Rus Articles Journal

About freedom of speech of

Someone from known and eminent uttered that the poet in Russia - is more than the poet, someone that the writer - the engineer of human souls, mind, honor and conscience, and was always represented to me that really good and deep writer, or the journalist, or is, actually, unimportant who, surely has to suffer for the talent, mind, honesty, depth and to die as Mandelstam on transfer in yellow madness or to be badgered by the companions as Pasternak etc. That that the person is better and more qualitative, and it is unimportant, than he is engaged, than more he suffers for the beliefs. And the turning gray, obydenny, meshchanstvenny, the all at it “as at people“, quietly and peaceful. Because it is natural, though it is not really pleasant: in the world where the standard nonsense reigns, it is impossible to be not - the fool and with all in pleasant soul and to a synergy body. By the same hackneyed sokratovsky principle if the crowd praises you, ask a question that you do not so. And here if abuses, then, maybe, from you something acceptable will turn out.

Anyway (I quite allow, as it is possible to praise worthy, and to abuse bad - not everything absolutely, even from lips allegedly of Socrates), my literary synergy was taken and suddenly interrupted. 8 years of writing on the website, 350 stories and articles, 60 thousand. readers, 1,5 thousand reviews with rough polemic, the whole list of regular readers disappeared in a flash, having left behind capacious and prickly “For violation of the rules of the website the page of this author is removed“ … Is not present

, I am, of course, a philosopher, and on manuals of the favourite philosophers - I accept ascetics this insignificant incident in universum scales quite indifferently, with a smile and already almost without surprise to human rage, intolerance and nonsense, but in the once poetic imagination besides my will a certain small court yard with the summer lodge constructed on it, beds with onions is drawn, near a lilac bush where my friends gathered, saw tea with currant jam in the long summer evenings, spoke for life where came and not - friends with whom we argued, sometimes argued with fervency, both with friends and with not - friends, but for whom was always open an old creaking gate and there was a place in a shadow under a lilac bush, all this, that someone`s evil hand and took in a moment of an evil eye and broke by the principle “And my earth - that!“ - “And our website - that!“ … Though is not present

, not so. Too the picture turns out pastoral and peace, and I grudge the world for nonsense. Because too it is aggressive. I did not suffer it, frank, and there was it well too much. Was the pro-Russian chauvinism with all axioms inherent in fools too much - tendernesses, it seems “Akrymnash!“, “America, die!“, “Salokheroyam!“ and “Atyfashist!“ There is too much cheap and near patriotism. The threats veiled thickly. Narrow-minded hatred. Sedition is too much permissiveness one way where the Nazism and fascism - patriotism, and shouts “!“ in another where any attempt to understand and look under other foreshortening was inadmissible. It is too much, our and almost nothing from search of truth, the truth …

Of course, I am Pasternak, lips at me insufficiently Black and the look is mysterious, but for the writing and love to speak and write truthfully, the fact that I think and what, sometimes, alas, I see from me and relatives turned away, already and discharged from office and here and from the Internet - the literary tribe stones in a back expelled from a warm cave. And again my rich imagination instead of drawing to me pyshnogrudy and available girls who so are not enough for me in real life or a summer trip to belopesochny Zanzibar, draws to me a certain medieval fire on which burn my anti-human articles, even more anti-humane and mizantropichny reviews and comments …

“Needs to be written quietly and positively, without bringing in the reader`s heads a distemper“ - whether someone on an ear whispered to me, whether I just thought up it. No matter. The reader really does not love existential questions - bloody calfs on the slaughters harmful to his petty-bourgeois appetite or the Ukrainian claim for the peninsula of Crimea whose history begins exactly with Ekaterina and comes to an end with Khrushchev. The reader loves more about juicy chops and the nice Russian weapon which the most fair, very best on the earth. That it is optimistical, it is vital even if it and the weapon, but did not shout even if it and lie is thousandfold. And it is unimportant that the weapon shoots in both directions, the main thing it nice now here, the enemy there and Krymnash … such tribe, philosophers Was

once on the earth. And mizantropichny it, like Nietzsche, pessimistic, like Schopenhauer or gumanistichny, like Tolstoy or Kant, all of them, these degenerates of the human race, tried to open eyes human on imperfection human and to teach something more happily to be. But nothing, except one thousand misfortunes on the clever shaggy brains, any enlightenment universal, any gratitude of contemporaries, was attracted by them though, apparently, differently were not able any more. Again, I, of course, not Nietzsche - am not enough moustaches and unconditional belief in ubermenshy or there the barefoot bearded man - nasiliyuneprotivlenets - the astronaut Tolstoy, but I from the philosophy at me have less troubles and misfortunes, than from their combined. Just imagine instead of cleverly walking with a beer bottle in the company of some girlfriend, I silly try to change the whole imperfect world, in the person of some Ivanov Pyotr to Sidorycha or Petrova of Mar Ivanna, trying to convince these clever men that in it there are different people, with the different points of view, different experience and that they, you see do not understand something. And they rage, shout, roll out legs, and is not trusted them how it in their clever brains something is not glued …