Rov Voznesensky analysis. "It was not the villains of antiquity who did it, but the people of today" Andrey Voznesensky. The poem "Rov. Where are you going, ditch

Andrey Voznesensky Virabov Igor Nikolaevich

Where are you going, moat?

In January 1985, Literaturnaya Gazeta published Voznesensky's Ecology of Culture. This is a kind of review, a broad commentary on the readers' letters, which the editors were inundated with in response to the publication of Voznesensky's essay "Foremen of the Spirit." "Strange affair! - Voznesensky himself will be surprised. “Months have passed, a book under the same title has already been published, but the mail continues to go.”

Who are the authors of those letters? From what planet? What galaxy will they all disappear into - in a very short time? Engineers, designers, teachers, young scientists, museum workers, workers from everywhere - from Omsk, Saratov, Voronezh, from Kyiv and Vitebsk, Vladivostok and Arkhangelsk. Letters like those to which the poet diligently answers will soon not remain in nature. Not just anyone, but precisely the authors of such letters (each one is like an ode to selflessness and, without any pathos, care for the motherland) by the end of the 20th century, time will leave with nothing. Not just anyone, but they will be weathered, completely blown out by the “winds of change”. Voznesensky answers them admiringly - not yet suspecting that they are all "stupid unselfishness", "trinkets of idealism", "shortcomings of romance", "remnants of faiths", "fiends of the system", and so on and so forth. “If you are so smart, why are you so poor” - will become the most common aphorism of the new era, in which the authors of these letters will not even have a place. Quite a bit of time will pass. For now…

For now, we are reading what Voznesensky wrote.

“Anxiety about a departing culture is the main note of the letters that came after the publication of “Foremen of the Spirit”… It is joyful that the idea of ascetics of the spirit, concern about culture, stirred so many hearts. They write to the editorial office, to the Writers' Union, to their home, they give the names of their unmercenaries, "foremen of the spirit" and "foremen of the scent", indicate emergency points and ways of correction - it means that this coincided with their own thoughts, with the active principle in them, which means they share the idea that culture is reserved, that culture is in danger…”

“The ecological extinction of the internal spiritual environment is much more dangerous than the external one. If the first fails, the second will die.

“We measure the degree of radiation with a Geiger counter, determine the pollution of the environment and the shallowing of lakes, but how can we measure the spiritual shallowing when they learn about Caligula or Mozart only from videotapes with almost a total non-reading of the entire “War and Peace”?!

“There is an ecological balance of culture. Tolstoy is interconnected with Turgenev. Rimbaud is the rib from which new European poetry was born. The American novel of the 20th century is connected with the Russian prose of the 19th century. The typhoon of futurism walked across the borders.

Is it possible to create a Society for the Ecology of Culture, inviting Academician D.S. Likhachev to head it? This would be the social control of Culture. The society would include not only the capital's luminaries, but also the foremen of the spirit of Saratov and Penza and, of course, young enthusiasts. The processes of the culture of the century must be studied while the century is still alive, so that our descendants do not rack their brains over the blank spots of spiritual history.

“On New Year's Eve, a letter arrived from across the ocean from Gary Snyder, America's greatest poet and culture recluse. “Brother Andrey,” he begins old-fashioned, asking how I liked the “ecological jazz” of Paul Winter, leading a duet on saxophone with a wolf, and writes about his concern for our civilization. “The planet does not belong to anyone. We have to save her." His hope is children. He offers "pigeon mail" - let the children write letters to governments and this snowfall of millions of letters will bring monster rockets ... "

Naive people - they were naive on either side of the ocean. What are they for? To hope ... For this, to them, who seemed like kindred spirits, the poet is grateful:

Farewell, Saratov! Farewell, restless swallows of culture! Thank you for the hope. Sorry to those who didn't answer. I will answer in verse.

Here is another envelope: “Write on a postcard something from your latest book. Zhuravlev, mountains. Kuibyshev".

Germany is known for Luther.

The twenties - Tatlin.

The states are strong in computers.

Russia is a reader.

He awakens the mind and conscience.

The cassettes have been fixed.

Will there be no books in the future?

But there will be readers.

("Subscription")

And a year later, a monstrous, looting "Ditch" was exposed. "Where are you going, moat? Shadows follow us. The words come alive."

The Ditch, written by Voznesensky in 1986, must be re-read to try to understand where something comes from, why history will turn so wildly in the new century. "Ditch" explains a lot about humanity digging a hole for itself. And in an unfinished, it turns out, war.

Where are you going, moat? Where are you going, moat? Where are you going, moat? These refrains cut right through the poem. Why does Voznesensky, with all the ambition of the poet, suddenly sign so mercilessly in its formal imperfection - "Actually, the poem was not an aesthetic masterpiece"? Because they don't care about the little things. Because for the Russian poet the concept is the most important: purpose. It was impossible not to write. The poem "The Ditch" was scribbled with tracing quotations from criminal case No. 1586. Cases about grave diggers. About marauders of memory. "The poem was a vehicle for revealing the terrible truth."

“Is what I write a poem? A cycle of poems? That's what interests me the least. I'm interested in less evil. The sooty skull looks at me. The more I collect evil on the pages, the less of it will remain in my life. Is prose compatible with poetry? And evil with life?

I got the materials of the criminal case from friends-investigators, the already mentioned Crimean friend of Voznesensky, the poet Alexander Tkachenko. Read - hair on end. How to print this? There was also no talk of publication - threats poured from the handset. “I realized that I couldn’t cope with this alone ... Only Andrei Voznesensky, with whom I was friends, could help me stop the looting. I called him and said: “Andrey, come to Crimea urgently, there is a very serious matter.” And indeed, two or three days later, and this was at the end of March, he arrived.

With my friends Vladimir Vasilyevich Zubarev, chairman of the bar, and photographer Arkady Levin, we went to the excavations right from the airport.”

Voznesensky remembered how once, at a military training camp in Lvov, he visited an artificial lake, which flooded the place of mass atrocities. Why flooded? To hide the horror? In order not to remind you of local volunteers, with whose hands the invaders, who loved Goethe and Wagner, exterminated darkness, and darkness and darkness of human material? To avoid looting? And this, and this, and that... The same ditches cut into the Baltic states, and Belarus, and the Crimea that became Ukrainian under Khrushchev. They learned about Babi Yar near Kyiv thanks to Viktor Nekrasov and Yevgeny Yevtushenko. Even earlier, Ilya Selvinsky’s poems appeared, written in 1942 in Kerch, “I saw it!”: “Ditch ... Can you say about it in a poem? / Seven thousand corpses. Semites… Slavs… / Yes! This cannot be said. / Fire! Only fire!"

