Misanthropy 2 O writing ofit is possible to Write something important only on a hungry stomach. And in the last stage of a nervous tension after something excited you, surprised, revolted. And it is even better - blew up, incinerated, killed. Having come from the bored work, having got out of the crowded bus, having returned from hospital, from war, a next world. Only then it is possible to transfer, by means of clumsy words and phrases, a hundredth part of THAT, NECESSARY, REAL. But there is the following question: who needs IT? And whether it is necessary in general?
Of course, it is possible to write when it is full, and it is drunk, cheerful and self-sufficient. But it will already be other prose. Perhaps, easy. Perhaps, ironic. Perhaps, empty. But pleasant to the majority. Though, perhaps, she will also endure you as writer, but not your deep, scraping on back streets souls, pessimistic essays.
It is possible even to write something very serious when you are full, drunk and quite happy, but for this purpose it is necessary to have the covered with wounds soul and the aching heart which have continually an effect. Well, and both that, and another it is possible to cover with wounds even about gentle cheeks of the darling - if you have a sensitive organism.
I am often asked: why you such angry in the writing? Ha. And unless it is possible to be do-good when around it is created? - I answer. What? - they ask. There is no war. There is no hunger. There is no ruin. And sausage is. Hm - I think - whether it is possible to explain to the person something about something, akromya wars and sausages if he asks such questions? Whether it is necessary? I do not know. Almost it is never impossible to me. But, probably, for everything there is time. The hilenky mot thrown by you will fall in a fertile field of zazombirovanny reader`s reason and will give tiny shoots. And, perhaps, years so through - to dtsat he or she will remember that at the beginning there was a word. Though, hardly. But it, personally, afflicts me a little. The main thing, that the Truth Tree - well, either at least the Half-truth, or at least Polupolupravda, because where it, the Truth that? - in the sea of lie, lies and false cares got stronger and yielded the fruits.
How it is possible to write only about “light, kind and eternal“ when in the world, where do you live, every sixth swells from hunger? How it is possible to tell with affection the enthusiastic reader only about the gentle love to the woman, children - to flowers of life and to write touching verses about our old men when in your own country millions homeless, so you beloved children, sleep in collectors and smell “Moment“, thousands of women voluntarily go with unloved to overseas bed - and not all from them mercantile nymphomaniacs, and our native old men finish the days at infected with pestilence nursing homes, and we have no time? Of course, no.
How it is possible to enjoy only in verses and prose the plain life when at this moment of your boundless pleasure, this life is absent any more for ten abortirovanny human beings which any more never learn that it even such life?
War and ruin from our streets and the cities moved in our heads. Only we do not want it to recognize in any way. As that insane hitting themselves with fists into a breast and furiously arguing first of all to themselves that they that are normal. A devil not near us, it - in us.
No, it is necessary to write only about problems, dirt and horror - with an acidity not really attentive reader who and himself brought “fans of a positive“ in this legion sneers.
Well why “only“. Not only. About light it is necessary too - we lack it so. And about kind. And, of course, about eternal. But only through dark. Through terrible. Through dirty. Because there is a lot of these dark tones in our life, ours minds, our bodies. They everywhere. And differently it turns out, forgive for banality, a fiddle while Rome burns. Plague there, behind windows, and inside festival.
And I know well what I speak about. I do not scare stiff. I do not exaggerate. I underestimate rather. This confidence press hangs a stone on heart and only sometimes releases. The confidence the mountain on shoulders presses it and pulls to the earth. Because it is enough to pass to me by the dirty grandmother who is pottering about in a trash can understand all lie of this world. The face of not born child that the nobility as incorrectly I live is enough to dream. There is enough, from - for robotic the repaid nasal rhetoric to see and hear Iraq, Afghanistan, Chechnya and all wars combined that know that where war - God and the Truth is not present that we were not spoken by our governors.
It is enough to listen and understand than today there lives the unfortunate majority sacredly believing that they are lucky because they have a good work, the car, a country house on the Azure coast with the last bit of strength not to allow itself to begin to hate all this.
For us everyone who is good for us personally is good, be it though three times the rascal for other world (a conclusion from talk with people on “Who Is the Good Person?“). Everyone not greeted us, or not supported us in our next nonsense even if it regularly consists in Salvation army and every evening feeds with soup of the homeless, it is automatically mentally enlisted in a camp of “unpleasant companions“, and later and enemies.
“I do not need such friends who criticize me even if and on business. What it is friends? Are necessary to me such which always support me“ (from verbalizations of the middle-aged familiar lady with the higher education).
«For us any good cause bringing personally to us benefit. Or almost everyone“. Even if this theft, plunder, forgery, arson, bribe, poaching and so forth. Everything listed finds weighty justifications in quick lips, dressing more beautiful for an eye and an ear of clothes and sounds.
I, by the way, rank also as many aforesaid … however I am not repaid. Or rather, often I try to justify myself. But it is very unconvincing. Perhaps therefore I will live not for long.