Dina Rubina Blackthorn.pptx - Presentation for D. Rubina's story "Thorn". E-book: “The Blackthorn” Quotes from the book “The Blackthorn” by Dean Rubin
The boy loved his mother. And she loved him passionately. But nothing meaningful came of this love.
However, it was generally difficult with his mother, and the boy had already gotten used to the potholes and potholes of her character. She was ruled by her mood, so the general line of their life changed five times a day.
Everything changed, even the names of things. For example, my mother sometimes called the apartment “apartment”, and sometimes sonorously and sublimely - “cooperative”!
“Cooperative” - he liked it, it sounded beautiful and sporty, like “avant-garde” and “record”, it’s just a pity that this usually happened when his mother got started.
– Why are you drawing on the wallpaper?! Are you crazy? – she screamed in an unnaturally pained voice. - Well, tell me: are you a man?! You're not a human! I'm obsessed with this damned cooperative like the last donkey, I sit at night on this fucking leftist work!!!
When the mother got tense, she became uncontrollable, and it was better to remain silent and listen to inarticulate cries. And it was even better to look straight into her angry eyes and put on the same pained expression on her face in time.
The boy looked very much like his mother. She stumbled upon this pained expression, as one stumbles upon a mirror in the dark, and immediately sank. He will only say exhaustedly: “You will someday become a man, huh?” And everything is fine, you can move on with your life.
It was difficult but interesting with my mother. When she was in a good mood, they came up with a lot of things and talked about a lot of things. In general, the mother had so many amazingly interesting things in her head that the boy was ready to listen to her endlessly.
– Marina, what did you dream about today? – he asked, barely opening his eyes.
-Will you drink milk?
- Well, I’ll drink it, but without foam.
“Without foam you’ll have a short nap,” she bargained.
- Okay, let's go with this crappy foam. Well, tell me.
– What did I dream about: about pirate treasures or how the Eskimos found a baby mammoth on an ice floe?
“About treasures...” he chose.
...In those rare moments when his mother was cheerful, he loved her to tears. Then she did not shout out incomprehensible words, but behaved like a normal girl from their group.
- Let's get mad! – he suggested in rapturous delight.
In response, the mother made a ferocious muzzle, approached him with outstretched fingers, growling in her gut:
- Ha-ha! Now I will squeeze this man!! - He froze for a moment in sweet horror, squealed... And then pillows flew around the room, chairs overturned, his mother chased him with terrible screams, and in the end they collapsed on the ottoman, exhausted from laughter, and he writhed from her pinches and pokes , tickling.
- Well, that's it... Let's put things in order. Look, it’s not an apartment, but God knows what...
- Let's squeeze me a little more! - he asked just in case, although he understood that the fun was over, his mother was no longer in the mood to rage.
He sighed and began to pick up pillows and lift chairs.
But most often they argued. There were prepositions - a carriage and a cart, choose which one you like. And when both are in a bad mood, then there is a special scandal. She grabbed the belt, lashed at whatever she hit - it didn’t hurt, her hand was light - but he screamed like a knife. Out of anger. They quarreled seriously: he locked himself in the toilet and from time to time shouted out from there:
– I’ll leave!! To hell with you!
- Come on, come on! – she shouted to him from the kitchen. - Go!
– You don’t care about me! I'll find myself another woman!
- Let's look... Why did you lock yourself in the toilet?..
...This is what stood between them like a wall, what spoiled, distorted, poisoned his life, what took his mother away from him - Left Work.
It is not clear where she came from, this Left Work, she was lying in wait for them like a bandit, from around the corner. She attacked their lives like a one-eyed pirate with a curved knife, and immediately subjugated everything to herself. She cut all her plans with this knife: the zoo on Sunday, reading “Tom Sawyer” in the evenings - everything, everything died, flew to hell, crashed into the damned Left Work. One might say that she was the third member of their family, the most important, because everything depended on her: whether they would go to the sea in July, whether they would buy their mother a coat for the winter, whether they would pay the rent on time on time. The boy hated Left Work and was painfully jealous of his mother.
- Well, why, why is she Left? - he asked with hatred.
- What a fool. Because I do the right one all day at work, in the editorial office. I edit other people's manuscripts. I get paid for this. But today I’ll write a review for a magazine, they’ll pay me thirty rubles for it, and we’ll buy you boots and a fur hat. Winter is coming...