And a red stream

from a child's ear

Drains into

maternal

Then, in 1986, the shadows were still creeping in the night. But the hour will strike, they will still call themselves "heroes" ... Did the poet foresee this? That's why I warned: where are you going, moat ...

“At one time I wrote the poem “Live Lake”, dedicated to the Transcarpathian ghetto, shot during the war years by the Nazis and flooded with water, - Voznesensky begins his “Moat” with this. “Last year I read these poems at a party in Richmond. After the evening I was approached by Uliana Gabarra, professor of literature at the University of Richmond. There was no blood in her face. One look. She said that her whole family died in this lake. She herself was a baby then, miraculously escaped, then ended up in Poland. Then to the States.

This poem was once illustrated by Chagall. In the foreground of his drawing, the child is numb on his mother's lap. Now for me it’s Uliana Gabarra.”

On April 8, 1986, General Secretary Gorbachev will pronounce the word "perestroika" in Tolyatti. The country will tremble with joy - it does not yet know that now it will have to tremble often.

The day before, on April 7, Voznesensky arrived at the tenth kilometer of the Feodosia highway. In December 1941, here, near Simferopol, 12,000 civilians and prisoners were shot. The usual humanitarian action of the Third Reich. The taxi driver, Vasily Fedorovich Lesnykh, while driving, told Andrei Andreyevich how he ran with the boys - he was ten years old - to watch how they were shot: “They brought them in covered cars. Stripped down to underwear. An anti-tank ditch ran from the highway. So, we had to ditch them and beat them with a machine gun. They all shouted terribly - a groan stood over the steppe. It was December. Everyone took off their galoshes. Several thousand galoshes lay ...

Yes, I also remembered - there was a table where the passports were taken away. The whole steppe was littered with passports. Many were buried half-dead. The earth breathed. Then we found a box of shoe polish in the steppe. Heavy. It contained a gold chain and two coins. So, all the savings of the family. People carried the most valuable things with them. Then I heard who opened this burial, dug up a little gold. They were judged last year. Well, you already know about this ... I have a neighbor, Valya Perekodnik. He may have been the only one saved. His mother pushed him out of the car on the way.”

Many were buried in lowlands where it is cold. Many of the bodies are well preserved many years later. The grave was dug up by marauders. Voznesensky and his friends arrived a year after the trial. Among the green field, squares of freshly dug wells were still black. Depth in two human growth, the drifts departed below. Split skulls, two tiny, childish ones. Wrinkled women's boot. Childish red hair with a braided pigtail. The lawsuit did not stop the looters.

They worked professionally and thoroughly. For one night "walker" to the dead, gold could be dug up and torn out with pliers for 70-80 thousand rubles. Fabulous money - given that at that time a quite decent salary, on which you can live well, was 150-300 rubles a month ...

I appeal to the reader's skulls:

Is our mind exhausted?

Voznesensky is reading Case No. 1586. The second volume, which he managed to obtain in secret. He cites shocking quotes in the poem:

“...They systematically stole jewelry from a burial at the 10th kilometer. On the night of June 21, 1984, disregarding the norms of morality, a gold case of a pocket watch weighing 35.02 grams was stolen from the indicated grave. at the rate of 27 rubles 30 kopecks. per gr., gold bracelet 30 gr. worth 810 rubles. - only 3325 rubles. 68 kop.

... On July 13, they stole gold crowns and bridges with a total value of 21,925 rubles, a 900-carat gold ring with a diamond worth 314 rubles. 14 kopecks, four chains worth 1360 rubles, a gold ducat of foreign minting worth 609 rubles. 65 kopecks, 89 royal minted coins worth 400 rubles. each "...

Who was in business? Doctor of the Moscow Institute of the Academy of Sciences, driver of Mezhkolkhozstroy, worker, auxiliary worker, cinema worker. Russian, Azerbaijani, Ukrainian, Armenian. Age 28–50 years. They answered the court, gleaming with golden crowns. Two had a mouthful of "red gold". They received short terms, those who resold suffered more.

It is confirmed that they received at least 68 thousand rubles of income. One was asked: "How did you feel, Roya?" He answered: “And how would you feel, taking out the golden bridge, damaged by a bullet? Or pulling out a child's shoe with the rest of the bone? They hardly managed to get the buying house to accept this defective product.

... One worked in a pit - two at the top took and broke skulls, pulled out teeth with pliers, - “cleaned it of dirt and remnants of teeth”, took Coral and Sevastopol Yantar to rent in Simferopol buying up, boringly bargaining with the appraiser Gaida, of course, who was smart that "crowns and bridges have been in the ground for a long time." They worked in rubber gloves - they were afraid of infection. The team was friendly. Strengthened the family. “Witness Nyukhalova testified that her husband was periodically absent from home, explained this by the fact that he worked as a high-altitude painter, and regularly brought a salary” ...

Skulls. Tamerlane. Don't open the tombs.

War will break out from there.

Don't cut with a shovel

spiritual mushrooms!

It will come out worse than the plague.

Simferopol did not stop the process.

Communication broke up times?

Psychiatrist - in the hall!

How to prevent a soulless process,

what did I conditionally call “alchy” ?!

Writing, the poet admits, was hard even physically. The abyss that opened behind this moat was terrifying. I couldn’t sleep, I had nightmares, I didn’t want to write about anything anymore. Burnt.

"Moat" will appear in the seventh issue of the magazine "Youth" in the same 1986. Voznesensky would write warmly about the editor-in-chief, the poet Andrey Dementiev, "who took over the publication." Unexpectedly, the secretary of the Central Committee, Alexander Yakovlev, who previously demonstratively did not favor Voznesensky's poetry, but now became the leader of perestroika thought, helped. “After the publication of The Ditch,” the poet recalls, “in the October Hall, I was presented with a drawing depicting a penis tearing the Star of David. The caption read: “Andryukha, suck x… from a dead rabbi.”

The administrator said that several dozen people had taken the front rows to disrupt the evening. I showed the drawing to the audience: “Well, who drew it? Get up! I'm not hiding from you, show your faces too. Nobody got up from the darkness. “Then you are just cowards, cowards!” I shouted at them. The hall supported me, the evening was not disrupted.

