A thin old man with spiky stubble was sitting in a corner of the station cafeteria in Maiori. Winter squalls swept in whistling bands over the Gulf of Riga. The coast was covered with thick ice. Through the snowy smoke one could hear the roar of the surf as it crashed against the solid rim of ice.

The old man went into the buffet, apparently to warm himself. He ordered nothing and sat dejectedly on a wooden sofa, his hands thrust into the sleeves of his clumsily patched fishing jacket.

Along with the old man came a white furry dog. She sat pressed against his leg and trembled.

Nearby at a table, young men with tight, red heads were noisily drinking beer. The snow melted on their hats. Melt water dripped into glasses of beer and on sandwiches with smoked sausage. But the young people were arguing about the football match and did not pay attention to it.

When one of the young people took a sandwich and bit off half at once, the dog could not stand it. She went to the table, stood on her hind legs and, fawning, began to look into the young man's mouth.

Petit! the old man called softly. - Shame on you! Why are you bothering people, Petit?

But Petya continued to stand, and only her front paws trembled all the time and drooped from fatigue. When they touched the wet belly, the dog caught himself and picked them up again.

But the young people did not notice her. They were engrossed in conversation and kept pouring cold beer into their glasses.

Snow covered the windows, and a shiver ran down my spine at the sight of people drinking completely ice-cold beer in such a cold.

Petit! the old man called again. - And Petit! Get up here!

The dog quickly wagged its tail several times, as if letting the old man know that she heard him and apologized, but she couldn’t help herself. She did not look at the old man, and even looked away in a completely different direction. She seemed to say: "I myself know that this is not good. But you can't buy me such a sandwich."

Oh, Petit, Petit! - the old man said in a whisper, and his voice trembled a little from chagrin.

Petit wagged her tail again and casually, pleadingly looked at the old man. It was as if she asked him not to call her again and not to shame her, because she herself was not well in her soul and, if not for the extreme, she would never, of course, begin to ask from strangers.

Finally, one of the young men, with high cheekbones and a green hat, noticed the dog.

Are you asking, bitch? - he asked. - Where is your master?

Petya wagged her tail happily, glanced at the old man, and even squealed a little.

What are you, citizen? - said the young man. - If you keep a dog, that's how you should feed it. And that turns out to be uncivilized. Your dog is begging for alms. Begging is prohibited by law.

The young people laughed.

Well, soak it, Valka! one of them shouted and threw a piece of sausage to the dog.

Pete, don't you dare! shouted the old man. His weather-beaten face and lean, sinewy neck turned red.

The dog shrunk and, lowering its tail, approached the old man without even looking at the sausage.

Don't you dare take a crumb from them! - said the old man.

He began frantically rummaging through his pockets, took out some silver and copper change and began to count it in his palm, blowing off the debris stuck to the coins. His fingers trembled.

He's still offended," said the high-cheeked young man. - What an independent, please tell me!

Oh, drop him! Why did he give up on you? - conciliatory said one of the young people, pouring beer for everyone.

The old man didn't answer. He walked over to the counter and placed a handful of change on the wet counter.

One sandwich! he said hoarsely. The dog stood next to him, tail between his legs. The saleswoman served the old man two sandwiches on a plate.

One! - said the old man.

Take it! - quietly said the saleswoman. I won't break on you...

Paldies! - said the old man. - Thanks!

He took the sandwiches and went out to the platform. There was no one there. One squall passed, the second approached, but was still far on the horizon. Even the weak sunlight fell on the white forests beyond the Lielupa River.

The old man sat down on a bench, gave one sandwich to Petya, and wrapped the other in a gray handkerchief and hid it in his pocket.

The dog ate convulsively, and the old man, looking at her, said:

Oh, Petit, Petit! Silly dog!

But the dog didn't listen to him. She ate. The old man looked at her and wiped his eyes with his sleeve - they were watering from the wind.

That, in fact, is the whole little story that happened at the Majori station on the Riga seaside.

