Zoshchenko. story - meeting - zoshchenko

The autobiographical and scientific story "Before Sunrise" is a confessional story about how the author tried to overcome his melancholy and fear of life. He considered this fear to be his mental illness, and not at all a feature of his talent, and he tried to overcome himself, to inspire himself with a childishly cheerful worldview. For this (as he believed, having read Pavlov and Freud), it was necessary to get rid of childhood fears, to overcome the gloomy memories of youth. And Zoshchenko, recalling his life, discovers that almost all of it consisted of gloomy and heavy, tragic and poignant impressions.

There are about a hundred small chapters-stories in the story, in which the author sorts out his gloomy memories: here is the stupid suicide of a student of the same age, here is the first gas attack at the front, here is unsuccessful love, but love is successful, but quickly bored ... Home the love of his life is Nadia V., but she marries and emigrates after the revolution. The author tried to console himself with an affair with a certain Alya, an eighteen-year-old married woman with very easy rules, but her deceit and stupidity finally tired him. The author saw the war and still cannot recover from the consequences of gas poisoning. He has strange nervous and heart attacks. He is haunted by the image of a beggar: more than anything else, he is afraid of humiliation and poverty, because in his youth he saw to what meanness and meanness the poet Tinyakov, depicting a beggar, reached. The author believes in the power of reason, in morality, in love, but all this is collapsing before his eyes: people are sinking, love is doomed, and what kind of morality is there - after everything that he saw at the front in the first imperialist and civilian? After the hungry Petrograd in 1918? After the cackling hall at his performances?

The author tries to look for the roots of his gloomy worldview in childhood: he recalls how he was afraid of thunderstorms, water, how late he was taken from his mother's breast, how alien and frightening the world seemed to him, how in his dreams the motif of a formidable hand grabbing his hand was persistently repeated ... As if the author is looking for a rational explanation for all these children's complexes. But he cannot do anything with his character: it was his tragic worldview, sick pride, many disappointments and mental traumas that made him a writer with his own, unique point of view. Waging an uncompromising struggle with himself in a completely Soviet way, Zoshchenko tries on a purely rational level to convince himself that he can and should love people. The origins of his mental illness are seen by him in childhood fears and subsequent mental overstrain, and if something can still be done with fears, then nothing can be done about mental overstrain, the habit of writing. This is a warehouse of the soul, and the forced rest, which Zoshchenko periodically arranged for himself, does not change anything here. Speaking about the need for a healthy lifestyle and a healthy worldview, Zoshchenko forgets that a healthy worldview and uninterrupted joy of life are the lot of idiots. Or rather, he forces himself to forget about it.

As a result, "Before Sunrise" turns not into a story about the triumph of reason, but into an agonizing account of the artist's useless struggle with himself. Born to sympathize and empathize, painfully sensitive to everything gloomy and tragic in life (be it a gas attack, a friend's suicide, poverty, unhappy love or the laughter of soldiers cutting a pig), the author tries in vain to convince himself that he can cultivate a cheerful and cheerful worldview . With such a mindset, there is no point in writing. Zoshchenko's entire story, her entire artistic world, proves the primacy of artistic intuition over reason: the artistic, novelistic part of the story is written excellently, and the author's comments are only a mercilessly honest account of a completely hopeless attempt. Zoshchenko tried to commit literary suicide, following the orders of the hegemons, but, fortunately, did not succeed in this. His book remains a monument to an artist who is powerless over his own gift.

A funny story happened to me on transport this fall.

I went to Moscow. From Rostov. Here comes the mail-passenger train at six forty-five in the evening.

I'm on this train.

The people are not so ugly a lot. Even, in extreme cases, you can sit down.

Please hurry up. I sit down.

And now I look at my fellow travelers.

And business, I speak, by the evening. Not that dark, but dark. Generally twilight. And they still don't fire. Save wires.

So, I look at the surrounding passengers and see - the company has crept up quite glorious. All of them, I see, are nice, not inflated people.