On such days, my mother would sit in the kitchen until nightfall, typing on the typewriter, and it was useless to try to attract her attention - her gaze was absent, her eyes were bloodshot, and she was all nervous and alien. She silently warmed up his dinner, spoke in abrupt commands, and became irritated over trifles.
- Alive! Undress, go to bed, so you can't be seen or heard! I have urgent left work!
“For her to die...” the boy muttered.
He slowly undressed, climbed under the covers and looked out the window.
There was an old tree outside the window. The tree was called thorn. The thorns grew on it, huge and sharp. The boys use slingshots to shoot pigeons with such thorns. The mother once stood at the window, pressed her forehead against the glass and said to the boy:
- Here is a thorn tree. A very ancient tree. Do you see the thorns? These are thorns. People once wove a crown of thorns from such thorns and placed them on the head of one person.
- For what? - he was scared.
- It’s unclear... It’s still unclear...
- It hurt? – he asked, sympathizing with the unknown victim.
“It hurts,” she agreed simply.
- He cried?
“Ah,” the boy guessed. - He was a Soviet partisan...
The mother silently looked out the window at the old thorn tree.
-What was his name? - he asked.
She sighed and said clearly:
- Jesus Christ…
Blackthorn stretched his crooked hand with gnarled fingers towards the very bars of the window, like that beggar at the store to whom he and his mother always give a ten-kopeck piece. If you look closely, you can discern a large, clumsy letter “I” in the tangle of branches; it seems to be walking along the crossbar of a lattice.
The boy lay, looked at the letter “I” and came up with different paths for it. True, he did not do it as interestingly as his mother. The machine in the kitchen either chattered briskly or froze for several minutes. Then he got up and went out to the kitchen. The mother sat hunched over the typewriter, staring intently at the folded sheet. A lock of hair hung over his forehead.
- Well? – she asked briefly, without looking at the boy.
- I'm thirsty.
- Drink and go to bed!
-Are you going to bed soon?
- No. I'm busy…
- Why is he asking for money?
- Who?! – she screamed irritably.
- A beggar near the store.
- Go to sleep! I am busy. After.
-Can't he make money?
– Will you leave me alone today?! – the mother shouted in an exhausted voice. – I have to submit a radio program tomorrow! Go to bed!
The boy silently left and lay down.
But a minute or two would pass, and the chair in the kitchen would move away with a roar, and the mother would run into the room and abruptly, nervously say:
- He can’t make money! Understand?! It happens. Man has no strength. There is no strength either to earn money or to live in the world. Maybe there was great grief, war, maybe something else... I drank myself to death! Broke... No strength...
- Do you have strength? – he asked worriedly.
- Hello, I compared! - she was indignant and ran to the kitchen - knocking and knocking on the damned Left Work.
The mother had strength, a lot of strength. In general, the boy believed that they lived richly. At first, when they left their father, they lived with their mother’s friend, Aunt Tamara. It was good there, but my mother once had a fight with Uncle Seryozha because of some Stalin. The boy thought at first that Stalin was Marin’s acquaintance, who had really annoyed her. But it turned out - no, she didn’t see him. Then why quarrel with friends over a stranger! His mother once started telling him about Stalin, but he turned a deaf ear - it turned out to be a boring story.
Blackthorn by Dean Rubin
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Title: Blackthorn
About the book "Blackthorn" by Dean Rubin
People meet, people fall in love, get married. The beginning of a fairy tale as old as time. The beginning of a new life, a new family and the emergence of new hopes. And then the little people who came into this world and need all-encompassing love and boundless care. And parents, for the most part, try to surround their children with this love and care. They try their best. But it often happens that the world in which a child lives suddenly collapses. The parents decide that the child will no longer have a family, but that there will be a separate mother and a separate father. Is it worth reminding that the psyche of a child, unlike an adult, is very fragile. Therefore, any shocks can have an unpredictably negative impact on this child in the future.
For many reasons, but mainly in order to draw the attention of parents to the horror of divorce and their danger for children, Dina Rubina, a true artist of words, an unsurpassed writer, whose works are always unusually deep and piercing, created one of the most unique works in her creativity - the novel "Thorn". Only after reading it will it become clear that a better title for this novel could not have been invented.