A thin old man with stubble on his face was sitting in a corner of the station canteen in
Majori. Winter squalls swept in whistling bands over the Gulf of Riga. The coast was covered with thick ice. Through the snowy smoke one could hear the rumble
surf, flying on a strong ice edge.
The old man went into the buffet, apparently to warm himself. He didn't order anything.
sat dejectedly on a wooden sofa, thrusting his hands into the sleeves of a clumsily patched
fishing jacket.
Along with the old man came a white furry dog. She sat cuddled
to his leg, and trembled.
Near the table, young people with tight, red eyes were noisily drinking beer.
back of the head. The snow melted on their hats. Melt water dripped into glasses with beer and
on sandwiches with smoked sausage. But young people were arguing about football
match and ignored it.
When one of the young people took a sandwich and bit off half at once,
the dog couldn't resist. She went to the table, stood on her hind legs and,
fawning, began to look into the young man's mouth.
- Petit! the old man called softly. - Shame on you! Why are you
bothering people, Petit?
But Petya continued to stand, and only her front paws trembled all the time.
and collapsed from fatigue. When they touched the wet belly, doggy
caught herself and picked them up again.
But the young people did not notice her. They were engrossed in conversation and now and then
poured cold beer into their glasses.
Snow covered the windows, and shivers ran down my spine at the sight of people drinking in
such a cold completely ice-cold beer.
- Petit! the old man called again. - And Petit! Get up here!
The dog quickly waggled its tail several times, as if making it clear
to the old man that she hears him and apologizes, but she can’t help herself
maybe. She did not look at the old man and even looked away into a completely different
side. She seemed to say: “I myself know that this is not good. But you don't
you can buy me a sandwich like this.”
- Oh, Petit, Petit! - the old man said in a whisper, and his voice trembled a little from
grief.
Petit wagged her tail again and casually, pleadingly looked at the old man.
She seemed to be asking him not to call her anymore and not to shame her, because she
herself is not well in her soul, and she, if not for the extreme, would never, of course,
began to ask strangers.
At last one of the young men, with high cheekbones, in a green hat, noticed
dog.
- Are you asking, bitch? - he asked. - Where is your master?
Petya wagged her tail happily, glanced at the old man, and even
screeched.
- What are you, citizen! - said the young man. - Raz dog
hold, so must be fed. And that turns out to be uncivilized. Do you have a dog
begging for alms. Begging is prohibited by law.
The young people laughed.
- Well, soaked it, Valka! - shouted one of them and threw a piece of
sausages.
- Petit, don't you dare! shouted the old man. Weathered his face and skinny, sinewy
neck blushed.
The dog shrunk and, lowering its tail, went up to the old man, not even looking at
sausage.
Don't you dare take a crumb from them! - said the old man.
He began frantically rummaging in his pockets, took out some silver and copper
little things and began to count them on the palm of his hand, blowing off the debris stuck to
coins. His fingers trembled.
- Still offended! said the big-cheeked young man. - What an independent, please tell me!
- Oh, drop him! Why did he give up on you? one of them said conciliatoryly.
young people pouring beer for everyone.
The old man didn't answer. He went to the counter and put down a handful of small
money on a wet counter.
- One sandwich! he said hoarsely. The dog was standing next to him,
tail. The saleswoman served the old man two sandwiches on a plate.
- One! - said the old man.
- Take it! - quietly said the saleswoman. I won't break on you...
- Paldies! - said the old man. - Thanks!
He took the sandwiches and went out to the platform. There was no one there. One flurry
passed, the second approached, but was still far on the horizon. Even the weak
sunlight fell on the white forests beyond the river Lielupa.
The old man sat down on a bench, gave one sandwich to Petya, and wrapped the other in
gray handkerchief and put it in his pocket.
The dog ate convulsively, and the old man, looking at her, said:
- Oh, Petit, Petit! Silly dog!
But the dog didn't listen to him. She ate. The old man looked at her and wiped
sleeve of his eye - they were watering from the wind.

OLD MAN IN THE STATION BUFFET

A thin old man with spiky stubble was sitting in a corner of the station cafeteria in Maiori. Winter squalls swept in whistling bands over the Gulf of Riga. The coast was covered with thick ice. Through the snowy smoke one could hear the roar of the surf as it crashed against the solid rim of ice.

