryozha, everything turned out to be more complicated there than I immediately saw. That is, even more complicated. Yes, and worse. When you enter, you see at first a journey inside love. And it (journey) is a completely different map. Inside the voice and inside death. Since I myself was nearby, I wandered around it somewhere-at first I did not want to find out. I sent you to the mail. Look, maybe it’s not good at all ... I finished yesterday - and did not lie down at night, I re -read it. Because I only like to read such novels. I have nothing to do with fiction. I even abandoned this Donna Tartt, although she is very sweet in English . But now - it took ... only the tongue remained. Only where is the language.

This is part of the necessary school. Yes, "schools for fools." By the way, I consider Sasha Sokolov the best prose writer. But most of all I love "between the wolf and the dog." This is a prism, a lens that is set. Of course, the element of creativity is free and capricious, but Joyce did not begin to write so for no reason. And then, then, behind him, secreting. The look is formed - and then forms the world. Kashmirians really talk about projection (though not on gauze, but on a wicker rug). So we are building everything - as far as we can. And the prism, of course, is not so much for the eye as for the language. The tongue is filtered (or he filters us). Only this is interesting. Although I say after the Indians - speech. Since it is oral, pronounced, really alive. This, by the way, Western philosophers understand weaker. And for the Indians, again - the only way! The “well -made” Sanskrit is still oral Sanskrit. Everything was memorized by heart, like Bradbury's :) .

<...>

S.: Now I watched the film “Visitors” by Gottfried Rogzheo (if the surname did not bite). Have you seen? Very interesting. Without words, without a plot, people look at you from the screen for several minutes almost motionless. Black and white. The music of Philip Glass.

N.: I looked! Glass, of course, like all minimalists, through the Indian. Pure Indian range. Usually they say: meditative, which is completely incorrect, superficial, since passion, feeling spin on, at least the mood spin. My film is not at all meditative from the film, but, on the contrary, very disturbing. I understand that their view is on the screen, but I somehow feel uneasy. Very quiet, long, stretched end of the world. And Trixie, this gorilla, is the one who comes after us? She is not in parallel, along with others, she, rather, with abandoned buildings, dead lake, flock of gulls ... And where did we go? Only now-they looked, shouted ... Still, a living theater is better than the screen-it does not imply indispensable death.

S.: Yes, I have a feeling. But I would not derive from the presence of the gorilla of special symbolism, this is just another look of the creature close to us - both by origin, and by parallel existence, and according to the drama of the end. But in general -the deep sense of presence-both existential and meta-.

N.: Exactly so! This presence and look - to speech.

<...>

N.: Well, you praised me in the introductory, I just saw!

S.: What kind of praised - only an air kiss.

N.: Well, yes! So few people kiss me :) . But I wanted to say something quite simple, without going to the hill. About how important it was is important now. This is without any exaggeration - the real face of the generation. It is here! But it was too dissipated, it scattered. Not yours, not our fault. The fate is vile. Partly - like Russian literature in exile. But everything, even who remained, is in exile, in a foreign land. The rustling golden age ... Ah, what a country!

С.: Думаешь, можно было достичь большего, будь ситуация другой?

Н.: Художник не может сделать больше, чем он делает. Но обстоятельства не дали пройти кристаллизации. То есть помешали необходимой интенсивности, насыщенности обменов (с читателями, сочувствующими, с нами, просто книжниками и худо-бедно философами). Получилась половинная эмиграция, рассеяние. Прямо евреи получились из поэтов и интеллектуалов. Надо алию собирать :) . Это всё чекисты, подлый народ. Когда они убивали страну, рикошетом попало в культуру. Хотя та живучее, чем даже народ. Просто я помню свою очень раннюю юность — 9–10-й классы , первые курсы университета. Мне надо было больше! И я не ленива была, искала, повторяла, добывала, говорила. Но не было полной, нормальной, насыщенной среды — не для образования и культуры вообще, но для слов, для новых слов — потому что только слова создают мысль, а не наоборот. А эти слова уже кто-то проговаривал. Мне надо было стоять рядом. Как и другим. Должен был выпасть кристалл чистого такого соединения, чистого нового опыта, который бы все перевернул!

С.: Сложный вопрос. Фатальность в свершившемся не дает думать, как могло быть и было ли бы лучше, чище, выше. Например, у Платонова.

