Vyazemsky had an apartment with windows on Tverskaya Boulevard. Pushkin was very fond of visiting him. Will come - immediately jump on the windowsill, hang out of the window and look. Tea was also served to him there, at the window. Sometimes he will spend the night there. They even bought a special mattress for him, but he did not recognize it. "Why," he said, "such luxuries!" And push the mattress off the windowsill. And then he spins all night, does not let him sleep.

Once Gogol disguised himself as Pushkin, came to Pushkin and called.

Pushkin opened it for him and shouted: "Look, Arina Rodionovna, I've come!"

Lermontov wanted to take his wife away from Pushkin. To the Caucasus. He kept looking at her from behind the column, looking... Suddenly he felt ashamed of his desires. "Pushkin," he thinks, "is the mirror of the Russian revolution, and I am a pig." He went, knelt before him and said: "Pushkin," he says, "where is your dagger? Here is my chest!"

Pushkin laughed a lot!

Once Pushkin shot with Gogol.

Pushkin says: "You are the first to shoot." "How are you? No, I am!" "Oh me?

So they did not shoot.

Dostoevsky went to visit Gogol. Called. They opened it for him. "What are you," they say, "Fyodor Mikhailovich, Nikolai Vasilievich, he's been dead for fifty years already."

"So what," thought Dostoevsky, God rest his soul, "I, too, will someday die."

Leo Tolstoy lived on Pushkin Square, and Herzen lived at the Nikitsky Gate.

Both of them often had to visit Tverskoy Boulevard for literary affairs. And if they meet, it's a disaster: Tolstoy will chase after him and at least once hit him on the head with a crutch. And it also happened that five of them were dragged away, and Herzen was brought to himself from the fountain with water.

That is why Pushkin went to visit Vyazemsky, sat at the window.

So this house was later called - Herzen's house.

Lermontov was very fond of dogs. He also loved Natalya Nikolaevna Pushkina. But most of all he loved Pushkin himself. I read his poems and always cried. He will cry, and then he will pull out his saber and let's cut the pillows.

Here, the most beloved dog does not come across under the arm - about forty somehow killed. But Pushkin did not cry from any poetry. Never.

Once Gogol dressed as Pushkin, put on a lion's skin on top and went to a masquerade. F.M. Dostoyevsky, God rest his soul, saw him and shouted: "We bet it's Leo Tolstoy! We bet it's Leo Tolstoy!"

Lermontov was in love with Natalya Nikolaevna Pushkin, but he never spoke to her. Once he took his dogs for a walk on Tverskoy Boulevard. Well, they naturally squeal, bite him, mess everything up. And here - to meet her with her sister Alexandrina. "Look, - he says, - masher, some people want to complicate their lives. It's better to keep more children!"

Lermontov already spat to himself. “Well, you fool,” he thinks, “I don’t need such a gift!” Since then, I have not dreamed of taking her to the Caucasus anymore.

Once Pushkin wrote a letter to Rabindranath Tagore. "Dear distant friend," he wrote, "I don't know you and you don't know me. I would very much like to meet you. All the best. Sasha."

When the letter was brought, Tagore indulged in self-contemplation. So immersed, at least cut it. The wife pushed and pushed, slipped the letter - does not see.

Once F. M. Dostoevsky, God rest his soul, turned 150 years old. He was very happy and arranged a birthday party. All the writers came to see him, only for some reason they were shaved bald. One Gogol has a drawn mustache.

OK then. They drank, ate, congratulated the newborn, the kingdom of heaven to him. Sat down to play screw. Leo Tolstoy passed - each has five aces. What the hell! It doesn't happen! "Hand over, brother Pushkin, you're better!".

"I," he says, "please, I'll hand it over!" And passed. All six aces and two queens of spades. Gee. "Hand over, brother Gogol." Gogol passed...

Well, you know... It's not even nice to say. Somehow it worked...

No, the right word, better not!

Once F. M. Dostoevsky, God rest his soul, was sitting at the window and smoking. Finished smoking and threw the cigarette butt out of the window. Under the window he had a kerosene shop, and the cigarette butt landed right in the can of kerosene.

The flame, of course, is a pillar. In one night, half of Petersburg burned down. Well, they planted him, of course. Sat down, got out. On the very first day he walks along St. Petersburg, towards Petrashevsky. He didn't say anything, just shook his hand and looked into his eyes with meaning.

One day Herzen has a dream. As if he emigrated to London, and he lives very well. He bought like a dog of an English bulldog breed. Before that, a furious dog - no strength, whomever he sees, rushes at him.

And if it reaches, grabs a stranglehold - that's it, you can run to order a memorial service. And suddenly, as if he was no longer in London, but in Moscow:

he walks along Tverskoy Boulevard, holding his monster on a leash, and Leo Tolstoy meets him ... And it’s necessary, the Decembrists came in the most interesting place and woke him up.

One day Dostoevsky's nostril became clogged. He began to blow - the eardrum burst in the ear. I plugged it with a cork - it turned out to be too big, the skull cracked.

He tied it with a rope - he looks, his mouth does not open. Then he woke up in bewilderment, God rest his soul.

Leo Tolstoy was very fond of children. At dinner, he told them all the tales for teaching.

It used to be that everyone had already eaten consommé with pate, profiteroles, oysters, blemange, ice cream - and he keeps the first spoonful of soup in front of his beard, he says. Morality will lead - and clap the spoon on the table!

Leo Tolstoy was very fond of children. In the morning he wakes up, catches someone, stands and strokes his head until they call him for breakfast.

F. M. Dostoevsky, God rest his soul, passionately loved life. She, however, did not spoil him, so he was often sad. Those to whom life smiled / for example, Leo Tolstoy / did not appreciate this, constantly being distracted by other subjects. For example, Leo Tolstoy was very fond of children. They were afraid of him. They hid from him under a bench and whispered there: "Robya, you are afraid of this uncle. How he will fuck him with a crutch!" The children loved Pushkin. They said: "He is cheerful! Such a funny one!" And they chased after him in a barefoot flock. But Pushkin was not up to the children. He loved one house on Tverskoy Boulevard, one window in this house ... He could sit for hours on a wide windowsill, drink tea, look at the boulevard ... One day, heading towards this house, he raised his eyes and saw himself in his window ! With sideburns, with a ring on the thumb! He, of course, immediately understood who it was. And you?

