Rus Articles Journal

The lost generation, or life how are you doing? “Times do not choose

, live in them and die“.

Yesterday, early in the morning, crooked on an inconvenient seat as if in paralysis, on the way to the uncomfortable February capital, half-asleep a cold minibus when the ink February sky just thought to dawn, and in a brain porridge from scrappy dreams and casual thoughts, me on phone was inertly smeared, a ring silent and deafening at the same time in the pre-dawn calm which is broken off by a bomb SMS suddenly came. Having snatched out from - for warm bosoms the mobile phone, having instantly sobered up from dreams and thoughts, with wildly fragile heart, I opened and read: “Vova P died“...

Vova P was my childhood friend. Very early childhood. The friend from whom remained two wrinkled as a face of the ancient old woman, the photo and vague memoirs from which most part, was rather stories of my mother about our childhood and about us, but not something real, sunk into the remote past what I remembered. A military camp with Roma who allegedly stole small children toy figures of the Zaporizhia Cossacks which real smoked inserted by it into a hole - a mouth cigarettes and, “as Vova`s mother spanked him for the fact that he lost the little sister A“ - here, perhaps, and everything that I remembered about the childhood friend Vova P and that far time.

Later I repeatedly heard from mother that Vova “married, divorced, received the major, waits for receiving the apartment“ and about other “achievements“ modern, and not only, the person through which only and remember it. There were still some fragmentary messages which took off at me from the head. Something about Voviny mother. About his sister. And here, main news: Vova P is absent any more … Later I learned

about what ridiculous and terrible death Vova left us. Having strong drunk and for want of habit having strongly become tipsy, it fell in an open manhole somewhere in far Novosibirsk and froze. The clear head, the handsome - the man, the good son whom mother held up as an example at any case drunk fell in a manhole and froze to death. More ridiculous the death was difficult to be thought up.

Having returned from business trip, still under impression of sudden Voviny death, I aimed to learn about destiny and other childhood friends, schoolmates and acquaintances. As who had a destiny.

In a century of “schoolmates“ and the Internet it as it is possible to guess, appeared to make not so - that difficult. In the beginning, after I rummaged in the most attentive way in “schoolmates“, the picture of future of my friends and acquaintances was drawn enough - idyllic, or, at least, quite usual, human. The got fat bodies and persons, with early bald heads and stomachs, at business, families, children, wives and husbands, against pyramids, palm trees, shish kebabs, cars and dogs, shone quite clear narrow-minded happiness for which it was possible to be glad together with them or to which, to such restless unsociable persons as to me, even to envy.

However, my further investigation, as well as had to, let and not Sherlock Holmes, but the persistent police dog obsessed to dig all truth, despite everything, brought me to not so optimistical vital stories: prison, murder, death.

Two of my best friends in the senior classes with which I spent all evenings in the eighth, ninth and tenth classes both, went to prison - one for theft, another for murder. At the last at all everything ended tragicly: divorce, prison, hospital, death in thirty five.

Three other schoolmates strongly sat down on a needle about ten years ago. What was with them now, - if was, - it is possible to present. One became an inveterate drunkard as early as years to ten that. Two other five years to that. Some “successfully“ became an inveterate drunkard and now what those who were with them in contact testified to.

A half of the interrogated schoolmates reluctantly admitted that were divorced (though I suspect what not all told me the truth - and who I am such that twenty years later before me to unburden the heart?) . Two or three went abroad, and with might and main assured me by sad voices and the same eyes that where - nibud in a Kansas one-storeyed remote place or the Bavarian remote place it was much better for them, than on the historical Homeland. Others told about successful business or magnificent trips to Maldives, but their gloomy shabby images spoke not in their advantage.

And the final statistics painted to a dantov a picture at all:
1) from thirty five people of my class, by thirty seven years old, survived thirty. Five were not any more.
2) From them, alcoholics and addicts, live and late, was not less than nine (I suspect that it is more).
3) Stayed in prison and being in it, was, according to different data, from five to seven people.
4) Divorced was more than a half. Some were married or is married for the second time or lived in a civil marriage.

About the others, acquaintances and friends, neighbors and casual companions, senior and younger, silly died, become an inveterate drunkard or gone to prison, I will hold back as dabs in this picture of destinies will be condensed even stronger, forcing will frown from pain and bewilderment.

Remarkable and truthful Remarque wrote about the “lost generation“. Generation of the people who endured World War I, escaped and the survivors crippled physically morally it is also moral that at the end all - to understand that in spite of the fact that they are living, all of them - are lost, that is are almost dead.

I think of mine “the lost generation“ - after disorder of the Union, “dashing nineties“, at present morally - moral revaluation of all values. We - the same lost generation which did not choose these times, but forcedly in them to live and survive. And the account is already taken into them on tens of lost lives. Even if in your class there were only thirty five people. Even if you are only thirty seven years old. And even if ahead still all such long life...