This is not someday, in a foggy past, - looking around at the 10th kilometer near Simferopol, Voznesensky reasoned. - This is now and here, now. “The clang of teeth and shovels. / At the 10th verst / the dead are burying us.”

Perestroika is already marching across the country, heavy shackles are about to fall, and even yesterday's defendants in the looting case and other marauders of all stripes and industries will come out of prison and tell their children how they suffered from the bloody Soviet regime, from party adversaries!

Such bright prospects opened up. And Voznesensky is somehow gloomy. What is he? “A fair poster / is hoisted over a pole: /“ The dead are the majority, / and the living are a minority. ” / Live hoarsely: / “Dirge for the living!” ...

I did not know wide toothy smiles.

Alleluia is now a master of bold speeches.

They press with a grader shovel, wise men.

They will bury the country - just don't hold it!

... A critic who had dozed off woke up. Wondering how does the poem end? Why would it suddenly appear in the poem four inanimate heroes at once: “All four heroes look at me - Ditch, Alch, Speech, Look”? What is it about?

Ditch - a warning or a forecast. “What has broken through and what has not yet broken through, / and what warned us in Chernobyl? / What if - an uncontrolled war? / Farewell, great lies of hope.

A look is about the same thing, about the lethargy of those sleeping with their eyes open, about the peculiarities of the eyes of Gogol's Viy. The poet turns to the “nationwide Volodya” - Vysotsky, peering somewhere up there, into the heavens: “What is there, Volodya? How does life look without blinders? What's behind the scenes? / The so-called soul / to be or not to be? - that's the mystery.

But Alch and Speech, entering the fray? Speech is not empty shaking of air, not just sound waves. Speech is roots, childhood, the smell of an orange, which is Murka's neighbor, this is Boris Leonidovich's phone call, these are parents, family, fatherland and historical memory. Speech is the last thing that preserves a unique personality in a person. If anything can defeat Alch in humanity, then only Speech.

In the nineties, when the country crumbles, part of the former fraternal republics will become puffed up with all their might - not in the name of the desired freedom, not for the glory of the desired prosperity, but only to destroy the common memory, inseparable history, inalienable literature and the Russian language. And suddenly it turns out - that very war, about the victory in which we have been talking for so many years, the very one in which these ditches lay like scars - for the whole world the war did not end. Maybe moats are to blame for everything? Maybe the unsleeping shadows of those executioners? Let's call them simply, like a poet, - Alch. Unexpected anger spills out with her. "You lost the war!" - a neat lady at the UN headquarters will shout in an American voice. The Russian, well, as it were, intellectual elites will split for the umpteenth time - then it will not be shameful to adore the oligarchs, but it is shameful to love the homeland. Greed against Speech. Ordinary collaborationist Alch - and the Great Patriotic Speech.

A year later, in 1987, Gorbachev would paraphrase Voznesensky's "foremen of the spirit" and put the "foremen of perestroika" into circulation. But Voznesensky does not seem to hear, as if he understands that this ringing is empty.

The 1990s will roll strictly along the line of the Ditch, confirming the prophecies. “Perhaps,” the poet will say, “the poem predicted the criminal inside of a person, which has now led to a criminal revolution.” We, they will reassure the country, have a forgivable period of primitive accumulation of capital. We rob the loot. But with the noblest intentions. We are merging into the civilized world space.

“But what is the test to measure the enormity of such a new genre as stealing souls?”

... Time puffed. Flywheel - whack, gears - shirk, piston - puff. Everything was going somewhere.

Foremen of the spirit - or marauders of memory? Where will history take you?

Voznesensky, of course, is not a pundit and not a historian. But a real poet is always a prophet, and one should believe his forebodings ... In the last year of the 20th century, Voznesensky suddenly exhales a strange poem: “A youth came to me in my snowstorms / from Sevastopol. / Pierced naively and deadly / to tears with the bitter rhyme "poplar". / Suddenly, like everyone else, I drank my conscience away?!”…

Crimea was presented - and did not grunt.

The drowned man rises like a corkscrew.

At the bottom, like a button with an anchor,

we have lost Sevastopol.

... Bitter lines - but after all, the "youth from Sevastopol" left hope ...

The poem "Return to Flowers" Andrei Andreevich will write in 2004, as Khlebnikov would say, "winging the thinnest veins with gold writing."

I'm on the hill for you at the green notch

I'll pin the white temple like

I love white irises!

How short their life is...

This text is an introductory piece. author Ershov Vasily Vasilievich

From the book Just poured author Burkin Yuly Sergeevich

Where to go? Recently, Zoya and I wrote a short story. Almost haku. “In the spring, when estrus sets in, northern huskies begin to fuck each other right in the teams ... And no one is going anywhere

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From the book Romance of the Sky author Tikhomolov Boris Ermilovich

Where are we flying? The morning of November 23, 1943 was frosty and foggy. We went out to the plane still not properly woken up and not recovering from yesterday's fabulous dressing. We were raised by messengers: - Urgently! Fly to the Central Airfield! "It's starting!" -

From the book Tales of a sled dog author Ershov Vasily Vasilievich

"Where am I taking them?" We live in the 21st century, and a gas station on the road in Russia has become as familiar as, for example, a monument to Lenin on the square of any town. It became familiar. But fifteen years ago there were queues of cars at our rare gas stations, and

From Lukashenka's book. Political biography author Feduta Alexander Iosifovich

"Where are they going?" The country, as follows from Lukashenka's numerous statements, is a kind of closed space, which is constantly threatened by something or someone. Everything that wanders, crawls, flies into it from the outside, without personal agreement with the one who controls it.

From the book Four minus three author Pahl-Eberhart Barbara

From the book of Leonardo da Vinci author Showo Sophie

So where to? To Florence, where his father still lives. But will his father want to see him again? Many drafts of letters to his father were found in Leonardo's papers, but it is impossible to say with certainty whether Ser Piero ever held their final versions in his hands. Painter

From the book Tales of a sled dog author Ershov Vasily Vasilievich

From the book Life of Ambrose Bierce (chapters from the book) by Neil Walter

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From Yesenin's book author

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Where did I go! The discussion began. Of course, I did not remember it verbatim, but approximately it looked like this. Levin asked who would like to speak. Viktor Gilenko volunteered, an excited young man with glasses. I thought: well, now he will criticize her.