Н.: Да. Как Платонов. Выше которого нет — и который во многом был напрасен... Это вопрос не красоты слога. Это иная жизнь слова. This is very rare. Вообще, в истории культуры — точечно. Я поэтому еще так ненавижу гэбню. Потому что они нас лишили того, что Господь и природа подарили России. У них права не было...

<...>

С. : Наташа, я уже в Мюнхене, привез из Индии тонну отснятого материала, среди прочего — фантастическое, удалось снять магическую мистерию тейям в глубинке Кералы, материал уникальный и, похоже, по твоей теме.

Н.: Миленький, я вот только-только стала выздоравливать, у меня была тяжелая какая-то вирусная пневмония. Сейчас возвращаюсь к нормальной жизни.

Наконец посмотрела. Мне надо сообразить еще — слишком серьезный заход! Я тебя поздравляю и непременно как-то откликнусь в ближайшие день-два. Думаю о тебе часто и все время рассматриваю твои снимки из Индии.

С. : Все наладится, не волнуйся, помнишь: «не торопиться, нетерпенье — роскошь, я постепенно скорость разовью...» Я тебе рад очень. Все, не пиши сейчас, береги патроны.

Н.: Пересматриваю еще раз твой фильм. Так мелки слова, так недостаточны рассуждения! Ты великий, конечно, материал собрал (точнее, не собрал, а просто сам этот материал тебя нашел, на тебя вышел). И ты сам — из немногих, кто способен увидеть, кто способен... Не почувствовать даже — а в это войти, пережить в реальном опыте. Ночью еще подумаю, как мне лучше зайти со своими словами. Слишком сильное потрясение всякий раз — невольно отстраняешься, вздрагиваешь и сжимаешься вокруг чего-то, что уже в тебе...

С. : Понимаешь, я там многое хотел и мог бы сказать и с этой стороны большую недостачу чувствую, а с другой — было еще более настойчивое: помолчи, этот материал должен сам вступить в отношения со смотрящими, непосредственно, не через тебя. Да и, признаться, где его возьмешь — тот уровень не самонадеянности, не самозванства, когда говоришь об этом.

Н.: Да, останавливаешься в каком-то благоговейном ужасе, в растерянности перед чем-то, что заведомо больше тебя... С книгой все-таки другие отношения: как бы она ни была велика, войти всегда можно. Войти, прогуляться... Здесь не так.

С. : И так скудна информация о тейяме — на удивление, ее почти нет. Впрочем, обычное дело для Индии. Может, к осени в Москве показать в каких-то залах? Вот мне сегодня Лена Морозова, актриса, пишет, что в «Синефантоме» бы показать, она посодействует... Ну поглядим.

Н.: Непременно нужно делать! Все, что только возможно. Великие записи, великие просто. Тут вдруг оказываешься в присутствии живой энергии (а ведь можно было бы усомниться, есть ли она, существует ли). Истинно — в присутствии Бога живого.

С. : И сгорают они реально — я видел это — живьем сгорают. Не на публику.

Н.: Это неизбежно. Вообще, реальные вещи, реальные события — очень страшны. Кто не имел в опыте (хотя бы стояния рядом), тот не поймет.

С. : Невероятно, что они уцелели, пройдя сквозь четыре тысячелетия. И поразительна эта как бы двойственность, параллельность их существования во время ритуала: гомон публики, зрелище, мобильные телефоны, которые им тычут сторуко в лица, и полная их отрешенность от всего этого. Не отвечай, у тебя хватает дел сейчас, ты и так очень много сказала.

Н.: Так и бывает. И знаешь: вот это окружение профанного мира — это тоже какая-то важная внешняя оболочка, необходимая. Так еще виднее, что все эти разнообразные слои сущего (включая сюжет, костюмы, ритуализованные движения) нужны для того, чтобы создавать вместилище, логовище для огня внутри. И без них он бы не горел этим цветом, оставался бы невидимым, уже абсолютно невыразимым. Это кольцо зрителей (в том числе и непосвященных) — необходимая принадлежность, антураж, то есть именно «окружение», которое сохраняет и проявляет... Проявитель и фиксаж. Отсмотрю еще и сделаю что-то вроде статьи (и вовсе не только «от индологии»). В том-то и дело — по всем нашим жизненным линиям важным это проходит. В любом случае тут нужен довольно большой текст, я это уже вижу.

