Short stories of world literature. Short stories for the soul - small emotional stories with meaning

Hemingway once bet that he would write a six-word story (in the original language) that would be the most moving ever written. And he won the argument.
1. “Children's shoes for sale. Not worn.”
(“For sale: baby shoes, never used.”)
2. The winner of the competition for the shortest story that has a beginning, climax and denouement. (O.Henry)
“The driver lit a cigarette and bent over the gas tank to see how much gasoline was left. The deceased was twenty-three years old."
3. Frederick Brown. Shortest scary tale ever written.
“The last man on Earth was sitting in a room. There was a knock on the door."
4. A competition was held in Great Britain for the shortest story.
The parameters were as follows:
- God must be mentioned,
- Queen,
- There should be some sex
and there is some mystery present.
Winner story:
- God! - cried the queen, - I am pregnant, and it is unknown from
whom!…
5. An elderly French woman won the competition for the shortest autobiography and wrote:
“I used to have a smooth face and a wrinkled skirt, but now it’s the other way around.”

Jane Orvis. Window.

Ever since Rita was brutally murdered, Carter has been sitting by the window.
No TV, reading, correspondence. His life is what is seen through the curtains.
He doesn't care who brings the food, who pays the bills, he doesn't leave the room.
His life is about passing athletes, the change of seasons, passing cars, the ghost of Rita.
Carter doesn't realize that the felt-lined chambers have no windows.

Larisa Kirkland. Offer.

Starlight Night. It's the right time. Romantic dinner. Cozy Italian restaurant. Small black dress. Luxurious hair, sparkling eyes, silvery laughter. We've been together for two years. Wonderful time! Real love, best friend, no one else. Champagne! I offer my hand and heart. On one knee. Are people watching? Well, let! Beautiful diamond ring. Blush on the cheeks, charming smile.
How, no?!

Charles Enright. Ghost.

As soon as this happened, I hurried home to tell my wife the sad news. But she didn't seem to listen to me at all. She didn't notice me at all. She looked right through me and poured herself a drink. She turned on the TV.

At that moment the phone rang. She walked over and picked up the phone.
I saw her face wrinkle. She cried bitterly.

Andrew E. Hunt. Gratitude.

The woolen blanket that he was recently given in charitable foundation, hugged his shoulders comfortably, and the boots he found in the trash today did not sting at all.
The street lights warmed the soul so pleasantly after all this chilling darkness...
The curve of the park bench seemed so familiar to his weary old back.
“Thank you, Lord,” he thought, “life is simply amazing!”

Brian Newell. What the devil wants.

The two boys stood and watched Satan slowly walk away. The sparkle of his hypnotic eyes still clouded their heads.
- Listen, what did he want from you?
- My soul. And from you?
– A coin for a pay phone. He urgently needed to call.
- Do you want us to go eat?
- I want to, but now I have no money at all.
- It's OK. I have plenty.

Alan E. Mayer. Bad luck.

I woke up with severe pain throughout my body. I opened my eyes and saw a nurse standing by my bed.
“Mr. Fujima,” she said, “you were lucky to survive the bombing of Hiroshima two days ago.” But now you are in the hospital, you are no longer in danger.
A little alive from weakness, I asked:
- Where I am?
“In Nagasaki,” she answered.

Jay Rip. Fate.

There was only one way out, for our lives were intertwined in too tangled a knot of anger and bliss to solve everything any other way. Let's trust the lot: heads - and we will get married, tails - and we will part forever.
The coin was tossed. She tinkled, spun and stopped. Eagle.
We stared at her in bewilderment.
Then, with one voice, we said, “Maybe one more time?”

Robert Tompkins. In search of Truth.

Finally, in this remote, secluded village, his search ended. Truth sat in a dilapidated hut by the fire.
He had never seen an older, uglier woman.
– Are you – Really?
The old, wizened hag nodded solemnly.
- Tell me, what should I tell the world? What message to convey?
The old woman spat into the fire and answered:
– Tell them that I am young and beautiful!

August Salemi. Modern medicine.

Blinding headlights, a deafening grinding sound, piercing pain, absolute pain, then a warm, inviting, pure blue light. John felt amazingly happy, young, free, he moved towards the radiant radiance.
The pain and darkness slowly returned. John slowly, with difficulty, opened his swollen eyes. Bandages, some tubes, plaster. Both legs were gone. Tearful wife.
- You were saved, dear!