From the book Katya author Garkalin Valery Borisovich

Where to go? As a matter of fact, the issue with stationary theaters at that time had already been finally resolved for me. After "Shirley Myrley" and my stage success, I became very popular in theater circles. I was regularly invited to work by the main directors

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“No matter how and wherever I go...” No matter where and no matter where I go, My life will not become more beautiful, Because I did not come from a proletarian dad. He did not hold a hammer by the fire, He recognized collars and soap, And besides, my mother did not feed me for the harvest in the field. True, in this I am not

From Yesenin's book. Russian poet and hooligan author Polikovskaya Ludmila Vladimirovna

"Run? Where?" Moscow, July 1925. S. Yesenin - N. Verzhbitsky. “My dear friend, Kolya! Everything that I hoped for, dreamed of, is going to dust. Apparently, I can't settle down in Moscow. Family life is not going well, I want to run away. Where? To the Caucasus! […] It is unlikely that anything will work out with a new family, too

From the book of Kryuchkov. KGB on the Eve of the Putsch (compilation) author Varennikov Valentin Ivanovich

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“But here I owe Your Excellency a confession of my private adventures. Beautiful Concepcia increased day by day her courtesies towards me ... which ended in her giving me her hand ... "

(TsGIA, f. 13, p. 1, d. 687)

“Let them value my feat in any way, but with the help of God I hope to fulfill it well, I am the first of the Russians here ...”

N. Rezanov - to the directors of the Russian-Amer. companies

INTRODUCTION. Our schooner is called Avos. "Avos" is our faith and our motto. There are few of us, we are apart, we have zero chances against a thousand, but we survive, we master the "Maybe". When "Ave Maria" is powerless, atheistic Russia is rescued by the supernatural "Avos". "Perhaps" will take out and help out. And when we kick back, a poet with a surname starting with "Maybe" will write poems about us.

I. PROLOGUE. Avos is pirating in San Francisco: the governor's daughter sleeps on the Russian's shoulder. She turned sixteen yesterday. Catholicism and Orthodoxy stand at the curtains with their wings raised. Dovydov and Khvastov are talking at the post.

II. X in and with t about in. What do you think, Dovydov... Dovydov. On the origin of species? X in and with t about in. Well no...

III. (Prayer of Conchi Argüello - Our Lady.) A young lady is crying from the San Francisco bell tower. Yaroslavna comes around to her. No, Konchakovna!

“Mother Intercessor, strengthen me. I loved the alien. I fell in love with the glory of risk, for teaching the words of a foreign country ... I am a state criminal. Help me like a woman to a woman. And yet, how can you understand me - you, who did not love ?! Like a niche is our universe, which has chosen your son as a god, the fruit of the spirit and dislike!

And the Immaculate answered: “Daughter ...” And they continued to whisper further ...

IV. X in and with t about in. What do you think, Dovydov... Dovydov. How to hang up the Germans and Piites? X in and with t about in. Well no...

V. (Prayer of Rezanov - Mother of God.) “Well, what else do you need from me? I was from a simple family, but learned. I discovered new lands, I ruined all my life in Your name. Why are you depriving me of my last pleasure? She's clueless..."

And tired came out of the robes and said: “I love you. No sweetness. What more do you want from me?"

VI. Khvastov asks Dovydov what he thinks of Rezanov's woman, and at that moment he sees a maiden in the sky on a cloud.

VII. (Description of the wedding, which took place on April 1, 1806.) At the wedding of Rezanov and Koncha, the servants were not surrounded by oranges in wine. Lilac pop tight wedding rings they tried on not. Dovydov and Khvastov rode into the dining room on their horses, and they were not led out. Where are these guests? The night is empty. Only two pectoral crosses lie entangled.

Archival documents related to the case of Rezanov N.P. (archive rats - Y and X comment on)

No. 1. N. Rezanov writes to N. Rumyantsev that the name of the Monarch will be more blessed when the Russians overthrow slavery to alien peoples ...

No. 2. Rezanov writes to I. I. Dmitriev that he is looking for new lands in order to settle a new race there, to create a Third World - without money and crowns. By the way, he asks to help at court with his marriage to an American.

No. 3. Extract from the history of the years. Dovydov and Khvastov. It follows from it that Dovydov and Khvastov fought duels, after that they became friends and together waved to Rezanov in the Far East.

Rezanov, in the Second Secret Letter, describes Mr. X... who, having embarked on the newly bought ship "Yunona", discovered drunkenness, which lasted three months, and during this time he drank 91/2 buckets of French vodka and 2 1/2 buckets of strong alcohol . Drunk all the ships. On a drunken business, he weighed anchor every night, but, fortunately, the sailors were constantly drunk ...

No. 6. “Nikolai Rezanov was a visionary politician. Had Rezanov lived 10 years longer, what we now call California and American British Columbia would be Russian territory.”

Admiral Van Ders (USA).

No. 7. From a letter from Rezanov to Derzhavin. Rezanov reports that he has come across another transcription of Horace's ode "Monument", made by "one Gishpan". Next comes the text of the transcription itself: “I am the last poet of civilization. Not some specific, but civilization as such, because in the era of spiritual crisis, culture becomes the most shameful phenomenon. For these words, contemporaries will strangle me, and future Afro-Euro-American-Asians will prove the absurdity of my arguments, compose new songs, dances, write new books ... This will be a monument!

No. 10. A description of how Rezanov proposed to Concepsia, how her parents opposed their marriage, and how they finally gave their consent.

No. 11. Rezanov - Concha. Rezanov tells the bride about Russia, where the silver nightingales sing, where the temple of the Virgin stands by the pond and its snow-white buttresses, like horses, drink water with the taste of a miracle and thyme.

In a year they will return to Russia - Rezanov will achieve the consent of the tsar, the Pope and the father of Concha!

IX. (Prayer of the Mother of God - to Rezanov.) She admits that she is a sinner before nature. She was not pleased by the Christmas bells. On the contrary, they seemed to her funeral, sounding like her unborn love. Spirit is exactly what arises between two lovers, it does not negate the flesh. Therefore, I want to put out all the churches in exchange for the opportunity to kiss lips in tobacco.

EPILOGUE. A year later he will die in Krasnoyarsk. She will shed a dead fetus and become the first San Francisco nun.

retold

Artistic and linguistic innovation of Andrey Voznesensky

(based on the poem "The Ditch")

“Poems are not written - they happen like feelings or a sunset. The soul is a blind accomplice. I didn’t write - it happened like this, ”said Andrei Voznesensky. In the same way, individual-author's new formations, inherent only to him, appear in the poet's language. However, they do not arise spontaneously, out of nothing.
Just as the poet is shaped by the epoch, the poet feels its subtlest breaths, crystallizes, passes through himself the slightest strokes of time, its sounds, symbols, words.

