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By despair, all attempts to resurrect the past like the effort to understand the meaning of life. you feel, like a baby, trying to grab a basketball: He slips out of the hands.
I remember little of my life, and that, I remember,– not too much. The value of most thoughts, once crossed my mind, limited by time, when they arose. If there is no, to them, without a doubt, more aptly put someone else. Biography of writer — in the cut of his tongue. I remember, eg, that at the age of ten or eleven it occurred to me, saying that Marx “Social being determines consciousness” valid only until, until the consciousness has mastered the art of alienation; Further consciousness lives independently and can either adjust, and ignore the existence of. To age is, certainly, it was a revelation — but note it is hardly, and others certainly have formulated it better. And is it really so important, who first got to the core spiritual cuneiform, excellent vivid pattern means is “social being determines consciousness”?
So I am writing this not, to clarify the chronicle of life (such there, and if there, it is insignificant and, Consequently, I have not distorted), but more for the common cause, for any writer generally writes: to spur the language — or the language itself, in this case, of the alien. the little, I remember, reduced even more, He is remembered by in English.
To begin to rely on my metric, which says, I was born 24 May 1940 Year in Russia, in Leningrad, although it sickens me is the name of the city, has long called colloquially Peter. There is an old couplet:
Old Peter,
Boca povyter.
The national consciousness of this city — certainly Leningrad; with increasing vulgarity of its contents it becomes Leningrad more and more. Besides, word “Leningrad” to the Russian ear it sounds now as neutral, as the word “building” or “sausage”. I, but, I prefer to call him Peter, because I remember the time, when he did not look Leningrad,-immediately after the war. gray, light green facades in potholes from bullets and shrapnel, endless empty streets with a few passers-by and cars; image of a hungry — and therefore with greater certainty and, if anything, noble traits. god, hard face, and abstract shine river, reflected his eyes dark windows. Survivor can not be called the name of Lenin.
Behind the majestic facades gouged — among old pianos, threadbare carpets, dusty paintings in heavy bronze frames, escaped stoves furniture residues (chairs were killed first) — weak zateplilas life. And remember, both on the way to school, he passed these facades, I was immersed in a fantasy about, what's going on inside, in the room with the old wallpaper exfoliated. Need to say, that from these facades and porticos -classical, Art Nouveau, eclectic, their pillars, pilasters, stucco heads of mythical animals and humans — out of their ornaments and caryatids, holding up the balcony, torsos in the niches of the entrances, I learned about the history of our world better, later than from any book. Greece. Roma, Egypt — they were all there and all the stored tracks shelling. A gray mirror of the river, sometimes tug, puffing against the tide, tell me about infinity and stoicism over, than mathematics and Zeno.
All this had little to do with Lenin, I, I think, I disliked from the first class — not so much because of his political philosophy and activities, which in the age of seven, I had little notion, but because of his ubiquitous image, which occupied almost all textbooks, almost all the walls in the classrooms, stamps, money and God knows what else, imprinting it in different ages and at different stages of life. Lenin was a babe-in light curls, like a cherub. Lenin then the third and fourth decade — balding and intense, with the expression meaningless, which can be mistaken for anything — it is desirable for the purpose. Face it haunts every Russian, offering a certain norm of human appearance -ibo completely devoid of individual. (May be, due to lack of originality and it suggests a lot of different opportunities.) Then there was the old Lenin, bald, with klinovidnoy borodkoy, in a dark trio, sometimes smiling, and increasingly turning to “the masses” with armored cars or the rostrum of any Party congress, with an outstretched hand.
there were options: Lenin in a working cap, with a carnation in his buttonhole; a waistcoat in his office, reading or writing; BC on the lake, recording their “April theses” or some other nonsense, in the bosom. AND, finally, Lenin paramilitary jacket on a garden bench next to Stalin, only, who surpassed him in the number of printed images. But then Stalin was alive, and Lenin dead, and for that reason alone this “good” — because it belonged to the past, that is approved and history, and nature. Meanwhile, Stalin was approved only by nature — or vice versa.
probably, learn to ignore these pictures, I learned the first lesson in the art of switched off, I took the first step on the path of alienation. followed by further: in fact, my life can be viewed as a continual effort to avoid the most annoying of its manifestations. Need to say, that's the way I went very far, may be, too far. Everything, that smelled of repeatability, compromised themselves and to be removed. This applied to phrases, trees, people of a certain type, sometimes even to physical pain; this has affected the attitudes of many people. In a sense, I am grateful to Lenin. All runner I immediately perceived as a kind of propaganda. This view of things, it seems to me, enormously accelerated movement through the thicket of events — with the attendant superficiality.