The plot of "The Blackthorn", at first glance, is simple and predictable to the point of banality. Parents, child, divorce. And then events develop, as in life. But the peculiarity of the novel is that the narration is narrated by a child. A little boy's ingenuous, unbiased look at the injustice of life and the cruelty of the world. He speaks as he sees, as he feels - deeply, painfully, hopelessly, sadly. It breaks your heart when you read about things that are already normal in our society, the story of the child himself.
The depth of feelings is what Rubina managed to convey unsurpassedly in this novel. In addition, the second storyline, when the mother tells the boy about the war, is a real example for parents to follow. This is how you need to talk to children about difficult topics. Especially with those who became adults too quickly.
Blackthorn is a book that makes you think. The deepest philosophical meaning, coupled with a touch of slight sadness and the understanding that this story will not have a happy ending - this is the true leitmotif of the novel. Like all of Rubina’s works, this book is unique in its own way, full of uncomfortable questions, but still incredibly interesting and instructive. It will be useful for absolutely everyone to read, regardless of age and literary preferences. Enjoy a fascinating read.
On our website about books, you can download the site for free without registration or read online the book “Blackthorn” by Dean Rubin in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and real pleasure from reading. You can buy the full version from our partner. Also, here you will find the latest news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For beginning writers, there is a separate section with useful tips and tricks, interesting articles, thanks to which you yourself can try your hand at literary crafts.
Quotes from the book "Blackthorn" by Dean Rubin
Yes, the father gave funny gifts... The mother gave boring ones. Some boots for the winter, or a jacket with a hood, or a suit. And she herself was terribly happy about these gifts, forced him to put them on, walk around the room in front of her and turn around a hundred times.
Current page: 1 (book has 2 pages in total) [available reading passage: 1 pages]
Rubina Dina
Blackthorn
Dina Rubina
BLACKTHORN
The boy loved his mother. And she loved him passionately. But nothing meaningful came of this love.
However, it was generally difficult with his mother, and the boy had already gotten used to the potholes and potholes of her character. She was ruled by her mood, so the general line of their life changed five times a day.
Everything changed, even the names of things. For example, the mother sometimes called the apartment “apartment”, and sometimes sonorously and sublimely - “cooperative!”
“Cooperative” - he liked it, it sounded beautiful and sporty, like “avant-garde” and “record”, it’s just a pity that this usually happened when his mother got started.
– Why are you drawing on the wallpaper?! Are you crazy? – she screamed in an unnaturally pained voice. - Well, tell me: are you a man?! You're not a human! I'm obsessed with this damned cooperative like the last donkey, I sit at night on this fucking leftist work!!
When the mother got tense, she became uncontrollable, and it was better to remain silent and listen to inarticulate cries. And it was even better to look straight into her angry eyes and put on the same pained expression on her face in time.
The boy looked very much like his mother. She stumbled upon this pained expression, as one stumbles upon a mirror in the dark, and immediately sank. He will only say exhaustedly: “You will someday become a man, huh?” And everything is fine, you can move on with your life.
It was difficult but interesting with my mother. When she was in a good mood, they came up with a lot of things and talked about a lot of things. In general, the mother had so many amazingly interesting things in her head that the boy was ready to listen to her endlessly.
– Marina, what did you dream about today? – he asked, barely opening his eyes.
-Will you drink milk?
- Well, I’ll drink it, but without foam.
“Without foam, there will be a short nap,” she bargained.
- Okay, let's go with this crappy foam. Well, tell me.
– What did I dream about: about pirate treasures or how the Eskimos found a baby mammoth on an ice floe?
“About treasures...” he chose.
In those rare moments when his mother was cheerful, he loved her to the point of tears. Then she did not shout out incomprehensible words, but behaved like a normal girl from their group.
- Let's get mad! – he suggested in rapturous delight.
In response, the mother made a ferocious muzzle, approached him with outstretched fingers, growling in her gut:
- Ha-ha! Now I will squeeze this man!! - He froze for a moment in sweet horror, squealed... And then pillows flew around the room, chairs overturned, his mother chased after him with terrible screams, and in the end they collapsed on the ottoman, exhausted from laughter, and he writhed from her pinches , poking, tickling.
- Well, that's it... Let's put things in order. Look, it's not an apartment, but God knows what...
- Let's squeeze me a little more! - he asked just in case, although he understood that the fun was over, his mother was no longer in the mood to rage. He sighed and began to pick up pillows and lift chairs.
