Rus Articles Journal

Think of the silly person of

“Do not endeavor to be wise, know one:

Recognized himself as the fool

to be considered as to the have the right wise man,

A who repeats that he is a wise man,

That and is the fool.

(Sebastian Brandt “The ship of fools“)

I do not cease to marvel to that enormous number of clever men and clear heads which registered on prose. ru. The feeling is such that all clever and ingenious people of the planet gathered exactly here. In usual life the number of clever men and fools are more balanced in some way. And existence of conscience and common sense nevertheless sometimes get the best under severe looks of not virtual vis-a-vis. On prose every second deep-wise Seneca, every third historian with an experience, every fourth carrier of truth.

“I visited all countries of Latin America and got acquainted with all languages, traditions and cultures“ - wrote me one dear, of course expecting from me kneeling admiration and an immediate recognition of her absolute correctness.

“The role of Russia in the world was and remains criminal. It is (Russia) - an empire of evil. Porabotitelnitsa of the people. Fiend. The USA, on the contrary, bears to people of the world freedom and democracy. Etc.“ - other “independent“ expert.

“In days of VVO not twenty million Soviet people, and thirty five million two hundred fifty thousand died. Everyone disproving this figure - the liar!“ - the prozarushny historian declares.

And to that similar “truth“. One move studied all countries of Latin America, but reproaches me with a profound ignorance concerning the country in which I live. Another sees all rage of the world in Russia, and all good in the USA, not byv in the first several years. The third rewrites history on the as he is convinced, a right harmony. And even not to argue, and to simply argue, adduce the arguments and the facts, looking from the positions, from height of the experience, with these people it is impossible. They will listen to you only under one condition: you share their point of view and recognize their correctness. In an opposite case, you are a liar and the fool.

Reaches to the point of absurdity: I am reproached with an uzkozor even then when I write about the personal situations, experiences and feelings, it is frequent those who, at the moment, are in absolutely other situation, in other country, in other life.

Against all these homebrew philosophers, historians and political scientists I, the further live, the more I feel like the full idiot. Even not illiterate, unaware in something, and simply the numskull. Some so straight off also let know.

However, I also do not deny that I do not know an abyss of what. That constantly I doubt and ask questions in fidelity of the conclusions. I try to look from other side at a disputable situation. Sometimes I am stubborn, but my obstinacy is, as a rule, provoked by categoricalness of my “innocent“ interlocutors, and then always I regret it.

Having got acquainted with the always the right opponents is closer - as far as it allows the Internet - often it is found out that my colleagues are young, in real life sell computers or repair cars, and have not a direct bearing on objects of dispute. Their experience is limited to the read books and various information, it is a lot of obtained from mass media. From the interlocutors they, seemingly, wait for one: that those will be simply happy that they could join them, to truth carriers-)

“The person begins to philosophize when to it not what, more useful, to be engaged“.

About what writers prose only do not write. ru. On what burning topics do not argue. One, with all gravity as if their life depends on it, debate about post-and a neomodernism. Others as if for them this point of honor, narrate the friend the friend about how there took place World War I who got the best and who, on the contrary, messed up. The third argue furiously everything that there is no god, and they for certain know it, and everyone discordant - … well, you know.

On the first page - as speak now, “in a top“ - opuses about: hetero - and homosexual love, reminiscence, reviews of movies and books, disputes the friend with a druzhka about some, to the reader a little clear show off, historical sketches, melancholic etudes and other rubbish. Reasonings on global subjects: war and peace, justice and injustice, equality and inequality.

Here the author respected by me, in all paints, wrote a plaintive litany regarding offense and a claim to it - and to it is on five sheets. Did not regret the time and time of those who have to master all this. (By the way and why did not forgive that, did not address friendly, and exposed all names and events on main?) . In “novel“ all meanness of the opponent who that told that he thought and as behaved in detail reveals. Under the opus kilometers seriously of the written, thought over reviews and responses. Disputes. Fights. Arguments and counterarguments. Dear authors in search of truth.

