Rus Articles Journal

What there is a conscience? And whether there is it?

What is conscience? Perhaps with - the message is only a certain similar idea of group of people, a certain society, of things, of what is possible and that it is impossible that is good and that it is bad, proceeding from with - popularity - mutual, identical knowledge and same similar thinking? And something can another, something this from above, divine, immutable, for all times? Perhaps conscience is impartial God in soul of everyone, a true criterion of all acts human, the highest absolute of correctness?

In due time, the own understanding, feeling of conscience, and its interpretation is peculiar to any people. Speak, to the ancient Greeks who succeeded not only in architecture and literature, but also in comprehension of human nature, the concept of conscience was not familiar. Ancient Romans were a little sovestlivy the predecessors, and, having terrified by something, for example, in their opinion barbarous, continually exclaimed “ O tempora, o mores!“ - about times, about customs! And some twenty years to that, our fathers and mothers, still lived under excellent laws of morals and morality, than we live now. And nowadays, on a joint of centuries, morals and ideas of the good and evil, all of us are forced to exist in somebody moral chaos when former is not forgotten yet and new is not imparted yet. That is, according to Confucians, all of us are damned because we live at the time of changes. Or changes of representations.

And now, in the spirit of the subject set above, I would like to tell the following. Recently I was summoned by my director. And it is almost friendly, - that for it it is absolutely unusual, - prolopotat: “Igor, be in so many there today - that“. “Of course, Bronislav Dormitondych!“ - I as our director blurted out as, probably, both all other directors and big - very big chiefs of the whole world, very much does not love refusals to hear well. They, these refusals, well very much upset them. And then it affects work of plant, branch, the whole country. I already knew about it and therefore I in the best traditions of altruism and philanthropy, did not refuse to the director.

There - that in so many us gathered three. We were put in the car and carried there-. More true not there - that, and straight to the director home. To admit, I from the most management offer to pass there - that in so many, understood that from me wait, but did not begin to disclose an intrigue, with some pleasure watching physiognomies of the still the unexperienced fellow travelers tormenting itself with the questions “Where?“ and “For What?“. “And suddenly a garden - mazo - a group sex?!“. “And suddenly dismembered body?!“.

We were brought to a country mansion of our boss on sonorous Zagadochnaya Street. Long ago it is noticed that surnames of people and the name of places very often fine answer character them carrying. Notice and emphasize it. So, Zagadochnaya Street was entirely built up two - and three-storyed mansions, with turrets and penthouses of the most gentle tones and shades, for high of excellent stones fences. For me was mysterious - from where honest - the prechestny person of our time living not in Lausanne and even not in San - the Track, can scare up on corn bins on a three-storyed lodge in the village.

The residence of our chief was “not a finger struganny too“. Two-storeyed a gromina of a white stone, with a chopped bath, a personal plot, the pool and all other affairs. And brought us there in order that … to help to drag any weights because the chief conceived the next repair, and hands for its full-blooded implementation by the standards of the modest inhabitant of heaven, you understand, was not enough.

While in my department one and a half gone mad from the work of the woman which fell down their shoulders (one and a half because one of them the newcomer), for lack of those who were in business trip rushed about as scatty chickens with the chopped-off heads, trying to keep up somehow with the shadow while I, not the loader and not the servant of the owner, was forced to drag sofas, chairs and other chairs, is more and more and further plunging in native to me pessimism, asking eternal questions, it seems, why I came to this earth and what sense of my life.

During a smoke break which served us instead of a lunch (paraphrasing a Latin saying “Who sleeps - that has dinner“, I would tell in the spirit of the situation “Who smokes - that has dinner“) I noted about myself a number of very remarkable features of a picturesque landscape of a country chalet of the boss: lawns around the pool were utykana “production“ of the enterprise which was headed by our “developer“ (means “improving the wild nature“). It was on all country lock. About myself I presented the owner who is buying our products in our shops and accurately filing each check for them. Aha, as if not so!

Between times - dragging of a sofa and its back, I remembered there is nobody the employee of our nice enterprise who was dismissed for the fact that the vigilant checkpoint detained him with a nail in a pocket. The criminal hung month on a shame board, it was in every possible way declined on planning meetings and five-minutes, and then dismissed. A nail and a mansion with a site, utykanny our products. A mansion with a site and a nail …

So we worked all lunch and a little bit after it. Us it is highly experienced directed our dear director who arrived after a lunch on office “Porsche“, his dear son, in combination our chief of it is that department and their dear grandnephew, in combination our chief of another of it - that department. Tearing itself a navel, I continually pictured in the uneasy and absolutely wrong mind alternately the colleagues damning me for my unclear absence within three hours surrounded with a gang of the clients extorting our production, a hawt borshchik with a pyureshka, a cutlet and salatiky by which, in an armpit with a chair and a sofa I selflessly walked, the dear late mother who is reproachfully swinging the gray-haired head and whispering: what you the son, the kowtow on such indecent business?

During smoke breaks which were to us instead of a lunch I learned that one from my “accomplices“ sadly admitted that it to our dear chief and the pool dug, and rubat a bath. Other mine with - the taskatel of sofas and chairs was, as well as I, am picturesquely gloomy and significantly thoughtful. Likely, his late mother seemed to it too.

To what all is the banal story? Probably, to the fact that I do not cease to be surprised to impudence and patience blood me Slavs. And also I am gnawed by cocktail out of feelings and feelings of the most different tastes and shades, beginning with banal envy and finishing with banal indignation. Envy quickly passes - all - I, alas, not the materialist. The indignation remains - I hate the materialists using me in the materialistic purposes.

So there is a conscience? Whether my director using me in the needs has a conscience? Whether I used in needs of the director have a conscience? And if is, then what it colors? What on taste? By sight?

And most important: any person, for example my director, for example, in this case, is absolutely impenetrable. It is impenetrable - because trusts. Trusts sincerely, with feeling, a heat and enthusiasm. Trusts - but not in god, and in the fact that and has to be. That it is norm. That such is an order of things. He is a mercy barin. I am his obedient lackey. And everything is all right. And still “weighty“ argument in its protection: so all do. All do so …

So conscience is? And whether there is it?