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Man with head, of course, I am trying to outwit the system — inventing different workarounds, engaging in questionable deals with the boss, piling lie upon lie, pulling the strings of family ties. It takes the whole entire life. But you will understand, woven web that you — tissue of lies, and, despite any success and a sense of humor, you will despise yourself. This celebration -okonchatelnoe system: you outwit her or her primknesh, your conscience is equally unclean. Folk wisdom says, that there is a blessing in disguise,– rightly, apparently, and reverse.
Ambivalence, it seems to me,– the main characteristic of our people. No executioner in Russia, who would not be afraid to become one victim, there is no victim, Let the most unhappy, which would not be admitted (even imagine) moral ability to become an executioner. Our recent history is well taken care of those and other. Some wisdom in it is. You can even think, that this ambivalence is wisdom, that life itself is not good and not evil, and arbitrary. May be, our literature because so wonderful and promotes good, that too much he resisted. Whether this orientation only doublethink, it would be perfect; but she stroked the wrong instincts. It is this ambivalence, I suppose, and have the “good news”, which East, without having to offer anything better, ready to impose on the rest of the world. И мир, it seems, for this is ripe.
But if we ignore the fate of the world, the only way for boys to rebel against his lot — it is off the rails. Make it was difficult to — for parents, because of, that you fear the unknown itself. And most importantly, because it will be unlike most, most — you imbibed it with the mother's milk — right. It requires a certain lightheartedness, and carelessness I have always had. I remember, When I left school at the age of 15 years old, It was not so much a conscious decision, as an instinctive reaction. I just could not stand some persons in the classroom — and some classmates, and, the main thing, teachers. And one winter morning, without any visible cause, I stood among a lesson and went melodramatically, clearly recognizing, that more will not be back here. of the senses, overwhelm me at the moment, I remember only loathing for, I was so young, and so many people can be pushed around me. Besides, was troubled, but joyful feeling of escape, solar street without end.
the main thing, probably, It was to change the situation. The centralized state all rooms look like: office director of the school was an exact copy of interrogators cabinets, where I was a frequent visitor in five years. The same wooden panel, desks, chairs — joiner's paradise. Those portraits of the founders — Lenin, Stalin, members of the Politburo and Maxim Gorky (the founder of Soviet literature), if it was in school, or Felix Dzerzhinsky (the founder of the Soviet secret police), if it was the investigator.
However, Iron Felix, Revolution Knight, could decorate and the principal's office, if he had planned in the education system with the KGB heights. And plastered walls classes with a blue horizontal stripe at eye level, stretching steadily across the country, as a feature of the infinite fractions: through the halls, hospital, factories, jail, corridors of communal flats. The only place, where I met her,– peasant house.
This pattern seen you around and take his mind; how many times I found myself, stupidly staring at the narrow strip, taking it over the line sometimes the sea horizon, for the embodiment of pure nonexistence. Ornament was too abstract, He could not mean. From floor to eye level wall was covered with a mouse or greenish paint, which completes this blue band; above stretched virgin whitewash. No one has ever asked, why is it so. No one would have said,. She was, and all,– ambit, the boundary between the gray and white, bottom and top. It was not even paint, and to paint hints, interrupts a brown patches: doors. closed, ajar. And in the half-open door, you saw the other room with the same distribution of gray and white, separated by a blue line. As well as a portrait of Lenin and the world map.
It was good to leave that Kafkaesque cosmos, although even then I knew,-I think so,– that change the flea. I knew, that any other building, where I come, It will look the same, because while away their days anyway we are destined buildings. But I felt, that must go. The financial situation of my family was grim: we existed mostly on the mother's salary, because his father, demobee with fleet according to the beyond some decree, that the Jews should not have a high military ranks, I could not find a job. Of course, parents would be interrupted without my earnings; they would prefer, I came to school. I knew it, but I say to myself, that should help the family. It was almost a lie, but it looks beautiful, and by the time I learned to appreciate the lie that is what “nearly”, which sharpens the contours of truth: Indeed, however it ends there, where false starts. Here's what I learned in school boy, and this science has proved useful algebra.
Whatever prompted me to address — lie there, justice Is, or (probably) a mixture of,– I am eternally grateful to them for the, what happened, looking at all, My first act of free. It was an instinctive act, heap. Reason played a very small role here. I know this because, that since my treatments were repeated — with increasing frequency. And not always due to boredom or the feeling of a trap: and I came away from the nicest situations at least, than terrible. No matter how busy you humbly place, if it is anything like a decent, be sure, that one day someone would come and demand it for themselves or, worse, offer him to share. Then you have to fight for a place, or leave it. I prefer the second. Not because, that is not able to fight, but rather out of self-loathing: If you choose something, attract others, This means a certain vulgarity of taste. And it does not matter, you stumbled upon this place the first. First come to be even worse, For those, who comes after, appetite more than you, already partly satisfied.