One such without a hat, long-maned subject, but not pop. Such an intellectual in general in a black jacket.

Next to him - in Russian boots and a uniform cap. Such mustache. Just not an engineer. Maybe he's a zookeeper or an agronomist. Only, you see, a very sympathetic soul person. He holds a penknife with his handles and with this knife he cuts the Antonov apple into pieces and feeds his other neighbor - the armless one. This one next to him, I see an armless citizen riding. Such a young proletarian guy. Without both hands. Probably disabled. It's very pitiful to look at.

But he eats with such gusto. And, since he has no hands, he cuts him into slices and feeds him into his mouth on the tip of a knife.

Such, I see, a humane picture. A story worthy of Rembrandt.

And opposite them sits a middle-aged gray-haired man in a black cap. And all he, this man, grins.

Maybe they had some funny conversation before me. Only to see, this passenger still cannot cool down and laughs all the time: “hee” and “hee”.

And I was very intrigued not by this gray-haired one, but by the one that is armless.

And I look at him with civic sorrow, and I am very tempted to ask how he got so stupid and why he lost his limbs. But it's embarrassing to ask.

I think I'll get used to the passengers, I'll talk and then I'll ask.

He began to ask extraneous questions to the mustachioed subject as more responsive, but he answers gloomily and reluctantly.

Only suddenly the first intelligent man with long hair gets involved in a conversation with me.

For some reason, he turned to me, and we started a conversation with him on various light topics: where are you going, how much cabbage is and whether you have a housing crisis today.

He says: - We do not have a housing crisis. Moreover, we live in our homestead, in the estate.

And what, - I say - do you have a room there or a doghouse? - No, - he says, - why the room. Take it higher. I have nine rooms, not counting, of course, the people's rooms, sheds, latrines, and so on.

I say: - Maybe you're lying? Well, - I say - you were not evicted during the revolution, or is it a state farm? - No, - he says, - this is my family estate, a mansion. Yes, you, - he says, - come to me. I sometimes arrange evenings. Fountains splash around me. Symphony orchestras play waltzes.

What are you, - I say, - I'm sorry, will you be a tenant or are you a private person? - Yes, - he says, - I am a private person. By the way, I'm a landowner.

That is, - I say, - how can I understand you? Are you a former landowner? That is, I say, “the proletarian revolution swept away your category. I, - I say, - I'm sorry, I can't understand something in this matter. We have, - I say, - a social revolution, socialism - what kind of landlords can we have.

But, he says, they can. Here, he says, I am a landowner. I, he says, managed to survive through your entire revolution. And, - he says, - I spit on everyone - I live like a god. And I don't care about your social revolutions.

I look at him in amazement and do not really understand what's what. He says: - Yes, you come - you will see. Well, if you want, let's go to my place now. Very, - he says, - you will meet a luxurious aristocratic life. Let's go. See.

“What the hell, I think. To go, perhaps, to see how it survived through the proletarian revolution? Or he's lying."

Moreover, I see - a gray-haired man laughs. Everyone laughs: “hehe” and “hehe”.

Only I wanted to reprimand him for inappropriate laughter, and the mustachioed one, who had cut the apple earlier, put down his penknife on the table, ate the leftovers and said to me rather loudly: - Stop talking to him. It's mental. Don't you see it? Then I looked at the whole honest company and I see - my fathers! Why, it's really crazy that they go with a watchman. And who is long-haired - abnormal. And who laughs all the time. And armless too. He's just wearing a straitjacket - his arms are twisted. And you can’t immediately make out what he is with his hands. In a word, crazy people go. And this mustachioed one is their watchman. He transports them.

I look at them with concern and get nervous - I still think, damn it, they will strangle them, since they are mental and are not responsible for their actions.

Only suddenly I see - one abnormal, with a black beard, my neighbor, looked with his cunning eye at a penknife and suddenly carefully takes it in his hand.

Then my heart skipped a beat, and the frost on the skin passed. In one second, I jumped up, fell on the bearded man and began to take away the knife from him.