Here is an afterword to the poem "Ditch", the genre of which is defined by the poet as a spiritual process:

“On April 7, 1986, my friends and I were driving from Simferopol along the Feodosia highway. The clock on the taxi driver's dashboard showed 10 am. The taxi driver Vasily Fedorovich Lesnykh himself, about sixty years old, wind-blown ruddy, overweight, with blue eyes faded from what he saw, repeated his painful story again and again. Here, under the city, on the 10th kilometer, 12,000 civilians were shot during the war. “Well, we boys, I was ten years old then, ran to watch how they were shot. They were brought in covered cars. Stripped down to underwear. An anti-tank ditch ran from the highway. So, we had to ditch them and beat them with a machine gun. They all shouted terribly - a groan stood over the steppe. It was December. Everyone took off their galoshes. Several thousand galoshes lay. Carts drove past on the highway. The soldiers were not shy. The soldiers were all drunk. When they saw us, they gave us a turn. Yes, I also remembered - there was a table where the passports were taken away. The whole steppe was littered with passports. Many were buried half-dead. The earth breathed. Then we found a box of shoe polish in the steppe. Heavy. It contained a gold chain and two coins. So, all the savings of the family. People carried the most valuable things with them. Then I heard who opened this burial, dug up a little gold. They were judged last year. Well, you already know about this”... I not only knew, but also wrote a poem called “Alch” about this. There was another name implicitly: "Ditch". I questioned the witnesses. Friends who turned out to be showed me archival documents. The poem ended, but everything did not go out of my mind. Again and again I was drawn to the place of death. But what do you see there? Only overgrown miles of steppe. “... I have a neighbor, Valya Perekodnik. He may have been the only one saved. His mother pushed him out of the car on the way.” We get out. Vasily Fedorovich is noticeably worried. A wretched, once plastered pillar with an inscription about the victims of the invaders, a donkey, all in cracks, speaks more of oblivion than of memory. "Shall we imprint?" The friend unzipped the camera. A stream of MAZs and Zhiguli rushed past along the highway. Emerald shoots of wheat went to the horizon. To the left, on a hillock, a tiny rural cemetery huddled idyllicly. The ditch had long been leveled and green, but its outlines were guessed, going across from the highway for a kilometer and a half. The bashful branches of the blossoming blackthorn were white. Rare acacia trees blackened. We, exhausted from the sun, slowly wandered from the highway. And suddenly - what is it?! On the way, among the green field, the square of a freshly dug well blackens; the land of cheese is still. Behind him is another. Around a pile of buried bones, decayed clothes. Black, as if smoky, skulls. "They're digging again, you bastards!" - Vasily Fedorovich is all over. It was not in a newsreel, not in the stories of witnesses, not in a nightmare - but here, nearby. It's just dug up. Skull, followed by another. Two tiny, children's. And here is an adult, split into shards. “It is they who rip out gold crowns with pliers.” Wrinkled women's boot. My God, hair, scalp, baby red hair with a braid! How tightly they were braided, right, hoping for something else, in the morning before the execution! .. What bastards! This is not a literary device, not fictional characters, not pages of a criminal chronicle, this is us, next to a rushing highway, standing in front of a pile of human skulls. It was not the villains of antiquity who did it, but the people of today. Some kind of nightmare. The bastards were digging that night. Nearby is a broken cigarette with a filter. Didn't even get wet. Near it is a greenish copper sleeve. "German", - says Vasily Fedorovich. Someone picks it up, but immediately throws it away, thinking about the danger of infection. Skulls lay in a pile, these mysteries of the universe - brown-dark from long underground years - like huge smoke mushrooms. The depth of the professionally dug shafts is about two human heights, one has a drift at the bottom. At the bottom of the second one lies a hidden, powdered shovel - so they will come to dig today ?! In horror, we look at each other, still not believing, as in a terrible dream. What a person must reach, how depraved the consciousness must be in order to delve into the skeletons, next to a living road, in order to crush the skull and tear out the crowns with pincers in the headlights. And even almost without hiding, leaving all traces in plain sight, defiantly somehow, with a challenge. And the people, calmly rushing along the highway, were probably joking: “Is someone digging gold there again?” Everyone's gone crazy, right? Next to us, a tin poster was stuck on a peg: "Digging is prohibited - cable." Cable is not allowed, but people are allowed? This means that even the trial did not stop the consciousness of this bastard, and, as I was later told, during the trial they talked only about the criminals, not about the fate of the buried themselves. And where does the epidemiological station look? From these wells any infection can climb, an epidemic can destroy the region. Children run across the steppe. Is it a spiritual epidemic? They don’t rob graves, it’s not a matter of miserable golden grams of despicable metal, but they rob souls, the souls of the buried, their own, yours! The police rush along the highway for drivers and rubles, but they won’t even look here. At least put up a post. One in 12 thousand. The memory of people is sacred. Why not think not only about the legal, but also about the spiritual protection of the burial place? Click the call, and the best sculptors will put up a stele or a marble wall. So that a sacred awe would pass through people. 12 thousand deserve it. We, four, are standing at the tenth kilometer. We are ashamed, inappropriately we say - what, what to do? Maybe break the lawn on the spot, cover it with a slab and put a curb? Yes, and it would not hurt to remember the names. We don't know what - but something needs to be done, and immediately. So I again ran into the revived last year's case No. 1586. Where are you leading, moat? (I, pp. 14-29).

Although the scientific literature on the study of neoplasms and linguistic phenomena in general in the work of Andrei Voznesensky is quite extensive, it mainly considers the works of this poet from the period of the 50-70s. As a rule, an analysis is given of individual, not thematically united, works of the poet. I have made an attempt to consider the process of creating new words on the example of a holistic work. To this end, I analyzed the individual-author's neoplasms in A. Voznesensky's poem "The Ditch", considering their stylistic role.

"Moat" is one of the major works of the poet, written in 1985-1986. In it, with the core of a poetic pen, Voznesensky strikes such a social phenomenon as people of profit, going for it to dig a ditch with the corpses of victims of fascism, to torment decayed remains in order to extract gold crowns, rings, coins.
The poet tries to introduce this phenomenon into a wide range of social life, to understand it and to give his own assessment. He has little purely poetic framework. In the "spiritual process" - a new genre of fiction - prose is intertwined with poetry, news reports - with philosophical theses, prose-newspaper sketches - with the heated pathos of high poetics.