The old man went into the buffet, apparently to warm himself. He ordered nothing and sat dejectedly on a wooden sofa, his hands thrust into the sleeves of his clumsily patched fishing jacket.

Along with the old man came a white furry dog. She sat pressed against his leg and trembled.

Nearby at a table, young men with tight, red heads were noisily drinking beer. The snow melted on their hats. Melt water dripped into glasses of beer and on sandwiches with smoked sausage. But the young people were arguing about the football match and did not pay attention to it.

When one of the young people took a sandwich and bit off half at once, the dog could not stand it. She went to the table, stood on her hind legs and, fawning, began to look into the young man's mouth.

- Petit! the old man called softly. - Shame on you! Why are you bothering people, Petit?

But Petya continued to stand, and only her front paws trembled all the time and drooped from fatigue. When they touched the wet belly, the dog caught himself and picked them up again.

But the young people did not notice her. They were engrossed in conversation and kept pouring cold beer into their glasses.

Snow covered the windows, and a shiver ran down my spine at the sight of people drinking completely ice-cold beer in such a cold.

- Petit! the old man called again. - And Pete! Get up here!

The dog quickly wagged its tail several times, as if letting the old man know that she heard him and apologized, but she couldn’t help herself. She did not look at the old man, and even looked away in a completely different direction. She seemed to say: “I myself know that this is not good. But you can't buy me a sandwich like that."

- Oh, Petit, Petit! - the old man said in a whisper, and his voice trembled a little from chagrin.

Petit wagged her tail again and casually, pleadingly looked at the old man. It was as if she asked him not to call her again and not to shame her, because she herself was not well in her soul and, if not for the extreme, she would never, of course, begin to ask from strangers.

Finally, one of the young men, with high cheekbones and a green hat, noticed the dog.

- Are you asking, bitch? - he asked. - Where is your master?

Petya wagged her tail happily, glanced at the old man, and even squealed a little.

- What are you, citizen! said the young man. - If you keep a dog, that's how you should feed it. And that turns out to be uncivilized. Your dog is begging for alms. Begging is prohibited by law.

The young people laughed.

- Well, soaked it, Valka! one of them shouted and threw a piece of sausage to the dog.

- Petit, don't you dare! shouted the old man. His weather-beaten face and lean, sinewy neck turned red.

The dog shrunk and, lowering its tail, approached the old man without even looking at the sausage.

“Don’t you dare take a crumb from them!” said the old man.

He began frantically rummaging through his pockets, took out some silver and copper change and began to count it in his palm, blowing off the debris stuck to the coins. His fingers trembled.

- Still offended! - said a young man with high cheekbones. - What an independent, please tell me!

- Oh, drop him! Why did he give up on you? - conciliatory said one of the young people, pouring beer for everyone.

The old man didn't answer. He walked over to the counter and placed a handful of change on the wet counter.

- One sandwich! he said hoarsely. The dog stood next to him, tail between his legs. The saleswoman served the old man two sandwiches on a plate.

- One! said the old man.

- Take it! the saleswoman said quietly. “I won’t break on you…

- P?ldies! said the old man. - Thanks!

He took the sandwiches and went out to the platform. There was no one there. One squall passed, the second approached, but was still far on the horizon. Even the weak sunlight fell on the white forests beyond the Lielupa River.

The old man sat down on a bench, gave one sandwich to Petya, and wrapped the other in a gray handkerchief and hid it in his pocket.

The dog ate convulsively, and the old man, looking at her, said:

- Oh, Petit, Petit! Silly dog!

But the dog didn't listen to him. She ate. The old man looked at her and wiped his eyes with his sleeve - they were watering from the wind.

That, in fact, is the whole little story that happened at the Majori station on the Riga seaside.

Why did I tell her?

When I started writing it, I thought about something completely different. Strange as it may seem, I thought about the meaning of details in prose, remembered this story and decided that if it is described without one main detail - without the dog apologizing to the owner with all its appearance, without this gesture of a small dog, then this story becomes rougher than it actually was.