I come to the author and friendly I hint at whether not to leave him these public showdowns, with washing of bones? That, say, not absolutely it beseems the person decent. That … But the author does not hear me. The author thirsts for righteousness. Truth and justice. Well, and, by the way, proofs of the correctness. Little by little. Further - it is more. And here the author has already claims to me, and at me to the author. We already discuss my moral shape. My utter nonsense. My human meanness … I achieved

of What? Anything. Lost the virtual companion who praised my immortal creations to high heaven only yesterday. Swore to me friendship. Invited on a visit. And here, everything failed at once. At once truth when to me took in head to be frank and sincere. Right, ridiculously.

There is other category: historians and political scientists. These exhaust the reader the improbable number of figures, the facts and events. One argue on Yeltsin. Others about Lenin. The third about Kennedy. The feeling is such as if it is, at least, eyewitnesses of events, but not prozarushny talkers who somehow should kill the working hours. Having dug up all these tons of figures on the Internet, having littered itself a brain all this stuff, they in every possible way try to litter now also to you brains. Forgive for vulgarity of revelation.

And almost nobody writes about what it is worth writing about. About the present, but not far-fetched. About what could move heart. About the life. Unvarnished lives. As it is.

Russia wins first place in Europe on number of abortions. Some just enormous figure. But almost nobody writes about it. As do not write about two million homeless, ten homeless, twenty alcoholics.

When argue on wars whether about Chechen or about Finnish, I have a feeling that prozarushny historians are engaged in pulling of a rope: who will be stronger, podkovanny. Who is more majestic. Who is better. Who is more correct. Argue on figures, on number of the beginning of war, on a death toll, on the one who as was armed. And extremely seldom speak about the victims of war. If speak about the person in the war, then, as about the winner. And as do not argue on the pathetic, blood-stained, spoiled person. Not interestingly.

Speak about Iraq. About Americans. About the coalition. About Saddam. And nobody will peep about thousands the victims that were hostages of this war. As lived for what died.

Prose. ru, for all years of the existence, saved just very heavy quantity of verbal stuff and long ago put a monument to human nonsense and vanity. The person is artless, incidentally got here, it has to be terrified to that phrase-mongering, boundless cynicism and vanity which will see here.

I admit, lately I gave in to this defect. To defect of a pursuit of a rating, behind success. Though, what, to hell, success. Fiction. In most cases mutual hypocrisy where came, ran an eye, it was noted. Also wait, as to you will come and will be noted.

As well as many, I ask a question: whether something to change time? Prose. ru - as offers the majority? And, maybe, nevertheless?

“Let`s live till Monday“

On Sunday incidentally came across on one of channels classics of the Soviet cinema “Let`s live till Monday“. Looked without coming off and all thought of how all of us changed. As I changed though to change it seems and I am not able.

What light and spiritual features. What simple and right words. What simple and sublime acts. What ridiculous for our time …

As our life changed. Here you live and you do not notice. And then, suddenly, you will regain consciousness, you will compare to how was and could be, and you see that the abyss divides you of that time from you present. Time passed. And you became better not … the Suit paints with

the person.

Decided to diversify the modest garderobchik and on Monday, for a change, pulled on himself the Polish suit that the fifth year hangs at me in a case. Only takes the place. To me, speak, suits go. I in them solid. Earlier, by youth trusted, and now because of the general beseeming dishonesty … goodness knows.

I do not love suits. I prefer sweaters. But on Monday nevertheless pulled on himself the hanged man.

At work the first colleague who appeared after me noted about himself mine comme il faut. The second was also late a look, but told nothing. The employee did not sustain and I took an interest “che it such beautiful“.

Walking along corridors, noticed how passers were validly pressed in a wall, smiled, excessively politely greeted. I understand that I “look solidly“, but it is only a suit. Or I am excessively hypochondriac?

In the dining room I was passed forward and put mashed potatoes more than usual. Usually unfriendly storekeeper ceased to brawl and even tried somehow is guilty to smile. The head of the technical department usually arrogant and haughty with special feeling shook hands with me as if he congratulated.

All day I felt dickey, guessing about the reasons of so obvious changes. And at the end of the day our oldest worker, on my surprise, explained: “They think that you were raised. Suits at us are worn by whom? Chiefs? Here and you in absentia made in chiefs“.

I, was, was upset because of such mercantile attention to the person: the person - cattle, nevertheless. And then, decided to laugh, marking out about itself those who, despite of my solid look, to me did not change the relation.