Once Leo Tolstoy asked F. M. Dostoevsky, God rest his soul: "Is it true that Pushkin is a bad poet?" “Not true,” F. M. Dostoevsky wanted to answer, but remembered that his mouth had not opened since he bandaged his cracked skull, and remained silent. "Silent means consent!" Leo said and left.

Then Fyodor Mikhailovich, God rest his soul, remembered that he had only dreamed of all this in a dream. But it was already too late.

Leo Tolstoy was very fond of children. It used to be that he would bring about five pieces in a convertible and clothe all the guests. And it’s necessary - Herzen was always unlucky: either he gets a lousy one, or a biting one. And try to wince - grab a crutch and - fuck on the head!

Once Gogol disguised himself as Pushkin and came to visit Vyazemsky.

I accidentally looked out the window and sees - Tolstoy Herzen is beating with a crutch, and the kids are standing around, laughing. He took pity on Herzen and wept. Then Vyazemsky realized that it was not Pushkin in front of him.

Gogol read Pushkin's drama "Boris Godunov" and kept saying: "Oh, Pushkin! Really, you son of a bitch!"

Gogol only at the end of his life thought about the soul, and from his youth he had no conscience at all. Once he lost his bride at cards. And he didn't give up.

Not only was Turgenev timid by nature, but Pushkin and Gogol had completely screwed him up. Wakes up at night and screams: "Mom!" Especially under old age.

Pushkin was walking along Tverskoy Boulevard and met a beautiful lady. He winked at her, and she laughed like that! "Do not deceive, - says, - Nikolai Vasilyevich! It is better to give back three rubles that just now we lost in Burim."

Pushkin immediately guessed what was the matter. “I won’t give it back,” she says, “fool!”

Showed his tongue and ran away. What then happened to Gogol ...

Leo Tolstoy was very fond of children, but he could not stand adults, especially Herzen. As soon as he sees, he rushes with a crutch and tries everything in the eyes, in the eyes. And he pretends not to notice. Says:

"Oh, Tolstoy, oh!"...

Once Gogol wrote a novel. satirical. About one good person who got into the camp, Nikolai is called to the camp on Kolyma. Pavlovich began (a hint at the king). And so, with the help of criminals, he poisons this good man and brings him to death. Gogol called the novel "A Hero of Our Time". Signed "Pushkin". And he took it to Turgenev to print it in a magazine.

Turgenev was a timid man. He read the novel and broke out in a cold sweat. Decided to edit everything. And edited.

He moved the place of action to the Caucasus. The prisoner was replaced by an officer.

Instead of criminals, he has pretty girls, and it is not they who offend the hero, but he them. He renamed Nikolai Pavlovich Maxim Maksimych.

Crossed out "Pushkin", wrote "Lermontov". He quickly sent the manuscript to the editor, wiped off a cold sweat and went to bed.

Suddenly, in the midst of a sweet dream, a nightmarish thought pierced him. Name!

He didn't change his name! Immediately, almost without dressing, he left for Baden-Baden.

Pushkin sits in his room and thinks: "I'm a genius, okay. Gogol is also a genius.

But after all, Tolstoy is a genius, and Dostoevsky, God rest his soul, a genius!

When will this end?"

This is where it all ended.

Leo Tolstoy was very fond of children. One day he was walking along Tverskoy Boulevard and saw Pushkin walking in front. Pushkin, as you know, is small in stature.

"Of course, this is no longer a child, it's more like a teenager," Leo Tolstoy thought, "It doesn't matter, let me catch up and pat him on the head." And he ran to catch up with Pushkin. Pushkin, not knowing Tolstoy's intentions, took to his heels. Running past the policeman, this law enforcement officer was indignant at the indecent speed in a crowded place and rushed after him at a run in order to stop him. The Western press then wrote that in Russia, writers are being persecuted by the authorities.

Once Lermontov bought apples, came to Tverskaya Boulevard and began to treat the ladies present. Everyone took and said "merci". When Natalya Nikolaevna Pushkina approached with her sister Alexandrina, he trembled so much from excitement that he dropped the apple at her feet (Nat. Nick., Not Alex.)

One of the dogs grabbed the apple and started to run. Alexandrina, of course, ran after her. They were alone - for the first time in their lives (Lerm., of course, with Nat. Nick., and not Alex. with a dog). By the way, she (Alex.) did not catch up with her.

Once Pushkin decided to frighten Turgenev and hid under a bench on Tsvetnoy Boulevard. And Gogol also decided that day to scare Turgenev, disguised himself as Pushkin and hid under another bench. Here Turgenev is coming.

How do they both jump out!

Leo Tolstoy was very fond of children. Once he played with them all day and got hungry. Came to his wife. "Sonechka," she says, "angel, make me a prison." She objects: "Lyovushka, you see - I'm busy, I'm rewriting War and Peace." “Ah,” he cried, “I knew that my literary incense was dearer to you than my “I.” And the crutch trembled in his convulsive hand.

Leo Tolstoy and F.M. Dostoevsky argued who would write the novel better.

Turgenev was invited to judge. Tolstoy ran home, locked himself in his office and quickly began to write a novel - about children, of course (he loved them very much). And Dostoevsky sits in his room and thinks: “Turgenev is a timid person. He is sitting now in his room and thinks: “Dostoevsky is a nervous person. If I say that his novel is worse, he can kill. "What should I try (Dostoevsky thinks). I will write worse on purpose, anyway, my money will be"

(they argued for a hundred rubles).

And Turgenev at this time sits in his room and thinks: "Dostoevsky is a nervous person. If I say that his novel is worse, he can kill him. On the other hand, Tolstoy is a count. It's also better not to get involved. Well, they are completely."