And if you throw out other details - a clumsily patched jacket, indicating widowhood or loneliness, drops of melt water falling from the hats of young people, ice-cold beer, small money with rubbish stuck to them from your pocket, and, finally, even squalls that swooped in from the sea white walls, then the story from this would become much drier and bloodless.

In recent years, details have begun to disappear from our fiction, especially in the things of young writers.

A thing does not live without details. Any story turns into that dry stick of smoked whitefish that Chekhov mentioned. There is no whitefish itself, but one skinny sliver sticks out.

The meaning of the detail lies in the fact that, according to Pushkin, a trifle that escapes the eye would flash large, into the eyes of everyone.

On the other hand, there are writers who suffer from tedious and boring powers of observation. They overwhelm their writings with heaps of details - without selection, without understanding that a detail has the right to live and is necessary only if it is characteristic, if it can immediately, like a ray of light, pull any person or any phenomenon out of the darkness.

For example, to give an idea of ​​the beginning of a major rain, it is enough to write that its first drops clicked loudly on a newspaper lying on the ground under the window.

Or, to give a terrible sensation of the death of a baby, it is enough to say about it as Alexei Tolstoy said in "Walking Through the Torments":

“The exhausted Dasha fell asleep, and when she woke up, her child was dead and the light hair on his head stood up.”

“While she was sleeping, death came to him ...” Dasha said, crying, to Telegin. - Understand - his hair stood on end ... One suffered ... I slept.

No persuasion could drive away from her the vision of the boy's lonely struggle with death.

This detail (light children's hair standing on end) is worth many pages of the most accurate description of death.

Both of these details are right on target. Only such a detail should be - defining the whole and, moreover, mandatory.

In the manuscript of a young writer, I came across this dialogue:

«– Hello, Aunt Pasha!- said, entering, Alexei. (Before this, the author says that Alexei opened the door to Aunt Pasha's room with his hand, as if the door could be opened with his head.)

– Hello Alyosha,- Aunt Pasha exclaimed affably, looked up from her sewing and looked at Alexei. - Why didn't you come in for a long time?

- Yes, there is no time. He held meetings throughout the week.

You say all week?

- Exactly, Aunt Pasha! Whole week. There is no Volodya? Alexei asked, looking around the empty room.

- Not. He's in production.

- Well, then I went. Goodbye, Aunt Pasha. Stay healthy.

“Goodbye, Alyosha,” answered Aunt Pasha. - Be healthy.

Alexei went to the door, opened it and went out. Aunt Pasha looked after him and shook her head:

- Fighty guy. Motor".

This whole passage consists, in addition to negligence and slovenly manner of writing, of completely unnecessary and empty things (they are underlined). All these are unnecessary, non-characteristic, non-determining details.

The strictest choice is needed in the search for and determination of details.

Detail is intimately connected with that phenomenon which we call intuition.

I imagine intuition as the ability to restore a picture of the whole from a single particular, from a detail, from any one property.

Intuition helps historical writers to recreate not only the true picture of the life of past eras, but their very air, the very condition of people, their psyche, which, of course, was somewhat different compared to ours.

Intuition helped Pushkin, who had never been to Spain and England, write magnificent Spanish poems, write The Stone Guest, and in A Feast in the Time of the Plague give a picture of England no worse than Walter Scott or Berne, natives of this foggy country.

A good detail also evokes in the reader an intuitive and correct idea of ​​the whole - or of a person and his state, or of an event, or, finally, of an era.

It is difficult to imagine Russian literature of the 20th century without the work of the outstanding writer K. N. Paustovsky. Each work of Paustovsky makes the reader think about the world around him, about the events that people face and about the role a person plays in the mystery of life.

Literature for Paustovsky acts as a tool with which he tries to sow the seeds of goodness, justice and morality in the hearts of people. The stories of Konstantin Grigorievich carry the wisdom that we often lack.