One can only guess to what level the outstanding Russian classic writers raised our culture; here the facts speak better than us. Museums, libraries, metro stations, squares, schools and streets in Russia, Ukraine and Belarus are named after many of them. The works of Russian classics are popular all over the world; they are perceived and loved not only by Russians, but also by foreigners. Significant contribution to development Russian state classics of Russian civil law also contributed, who can be called classics of Russian civil law 19th and 20th centuries. These include V.P. Gribanov, L.A. Luntz, G.F. Shershenevich, DI. Meyer, K.P. Pobedonostsev, O.S. Ioffe et al.

List of Russian classic writers

Books call for thought, foster independent judgment, strengthen the reader’s strength and give birth to a dream:

A.A. Block.
A.I. Kuprin.
A.N. Ostrovsky.
A.P. Chekhov. Masterpieces of Anton Chekhov, describing daily life, continue to evoke delight and peace. His famous plays do not lose their relevance today; they continue to be performed on the stage of theaters.
A.S. Griboyedov.
A.S. Green. I would like to note Green’s works, which tell about romantic sublime love for beautiful women, about faithful and strong friendship. His books radiate light, they are marked by subtle sadness, purity and chastity. Green created a Miracle in his imagination, having failed to find it in life.
A.S. Pushkin. The genius Alexander Pushkin lit the way future generations for centuries to come. Through his works, the reader perceives the diversity and wisdom of this world.

V.V. Mayakovsky.
DI. Fonvizin.
I.A. Bunin.
I.A. Goncharov.
I.S. Turgenev. He wrote many novels, novels and plays, stories, increasing and enriching world literature.
K.M. Stanyukovich. The works of Konstantin Stanyukovich are also unique, who, at the insistence of his father, chose a career as a naval sailor, going to circumnavigation. The writer has seen a lot, he was promoted to midshipman, and suffered from a fever. His eventful life was reflected in his work; most of his works describe the life of the navy.
L. N. Tolstoy. Raised Russian literature to highest level writer Leo Tolstoy, whom the whole world reads. An original person, with a huge charge of energy, extremely versatile, he was able to express in his works the full depth and beauty of his own worldview.
M. A. Bulgakov.
M.E. Saltykov-Shchedrin.
M.I. Sholokhov.
M. Yu. Lermontov.
Maksim Gorky. It wasn't easy life path, he has seen a lot in his lifetime. His works, which describe the real, “undisguised” lives of people, emanate strength and vital truth.
N.V. Gogol. The works of Nikolai Gogol, a writer who has entered the treasury of the world, are endowed with great power, sometimes even mystical, and beauty. classical literature.
N. A. Nekrasov.
N. G. Chernyshevsky.
N. M. Karamzin.
N. S. Leskov. He is the author of the works “Lefty”, “Devil's Dolls”, “The Unbaptized Priest”, “The Life of a Woman”, and is considered the most national author of Russia, the most Russian writer.

S.A. Yesenin.
F.I. Tyutchev.
F.M. Dostoevsky. Fyodor Dostoevsky is one of the most famous and significant writers Russia, one of the most respected Russian authors in the whole world.

The list of writers of classics of Russian literature is not limited to these most popular authors of works. Each of us can discover new books throughout our lives that the classics of Russian literature gifted us with.

The best books of Russian classics

Russian classics teach us life and wisdom. Educated, in in every sense This word can only be considered by a person who knows classical literature. For each of us there is a list of works, which includes best books Russian classics. We all love them, appreciate them, and re-read them many times.

Classics in the Russian province

Russia belongs to one of the most reading countries in the world. Today books are being replaced by the Internet, television, computer games to the 2nd plan. A literary event called “Classics in the Russian Province” took place on June 1, covering the cities of the Association of Small Tourist Cities. The event was conceived to preserve the value of literature. The promotion dates back to 2014. Then, in June last year, in the city of Myshkin one could observe an amazing living picture: in the merchant estate of T.V. Chistov, ladies dressed in 19th-century outfits strolled leisurely, like a lord. The summer breeze played with their curls, and the gentlemen, poised, walked along the ancient pavement. Played classical music, against the background of which the poems of A.S. Pushkin sounded incredibly beautiful. The festival began in such a charming way in June 2014. Thus, the classics began to sound their incessant voice again in the Russian provinces.