And that very night he quietly left for Baden-Baden.

Turgenev wanted to be brave, like Lermontov, and went to buy himself a saber. Pushkin was walking past the store and saw him through the window. He took it and shouted on purpose: "Look, Gogol (and there was no Gogol with him), - look, Turgenev is buying a saber! Let's buy a gun with you!"

Turgenev got scared and left for Baden-Baden that same night.

Once Gogol was presented with a candelabra. He immediately put sideburns on him and began to tease. "Oh, you," he says, "an unfinished lyre!"

Once Gogol disguised himself as Pushkin and came to visit Maykov.

Maykov seated him in an armchair and treats him to empty tea. "Would you believe it," says Alexander Sergeich, "there is no piece of sugar in the house. Just now Gogol came and ate all the sugar." Gogol said nothing to him.

Once Gogol disguised himself as Pushkin and came to visit Derzhavin Gavrila Romanych.

The old man, confident that Pushkin was indeed in front of him, descending into the coffin, blessed him.

Happily avoiding one day a meeting with Leo Tolstoy, Herzen walks along Tversky Boulevard and thinks: "After all, life is sometimes beautiful."

Then under his feet - a huge black cat - and at once knocks him down! As soon as he got up, he shook the dust off himself - a pack of black dogs swooped in, running after this cat, and again plunged him to the ground. The future publisher of "The Bell" got up again - and he saw: the owner of the dogs himself, lieutenant Lermontov, was prancing towards him on a black horse. “The end,” the author of “Past and Thoughts” thinks, “now they will scatter - and ...” Nothing happened at all. Restrained by his accustomed hand, the horse marches past with a marching step, and has just passed Herzen, waving his tail - and lashing in the muzzle. Points, of course, fly into the bushes. "Well, that's half the trouble," the author of The Thieving Magpie thinks, looks for glasses, puts them on his nose - and what does he see in the middle of the bush? The malicious, smiling face of Leo Tolstoy! But Tolstoy was not a monster. "Come in, come in, - he says, - the poor fellow." And stroked his head.

Leo Tolstoy was very fond of playing the balalaika (and, of course, children).

But he couldn't. It used to be that he wrote the novel "War and Peace", and he himself thought: "Dep-day-ter-day-day-day-day! .." or "Bram-pram-dararam-pam-pam! .."

Once Chernyshevsky saw from the window of his attic how Lermontov jumped on his horse and shouted: "To the passage!" "So what, - thought Chernyshevsky, - here, God willing, there will be a revolution, then I will shout like that."

And he began to rehearse in front of the mirror, repeating in different manners: "TO THE PASSAGE! .. TO THE PASSAGE! .. TO THE PASSAGE! TO PA ... SSaaAaAzhzhzh!"

Nicholas I wrote a poem for the name day of the Empress. It starts like this: "I remember a wonderful moment ..." And so on. Then Pushkin came to him and read it.

And in the evening, in the salon at Zinaida Volkonskaya, he had great success through them, passing off, as always, for his own. What does it mean that a person had a professional memory.

And in the morning, when Alexandra Fyodorovna drinks coffee, the tsar-husband slips his piece of paper under her saucer.

She read it and says: "Oh, Coco, how nice, where did you get it, it's a fresh Pushkin!"

Once, during dinner, Sofya Andreyevna served a dish of lush, hot, fragrant rice cakes on the table. Leo Tolstoy how angry! "I - screams - do self-improvement! I don't eat rice cakes anymore!"

I had to feed this food of the gods to people.

Pushkin often visited Vyazemsky, sat for a long time at the window, saw everything and knew everything. He knew that Lermontov loved his wife. Therefore, he considered it not quite appropriate to give him a lyre. I thought to send Tyutchev abroad - they didn’t let me in, they said: it’s not subject - it has artistic value. And he did not like Nekrasov as a person.

He sighed and left the lyre with him.

Leo Tolstoy was very fond of children, everything was not enough for him. They will bring a full room, there is nowhere to step - he keeps shouting: "More! More!"

Pushkin was not that lazy, but prone to dreamy contemplation. Turgenev, on the other hand, is a terrible troublemaker, always obsessed with activity. Pushkin often abused this. He used to lie on the couch, enter

Turgenev. Pushkin to him: "Ivan Sergeevich, not into service, but into friendship - do you run away for beer?" And then he falls back asleep. Knows it wasn't

chance for Turgenev to return. Either he will run somewhere to sign a petition, then to the nihilists for a meeting, then to a civil memorial service. And then he will be frightened of something and leave for Baden-Baden. Pushkin was not afraid to be left without beer. Thank God, there were serfs, there was someone to send.

Pushkin was walking along Tverskoy Boulevard and saw Chernyshevsky. Crept up and goes behind. Passing writers bow to Pushkin, and Chernyshevsky thinks to him. Rejoices.

Dostoevsky passed - bowed. Pomyalovich, Grigorovsky - bow.

Gogol passed - laughed and did a pen, hello - also nice.

Turgenev - curtsy. Then Pushkin went to Vyazemsky to drink tea. And then towards Tolstoy - he was still young, without a beard, in epaulettes. And I didn't even look. Chernyshevsky later wrote in his diary: "All writers are good, but Tolstoy is a hamm. Because a Count."

Leo Tolstoy was very fond of children and wrote poems about them. These poems were written off in a separate notebook. One day, after tea, he gives this notebook to his wife:

"Look, Sophie, is it really better than Pushkin?" - and he himself holds a crutch behind.

She read it and said: "No, Levushka, it's much worse. And whose is it?" Here he is her crutch on the head - bang! Since then, everything relied on her literary taste.

Once F. M. Dostoevsky, God rest his soul, caught a cat on the street.

He needed a live cat for the novel. The poor animal squeaked, squealed, wheezed and rolled its eyes, then pretended to be dead. Here he let him go. The deceiver bit the poor writer in his turn on the leg and disappeared.