The work "The Old Man in the Stationary Buffet" vividly reflects all the realities of modern life. Maybe some of the readers will see themselves in this story, because often we do not notice our own cruelty and indifference.

Summary

The action takes place in one of the small towns in Latvia. An old man with a small dog entered a small buffet, which is located next to the railway station. The man sat down at a free table and began to wait for the end of the downpour to continue his journey with a little companion.

At the next table sat a group of young people who were enthusiastically discussing football. The young men did not notice how a dog ran up to them and began to ask for a piece of a sandwich that they ate. The dog, despite the prohibitions of his master, continued to ingratiatingly jump around the table of young people.

One of those sitting looked at the animal, after which he insulted its owner. His friend still handed the dog a piece of sausage, but also could not resist sarcastic insults towards the elderly man, calling him a poor old man who cannot even feed a pet.

The old man took his dog back and did not accept the young man's treat. He took the last few coins out of his pocket and ordered a sandwich from the barmaid. The woman who observed this situation took pity on the man and gave him another sandwich for free, emphasizing that she would not get poorer if she treated a small dog.

When the old man went outside, he fed his little dog. Watching her eat greedily, he sadly begins to reproach her for her behavior, without uttering a single insulting word to his offenders. On such a sad note, the story ends.

The meaning of the story

This story tells us how cruel people can be sometimes. Instead of helping the destitute man, they began to insult him. At the same time, the old man, being poor and unhappy, did not lose his moral values.

This person prefers hunger and poverty rather than servility. He did not exchange his honor for food for his beloved, as he understood that by doing so he would betray both himself and her. The good news is that there are still people in the world who understand the true meaning of things.

The kindness of the barmaid is a vivid example of this: the woman realized that the old man had nothing to feed his dog, not to mention herself. Having offered two sandwiches, the barmaid seemed to thank this man for the fact that he managed to resist the temptation and acted according to his conscience.

Alexei Tolstoy could write if he had a stack of clean, good paper in front of him. He admitted that, sitting down at his desk, he often did not know what he would write about. He had one pictorial detail in his head. He started with her, and she gradually pulled out the whole story behind her, like a magic thread.

Working condition, inspiration Tolstoy called in his own way - coasting. "If it rolls," he said, "then I write quickly. Well, if it doesn't roll, then you have to quit."

Of course, Tolstoy was largely an improviser. His mind was ahead of his hand.

All writers must know that wonderful state during work, when a new thought or picture appears suddenly, as if breaking through, like flashes, to the surface from the depths of consciousness. If they are not immediately written down, they can also disappear without a trace.

They have light, awe, but they are fragile, like dreams. Those dreams that we remember only a fraction of a second after waking up, but immediately forget. No matter how much we suffer and try to remember them later, it fails. From these dreams, only the feeling of something unusual, mysterious, something "wonderful", as Gogol would say, remains.

Gotta write it down. The slightest delay - and the thought, flashing, will disappear.

Perhaps that is why many writers cannot write on narrow strips of paper, on galley proofs, as journalists do. You can’t take your hand off the paper too often, because even this insignificant delay of a fraction of a second can be fatal. Obviously, the work of consciousness is carried out with fantastic speed.

The French poet Beranger could write his songs in cheap cafes. And Ehrenburg, as far as I know, also liked to write in cafes. This is clear. Because there is no better loneliness than among a lively crowd, unless, of course, no one directly takes you away from your thoughts and encroaches on your concentration.

Andersen loved to invent his fairy tales in the woods. He had good, almost microscopic vision. Therefore, he could examine a piece of bark or an old pine cone and see on them, as through a magnifying lens, such details from which one could easily compose a fairy tale.

In general, everything in the forest - every mossy stump and every red-haired robber ant that drags, like a stolen pretty princess, a little midge with transparent green wings - all this can turn into a fairy tale.

I don't want to talk about my literary experience. This is unlikely to add anything significant to what has already been said. However, I still need to say a few words.

If we want to achieve the highest flourishing of our literature, then we must understand that the most fruitful form of social activity of a writer is his creative work. Hidden from everyone, the work of the writer before the release of the book turns after its release into a universal cause.