June 2015 continues this wonderful tradition by holding a literary event for the 2nd time. Its participants, as last year, read excerpts from works of Russian classical literature into a microphone for several hours. In honor of the anniversary of the Victory, the audience heard the work “Vasily Terkin” by A. Tvardovsky, which was included in the event program.

The action in the city of Azov took place at 3 city sites. In Kungur, excerpts from classical literature were heard in all city libraries. In Uglich, the action took place on the main city square, Uspenskaya. The participants of the celebration read out the works of M. Chekhov and O. Berggolts. In general, the number of people who participated in literary event, reached 3 thousand people. In Guryevsk, book exhibitions were installed on the main square and in the Park of Culture and Leisure, where the event was held.

In total, the literary event lasted about 5 hours, imbuing the participants with the depth and beauty of classical works.

Which Russian classic writers do you prefer? Whose books are you reading? Tell us about it in

Stories of the classics - classical prose about love, romance and lyrics, humor and sadness in the stories of recognized masters of the genre.

Antonio was young and proud. He did not want to obey his older brother, Marco, although he was supposed to eventually become the ruler of the entire kingdom. Then the angry old king expelled Antonio from the state as a rebel. Antonio could have taken refuge with his influential friends and waited out the time of his father’s disgrace, or retired overseas to his mother’s relatives, but his pride did not allow him to do this. Dressed in a modest dress and taking neither jewelry nor money with him, Antonio quietly left the palace and intervened in the crowd. The capital was a trading and seaside city; its streets were always bustling with people, but Antonio did not wander aimlessly for long: he remembered that he now had to earn his own food. In order not to be recognized, he decided to choose the most menial labor, went to the pier and asked the porters to accept him as a comrade. They agreed, and Antonio immediately got to work. Until the evening he carried boxes and bales and only after sunset he went with his comrades to rest.

I'm amazingly lucky! If my rings had not been sold, I would have deliberately thrown one of them into the water as a test, and if we were still catching fish, and if this fish was given to us to eat, then I would certainly find a thrown ring in it. In a word - the happiness of Polycrates. How best example extraordinary luck, I’ll tell you my story about the search. I must tell you, we were ready for the search a long time ago. Not because we felt or recognized ourselves as criminals, but simply because all our friends had already been searched, and why we were worse than others.

We waited a long time - we even got tired. The fact is that they usually came to search at night, around three o'clock, and we set up a watch - one night the husband did not sleep, the other the aunt, the third I did. Otherwise, it’s unpleasant if everyone is in bed, there is no one to greet dear guests and engage in conversation while everyone gets dressed.

Molton Chase is a charming old estate where the Clayton family has lived for hundreds of years. Its current owner, Harry Clayton, is rich, and since he is only enjoying the pleasures of married life for five years and has not yet received bills from college and school for Christmas, he wants the house to be constantly full of guests. He receives each of them with cordial and sincere cordiality.

December, Christmas Eve. The family and guests gathered at the dinner table.

- Bella! Would you like to take part in a horseback ride this afternoon? - Harry turned to his wife sitting opposite him.

Bella Clayton, a small woman with dimples and a simple-minded expression on her face to match her husband, immediately answered:

- No, Harry! Not today, darling. You know that before seven in the evening the Damers can arrive at any minute, and I wouldn’t want to leave the house without meeting them.

“Is it possible to find out, Mrs. Clayton, who exactly these Damers are, whose arrival is depriving us of your dear company today?” - inquired Captain Moss, a friend of her husband, who, like many handsome men He considered himself entitled to also be immodest.

But touchiness was least of all characteristic of Bella Clayton's nature.

“The Damers are my relatives, Captain Moss,” she answered, “at least Blanche Damer is my cousin.”

The dacha was tiny - two rooms and a kitchen. The mother grumbled in the rooms, the cook in the kitchen, and since Katenka served as the object of grumbling for both, there was no way for this Katenka to stay at home, and she sat all day in the garden on a rocking bench. Katenka's mother, a poor but ignoble widow, spent the whole winter sewing ladies' dresses and even entrance doors I nailed the plaque “Madame Paraskova, fashion and dresses.” In the summer she rested and raised her high school student daughter through reproaches of ingratitude. The cook Daria became arrogant a long time ago, about ten years ago, and in all of nature there has still not been a creature who could put her in her place.