Thus, the best novel of Fyodor Mikhailovich, God rest his soul, "Poor Animals" remained unfulfilled. About cats.

F. M. Dostoevsky, God rest his soul, also loved dogs very much, but he was morbidly proud, and he hid it (about dogs) so that no one could say that he was imitating Lermontov.

About him, and so many things were said.

Once Gogol dressed up as Pushkin, put on a mask on top and went to a masquerade ball. There, a lovely lady, dressed as a bayadere, flew up to him and thrust a note at him.

Gogol reads and thinks: “If it’s for me, like Gogol, what, you ask, should I do? If it’s for me, like Pushkin, as a decent person, I can’t use it. well, her!" And threw the note in the trash.

Pushkin was a poet and wrote everything. One day Zhukovsky caught him writing a letter and exclaimed loudly: "No way, scribbler!"

Since then, Pushkin fell in love with Zhukovsky and began to call him in a friendly way, simply Zhukov.

As you know, Pushkin never grew a beard. Pushkin was very tormented by this and always envied Zakharyin, whose beard, on the contrary, grew quite well. “It grows with him, but it doesn’t grow with me,” Pushkin often said, pointing his nails at Zakharyin, and he was always right.

Once Petpashevsky broke his watch and sent for Pushkin. Pushkin came, examined Petrashevsky's watch and put it back on the table. "What do you say, brother Pushkin?" - Asked Petpashevsky. "Stop the car," said Pushkin.

When Pushkin broke both his legs, he began to move around on wheels.

Friends liked to tease Pushkin and grabbed him by those wheels. Pushkin got angry and wrote abusive verses about his friends. He called these verses epigrams.

The summer of 1829 Pushkin spent in the countryside. He got up early in the morning, drank a jug of fresh milk and ran to the river to bathe. Having bathed in the river, Pushkin lay down on the grass and slept until dinner. After dinner, Pushkin slept in a hammock.

When meeting with smelly peasants, Pushkin nodded his head to them and pinched his nose with his fingers. And the smelly men would break their hats and say, "That's no good."

Pushkin had four sons, and they were all idiots. One couldn't even sit on a chair and fell all the time. Pushkin himself sat rather badly in his chair.

It used to be sheer horror: they were sitting at the table - at one end Pushkin kept falling off his chair, at the other end his son. Just take out the saints!

Pushkin loved to throw stones. As soon as he sees stones, he starts throwing them. Sometimes it will disperse so much that it is all red, waving its arms, throwing stones, it's just terrible! ..

Saturday, June 10, 2017 8:40 pm ()

Today, books are written by everyone who is not lazy.

Thank God, most people are lazy...

A very famous literary anecdote

Vissarion Grigoryevich Belinsky rides in a cab in the evening in St. Petersburg. The driver sees - the gentleman is not arrogant, from the simple, his coat is thin, his cap - in general, you can talk. And asks:

Monday, May 29, 2017 2:22 pm ()

Saturday, November 12, 2016 07:17 ()

Literary anecdotes are interesting in that they supplement the christological images of writers and poets with everyday stories in which their characters and human qualities are much more manifest. In addition, they are funny and instructive.

Here is a small selection from the LiveJournal writer-historian , which collects such stories from various sources. We think that these literary anecdotes will not disappoint you.

No need to give in

Prince Vladimir Andreevich Obolensky in his mature years was considered a prominent publicist and public figure and, in addition, a kind, modest, charming person. However, in his youth he was not rich, gave lessons and was constantly looking for work.

Saltykov-Shchedrin, already old and sick in those years, needed a secretary, and his acquaintances recommended Obolensky to him. He, of course, was delighted: in addition to earning money, he was flattered by cooperation with the famous writer.

At first, everything went well: they agreed on a fee, on working hours. The next day, Obolensky appeared exactly at the appointed hour. “Well, young man,” said Saltykov-Shchedrin, “sit down and look at these proofs. And I still have to add something here.

At that moment, Saltykov's wife inaudibly entered the office. 2- Mikhail Yevgrafych, have you forgotten what the doctor said? You need to rest after breakfast. The doctor repeated to me three times that ... ”Saltykov threw the manuscript away with irritation and slammed his hand on the table.

“Will you finally leave me alone with your doctors? Go away and don't interfere with my work. Stupid!" When the writer and the secretary were left alone, Obolensky decided to respectfully express his solidarity. "You are absolutely correct." Saltykov leaned back in his chair.

"Right? That is, how is it - right? So what does that mean, right? Are you therefore trying to say that my wife is a fool? Yes? Out! Get out this minute! And so that your spirit is no longer here! This was the end of Obolensky's secretariat.

***

Don't take the reader for a fool

In 1872, "Capital" by Karl Marx appeared in bookstores in St. Petersburg, published by N.P. Polyakov with a circulation of 3000 copies. The translators were German Lopatin and Nikolai Danielson. The book was printed in the printing house of the Ministry of Railways.

The Bible of Marxism was sold quite legally, because according to the post-reform censorship regulations of 1865, preliminary censorship was abolished for domestic books (10 printed sheets) and translations (20 p. L.) (and in Capital there were about 700 pages, i. e. much more than 20 p.l.).

Monday, April 01, 2013 08:00 ()

"Now I'll tell you how I was born..."

My dad married my mom in 1902, but my parents only brought me into the world at the end of 1905, because dad wanted his child to be born on New Year's Eve. Dad calculated that conception should occur on April 1st and only on that day drove up to mom with a proposal to conceive a child. The first time dad drove up to my mom on April 1, 1903. Mom had been waiting for this moment for a long time and was terribly happy. But dad, apparently, was in a very playful mood.

The building and could not resist and said to my mother: "With the first of April!" Mom was terribly offended and on that day did not

She let her dad in. I had to wait until next year.

