Poets, however, like visionaries, cannot be censored.
Harmful business, believe me, it does not happen more harmful.
Vysotsky is both a seer and a poet for us.
That is why it is doubly strange to contemplate, say, on the Kultura.rf portal (and in other spaces of the Internet) its text (is it a verse, is it a message?) “My gypsy” without lines and rhythmic repetitions recorded on the subcortex of several generations: “Eh , once!
Again!
Many, many, many, many, many more!
Yes, and again! .. "And in particular - without his trademark, only Vysotsky so uttered, with bitter regret and a bit of the inevitability of accepting life:" Yes, what are you! ..
What are you - be it wrong!
It does not hold in the hands, does not fall under the ax! ..
It just seems to have been outlined - it jumped off! ..
It's like it's alive...
What is he about?
And let us turn to Gogol - he is the essence of Vysotsky too, as well as vice versa - a seer and a poet.
Is it for nothing that the word "poem" appears on the cover of "Dead Souls"?
In chapter 11, perhaps with the most terrible foreshadowing in all of Russian literature, we read - may the venerable editors and kind book people forgive me for such a long digression-message to all of us Gogol.
So here we are reading...
"Rus!
Rus!
I see you, from my wonderful, beautiful far away I see you: poor, scattered and uncomfortable in you;
daring divas of nature, crowned with daring divas of art, will not amuse, will not frighten the eyes, cities with many-windowed high palaces, grown into cliffs, picture trees and ivy, grown into houses, in noise and in the eternal dust of waterfalls;
the head will not tip back to look at the stone blocks piled up endlessly above it and in the heights;
they will not flash through the dark arches thrown one on top of the other, entangled in vine branches, ivy and countless millions of wild roses;
Openly deserted and exactly everything in you;
like dots, like badges, your low cities imperceptibly stick out among the plains;
nothing will seduce or charm the eye.
But what an incomprehensible
secret power attracts you?
Why is your melancholy song, rushing along your entire length and width, from sea to sea, heard and heard incessantly in your ears?
What's in it, in this song?
What calls, and sobs, and grabs the heart?
What sounds painfully kiss, and strive to the soul, and curl around my heart?
Rus!
What do you want from me?
What incomprehensible bond lurks between us?
Why do you look like this and why did everything that is in you turn eyes full of expectation on me? .
What does this vast expanse prophesy?
Is it not here, in you, that an infinite thought is born, when you yourself are without end?
Is there not a hero to be here, when there is a place where to turn around and walk for him?
And menacingly embraces me mighty space,
reflected in my depths with a terrible force;
my eyes lit up with an unnatural power: wow!
what a sparkling, wonderful, unfamiliar distance to the earth!
Rus!.."
Suppose Nikolai Vasilievich exaggerated in some way - mountains, and roses, and vineyards in our state are in some abundance, but Gogol does not write about that.
Think about it, this is his speech, addressed to us as if from the afterlife, from there he can see better, from there he sees things that are not at all lying on the surface.
That is why the expanse of the Fatherland, which is not encompassed by the mind, echoes in him with a terrible force, that is why the unnatural power in his eyes is felt by him - we still do not know ourselves and cannot recognize ourselves!
And Vladimir Semyonovich, momentarily torn from his sorrowful thoughts, what passes before his eyes?
Is there a single chopping block with axes, but is there a dense forest along the road?
No, sisters and brothers.
He sees something completely different from his afterlife - in the same way, the mind is not embracing, from which there is no peace for Gogol, and for each of us.
He sees Rus'.
What it is - without stupid buffoon embellishments.
I stand, as before an eternal riddle,
Before the great and fabulous country -
Before salty-but bitter-sour-sweet,
Blue, spring, rye.
Mud champing oily and rusty,
Horses are tied up in stirrups,
But they drag me with a sleepy power,
That limp, swollen from sleep.
“Was it not one person who wrote?”
someone says with a laugh.
Different people, rest easy, different people wrote about the same land.
How would we settle down in our house, which has no end-edge?
How can we adapt ourselves to our land, merge with it, shake off the age-old sleep, turn around to our full potential and prowess? ..
How would this be for us...
Oh, what are you!..
Go to gallery page
If we are incredible, and the way it is, if here a fairy tale and a true story have long merged together and there is no difference between a divine miracle and a creation of human hands, if everything is so, then where is paradise for us?
Somewhere is a haven, not a house near a ravine, but a light tower with a balcony overlooking the sea?
Return to Gogol.
Re-read.
And then - to Vysotsky.
I then - across the field, along the river.
Light - darkness, there is no God!
Domes in Russia are covered with pure gold -
So that the Lord notices more often.
And how is it that we have everything at once?
And why?
And is there a good way out of all this - to go straight to a blooming garden?
“Rus, where are you going?
Give an answer.
Doesn't give an answer.
A bell is filled with a wonderful ringing;
the air torn to pieces rumbles and becomes the wind;
everything that is on the earth flies past, and, looking askance, step aside and give it the way other peoples and states ... "
And here is our answer.
No matter how much we cut ourselves in someone else's manner, no matter how many hats we think of cutting from a single sheepskin - everything is the same, according to common sense - a hat, one, but real.
Because Vysotsky gets us at any decline and everyone.
In a tavern - if the festivities went out of style, in the church - if prayer does not come from the heart, in the mountains - if it turned sour at the wrong time and was afraid, in battle - if ...
You know, the Weiner brothers, who wrote The Era of Mercy, did not like Gleb Zheglov, their main character.
And Vysotsky remade Zheglov in his own way, and thus, separating him from the book, gave him a new, considerable share of his own life.
His Zheglov lives in now, in today.
He is equally familiar with both human meanness and spiritual outrageous impulse - even if to death for the sake of the cause and the Motherland.
Such are Vysotsky and Gogol.
Modernity is not lost.
They didn’t learn to bronze.
In each line - here's a man for you, cattle for cattle, here's a hero for you, simple and honest.
When we recognize ourselves, when we join together the whole chain of the history of our Fatherland, when we stop straining some of them and sweetly exalting others, then peace will come in our house.
Truth is needed.
To each and everyone.
Truth.
What it is, and the other is not needed.
Therefore, it is torn to pieces from greasy dirt and golden domes.
From a pig in the eternal Mirgorod puddle and from Captain Kopeikin.
Go to gallery page
Vysotsky just turned 85 the other day. So what?
What measure of time and age is applicable to it and, most importantly, for what?
What does she give us?
Nothing.
Seers and poets - they are out of time.
And outside the generally accepted space, but in their own, in their original generic space, they are dissolved.
Until the deadline.
When we need it, and when we decide to take a deep breath.
Everything is always wrong and out of place, guys.
Meanwhile, life in Russia continues.
It turns out that the Heavenly Father is on our side, it remains for us to get together on that side, on our side.
Vysotsky...
They say that this year someone put a sign at the foot of the monument on Vagankovsky: "Prophet, genius, philosopher, commander."
Perhaps the commander.
In the highest sense, in the sense of the foundation of the spirit and the strength of our souls.
Russia really can not be understood by any understanding.
But there is a plan of God about it.
And if it is not given to us to realize it in its entirety, then it is given, in any case, to live each day according to Vysotsky.
And you don't need another.
Soul, knocked down and erased by losses,
Soul, knocked down by rifts -
If the flap thinned to blood, -
I will patch up with gold patches,
So that the Lord notices more often!
And may Vysotsky predicted come true.
Let it come true.
Like seven rich moons
Gets in my way -
Then I have a gamayun bird
Gives hope!
The point of view of the author may not coincide with the position of the editors.