Katenka sits on her rocking chair and dreams “about him.” In a year she will be sixteen years old, then it will be possible to get married without the metropolitan’s permission. But who should I marry, that’s the question?

It should be noted that this story is not overly funny.

Sometimes there are such unfunny topics taken from life. There was some kind of fight, scuffle, or property was stolen.

Or, for example, as in this story. The story of how one intelligent lady drowned. So to speak, you can get a little laugh out of this fact.

Although, it must be said that in this story there will be some funny situations. You'll see for yourself.

Of course I wouldn't make it difficult modern reader such a not very bravura story, but very, you know, a responsible modern topic. About materialism and love.

In a word, this is a story about how one day, through an accident, it finally became clear that all mysticism, all idealism, all kinds of unearthly love, and so on and so forth are pure nonsense and nonsense.

And that in life only a real material approach is valid and, unfortunately, nothing more.

Maybe this will seem too sad to some backward intellectuals and academicians, maybe they will whine back over it, but, having whined, let them look at their past life and then they will see how much extra they have piled on themselves.

So, allow the old, crude materialist, who after this story finally put an end to many sublime things, tell this very story. And let me apologize once again if there is not as much laughter as we would like.

Sultan Mohammed II the Conqueror, conqueror of two empires, fourteen kingdoms and two hundred cities, swore that he would feed his horse oats on the altar of St. Peter in Rome. The Grand Vizier of the Sultan, Ahmet Pasha, sailed with a strong army across the strait, besieged the city of Otranto from land and sea and took it by storm on June 26, in the year from the incarnation of the Word 1480. The victors did not know how to restrain their fury: they sawed the commander of the troops with a saw, Messer Francesco Largo, many of the inhabitants who were able to bear arms were killed, the archbishop, priests and monks were subjected to all kinds of humiliation in churches, and noble ladies and girls were deprived of their honor by force.

The Grand Vizier himself wished to take Francesco Largo's daughter, the beautiful Julia, into his harem. But the proud Neapolitan woman did not agree to become the concubine of an infidel. She met the Turk, on his first visit, with such insults that he became inflamed against her terrible anger. Of course, Ahmet Pasha could have overcome the resistance of the weak girl by force, but he chose to take revenge on her more cruelly and ordered her to be thrown into the city underground prison. The Neapolitan rulers threw only notorious murderers and the worst villains into this prison, for whom they wanted to find a punishment worse than death.

Julia, bound hand and foot with thick ropes, was brought to the prison in a closed stretcher, since even the Turks could not help but show her some honor due to her birth and position. She was dragged down a narrow and dirty staircase into the depths of the prison and chained to the wall with an iron chain. Left on Julia luxurious dress made of Lyon silk, but all the jewelry she was wearing was torn off: gold rings and bracelets, a pearl diadem and diamond earrings. Someone also took off her morocco oriental shoes, so that Julia found herself barefoot.

In five days the world was created.

“And God saw that it was good,” the Bible says.

He saw what was good and created man.

For what? - one asks.

Nevertheless, he created it.

This is where it started. God sees “what is good,” but man immediately saw what was wrong. And this is not good, and this is wrong, and why are there covenants and what are prohibitions for.

And there is the well-known sad story with the apple. A man ate an apple and blamed it on the snake. He allegedly incited. A technique that has lived for many centuries and has survived to our time: if a person smokes mischief, his friends are always to blame for everything.

But it is not the fate of man that interests us now, but precisely the question - why was he created? Is it not because the universe, like any other piece of art, needed criticism?

Of course, not everything in this universe is perfect. There's a lot of nonsense. Why, for example, does a blade of meadow grass have twelve varieties and all are of no use? And the cow will come and take it with its wide tongue and eat all twelve.

And why does a person need a process of the cecum, which must be removed as soon as possible?

- Oh well! - they will say. -You are talking frivolously. This vermiform appendage indicates that a person once...

I don’t remember what it testifies to, but probably about some completely unflattering thing: belonging to a certain genus of monkeys or some South Asian water cuttlefish. It’s better not to testify. Vermiform! What a disgusting thing! But it was created.