In this new genre, caused by a newly appeared social action, new words appear not as a result of the process of comprehension, but as the process itself. Despite the fact that the case was legally completed and the grave-diggers got what they deserved, their guilt cannot be atoned for by any prison terms, because “what they committed is not just a crime, but what the people have long called the deep word “sin”. Sin before the memory of the innocently killed, sin before the meaning of a short human life, before conscience, before love, hugs and the miracle of the birth of life.

The poet is the spiritual healer of the era. It is no coincidence that "Ditch" was written by Voznesensky in an unusual genre - "spiritual process". Initially, the poem had a different name - "Alch":
How to prevent a soulless process,
What did I conditionally call "alchy"? . (I, p. 84)

The poet, with a capacious definition of "greed", combined "the passion of singles ... competing with love", and - "the ditch where the people died for the people." The antipode of "alchi" is not accidentally chosen speech. "Burn you, greedy!" - calls the poet:
What is richer than greed?
Weak computer and sword.
And how can you burn me?
- Only Speech, which is richer than you, only Speech,
only poor prophetic Speech. (I, p. 91)

This is how, on one pole, hostile to the spirit, hunger, bile, gloom, be silent arise - on the other - the original Speech and brightness, intended by the poet to descendants.

Following Count Rezanov from ancient times, asking: “What am I looking for? Something fresh…”, the poet says: “What do I want? A new look, so that the eyelids hurt.

It is the novelty of the poetic view that owes its appearance to the occasionalisms “hunger”, “gloom”, “bright” and “shut up”. The first two words are formations from adjectives, consisting of a non-suffix stem with a softening or alternation of the final consonant: greedy - greed; gloomy - gloom.

These nouns-new formations simultaneously have the meanings of property, quality and collectiveness. “In essence, this type of word formation is distributed only in poetic speech in the language of artistic prose,” V.V. Vinogradov noted. He also noted the inefficiency of homogeneous formations from verbal derivatives.

In a particular case, the result of the action is precisely the verbal neoplasm - the noun "keep quiet":

How do I rush, greedy,
everything is shrouded in darkness
will be silent in literature ... (I, p. 92)

Nevertheless, it is impossible not to notice that the above-mentioned occasionalisms outwardly resemble the general language “speech” and “bile”, and the last word, in fact, is a model for their occurrence.
In the same row is the new formation “immaculate” from the “Viennese Tale”, at first glance, arbitrarily included in the “Moat”, but again tells about “greed”, when love is bought and sold:

I hesitated, turning on the ignition.
Where to go? The night was awesome.
The hood trembled like a nervous greyhound.
All the impatience of Balzac's age
it burned me through the skin with bubbles -
champagne air with a touch of balm!
I lowered the left window.
And two young Delons came up -
in a mink coat, necks are bare.
"Free, miss? Don't mind relaxing?
Five hundred per evening, a thousand per night.
I flared up. Me like a prostitute
accepted! And my heart was beating terribly:
they want you, you are brilliant, you are young!
I was outraged. I said yes".
Another added, shaking his hips,
lowering the blue innocence:
“Suddenly there is a girlfriend, like you - a rich woman?
I take the same - a thousand a night.
Ah, bastards! selling fiends!
After dousing them with gas, I sped away.
And my heart was beating with longing and happiness!
"Five hundred for the evening, a thousand for the night." (I, p. 84)

Voznesensky introduces a negative semantic coloring into words with truncated stems, therefore “hungry” is undoubtedly more significant than the word “hungry”, with which the poet characterizes racketeering.

"Alch" is a whole social phenomenon. What happens to spiritually degraded renegades who have united in an impulse to fill their wallets more tightly is really difficult to describe with a familiar word. Horror and resentment is caused by the fact that the avarice is branched, it has metastasized and embraced different strata of society.

Trying to define the psychology of the “new thief” more precisely, Voznesensky, by analogy with mass “pop art” and decadent “art nouveau”, divides today’s greed into “pop greed” and “greedy nouveau”:

Your son is dying of pop art.
Wife saves art nouveau.
Your driver sins pop greed
You are sharpened by greed-nouveau, - (I, p. 95)

The poet denounces the "stingy knight of the NTR."

“But what is the test to measure the enormity of such a new genre as stealing souls?” - the author's question sounds rhetorically.

On the comparison of the old and the new evil, the occasional words “old-mouthed” and “new-mouthed” are also built, which formed the nouns by adding the adverbs “old” and “new” with the stem of the verb “dig”:
Old-snout with a new-snout, dig for two!

Let's overfulfill the plan for burying the living! (I, p. 123)

The semantics of these new formations leads to the origins of the Simferopol moat, being the connecting thread of the times.

"Starolyly" - these are the Nazis who shot twelve thousand civilians during the war on the tenth kilometer of the Feodosia highway.

"Novoryly" - today's "graveworms", cashing in on a long-standing tragedy.

The second associative plan gives a homonymous convergence of the occasional words "old snout" and "new snout" with the noun "snout".

"Why do they breed, these new-snouts?" - asks the poet.

In the poem "Ditch" - everything is new: a new look, "alch-nouveau", "new-headed", and - new words.

Such is the apt word "displayboy", which characterizes the ultra-modern young man who betrayed "blood ties in the name of machine relationships."

Occasionalism "displayboy" is formed by the superposition of the morphemes of the words "display" and "playboy", in turn, the word "playboy" was formed from the merger of two English words into one. It is significant that when the morphemes of the words "display" and "playboy" were superimposed, the final morphemes of the first and the initial morphemes of the second word coincided. Despite the fact that the imposition of entire morphemes is a rather rare phenomenon in modern poetry, here, in the same row - and in one poem! – we meet the occasional “sex-sportsman”:

What was I, a sex athlete,
man without problems
Hochma of the spirit in any company,
combining sex with the chill of a computer?
I would call myself a display boy, - (I, p. 107)

The contamination method helps to find the exact characteristics of the robotic pallet that has become a grave digger. Here again there is a clear connection between neoplasms and the phenomena that torment the poet:

I collected all the abomination on the pages, like a doctor,
to burn you, greedy.
Don't manuscripts burn?
How they blaze!
Authors are eternal, they say.
Still how they die.
Lie down, creature, in the fire of the Falcon Mountain.
Alch, burn!
All four heroes look at me -
Ditch, Alch, Speech, Look.
- You aspired to be Goya for the Russian dawn.
Ghouls writhe in the ashes.
Your friend grabbed his side. In the soul - blisters.
Or are you on fire from the inside?
It's your jealousy that invites you to lunch
that underground nature was.
It's greedy, it's greedy, it's worse than greed
your life has been twisted.
You killed my friend.
Be ambitious, writhe, yach! ..
Like a glance or a pure substance
Above the fire, greed stands out.
I saw, the only one of the people,
like your pathetic smile.
Combined in the smile of that Alkonost,
and Gioconda, and the platypus.
And behind her, like a fat snake, floated
your infinite body.
And I realized that greed -
this is a moat, this is a moat
where the people died for the people.
Help - they shouted from the black fumes.
And a smile opened your mouth.
And I saw your flexible sting,
that the face concerned me already.
I remember the sting grabbed
and set it on fire like a wick -
to Kamchatka the greed flared up
"Amnesty, executioner...
Appoint three wishes ... "
"Three wishes? Good!
For you to die, greedy.
Not resurrected, greedy
And further -
to forget you
in the world of new passions.
In a century as pure as viola,
asks the boy in the reading room,
confusing display:
"And what does the word "Alch" mean?" (I, p. 129)

The type of abbreviated stem truncation, a feature of which is its independence from morphemic articulation, is most common in Voznesensky's poetic language.

Such is the formation of "ambulance" (from the truncation of the bases of the phrase "ambulance"), when only the root morpheme remains from the word:

Among business scorpions,
living nearby benefits,
with a short haircut ambulance,
saving the unfortunate lives.
Where are you taking me at midnight?
I would save you myself!
Your path is blocked, ambulance,
and a moat across the path. (I, p. 26)

The semantics of the phrase contributes to the truncation of the first and the merging of two words into a single whole. Similar neoplasms were encountered in the poet's work before. In the poem "Ditch" we also find "gosmuzh" (state husband), but in this example a part of the root morpheme is cut off.

Andrei Voznesensky tends to rebuild the usual language combinations in order to rethink their meanings. He gives new meanings to common language combinations with the help of prefixes not-, without-; at the same time, neoplasms become antonyms to the words that are well-established in the speech: “I prefer muskrats among the bright snows of the world non-standard of non-standard minds.” The noun with the prefix non- "non-standard" - names the opposite of what is called the motivating word "standard".
Such a word-formation type is highly productive. In the same row we meet "... what you created - get - from the car keys and a diamond in non-false ears." Here the rethinking is deeper. The semantic formation "non-false ears" is based on the semantic relationship "false diamond", the latter out of context can be understood as a free combination.

Potentialism "unspiritual" (process), naming a sign opposite to that which is called by the motivated word "spiritual", is formed in the same prefix way. The adjective "spiritual" combines two meanings - "the opposite of spiritual" and "devoid of spirituality", that is, the soul.

Voznesensky calls this non-spiritual process greed and builds the work "Ditch", written in the genre of "spiritual process" on the analysis of the origins of its occurrence and the forces that can resist it.
Thus, the artistic and linguistic innovation of Andrei Voznesensky is in a new look, new feeling, new thinking, in the desire to comprehend new social phenomena, determine the causes that gave rise to them, and possible consequences. New words are born, habitual combinations are being rethought. The poet's new formations are fresh in nature, they are organically woven into the figurative fabric of the work. We observe in the poem "Ditch" the unity of new content, new genre and new language means.

Bibliographic list

I. Voznesensky Andrey. Ditch // Poems, prose. Simferopol - Moscow. December 1985 - May 1986.// M., 1987.
II. Vinogradov V.V. // Russian language: Grammatical doctrine of the word. M., 1972

©. Nemirovskaya D.L. Artistic and linguistic innovation of Andrey Voznesensky (Based on the poem "The Ditch"). Types of language units and features of their functioning. Interuniversity collection of scientific papers. Saratov University Press, 1993, p. 99-104.

March 06, 2015

SPIRITUAL PROCESS

AFTERWORD

On April 7, 1986, my friends and I were driving from Simferopol along the Feodosia highway. The clock on the taxi driver's dashboard showed 10 am. The taxi driver Vasily Fedorovich Lesnykh himself, about sixty years old, wind-blown ruddy, overweight, with blue eyes faded from what he saw, repeated his painful story again and again. Here, under the city, on the 10th kilometer, 12,000 civilians were shot during the war.

“Well, we boys, I was ten years old then, ran to watch how they were shot. They were brought in covered cars. Stripped down to underwear. An anti-tank ditch ran from the highway. So, we had to ditch them and beat them with a machine gun. They all shouted terribly - a groan stood over the steppe. It was December. Everyone took off their galoshes. Several thousand galoshes lay. Carts drove past on the highway. The soldiers were not shy. The soldiers were all drunk. When they saw us, they gave us a turn. Yes, I also remembered - there was a table where the passports were taken away. The whole steppe was littered with passports. Many were buried half-dead. The earth breathed. Then we found a box of shoe polish in the steppe. Heavy. It contained a gold chain and two coins. So, all the savings of the family. People carried the most valuable things with them. Then I heard who opened this burial, dug up a little gold. They were judged last year. Well, you already know about it.”… I not only knew, but also wrote a poem called "Alch" about it. There was another name behind it: "Moat". I questioned the witnesses. Friends who turned out to be showed me archival documents. The poem ended, but everything did not go out of my mind.

Again and again I was drawn to the place of death. But what do you see there? Only overgrown miles of steppe. “... I have a neighbor, Valya Perekodnik. He may have been the only one saved. His mother pushed him out of the car on the way”. We get out. Vasily Fyodorovich is noticeably worried. A wretched, once plastered pillar with an inscription about the victims of the invaders, a donkey, all in cracks, speaks more of oblivion than of memory. "Shall we imprint?" The friend unzipped the camera. A stream of MAZs and Zhiguli rushed past along the highway. Emerald shoots of wheat went to the horizon. To the left, on a hillock, a tiny rural cemetery huddled idyllicly. The moat had long been leveled and green, but its outlines were guessed, going across from the highway for a kilometer and a half. The bashful branches of the blossoming blackthorn were white. Rare acacia trees blackened. We, exhausted from the sun, slowly wandered from the highway. And suddenly - what is it?! On the way, among the green field, the square of a freshly dug well blackens; land of cheese yet. Behind him is another. Around a pile of buried bones, decayed clothes. Black, as if smoky, skulls. "They're digging again, you bastards!"- Vasily Fedorovich is all over. It was not in a newsreel, not in the stories of witnesses, not in a nightmare - but here, nearby. It's just dug up. Skull, followed by another. Two tiny, children's. And here is an adult, split into shards. “It is they who rip out gold crowns with pliers.” Wrinkled women's boot. My God, hair, scalp, baby red hair with a braided pigtail! How tightly they were braided, sure, hoping for something else, in the morning before the execution!.. What bastards! This is not a literary device, not fictional characters, not pages of a criminal chronicle, this is us, next to a speeding highway, standing in front of a pile of human skulls. It was not the villains of antiquity who did it, but the people of today. Some kind of nightmare.