After I have often regretted his actions — especially seeing, how to successfully advance my fellow students within the system. However, I knew something is, What they did not know. In fact, I also moved, but in the opposite direction, and climbed a little further. What I am particularly pleased — I found “working class” in its true phase proletarian, before, omeschanivatsya he started in the late fifties. There, at the factory, becoming the age of fifteen as a milling machine, I ran to the proletariat. Marx would have recognized them immediately. They — or rather, we — We lived in communal flats — four or five people in the room, often three generations together, We slept in a queue, We drank in the smoke, squabbled with each other or with their neighbors in the communal kitchen, or in the morning turns to the general outhouse, women beat their mortal combat, wept openly, when Stalin turned down, or to the movies, swearing so thick, that a common word like “airplane” It sets the teeth on edge, like a sharp bawdry,– and turned into gray indifferent ocean animals or forest of raised hands at rallies in support of some of Egypt.
The factory was all brick, huge — one hundred percent the product of the industrial revolution. It was built in the late 19th century, and St. Petersburg people called him “Arsenal”: Plant made guns. When I went there, it produced more compressors and agricultural machinery. But with seven veils of secrecy, enveloping everything in Russia, which is associated with heavy industry, Plant was listed under the code number “PO Box 671”. I think, However, that secrecy bred not so much, to confuse foreign intelligence, how to maintain a semi-military discipline, only, that could provide some stability in production. In both respects, the failure was obvious.
Outdated equipment stood, nine-tenths taken from Germany after the war reparations. I remember all this iron zoo, full of exotic specimens with names “Cincinnati”, “Carlton”, “Fritz Werner”, “Siemens and Šukkert”. Planning was horrific: and then a rush order on any part of your ephemeral thwarted attempts to establish a working rhythm, system. By the end of the quarter, when the plan flew in the tube, Administration threw cry, He mobilized all on one job, and plan stormed. If anything breaks, spare parts were not, and then called band of repairmen, usually half-drunk, cast over breakage. Metal did all in shells. On Monday, not to mention the morning after pay, almost all toiled with a hangover.
The day after losing the city or national team soccer team's performance dropped sharply. No one worked, all we are discussing the players and match episodes, For along with all the complexes of a great power Russia is suffering a strong inferiority complex, typical of small countries. The main reason — centralization of the country life. here — positive “life-affirming” nonsense official newspapers and radio even if the story about the earthquake; they never reported any data on victims, but only sang about fraternal assistance of other cities and republics, slavshih disasters in the area of ​​tents and sleeping bags. And if there was a cholera epidemic, you might accidentally learn about it, reading on recent successes of our wonderful medicine, express in the invention of a new serum.
All this would seem pure absurdity, if not for those early morning, when, washed down with a liquid breakfast tea, I caught up with the tram, to add one more to the dark cherry human clusters, hanging from the footboard, and sailed through watercolor pink and blue to the city kennel-pass. There are two porter checked our passes, and the facade was decorated with classical pilasters plywood. I noticed, What is included in the prison, psychiatric hospitals, concentration camps are built in the same style: All imitate classical or baroque portico. wonderful continuity. In my shop under the ceiling soared different shades of gray, and on the floor hissing hoses with compressed air and a rainbow shimmered fuel oil puddles. By ten o'clock in the iron jungle fully awakened to life, Gremo, gnashed, and future steel barrel anti-aircraft guns sailed in the air, severed neck like a giraffe.
I have always envied people of the nineteenth century, which could look back and see the milestones of his life, their development. An event marked a turning point, a new beginning. I'm talking about writers; but it takes me all of a certain type of people the ability to intelligently interpret his life, to see things separately, even vaguely. I understand, that this ability is not limited to the nineteenth century. However, in my life, it is mainly represented by the literature. Whether because of a deep mental defect, whether due to fluid, amorphous nature of life itself, I could never discern any milestones, not to mention the buoys. If there is something in it like a pole, I still can not confirm its authenticity: this milestone — death. In a sense, such a period, as childhood, I did not have. these categories — childhood, adulthood, maturity — It seems to me very strange, and if I sometimes use them in conversation, then himself still think borrowings.
apparently, always been a “I” within that small, and then a few more shells, around which “everything” It happened. Inside this shell entity, called “I”, I never changed and never stopped watching, what's going on outside. I do not allude, inside was a pearl. I'm just saying, that the time course of the little touches that entity. Receive bad marks, work on the milling machine, subjected to beatings during interrogation, lecture on Kallimaha — in fact, same. That's why you experience a surprise, when you grow up and face the task, which is necessary to solve an adult. Dissatisfaction with the child parental authority and responsibility to panic adult -veschi same order. You are not identical to any of these characters, none of these social units; may be, you are less than unity.

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