From her lounge chair, Mrs. Hamlin watched the passengers climb up the ramp. The ship arrived in Singapore at night, and loading began at dawn: the winches were straining all day, but having become familiar, their incessant creaking no longer hurt the ears. She had breakfast at “Europe” and, to pass the time, got into a rickshaw and drove along the elegant streets of the city teeming with diverse people. Singapore is a place of great crowds of peoples. There are few Malays, the true sons of this land, here, but there are apparently invisibly obsequious, agile and diligent Chinese; dark-skinned Tamils silently move their bare feet, as if they feel like strangers and random people here, but well-groomed rich Bengalis feel great in their neighborhoods and are filled with self-satisfaction; the obsequious and cunning Japanese are absorbed in some of their hasty and apparently shady affairs, and only the British, with white helmets and canvas trousers, flying in their cars and freely sitting on rickshaws, are carefree and at ease in appearance. With smiling indifference the rulers of this swarming crowd bear the burden of their power. Tired of the city and the heat, Mrs. Hamlin waited for the ship to continue its long journey across the Indian Ocean.

Seeing Doctor and Mrs. Linsell coming up on deck, she waved to them - she had a large palm, and she herself was large and tall. From Yokohama, where her current voyage began, she watched with unkind curiosity how quickly the intimacy of this couple grew. Linsell was a naval officer assigned to the British Embassy in Tokyo, and the indifference with which he watched the doctor flirt with his wife made Mrs. Hamlyn puzzled. Two new girls were coming up the stairs, and to amuse themselves, she began to guess whether they were married or single. Near her, pushing wicker chairs together, sat a group of men—planters, she thought, looking at their khaki suits and wide-brimmed felt hats; the steward was overwhelmed, carrying out their orders. They were talking and laughing too loudly, because they had poured enough alcohol into themselves to fall into some kind of stupid excitement; it was clearly a farewell, but whose, Mrs. Hamlin could not understand. There were only a few minutes left before departure. The passengers kept arriving and arriving, and finally Mr. Jephson, the consul, walked majestically along the gangplank; he was going on vacation. He boarded the ship in Shanghai and immediately began to court Mrs. Hamlin, but she did not have the slightest inclination to flirt. Remembering what was now driving her to Europe, she frowned. She wanted to spend Christmas at sea, away from everyone who cared about her in the least. The thought instantly made her heart ache, but she was immediately angry with herself that a memory she had resolutely banished was once again stirring up her reluctant mind.

At liberty, boy, at liberty! On your own, boy, on your own!

Novgorod song

- Summer has come.

- Here comes spring. May. Spring.

You can't make out anything here. Spring? Summer? It’s hot, stuffy, then - rain, snow, the stoves are turned on. It's stuffy and hot again.

It wasn't like that with us. For us, our northern spring was an event.

The sky, air, earth, trees changed.

All secret powers, the secret juices accumulated over the winter were rushing out.

Animals roared, animals growled, the air rustled with wings. High up, right under the clouds, in a triangle, like a heart soaring above the ground, the cranes were flying. The river rang with ice floes. Streams gurgled and gurgled along the ravines. The whole earth trembled in the light, in the ringing, in rustles, whispers, screams.

And the nights did not bring peace, did not cover my eyes with peaceful darkness. The day grew dim and pink, but did not go away.

And people wandered about, pale, languid, wandering, listening, like poets looking for a rhyme to an already emerging image.

It became difficult to live an ordinary life.

At the beginning of this century it happened an important event: a son was born to court councilor Ivan Mironovich Zaedin. When the first impulses of parental delight passed and the mother’s strength was somewhat restored, which happened very soon, Ivan Mironovich asked his wife:

- What, darling, what do you think, the young fellow will probably be just like me?

- How wrong it is! And God forbid!

- What, isn’t that... am I good, Sofya Markovna?

- Good, but unhappy! You keep going separately; You don’t have any worries: seven arshins of cloth goes into a tailcoat!

- So they added it. Why do you feel sorry for the cloth, or what? Eh, Sofya Markovna! If you weren't the one speaking, I wouldn't be listening!

— I wanted to make a vest from my katsaveyka: where to go! It doesn’t work out in half... Eka, the grace of God! If only you walked around more, Ivan Mironovich: it will soon be a shame to appear in public with you!

“What’s reprehensible here, Sofya Markovna?” So I go to the department every day and I don’t see any harm to myself: everyone looks at me with respect.

- They laugh at you, but you don’t even have the sense to understand! And you also want others to be like you!

- Really, darling, you are sophisticated: what’s surprising if the son looks like his father?