The bastards were digging that night. Nearby is a broken cigarette with a filter. Didn't even get wet. Near it is a greenish copper sleeve. "German"- says Vasily Fedorovich. Someone picks it up, but immediately throws it away, thinking about the danger of infection. Skulls lay in a pile, these mysteries of the universe - brown-dark from long underground years - like huge smoke mushrooms. The depth of the professionally dug shafts is about two human heights, one has a drift at the bottom. At the bottom of the second one lies a hidden, powdered shovel - so they will come to dig today ?! We look at each other in horror, still not believing how in a terrible dream this is. What a person must reach, how depraved the consciousness must be in order to delve into the skeletons, next to a living road, in order to crush the skull and tear out the crowns with pincers in the headlights. And even almost without hiding, leaving all traces in plain sight, defiantly somehow, with a challenge. And the people, calmly rushing along the highway, were probably joking: “Someone is digging gold there again?” Everyone's gone crazy, right? A tin poster is stuck on a peg next to us: "No Digging - Cable". Cable is not allowed, but people are allowed? This means that even the trial did not stop the consciousness of this bastard, and, as I was later told, during the trial they talked only about the criminals, not about the fate of the buried themselves. And where does the epidemiological station look? From these wells any infection can climb, an epidemic can destroy the region. Children run across the steppe. Is it a spiritual epidemic? They don’t rob graves, it’s not a matter of miserable golden grams of despicable metal, but they rob souls, the souls of the buried, their own, yours! The police rush along the highway for drivers and rubles, but they won’t even look here. At least put up a post. One in 12 thousand. The memory of people is sacred. Why not think not only about the legal, but also about the spiritual protection of the burial place? Click the call, and the best sculptors will put up a stele or a marble wall. So that a sacred awe would pass through people. 12 thousand deserve it. We, four, are standing at the tenth kilometer. We are ashamed, inappropriately we say - what, what to do? Maybe break the lawn on the spot, cover it with a slab and put a curb? Yes, and it would not hurt to remember the names. We don't know what - but something needs to be done, and immediately. So I again ran into the revived last year's case No. 1586. Where are you leading, moat?

INTRODUCTION

I appeal to the reader's skulls:

Is our mind exhausted?

We are standing over the steppe.

Crimea is dusty along the highway.

The skull shuddered under my scalp.

Next to black

like a smoke mushroom, smoked.

He pulled a grin into his fist.

I felt

some secret connection

as if I'm connected to the conversation -

that stretched from us

to devices without eyes,

like a cordless phone.

- ... Marya Lvovna, hello!

Mom, we got carried away ...

Storms again, cosmic interference

Relieved, Alexander? - Bad, Fyodor Kuzmich ...

Just Hitchcock kitsch...

Skulls. Tamerlane. Don't open the tombs.

War will break out from there.

Don't cut with a shovel

spiritual mushrooms!

It will come out worse than the plague.

Simferopol did not stop the process.

Communication broke up times?

Psychiatrist - in the hall!

How to prevent a soulless process,

what did I conditionally call “alchy” ?!

What the hell are you, a poet, "the voice of the people"?

What opened up your loaf?

In front of twelve thousand pairs of eyes

do something, don't talk!

The foreman will not save.

Look, the country

mother screams to her son from the trenches.

The environment is terrible

the ecology of the spirit is worse.

Wherever I go

whatever I read,

I keep going to the Simferopol moat.

And, blackening, floating skulls, skulls,

like an eclipse of white minds.

And when I go out to Luzhniki,

now every time

I will see the demanding pupils

twelve thousand pairs of eyes.

Don't drag me rock

in the Simferopol moat.

Steppe. Twelve thousandth look.

Choo, the shovels are clattering

grateful grandchildren.

The genocide laid this treasure.

Hold the shovel!

We were human.

Here, take it! I carried the diamond.

You, daddy, don't

shake bones.

Give up the stash and lie down again.

Good people first

joy to discover.

God forbid you be the first to see

this fresh hole

where the skull is open.

Valya! It was your mother.

This is true, this is true

it's true, it's true

gold and bone dust.

A bat removed the bracelet from the skeleton,

and the other, at the wheel, hurried.

“The Nazi invaders shot civilians of predominantly Jewish nationality, Krymchaks, Russians on the 10th km”, - we read in archival materials. Then partisans were executed in the same ditch. These are sacred-historical depths. And what about profiting from the past, when sacred shadows blasphemously shake? Boyan, Skovoroda, Shevchenko taught disinterestedness. Not hunger, not need led to crime. Why, in the eternal, terrible and holy days of the Leningrad Siege, it was hunger and suffering that highlighted heightened morality and disinterested stoicism? Why is the current morgue employee, giving out the body of his grandmother and mother to the shocked family, calmly suggests: “Recalculate the number of valuable metal teeth in the deceased”, not embarrassed by the horror of what was said? “Psychology is changing,- the thinking lawyer says to me, squinting like Chekhov, - previously killed simply in the "effect of an ax." Recently there was a case: the son and mother conspired to kill the tyrant father. The handyman son connected the current from the outlet to his father's bunk. When the father, drunk as usual, was looking for an outlet by touch, then he was struck. True, the technique turned out to be weak, I had to finish it off ”. Only two of our heroes were previously convicted, and then only for self-mutilation. So they were like everyone else? In restaurants, they paid in gold, so everyone around knew? Whose fault is this? Where did these golden chervonets, puffed-up rings, seductive ducats roll out, flashing with test ribs - from the darkness of centuries, from our life, from the sweet Mediterranean, from the depths of instinct? To whom do they belong, these tokens of temptation, - a master from Mycenae, the depths of the steppe, or a future litter box? Who is the victim? Who owns the underground jewels, whose are they? We are at the 10th kilometer. Draw grass freshens around. Somewhere far to the north no one's meadows stretch, no one's groves are ruined, unworthy people are tormented over no one's rivers and lakes? Whose are they? Whose are we?