But most often they argued. There were prepositions - a carriage and a cart, choose which one you like. And when both are in a bad mood, then there is a special scandal. She grabbed the belt, lashed at whatever she hit - it didn’t hurt, her hand was light - but he screamed like a knife. Out of anger. They quarreled seriously: he locked himself in the toilet and from time to time shouted out from there:
– I’ll leave!! To hell with you!
- Come on, come on! – she shouted to him from the kitchen. - Go!
– You don’t care about me! I'll find myself another woman!
- Let's look... Why did you lock yourself in the toilet?.. ... That's what stood between them, like a wall, what spoiled, distorted, poisoned his life, what took his mother away from him - Left Work.
It is not clear where she came from, this Left Work, she was lying in wait for them, like a bandit, from around the corner. She attacked their lives like a one-eyed pirate with a curved knife, and immediately subjugated everything to herself. She cut all her plans with this knife: the zoo on Sunday, reading “Tom Sawyer” in the evenings - everything, everything died, went to hell, crashed into the damned Left Work. One could say that she was the third member of their family, the most important, because everything depended on her: whether they would go to the sea in July, whether they would buy their mother a coat for the winter, whether they would pay the rent on time on time. The boy hated Left Work and was painfully jealous of his mother.
- Well, why, why is she Left? - he asked with hatred.
- What a fool. Because I do the right one all day at work, in the editorial office. I edit other people's manuscripts. I get paid for this. But today I’ll write a review for a magazine, they’ll pay me thirty rubles for it, and we’ll buy you boots and a fur hat. Winter is coming...
On such days, my mother would sit in the kitchen until nightfall, typing on the typewriter, and it was useless to try to attract her attention - her gaze was absent, her eyes were bloodshot, and she was all nervous and alien. She silently warmed up his dinner, spoke in abrupt commands, and became irritated over trifles.
- Alive! Undress, go to bed, so you can't be seen or heard! I have urgent left work!
“For her to die...” muttered the boy. He slowly undressed, climbed under the covers and looked out the window.
There was an old tree outside the window; The tree was called thorn. The thorns grew on it, huge and sharp. The boys use slingshots to shoot pigeons with such thorns. The mother once stood at the window, pressed her forehead against the glass and said to the boy:
- Here is a thorn tree. A very ancient tree. Do you see the thorns? These are thorns. People once wove a crown of thorns from such thorns and placed them on the head of one person...
- For what? - he was scared.
– It’s unclear... It’s still unclear...
- It hurt? – he asked, sympathizing with the unknown victim.
“It hurts,” she agreed simply.
- He cried?
“Ah,” the boy guessed. - He was a Soviet partisan...
The mother silently looked out the window at the old thorn tree.
-What was his name? - he asked. She sighed and said clearly:
- Jesus Christ...
Blackthorn stretched his crooked hand with gnarled fingers towards the very bars of the window, like that beggar at the store to whom he and his mother always give a ten-kopeck piece. If you look closely, you can discern a large, clumsy letter “I” in the tangle of branches; it seems to be walking along the crossbar of a lattice.
end of introductory fragment
Rubina Dina
Blackthorn
Dina Rubina
BLACKTHORN
The boy loved his mother. And she loved him passionately. But nothing meaningful came of this love.
However, it was generally difficult with his mother, and the boy had already gotten used to the potholes and potholes of her character. She was ruled by her mood, so the general line of their life changed five times a day.
Everything changed, even the names of things. For example, the mother sometimes called the apartment “apartment”, and sometimes sonorously and sublimely - “cooperative!”
“Cooperative” - he liked it, it sounded beautiful and sporty, like “avant-garde” and “record”, it’s just a pity that this usually happened when his mother got started.
Why are you drawing on the wallpaper?! Are you crazy? - she screamed in an unnaturally pained voice. - Well, tell me: are you a man?! You're not a human! I'm obsessed with this damned cooperative like the last donkey, I sit at night on this fucking leftist work!!
When the mother got tense, she became uncontrollable, and it was better to remain silent and listen to inarticulate cries. And it was even better to look straight into her angry eyes and put on the same pained expression on her face in time.
The boy looked very much like his mother. She stumbled upon this pained expression, as one stumbles upon a mirror in the dark, and immediately sank. He will only say exhaustedly: “You will someday become a man, huh?” And everything is fine, you can move on with your life.