I did not believe, that all the keys to the character to be found in childhood. Three generations of Russian live in communal apartments and cramped rooms, and when our parents made love, We pretended to be asleep. Then there was war, hunger, dead or mutilated fathers, hardened mother, official lies in the scale and informal home. harsh winter, ugly clothes, public hanging our wet sheets in camps and publicly to discuss such cases. Then the camp fluttering red flag. so what? All of this militarization of childhood, all this sinister idiocy, sexual concerns (in ten years, we have lusted our teachers) not much impact on our ethics and aesthetics — as well as our ability to love and to suffer. I remember these things, not because, I consider them the keys to the subconscious, and certainly not out of nostalgia for childhood. I think of them because, that never before was not engaged, because I wish some of them save — at least on paper. And because even, that look Busy more rewarding, than to look ahead. simply put, tomorrow is less attractive, than yesterday. For some reason, the past does not breathe a monstrous monotony, as the future. Future, because of its abundance,– propaganda. Also grass.
The true story of your consciousness begins with the first lie. I remember his. It was in the school library, where I was supposed to fill in the card reader. The fifth point was, of course, “nationality”. Seven years old, I knew, I am a Jew, but said the librarian, I do not know. suspiciously livening, she invited me to go home and ask their parents. In this library, I did not come back, although many others became a reader, where were the same card. I'm not ashamed of, I am a Jew, and I was not afraid to admit it. The class registers were recorded our names, names of parents, home address and nationality, and periodically teacher “I forgot” magazine on the table during a break. And then, like vultures, We pounced on these very pages; everyone in the class knew, I am a Jew. But the boys of the seven-year anti-Semites unimportant. Besides, I was pretty strong for his age — fists and then mattered most. I was ashamed of the word “Hebrew” — regardless of the nuances of his detention.
The fate of the word depends on its many contexts, the frequency of its use. In printed Russian-language word “Hebrew” as rare, as “transubstantiation” or “agoraphobia”. At all, in its status, it is close and abusive words or name venereal disease. In seven years is sufficient Dictionary, to experience the rarity of the word, and call them yourself is extremely unpleasant; It somehow offends the sense of prosody. I remember, I have always been easier with the word “Jew”: it is clearly offensive, and therefore pointless, no nuances otyahoscheno. In the Russian language monosyllable inexpensive. But when joining suffixes, or end, or set-top box, then fly down and feathers. All this is not to the states, that tender age I suffered from their Jewishness; just my first lie was connected with my identity definition.
Not a bad start. As for anti-Semitism as such, He touched me a little, as came mainly from teachers: he was perceived as an integral aspect of their negative role in our lives; spit on him should, both the bad marks. If I were a Catholic, I would wish most of them burn in Hell. true, some teachers are better than others, but since they were all masters of our everyday life, we did not bother to distinguish. Yes, and they are not particularly distinguished his little slaves, and even in the most ardent anti-Semitic remarks could be heard impersonal routine. For some reason I could never be taken seriously by any verbal attacks, especially — people so far by age. apparently, diatribes my parents made me very tempered. In addition, some teachers were themselves Jews, and was afraid I did not less, than purebred Russian.
This is just one example of the shortening of the individual, which — together with the language itself, where verbs and nouns change places so freely, how much you have the courage of their shuffle — We were brought up in such a comprehensive ambivalent feelings, that of the ten-year we went with will power not more, than algae. Four years in the army (men called in 19 years old) completed the process of surrender to the state. Obeying and became the first and second kind.

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