- Will not be!

- It will be, darling. Now the little one is like that... Again, take the nose... one might say, the most important thing in a person.

- Why are you poking around here? He is my birth.

- And mine too; you'll see.

Here mutual arguments and refutations began, which ended in a quarrel. Ivan Mironovich spoke with such fervor that top part his huge belly swayed like a stagnant swamp, accidentally shocked. Since it was still impossible to make out anything on the newborn’s face, having calmed down somewhat, the parents decided to wait for the most convenient time to resolve the dispute and made the following bet: if the son, who was supposed to be named Dmitry, looks like his father, then the father has the right to raise his sole discretion, and the wife does not have the right to have the slightest interference in this matter, and vice versa, if the gain is on the side of the mother...

“You will be embarrassed, darling, I know in advance that you will be embarrassed; better refuse... take your nose,” said the court councilor, “but I’m so sure that I’ll probably write our condition on stamped paper and declare it in the chamber, really.”

- They also figured out what to spend the money on; Eh, Ivan Mironovich, God did not give you sound reasoning, and you are also reading “The Northern Bee”.

- You won’t please, Sofya Markovna. Let's see what you say, how I will raise Mitenka.

- You won't!

- But we’ll see!

- You'll see!

A few days later, Mitenka was given a formal examination in the presence of several relatives and friends at home.

“He doesn’t look one iota like you, darling!”

- He is like the sky from you, Ivan Mironovich!

Both exclamations came out at the same time from the lips of the spouses and were confirmed by those present. In fact, Mitenka did not at all resemble either his father or his mother.

Shares five with us wonderful stories famous writers. If you don’t have time to start a lengthy work or want to get acquainted with the author’s work, we highly recommend starting with them.

What could be more magical than immersing yourself in the endless world of your favorite author’s storytelling for a few hours? But it happens that circumstances develop in such a way that you don’t have the desired time to read, but the desire to, at least for a short time, be imbued with the reality invented by someone else’s genius remains. Or, for example, you have just finished a voluminous book and are not yet ready to embark on another equally long journey. For such situations and just in case you want an easy, decent read, I have collected for you 10 stories no longer than 100 pages that will leave a pleasant aftertaste and a desire to definitely get to know the author’s work in more detail.

One of the brightest, but at the same time sad and poignant stories I have read. The author again reveals to us the unclear veil that envelops the lives of his constant heroes - touching dreamers forced to live in reality existing world. The book talks about warm friendship little boy and a middle-aged woman, his distant relative, living with him under the same roof. Be sure to read this work while there is still snow, then you, like me, will definitely hear the ringing bark of the Kinglet, feel the aroma of spices and hot Christmas pies. For me good tradition I started re-reading this book on Christmas Eve. And every time you feel sad with her, marvel at such a subtle and fragile beauty of the style, with bated breath, count the accumulated savings together with the heroes, make a kite, receive gifts on the most wonderful morning of the year and decorate the spreading spruce, which fills every corner of the house with the smell of pine needles. And every time you are amazed at how much beauty can be contained in just over 20 pages, if you choose the right words.

“Not only has she never gone to the cinema, she has never been to a restaurant, did not move more than five miles from home, did not receive or send telegram; I never read anything other than comics and the Bible, I never used cosmetics, did not swear, did not wish harm to anyone, did not lie with intent, did not let a hungry dog pass so as not to feed it. Here are some of her things: she killed with a hoe the largest rattlesnake ever seen in our district (sixteen rings on the tail); she sniffs tobacco (secretly from domestic); tames hummingbirds (try it! And she has them swinging on finger); tells ghost stories (we both believe in ghosts), to They are so terrible that even in July they make your skin feel cold; talking with herself; takes walks in the rain; grows the most beautiful city Japanese quince..."

Another great piece that I definitely want to return to. And the second, which made me feel such heart-aching pity that, having already turned the last page, I still cannot cope with my emotions. The author tells the story of one short trip of forced fellow travelers, which was interrupted by unforeseen difficulties. We will see in a stagecoach stuck with its wheels in the snow and two nuns in loose robes whispering “Pater” and “Ave”, and several married couples in the depths of the carriage, personifying prosperity and power, and the red-bearded, good-natured democrat Cornude, and, of course, main character- rosy plump " light girl behavior" nicknamed Pyshka. And we have to live together with the heroes short story, fully filled with both goodness and cruelty. A story about human prejudices, compassion, meanness and self-sacrifice. If you happen to have a collection of the writer's stories in your hands, also read Miss Harriet if you're in the mood to hear about pure and sad love, or “Roget’s Remedy” if you want something lighter and with a touch of humor.