It was difficult but interesting with my mother. When she was in a good mood, they came up with a lot of things and talked about a lot of things. In general, the mother had so many amazingly interesting things in her head that the boy was ready to listen to her endlessly.
Marina, what did you dream about today? - he asked, barely opening his eyes.
Will you drink milk?
Well, I'll drink it, but without foam.
Without foam, there will be a short sleep,” she bargained.
Okay, let's go with this crappy foam. Well, tell me.
What did I dream about: about pirate treasures or how the Eskimos found a baby mammoth on an ice floe?
About treasures... - he chose.
In those rare moments when his mother was cheerful, he loved her to the point of tears. Then she did not shout out incomprehensible words, but behaved like a normal girl from their group.
Let's get mad! - he suggested in rapturous delight.
In response, the mother made a ferocious muzzle, approached him with outstretched fingers, growling in her gut:
Ha-ga! Now I will squeeze this man!! - He froze for a moment in sweet horror, squealed... And then pillows flew around the room, chairs overturned, his mother chased after him with terrible screams, and in the end they collapsed on the ottoman, exhausted from laughter, and he writhed from her pinches , poking, tickling.
Well, that's it... Let's put things in order. Look, it's not an apartment, but God knows what...
Let's squeeze me a little more! - he asked just in case, although he understood that the fun was over, his mother was no longer in the mood to rage. He sighed and began to pick up pillows and lift chairs.
But most often they argued. There were prepositions - a carriage and a cart, choose which one you like. And when both are in a bad mood, then there is a special scandal. She grabbed the belt, lashed at whatever she hit - it didn’t hurt, her hand was light - but he screamed like a knife. Out of anger. They quarreled seriously: he locked himself in the toilet and from time to time shouted out from there:
I'll leave!! To hell with you!
Come on, come on! - she shouted to him from the kitchen. - Go!
You don't care about me! I'll find myself another woman!
Let's look... Why did you lock yourself in the toilet?.. ...That's what stood between them, like a wall, what spoiled, distorted, poisoned his life, what took his mother away from him - Left Work.
It’s unclear where she came from, this Left Work, she was lying in wait for them like a bandit around the corner. She attacked their lives like a one-eyed pirate with a curved knife, and immediately subjugated everything to herself. She cut all her plans with this knife: the zoo on Sunday, reading “Tom Sawyer” in the evenings - everything, everything died, went to hell, crashed into the damned Left Work. One might say that she was the third member of their family, the most important, because everything depended on her: whether they would go to the sea in July, whether they would buy their mother a coat for the winter, whether they would pay the rent on time on time. The boy hated Left Work and was painfully jealous of his mother.
Why, why is she Left? - he asked with hatred.
What a fool. Because I do the right one all day at work, in the editorial office. I edit other people's manuscripts. I get paid for this. But today I’ll write a review for a magazine, they’ll pay me thirty rubles for it, and we’ll buy you boots and a fur hat. Winter is coming...
On such days, my mother sat in the kitchen until the night, pounding on the typewriter, and it was useless to try to attract her attention - her gaze was absent, her eyes were bloodshot, and she was all nervous and alien. She silently warmed up his dinner, spoke in abrupt commands, and became irritated over trifles.
Alive! Undress, go to bed, so you can't be seen or heard! I have urgent left work!
So that she dies... - the boy muttered. He slowly undressed, climbed under the covers and looked out the window.
There was an old tree outside the window; The tree was called thorn. The thorns grew on it, huge and sharp. The boys use slingshots to shoot pigeons with such thorns. The mother once stood at the window, pressed her forehead against the glass and said to the boy:
Here is a thorn tree. A very ancient tree. Do you see the thorns? These are thorns. People once wove a crown of thorns from such thorns and placed them on the head of one person...
For what? - he was scared.
But it’s unclear... It’s still unclear...
It hurt? - he asked, sympathizing with the unknown victim.
It hurts,” she agreed simply.
He cried?
“Ah,” the boy guessed. - He was a Soviet partisan...
The mother silently looked out the window at the old thorn tree.
What was his name? - he asked. She sighed and said clearly:
Jesus Christ...
Blackthorn stretched his crooked hand with gnarled fingers towards the very bars of the window, like that beggar at the store to whom he and his mother always give a ten-kopeck piece. If you look closely, you can discern a large, clumsy letter “I” in the tangle of branches; it seems to be walking along the crossbar of a lattice.