In 1904, on April 1st, dad began to drive up to mom again with the same proposal. But mother, remembering last year's incident, said that now she no longer wants to remain in a stupid position, and again did not let her father near her. No matter how much dad raged, nothing helped. And only a year later my dad managed to persuade my mom and conceive me. So my conception happened on April 1st..... Daniil Kharms Natalya Dobrokhotova

The plump, snub-nosed blonde Olga had it written on her forehead that she was a straight-A student and a perfectionist.
Of course, I didn’t check, but for sure there was only one phrase in her certificate:
- "I confirm the inscription on the forehead"
Signature stamp…
Olya, as a caring mother hen, strove to take care of everyone around her, and this was very valuable, because we were engaged in the most debilitating occupation for the psyche - entering the institute.
Who acted at the competition of 16 people for a place, he will not let you lie.
Olya memorized history and literature, it seemed that she knew all the guardsmen by surnames, nicknames, preferences in weapons and boot sizes, and Pavel Vlasov was Olya’s classmate in general ...
Already failed in the exams, all as one, came to cry on her mother's chest, Olya gently stroked the poor fellow on the head, saying:
- Nothing, nothing, you will prepare better, and next year you will come again to act, then everything will work out. You will see, the main thing is not to despair.
What can I say, she even wrote “spurs” to us with her own hand, and this despite the fact that we were all the worst competitors to each other. Holy woman:
- Well, here you will have all sorts of pre-war dates, and here you will put “NEP” behind the cuff. The girls in the dean's office told me that almost everyone is being driven along the NEP. Well, no fluff. Yes, and do not forget about the five-year plans - What? When? And what were they called? For those who don't remember, here's my sheet. Come here to the window, stand, teach, you must be in time ...

Finally, behind my exams in literature, specialty, so I jumped out of the history office with a five. All the excitement behind, I do not believe my absolute happiness - this time - it seems to have done ...
But the joyful and excited crowd in the corridor was in no hurry to scatter into the summer, everyone stood patiently and waited for our Saint Olga. No one, of course, doubted that she would pass on the top five, but still. After all, she “warmed up” each of us in one way or another, some with a textbook, some with a spare pen, some with dates, and all, without exception, with a kind word.
But what is it, almost everyone left the office, but she is still not there, they peeped through the crack - she is sitting, her face is sad, getting ready. The most recent…
Everyone became very excited. Is it possible that our Olya will turn out to be a shoemaker without boots and fill up history?
Finally, the high door opened and let out the Howled Olya. Her body trembled with stifled sobs, mascara ran down her plump cheeks.
We almost burst into tears...
I asked:
- Olya, what? Troika?
She couldn't speak and just shook her head.
- Deuce?
And then Olya broke through and she gasped with grief and answered:
- Five.
- Five? So what are you, a fool, roaring and scaring us!?
She tore the handkerchief from her face and suddenly said loudly:
R-R-R-fish!!! N-R-R-R-awe!?
And it was her “R-R-R” that was so Leninist, so childish, cheerful and resounding, that we could not help laughing, and this made Olga sob even louder.
By that time, we knew Olya for two weeks, but we didn’t even know that so far none of us, she had not yet said a single word with the letter “R-R-R.” Her brain always worked like a powerful computer and without pauses , built phrases in real time so that this hated “R-R-R” never slipped through.
But any computer sooner or later runs into an impossible task and freezes, and at the most inopportune moment.
The examiner stopped the enchanting answer to the first question and asked to move on to the second.
Olya blinked her eyes, but the computer crashed, he could no longer help, and then she herself had to bleat something awkward:
- Before the appearance of Jesus into the world, there were still not one or two, but a little more than a millennium. Somewhere two more than one. And now, in the place where the current Caucasus is located, there is a very high place, almost the highest, and this ... society arose near it ...
The examiner took off his glasses, raised his eyebrows in surprise, and finally stopped this thoughtful answer:
- Listen, calm down, pull yourself together, you answered the first question so well that I was already thinking of giving you a five and letting you go, but with such an answer above a two ... What happened to you? Concentrate and say something intelligible on this issue, because I have to evaluate your knowledge. Not tears.
Then Olya looked at the teacher with hatred and with a challenge for-R-R-R-growled:
- In the t-R-R-R-th millennium before our e-R-R-R-s, in p-R-R-R-edgo-R-R-Rye go-R-R-R-s A -R-R-R-a-R-R-R-at about-R-R-R-was the name of the state-R-R-R-stvo U-R-R-R-a-R-R-R- that!!!