“The snow became harder, and the stagecoach was now rolling faster. And all the way, all the way to Dieppe, during the long, dreary hours of travel, over all the potholes, first at dusk, and then in complete darkness, Cornudet with ferocious persistence continued his monotonous and vindictive whistling, which forced his tired and irritated neighbors to involuntarily follow follow the song from beginning to end, recall every word to the beat of the melody. And Pyshka kept crying, and at times sobs, which she was unable to restrain, could be heard in the darkness between the stanzas of “Marseillaise.”

Fitzgerald, one of the most famous representatives « lost generation" V American literature, the creator of the “jazz era,” reveals a completely different side of his literary talent in the above work. And even if you are already familiar with the film adaptation of the story, where the main roles were played by Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett, be sure to read the book. It is full of a completely different special mood, subtle irony and is very easy to read. In a very small number of pages (which will come as a surprise to you after watching the film of the same name), an amazing ring of stories about life, death, youth and old age, and, of course, about love is revealed.

“Benjamin Button—as he was called, abandoning the very appropriate but too provocative name Methuselah—although he had an old man’s stoop, he was five feet eight inches tall. Clothes did not hide this, nor did short haircut and dyed eyebrows did not hide dull, faded eyes. The nanny, who had been taken to the child in advance, as soon as she saw him, left the house indignantly.
But Mr. Button was determined: Benjamin is a baby and should be one. First of all, he announced that if Benjamin did not drink warm milk, he would not receive anything at all, but then he was persuaded to make peace on bread and butter and even oatmeal. One day he brought home a rattle and, giving it to Benjamin, demanded in no uncertain terms that he play with it, after which the old man, with a tired look, took it and obediently shook it from time to time.”

The book has about 120 pages, and although it goes a little beyond the size I outlined, I couldn’t help but include it in the list. It's amazingly light and easy piece, written in a beautiful style. The book talks about the life of 13-year-old Gregoire, about his dreams, about what fills the protagonist’s everyday life, what comes easy to him and what doesn’t. It’s also about childhood and the Real Grandfather. Through the eyes of a little boy, we look at completely unchildish questions and find amazing answers to them. It’s definitely worth reading; the book will make you smile and think at the same time more than once.

“Until I was three years old, I can say for sure, I lived happily. I don't remember it well, but it seems so to me. I played, watched a cartoon about a bear cub ten times in a row, drew pictures and came up with a million adventures for Grodudu - this was my favorite plush puppy. Mom told me that I would sit alone in my room for hours and never get bored, chatting incessantly, as if to myself. So I think: I probably lived a happy life.”

Many beautiful works of small volume were written by our domestic writers and are probably familiar to a good half of us from school curriculum. But I wanted to complete the list with “Asey”, because the lightness of the narrative, the elusive smell of the mountain air of a small town and the author’s chosen approach to the work as a memoir of the main character together create the very atmosphere that is one way or another inherent in all of the above books in their own way. Everything is beautiful here: both the landscapes and short descriptions the lives of the townspeople, and the sadness with which the hero remembers the old days, and Asya’s windy, wild character. A fleeting story of unfulfilled love, leaving bright memories and regrets, will give you wonderful moments on its pages.

“I loved wandering around the city then; the moon seemed to be looking intently at him from the clear sky; and the city felt this gaze and stood sensitively and peacefully, completely bathed in its light, this serene and at the same time quietly soul-stirring light. The rooster on the high Gothic bell tower glittered with pale gold; The streams shimmered like gold across the black gloss of the river; thin candles (the German is thrifty!) glowed modestly in the narrow windows under the slate roofs; the vines mysteriously poked out their curled tendrils from behind the stone fences; something was running in the shadows near the ancient well on the triangular square, suddenly the sleepy whistle of the night watchman was heard, a good-natured dog was grumbling in a low voice, and the air was caressing his face, and the linden trees smelled so sweetly that his chest involuntarily began to breathe deeper and deeper, and the word : “Gretchen” is either an exclamation or a question – it was just asking for the lips.”