It is necessary to conserve the time, strength and talent of writers, and not to exchange them for exhausting near-literary fuss and meetings.

The writer, when he works, needs calmness and, if possible, the absence of worries. If some, even remote, trouble awaits ahead, then it is better not to take up the manuscript. The pen will fall out of the hands or tortured empty words will crawl out from under it.

Several times in my life I have worked with a light heart, with concentration and at a leisurely pace.

Once I sailed in the winter on a completely empty ship from Batum to Odessa. The sea was grey, cold, still. The shores were drowning in ashen haze. Heavy clouds, as if in a lethargic dream, lay on the ridges of the distant mountains.

I wrote in the cabin, sometimes I got up, went to the porthole, looked at the shores. Powerful machines sang softly in the iron womb of the ship. Seagulls chirped. It was easy to write. No one could tear me away from my favorite thoughts. There was nothing to think about, absolutely nothing, except for the story that I was writing. I felt it as the greatest happiness. The open sea protected me from any interference.

And the consciousness of movement in space, the vague expectation of the port cities where we were supposed to go, maybe some untiring and short meetings, also helped a lot to work.

The ship cut the pale winter water with its steel stem, and it seemed to me that it was carrying me to inevitable happiness. So it seemed to me, obviously, because the story was successful.

And I also remember how easy it was to work on the mezzanine of a village house, in autumn, alone, under the crackle of a candle.

The dark and windless September night surrounded me and, like the sea, protected me from any interference.

It is hard to say why, but it helped a lot to write the consciousness that behind the wall all night long the old village garden was flying around. I thought of him as a living being. He was silent and patiently waited for the time when I would go to the well late in the evening to fetch water for the kettle. Maybe it was easier for him to endure this endless night when he heard the strumming of a bucket and the steps of a man.

But in any case, the feeling of a lonely garden and cold forests stretching for tens of kilometers behind the outskirts, forest lakes, where on such a night, of course, there cannot be and there is not a single human soul, but only the stars are reflected in the water, as a hundred and a thousand years ago, this feeling helped me. Perhaps I can say that in these autumn evenings I was really happy.

It is good to write when something interesting, joyful, beloved awaits you ahead, even such a trifle as fishing under black willows on a distant old river.

OLD MAN IN THE STATION BUFFET

A thin old man with spiky stubble was sitting in a corner of the station cafeteria in Maiori. Winter squalls swept in whistling bands over the Gulf of Riga. The coast was covered with thick ice. Through the snowy smoke one could hear the roar of the surf as it crashed against the solid rim of ice.

The old man went into the buffet, apparently to warm himself. He ordered nothing and sat dejectedly on a wooden sofa, his hands thrust into the sleeves of his clumsily patched fishing jacket.

Along with the old man came a white furry dog. She sat pressed against his leg and trembled.

Nearby at a table, young men with tight, red heads were noisily drinking beer. The snow melted on their hats. Melt water dripped into glasses of beer and on sandwiches with smoked sausage. But the young people were arguing about the football match and did not pay attention to it.

When one of the young people took a sandwich and bit off half at once, the dog could not stand it. She went to the table, stood on her hind legs and, fawning, began to look into the young man's mouth.

- Petit! the old man called softly. - Shame on you! Why are you bothering people, Petit?

But Petya continued to stand, and only her front paws trembled all the time and drooped from fatigue. When they touched the wet belly, the dog caught himself and picked them up again.

But the young people did not notice her. They were engrossed in conversation and kept pouring cold beer into their glasses.

Snow covered the windows, and a shiver ran down my spine at the sight of people drinking completely ice-cold beer in such a cold.

- Petit! the old man called again. - And Pete! Get up here!

The dog quickly wagged its tail several times, as if letting the old man know that she heard him and apologized, but she couldn’t help herself. She did not look at the old man, and even looked away in a completely different direction. She seemed to say: "I myself know that this is not good. But you can't buy me such a sandwich."

- Oh, Petit, Petit! - the old man said in a whisper, and his voice trembled a little from chagrin.