Probably, no one present has ever laughed like that in his life.
Laughter is laughter, and after all, almost a quarter of a century has passed since then, but even today any of us, the then entrants, having heard the word “Urartu”, will surely smile kindly and answer without hesitation: What kind of Urartu is this? When? What is it eaten with and at what mountain did it form ...? One fine, warm Soviet day, the Politburo of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union declared a decisive struggle against all sorts of religious sects and similar interest circles.
The KGB replied: "Yes!" and with all the responsibility of the KGB began to dig deep and wide across the country.
Operational data indicated that a very odious sect of eunuchs was operating in one not prominent regional center.
Members of the sect were people of both sexes, and even its male members, far from all were with dismembered members. Only the most ideological went to this terrible execution in order to pacify the flesh and in order to ... Yes, I don’t know what else ...
It was this sect that the regional department of the KGB decided to slam and not just slam, but everything according to the law - with courts, “proof” and imprisonment of the ideological elite for malicious self-mutilation of the Soviet people.
Naturally, they started with the introduction of the “mishandled Cossack”.
A non-working, twenty-five-year-old varmint was quickly chosen for the role of a Cossack, who, after serving in the army, had already managed to fall asleep on the theft of a motorcycle. The guy went under a suspended sentence, but it seemed to him not enough and soon he got caught on a very stupid theft of collective farm hay.
A potential Cossack was "invited" to the KGB and poked in the face with a choice:
- Either you sit down to the fullest for a motorcycle, hay and parasitism, or you help your native authorities and become a hero, and as a reward all your criminal cases are immediately canceled, plus the executive committee, going to meet the authorities, gives you a two-room apartment in the regional center.
And the cornered Cossack gladly agreed to cooperate, all the more so - there is no danger, everything is under control. And it’s not difficult to get married with such and such an apartment, just whistle, a whole herd of village beauties will come running.
On that they hit on the hands.
And now, at the next underground meeting of eunuchs, a new person appeared. At first, of course, they treated him very suspiciously, but the guy was so modest, so diligent and handsome that sooner or later he managed to get into the wonderful world of castration ...
Over time, the Cossack became an indispensable member of the sect. He did a lot of explanatory work with the population, collected donations, very boldly stored and distributed prohibited literature, and most importantly, organized underground meetings in his house. In short - getting closer and closer to the main secrets of self-mutilation.
Six months later, the leadership of the sect finally believed and made recommendations: "Brother has matured to the point of conscious castration." Although they dissuaded him, frightened him with the irreversibility of the procedure, nothing helped: “I want it - I can’t, I’m already tired of this “immoderate” flesh. If you don't help, I'll open it myself! After all, what kind of eunuch am I if I am not an eunuch?!”
The hunt is worse than bondage, and now, one fine warm evening, the guy was finally told the good news that the main executor and his assistants had come from Ukraine especially for him, so rejoice, son, tomorrow at dawn you will be cut off. Don't go anywhere, be at home.
The Cossack thanked him warmly and, with the speed of a tornado, rushed to his curator.
The curator listened, rubbed his hands and gave a c.u.: “Don't be afraid, the house will be surrounded by a double ring. Your task is to get as close as possible to the castration itself, and ours is to break in and prevent it in time. At the trial, you will testify that they have fooled you, confused you, persuaded you, and that’s it, you’re free. They are all waiting for a prison, and you have a "kopeck piece" in a house with an improved layout. Now to the details: When you come home, immediately pull out the glass from the window and keep it open. Then look at the situation, when you feel that there is no more than a minute left before castration, as if by chance, close the window - this will be a conditional signal for capture. If suddenly you can’t close it, don’t shy away, in extreme cases, scream, we will hear. Any questions?"
In general, there were no questions.
Before dawn, there was a knock at the Cossack's hut. A huge bearded man entered with two silent middle-aged women.
They brought everything they needed with them: a wooden chair with a large ominous hole in the seat, a copper basin, a suitcase with medical supplies, and even a wide white ritual shirt for the hero of the occasion.
They ordered me to undress to the naked, put on a shirt and sit on a chair with a hole, under which a basin was placed.
I changed clothes, sat down, the shirt turned out to be so wide and long that it even covered the chair with itself. Women fussed all over the hut: one unfolded the bandages, the other boiled something on the stove, straightened the basin and soothingly stroked the “lucky one” on the head.
It's time for the big bearded guy. He opened the suitcase and took out a hefty, creepy-looking cleaver - almost a saber, went to a far corner and began to sharpen his sacred scythe. The sound was so nauseating and vile ... men can easily imagine it, and let women take their word for it.
Here the terrible uncle stopped the grinding and asked the hero of the occasion:
- How strong is your desire to become an eunuch? Don't be afraid, if you change your mind, I can still stop everything. We'll say goodbye and leave right away. Just say. This is not shameful, many refuse at the last moment. Don't worry, you'll still be our brother.
But the Cossack looked proudly at the butcher and, with the determination of Pavka Korchagin, answered:
- I decided everything for myself a long time ago. Come on now, don't sweat it.
The man sighed, shrugged his shoulders and continued to sharpen his huge knife.
The decoy eunuch decided that he had probably had enough, it was time to give a signal for the start of the operation, got up, reached out, slammed the window and sat down.
Seconds pounded and temples and much lower.
And the unsuspecting peasant, in the far corner of the hut, was still slowly testing the sharpness of his pig-cutter on a piece of paper.
In less than ten seconds, the front door fell with a crash, the window frame flew out. The hut was filled with ringing and shouting: “Everyone stay where you are! Police! Hands behind head!
But all these sounds, with a large decibel reserve, were blocked by the heart-rending howl of the mishandled Cossack and a booming “shmyak!” - it was his cut-off economy that plopped into a copper basin under a chair ... And I had a leader who hired me because I was the ONLY one who, in his entire scientific life, came to ask a list of questions and recommended literature for the entrance exam. The person, it must be said, is an honored person within the framework of the institute, with many titles, plus the head of this very department. And to get to him as a graduate student, oh, how not easy. But sometimes I didn’t understand him) asked Dovlatov to keep him company. I convey the story of Sergei
Dovlatov, adding nothing and throwing nothing away.
We sat at the table. Nekrasov poured himself and Dovlatov half a glass of vodka each.
We drank to my mother's health.
Mom: - Viktor Platonovich, do you know French?
Nekrasov: - Very good. I learned French as a child and for a long time
lived with an aunt in Paris.
Again he poured half a glass for himself and Sergei. Drank to writers living in
emigration.
Mom: - Tell me, do you have nostalgia, do you yearn for Russia?
Nekrasov: - It happens in different ways. On the one hand, I'm lucky I live in
one of the greatest cities in the world, near the Louvre, Versailles, Paris Cathedral
Mother of God ... On the other hand, I am a person of Russian culture, and, of course, sometimes
I miss her.
Poured. We drank to the great Russian culture.
Mom: - Whom do you communicate with in Paris?
Nekrasov: - I am friends with Picasso, Ilya Ehrenburg, Sartre. Also
I meet with Aznavour, Maurice Chevalier and other young
talented people.
He poured it out and, already without any toast, poured it into the firebox in one gulp.
Mom: - Viktor Platonovich, who is your favorite writer?
Nekrasov (to Dovlatov): - Seryozha, it's going well. Spill. And to mom: -
There are several of them - Diderot, Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Dostoevsky.
Again, without toast, he swallowed another half glass.
Mom: - Viktor Platonovich, you can be envied. you live in the city
such a culture, doing what you love, meeting interesting
people...
Nekrasov, without pouring anyone, poured another half a glass himself. He paused.
- You know, mother, Paris, the Louvre, Dostoevsky - it's all garbage. Here under
Stalingrad, I remember: we are sitting in a trench. Don't eat shit, frost is minus
thirty, the ass to the ground is fucking frozen, and the German from all the guns is like
vjebachit, and you think - everything, fucked up! And rather, you think, fucked up, on
dick such a life vsralas!
Lyudmila Stern, horrified: - Viktor Platonovich, my mother is here!
- Yes, I wanted to fuck my mother!
Mom looked at Nekrasov with joy and surprise and tenderly said:
- Yeah...?