And he desperately resists me. And he tries to bite me with his frenzied teeth.

Only suddenly the mustachioed watchman pulls me back. He says: - Why did you pile on them, as you, really, are not ashamed. This is their knife. This is not a psychic passenger. These three - yes, my mental. And this passenger just rides like you. We borrowed a knife from them - they asked. This is their knife. How shameless you are! Whom I crushed, he says: - I gave them a knife, they are attacking me. They choke on the throat. Thank you thank you. What strange behavior on their part. Yes, maybe it's also mental. Then if you're a watchman, you better look after him. Avon, lashes out - strangles by the throat.

The watchman says: - Or maybe he is also mental. The dog will take it apart. Only he is not from my party. Why would I look after him in vain. There is nothing for me to point out. I know mine.

I say strangled: - I'm sorry, I thought - you're crazy too.

You, he says, thought. Indian roosters think ... Almost strangled by the throat, you bastard. Don't you see, perhaps, their crazy look and mine are natural.

No, I say, I don't see it. On the contrary, I say, you also have some kind of haze in your eyes, and your beard is growing like a lunatic.

One psychic - this same landowner - says: - And you pull his beard - so he will stop talking abnormalities.

The bearded one wanted to shout for guards, but then we arrived at the Igren station, and our psychics with their guide left.

And they came out in a fairly strict order. The armless one just had to be pushed a little.

And then the conductor told us that at this Igren station there is a house for the mentally ill, where such mental patients are often taken. And what, how else to carry them? Not in a dog kennel. There is nothing to be offended.

Yes, I'm actually not offended. Silly, of course, it happened that he talked like a fool, but nothing! But the one I crushed, he was really offended. He looked at me gloomily for a long time and followed my movements with fear. And then, not expecting anything good from me, he moved with things to another department.

Please.

The work of Mikhail Mikhailovich Zoshchenko is original. He acted as the creator of the original comic novel, continuing the traditions of Gogol, Leskov, and early Chekhov in new historical conditions. Zoshchenko created his own, completely unique artistic style. The heyday of the writer's talent falls on the twenties. The basis of Zoshchenko's creativity of the twenties is a humorous description of everyday life. The author writes about drunkenness, about housing affairs, about losers offended by fate. The motive of discord, worldly absurdity, some tragicomic inconsistency of the hero with the tempo, rhythm and spirit of the time predominates.

In the story "Meeting" the hero talks about himself, about the incident that he remembers. In the foreground, a man very pleased with himself: "I'll tell you frankly: I really love people." But he immediately declares that he “has not seen disinterested people”, thereby refuting what has just been said.

The story is told in a conversational style. It is characterized by short sentences, often dissected, incomplete: “And I went, you know, from Yalta to Alupka. On foot. On the highway"; “Got another mile. Got tired. Sat down on the road. Sitting. Resting". A characteristic feature of the conversational style are introductory words and sentences: “do you know”, “you know”, “you can say”, “say”, “I think”, “maybe”. Dialogue is also an integral part of this style.

The language of the characters is saturated with vernacular, “reduced” vocabulary, there are many grammatical errors in the speech: “I am thinking about him”, “through this heat, even beauty does not come to mind”; “Here, I think, hell, I got attached”, “got tired”, “pressed”, “forever”, “alive”.

Speech can say a lot about a person. From the conversation of the hero, we understand that in front of us is a person who is narrow-minded and not very literate. He wants to appear superior in the eyes of others and his own. To do this, he uses "beautiful" words: "bright personality"; “with all his love for people”, “beauty, one might say, unearthly”; “turning away from the pa-norama”, “merci”, “very noble of him”, “heart tells”. All these expressions are stamps, there is nothing behind them. Has a person already become a bright personality by showing a short road to Alupka? This, it turns out, is "very noble of him." And all the charms of the “unearthly beauty” that the hero allegedly admires are also just empty words for him. And he thinks about something else: the heat, the deserted road, on which, God forbid, to meet a stranger. Our hero is cowardly, he runs away from the boy: "If only, I think, to reach Alupka alive."