<...>

С. : Наташа, если это пневмония, они должны положить в больницу, во всяком случае — быстро это проверить.

Н.: Мне предлагали, но я психологически не выдерживаю. Когда совсем плохо, я просто прячусь.

С. : Надо. Через несколько дней можешь сбежать, подписав уход по собственному, но эти два-три дня важны.

Н.: Может, в пятницу пойду к врачу, не знаю еще... У меня уже давно что-то в легких застряло. Я в прошлом году перебегала пневмонию на ногах. Теперь расплачиваюсь.

С. : Не надо в пятницу, иди в больницу сейчас, не к врачу, а в больницу. Или скорую вызови, они проверят. Если у тебя есть страховка и ты можешь это делать.

Н.: Нет. I can't. Страховка есть. Но я не готова. Чисто морально — не могу совсем. Лягу спать...

С. : Не балуйся, мы все люди, даже я :) .

Н.: У меня еще месяц — посмотреть. Но я никогда не вылечивалась лечением, только морем. Я много плаваю. Не купаюсь, но километрами плаваю. Это должно постепенно помочь. Там, на Патмосе, 40 градусов, ветер и очень сухо. Иначе мне в этот следующий сезон просто не войти. На год меня точно не хватит. Только шампанского — и в устричный вагон :) .

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С. : Наташа, как ты? Мутные, муторные времена. Как-то бы нам продержаться... Я тебя очень люблю.

Н.: Сережа, я только вернулась — на этот раз с Крита, до мелких островов было уже не доплыть, зимняя мгла начинается. Васильев уже в Москве, Илья Хржановский нашел деньги на его часть в «Дау», даст бог, до весны-лета хватит, чтобы закончить фильм. Я в ужасном каком-то моральном состоянии. Очень похоже на реальную депрессию — тогда не знаю, как буду выбираться. Меня ужасно мучает совесть, что я не досмотрела твои фильмы, не начала о них писать, — но не хватает мне сейчас какого-то веселого сердца... Не могу собраться толком. Ни Васильеву не могу помочь, ни тебе сказать что-то путное. Прости меня, родной, давно я не была в таком беспомощном, мрачном состоянии. И эта череда смертей вокруг... я ведь их хорошо знала, это все моя прежняя жизнь. Закончился какой-то период безвозвратно... не знаю, что дальше будет. Не знаю, чего мне самой хотеть. Я очень к тебе привязана, очень тебя люблю, у меня почти никого, кроме тебя. Но я сама какая-то бесполезная, беспомощная, беспросветная, никчемная... Не знаю — как, не знаю — зачем...

С. : Наташа, как же мне помочь тебе? Я, признаться, и сам не в лучшем. Так что очень тебя понимаю, но надеюсь, что мы справимся и еще развиднеется. Худо, что мы, похоже, оба, будучи сильными и несколько самонадеянными в этом смысле, теребим эту льнущую мглу, за которой лишь тоненький вой божий. Но авось жизнь смилуется. Очень тебя прошу — не волнуйся, хотя бы об этих фильмах, это уж точно не стоит того. Очень хочу, чтобы у тебя все наладилось — и внутри, и вокруг. И у Васильева. Обнимаю тебя всей душой, будем живы!

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С. : Родная, где ты, волнуюсь.

Н.: Сережа, милый, я в Греции. Мы с Васильевым неделю работали в Дельфах по пятнадцать часов в день на международном стаже. А я поехала из Парижа совершенно больной, с неработающими сердцем и легкими :) . После ковида и двойной вакцинации… Отработали отлично, сели на кораблик и пошли на Патмос. И тут я на следующий день загремела в больницу — меня срочно отправили на катере на Лерос. Сегодня только выписали — я уже на Патмосе… Целую тебя, возвращаюсь к жизни!

С. : Как удивительно — только что писал тебе письмишко на почту, отправил, гляжу — а тут ты мне пишешь, одновременно! Возвращайся же и будь здоровенькой с каждым днем все светлей!

Наташа, что-то случилось? Я тебе и на почту писал... Пришли хоть одну букву — любую, просто чтобы знать, что ты здесь.