LITERARY JOKES

I must say that you don’t have to worry about the health of the majority of the inhabitants of light sites, in the event of a sudden closure of Internet resources, they will not faint with their heads on the asphalt, they will not die of a broken heart and will not go crazy, because for this you need to have a mind, heart and at least the head...

The mentality of modern poets and prose writers not only excludes their ability to read anything other than the title of a “literary work”, but even to pronounce correctly, in literary form and with due dignity: Eh, mob tvyu yat!

Well, do not be shy, Mr. Litprichal Site Admin, but honestly tell us how you managed to master 50 professions and all “at a professional level” in your short and drunken life, with the exception of your only and last profession of the director of a rural boat station?
I, perhaps, will refrain from further listing all the advantages of this amazing person!

For some reason, our prima donna Incomparable Violetta - Marinavladi is no longer called a fool, probably her former popularity at drunken literary gatherings is falling catastrophically.

Small and large meannesses that make the very existence of authors on lithforums disgusting, we, the poets of the golden XXI century, should multiply with enthusiasm. A real poet deserves recognition only when all the frostbitten idiots on the forum begin to talk with him as if on an equal footing and affectionately call him "Slavochka".

If I hear on the forum dirty swearing and idiotic jokes from the lips of our “pride of the site” PoemsYA org, then I immediately remember my radiant childhood, a kindergarten or, at worst, a mental hospital on the Pryazhka River near the house-museum of A. Blok.

There are such boys who only crawled until the age of three, then wore girlish dresses and pissed in their pants when they were already young pioneers. However, this did not prevent them from entering the list of the most popular and outstanding writers of our time.

What can an intelligent person reach if he is given a responsible and important assignment? So, - to the nearest drinking establishment! One day I asked a poet and literary critic to buy me some newspapers on my way home. Of course, he bought newspapers, but he also got drunk on vodka and beer.

A smart boy loves not his grandparents, but ice cream. A clever writer loves not literature, but literary awards and the opportunity to inform everyone and everyone that he is not just anyone, but a People's Poet and a member of the Union of Writers. D. Kravchuk.

A talented poet is prone to all sorts of outrages. He is extremely aggressive in his apparent tolerance and desire for justice. This is a damned cosmopolitan, terrorist and destroyer of the foundations of democracy and Russian statehood. A talented poet and a Patriot of Russia are incompatible concepts.

In order to clearly and categorically express their clever thoughts, the Admin of the Izba of the reading room is obliged to intimidate and bully all the authors of the portal in advance. If he does this constantly, in cold blood and with savage enthusiasm appropriate to the occasion, then the status of the Admirarch of All Huts will be guaranteed to him until his last forgiveness.

All the negative, I would say, phenomena on the forums of light sites are organized and provided by quite “normal” people, whose creative impulses are not properly controlled by the Russian Ministry of Health and the administration of literary portals, yes, for some reason ...

But many have not yet realized that modesty, chastity and unwillingness to drag behind every near-literary skirt is an asocial phenomenon that does not correspond to democratic principles and borders on sexual perversion.

Remember and write down, gentlemen, poets and writers of tales: if I still ride on your frail asses, then I will ride on a tank so that you finally understand what Russian literature is, and what your transsexual costumed interludes with disguises and quasi-literary masturbation.

As soon as I, with international enthusiasm and with creative, I would say, inflexibility, explain to another habitue of literary forums who he really is, he immediately begins to play the final act of the tragedy “Russia on Fire”, and I myself am a patriot.

Sometimes you just want to sing to one of the best modern poets and prose writers of Russia:

“With whom did you twist your love,
Who do you smoke a cigarette with?
Well, you can’t foolishly buy a ticket to Vnukovo,
To fly over me at least once. (like plywood over Paris)

I am well aware, Mr. Great Russian Poet (GRP) I. Ragulin, that in a fit of inspiration you are still able to convince an aged near-literary diva that a patriot's hanging horseradish is better than an internationalist's cheerfully raised, because you are a rare demagogue and pervert. But don’t flatter yourself too much - you will take my sparkling humor and unconditional success with women of reproductive age with you even to the grave.

GRP Ilya Iosifovich Ragulin

I don't ask why A. Trubin, a semi-Arbat poet and musician, drinks so much. I ask why he drinks such filth?

It is clear why our new Saltykov-Shchedrin N.L. assures everyone that he reads everything, but a lot and drunk. God forbid, someone will think that he did not read anything and cannot read at all, but only learned to write, and always the same thing, but breaking his novel of the century into fragments of feelings and the bile of petty insults.

Say what you like, but if no one else calls the Reading Room Admin an asshole, then it's time to find him another job, for example, appoint him as the editor-in-chief, so ...

. . . . . . .

There was that circle of literary cramped -
words are empty and thoughts are light, -
to perch like chickens
and crow like roosters
swing the hut on chicken legs,
drain the sludge, lick asses
and sprinkle like a cake with biscuit crumbs
dunes of words, sand rubbish,
grumble with saliva, suffer from kidney disease,
swallow Borjomi, holding your breath,
keep no secrets, by the way,
but one, but the press secretary ...
and so that the plugs do not burn out,
from chicken legs did not swell the side,
to be like a haberdashery shop,
and like a retiree's suspenders,

Parteigenosse of our housing office -
the idol of flatterers and faint-hearted ladies,
trust thief again
and planted "Agdam" three times a day -
snuggle up, snuggle up, snuggle up,
take a sip of kvass, run around the hut
in law by the head of administrations,
and even the primer on the letter "be",
tremble like a leaf, take off like a bath broom,
count sins, wear coats
Until Monday turns black
making everything useless nothing,
until the rats jumped overboard -
all according to the ranking, without disassembling the faces ...