The hero's speech is empty, devoid of content. He calls a short meeting with a fellow traveler friendship. According to him, the boy "turned out to be a very nice person." But he adds: "Pishchevik." As if that's what makes a person attractive. The word "food worker" is repeated: "All evening I have been thinking about this food worker."

The language betrays the true essence of the hero, reveals his true face. In fact, he does not trust anyone, even a "bright personality" - "- a fellow traveler: "Who knows - what thoughts he had when he did his selfless deed." He thinks about this all the time. He repeats : "Who knows - or maybe he really wanted to smoke? Maybe he wanted to shoot a cigarette from me? So he ran. Or maybe he was bored walking - he was looking for a fellow traveler?" The hero does not even have confidence in himself: “I can’t decide what he was thinking then.”

Zoshchenko's hero wants to keep up with progress, he hastily assimilates modern trends, hence the predilection for fashionable names and political terminology, hence the desire to assert his "proletarian" insides through bravado with rudeness, ignorance, rudeness. Behind funny words, incorrect grammatical phrases, we see the gestures of the characters, and the tone of the voice, and his psychological state, and the author's attitude to what is being told. With the manner of a tale, a short, extremely concise phrase, M. Zoshchenko achieved what others achieved by introducing additional artistic details.

Time goes by, but people often exchange their lives for trifles, value empty things, live in petty interests, and do not trust anyone. The author calls to abandon the petty evil that disfigures and cripples life.

I'll tell you frankly: I love people very much.

Others, you know, waste their sympathies on dogs. They bathe them and lead them on chains. And somehow the person is more pleasant to me.

However, I cannot lie: with all my ardent love, I have not seen disinterested people.

One, it was, a boy with a bright personality flashed through my life. And even now I am in deep thought about it. I can't decide what he was thinking then. The dog knows him - what thoughts he had when he did his disinterested work.

And I went, you know, from Yalta to Alupka. On foot. On the highway. I was in Crimea this year. In a rest home.

So I walk. I admire the Crimean nature. To the left, of course, is the blue sea. The ships are floating. To the right are the damn mountains. Eagles flutter. Beauty, one might say, unearthly.

One bad thing - it's impossible to hot. Through this heat, even beauty does not come to mind. You turn away from the panorama. And the dust on the teeth creaks.

He walked seven miles and stuck out his tongue. And the devil knows how long to Alupka. Maybe ten miles. Not exactly happy that he left.

Went another mile. Worn out. Sat down on the road. Sitting. Resting. And I see a man walking behind me. Steps, maybe five hundred.

And of course it's empty all around. Not a soul. Eagles are flying.

I didn't think anything bad then. But still, with all my love for people, I do not like to meet them in a deserted place. Few things happen. I tempt a lot.

I got up and went. I walked a little, turned around - a man was following me. Then I went faster, - he seemed to push too.

I go, I don’t look at the Crimean nature. If only, I think, we could reach Alupka alive. I turn around. I look - he waves his hand to me. I also waved to him. Say, leave me alone, do me a favor.

I hear something screaming. Here, I think, bastard, attached! Hodko went ahead. I hear screaming again. And runs behind me.

Despite being tired, I also ran. I ran a little - I'm suffocating.

I hear screaming:

- Stop! Stop! Comrade!

I leaned against the rock. I stand.

A poorly dressed man runs up to me. In sandals. And instead of a shirt - a grid.

- What do you want, I say?

“Nothing,” he says, “no need. I see you are not going there. Are you in Alupka?

- Alupka.

“Then,” he says, “you don’t need a check.” You give a huge hook for a check. Tourists are always confused here. And here you have to go along the path. Verst four benefits. And a lot of shadows.

“No, no,” I say, “merci-thank you.” I'll take the highway.

“Well,” he says, “as you wish. And I'm on the path.

Turned around and walked back. After says:

— Is there a cigarette, comrade? Smoke hunting.

I gave him a cigarette. And right away we got to know each other and became friends. And they went together. Along the path.

He turned out to be a very nice person. Pischevik. He laughed at me the whole way.

“Directly,” he says, “it was hard to look at you. It doesn't go there. Give, I think, I will tell. And you run. Why were you running?

- Yes, - I say, - why not run.

Imperceptibly, along a shady path, we came to Alupka and said goodbye here.

I spent the whole evening thinking about this food worker.

The man was running, panting, ruffling his sandals. And for what? To tell me where I need to go. It was very noble of him.

Now, having returned to Leningrad, I think: the dog knows him, or maybe he really wanted to smoke? Maybe he wanted to shoot a cigarette from me. Here he ran. Or maybe it was boring for him to go - he was looking for a companion.

Zoshchenko meeting summary All our dignity lies in thought. It is not space or time, which we cannot fill, that elevates us, but it is she, our thought. Let us learn to think well: this is the basic principle of morality. Mikhail Mikhailovich Zoshchenko was the son of a hereditary nobleman, artist Mikhail Ivanovich Zoshchenko and Elena Iosifovna, who was fond of acting and literature before marriage. The future writer and satirist was born on August 10, 1894 in St. Petersburg. From an early age, the boy, echoing his mother, became interested in literature. The first "tests of the pen", as Zoshchenko himself recalls, were made at the age of seven, and the first story "Coat" appeared already in 1907. Zoshchenko meeting summary After graduating from high school in 1913, Mikhail Mikhailovich enters the law faculty of St. Petersburg University, but, without even finishing his first year, volunteers for the front. During World War I, Zoshchenko commanded a battalion, became a knight of the St. George Order, was wounded, and also poisoned by enemy gases, which led to a serious heart disease. Returning to St. Petersburg, Zoshchenko will write a number of stories (“Petty bourgeois”, “Marusya”, “Neighbor”, etc.) After the revolution, Mikhail Mikhailovich took the side of the Bolsheviks. The beginning of the 1920s was the most difficult period for the writer in his life. Injuries and heart disease made themselves felt. Poor health was exacerbated by the constant search for earnings. During this period, Zoshchenko changed several specialties, ranging from a shoemaker and an actor to a policeman. Nevertheless, his literary life during this period "is in full swing." In 1919, Zoshchenko attends creative lectures conducted by K.I. Chukovsky. During the same period, he wrote the first published stories: "War", "Female Fish", "Love", etc. After their release, Zoshchenko gained immense popularity among Soviet citizens. His stories were read at work, at home, he was quoted, turning some of his lines into "catch phrases". Having received thousands of letters from fans, Zoshchenko came up with the idea to combine all these letters into one book, in which, as it seemed to him, he could show the true "living" country, with its various thoughts and experiences. But the book, published in 1929, did not evoke any emotions in the readers, except for disappointment, as they once again expected something funny and interesting from Zoshchenko. In the 30s, the writer travels around the Soviet Union, sees how prisoners are treated in camps, which leaves a strong imprint on Zoshchenko's vulnerable psyche. Zoshchenko meeting summary In order to get rid of the oppressive feeling, Mikhail Mikhailovich writes "Returned Youth", hang, after which he publishes the work "The Blue Book" in 1935. The last work causes a storm of negative reviews in the highest circles, which is why the writer is given to understand that he should not go beyond the permitted limits. Since that time, Zoshchenko's work has been expressed only by publications in the children's publications "Hedgehog" and "Chizh". After the government decree of 1946, Zoshchenko, like many other of his talented contemporaries, began to be poisoned in every possible way, which led to an exacerbation of mental illness, which prevented Mikhail Mikhailovich from working normally. The beloved satirist of Soviet citizens died in July 1958. Zoshchenko meeting summary Let a person have no benefit in lying - this does not mean that he is telling the truth: they lie simply in the name of lies.