There was a chairman, which means there were splashes
champagne, and a suicide club.

_______________________________________
/"Journey" ch.12/

If it were possible to tell the gang of Litprichala admins what I think about them bastards, then this would cause a glint in their eyes and an indestructible desire to pull someone else.

An unafraid writer is not prone to complaining and denunciation, but if he is properly frightened, then perhaps someday he will turn out to be a decent sexot.

If an elderly piit writes as all the women give him, one should understand this exactly the opposite. If some old fucker tells what a young husband she has, then the dildo has not yet failed due to technical reasons.

Lost illusions are still better than fruitless dreams, and the site LitSorrow is an indisputable confirmation of this.

If A. Blok lived in our time:
Night. House. Bed. Computer.
A meaningless and dim light.
Prepare yourself at least the fifth sandwich,
So be it. There is no exit.
You will fall asleep. You will start over again.
And everything will be repeated as in coub
Night. Flickering blue screen.
In contact with. Instagram. YouTube.

I don’t understand - what is the reason for such a widespread tongue-tied tongue, when the word “month” is added after the name of the month? "I have a vacation in the month of August." It seems to me that such word usage is a sign of mental senility. In the month of September, I broke my arm-limb, so now I’m lying in the hospital-building on a bed-furniture and eating mango-fruits bought by my aunt-relative for five rubles-money per kilogram-weight. Mango fruits are soft-tactile, yellow-visually and sweet-tasting.

One day a swan, cancer, yes pike
Raccoon, badger and hippo
Giraffe, muskrat and Chinese
Two zebras, drill, unicorn
But then Krylov was released

The writer came to Israel. Just for three days. He is asked:
- What are you going to do here for these three days?
He answers:
- Today I will rest, and tomorrow I will write a book called: "Israel: yesterday, today, tomorrow."

"Collapse" is an ideal synonym for the word "kick-ass", and it sounds very impressive and beautiful: "traffic collapse on the Leningrad highway."

The word is not a sparrow. It will fly out - take care of the birdhouse!

Are you a feather shark?
- No, keyboard woodpecker!

It would seem that why would a killer hire a killer to kill the killer of the killer who killed the killer of the killer, but Dontsova was unstoppable...

SMS from book heroes:
The ball sank. I sit, stupidly roar. Tanya.
How many boys to take with you? Chernomor
Who is with me on the skating rink? Sasha Nevsky
Urgently check the schedule of trains to Moscow. Anna
It was a joke, about cherevichki! And where the hell are you?! Oksana.
I threw it away. Frodo.
Something you, Gerasim, do not finish. Mu Mu.
I wish you happiness, you are a wonderful couple, in Malvina's bed a log is a log. Pierrot.
I bought a scarf and beads. I'm looking for a flower. Dad.
I'll be late, don't forget to pray at night. Othello.
)))))))))))))))))))))))))) Cheshire Cat.
Fuck rabbits, mushrooms and caterpillars! I don't sleep anymore after dinner. Alice.
Grandpa, tell me the address! From: Vanya
You had to look under your feet, freaks. Annushka.
I will buy chairs. Ostap.
Owl has your tail. fluff
I have a melophone. I'm home. Alice
I prayed. I am waiting. Desdemona.
Volodya, what time is the shooter? I remember the place. Gleb.
Are you here? I'm on the third, let's cross. Dante.
My advice to you - change the encoding, it will fit. Gerda
Your missus is crazy, she communicates with the mirror. Hiding at the Kents. Snow White
Dude, let's go to a tavern on Friday, have a drink? I treat. Salieri
Dad, I passed everything! Pavlik
Half past twelve! Herman, where are you?
I am writing from an English number. Suspension took, I will be soon. D'art
Wait for your tram. Berlioz.
I'll wait. Max Fry.
Pushkin, did you ever nibble emeralds yourself? Squirrel
Earth. Sannikov
I'm fast - one foot here, the other there! A. Karenina
Damn, when will I sleep? Gorgeous.
YES! And I! Brutus.
They are all sick! Aibolit
And at Disney, I would have survived, you hear, Hans! Mermaid
Dreams numbered. What to do next? Vera Pavlovna
An autopsy showed that the patient was overeating. Lumberjacks
Oleg, watch your step! Horse
Honorable Sir! Circumstances delay, catch up in the swamps. Your dog.

A young, aspiring writer brings a manuscript to the publishing house. The editor reads: "... A young count was descending the marble stairs, a countess was rising towards him.
- No! - answered the count, and took possession of her right on the stairs ... "
"Very good," says the editor, but you don't have enough descriptions of nature! The author took the manuscript and went to redo it. He returned a couple of days later, gives the editor to read. "... A young count was descending the marble stairs, a countess was rising towards him.
- Would you like some coffee? asked the Countess.
- No! - answered the count, and took possession of her right on the stairs. And outside the window acacia blossomed and sparrows chirped ... "
- Wonderful! - Says the editor, - Only now the actors are not enough.
Fine. the author answers and, sighing heavily, takes the manuscript. Brings after a while again.
A young count was descending the marble stairs, a countess was rising towards him.
- Would you like some coffee? asked the Countess.
- No! - answered the count, and took possession of her right on the stairs. And outside the window acacia blossomed and sparrows chirped. And in the garden, 10 men were bending the rail ... "
Wonderful! the editor said. Just no vision for the future.
The young writer was gloomy. I took the novel and left. He returned the next day, threw the manuscript on the editor's desk, and left the office. The editor reads: "... A young count was descending the marble stairs, a countess was rising towards him.
- Would you like some coffee? asked the Countess.
- No! - answered the count, and took possession of her right on the stairs. And outside the window the acacia blossomed, and the sparrows chirped. In the garden, 10 men were bending a rail. Well, fuck her, the men said. Let's go home, catch up tomorrow ... "