On behalf of the writer, a letter to readers. The most frank letters from writers that will move you to tears

My dear Fabulians!
I repeat once again: I do not write reviews as such. It's not really mine.
What I write can rather be called essay-reflections-associations on the topic of a work.
But, as long as they carry some information and people are interested in reading them, then they probably have a right to exist.
And further.
Recently, due to the illness of a loved one and the changed home schedule, I, alas, do not appear on the site so often. I rarely write anything of my own.
Unfortunately, there is practically no time left for writing reviews.
But I noticed this work a long time ago. I shared my thoughts with the author in a letter. It piqued her interest. With the permission and consent of the author, I formulate my thoughts and associations as a review, although, as I have already noted, they do not quite fit the title of “review”.
But there is no other section.

Well, first of all, I really liked it!
This: What's on your mind? In mine - only you.
An unusually laconic, but very precise, gentle and capacious phrase.
After all, she writes from an oriental girl, bound by centuries-old traditions and prohibitions on female free-thinking.
If you read “Leyli and Majnun” by Fuzuli, then there are lines when Leyli’s mother instructs her:
“You are a girl, don’t be cheap, know your worth!”
This is the key to understanding the character of an oriental girl.
And further. There is such a famous Turkic dastan "DedE-KorkUt". It is considered the most significant and fundamental in the folklore of the Turkic peoples.
There is a phrase that one of the heroines utters: “Better than they say about me “frivolous,” it would be better if they say “unhappy.”
That is, you understand, dear author, an oriental girl, for fear of being considered frivolous, agrees to be unhappy, just to avoid an unnecessary word, smile, or glance. You never know how it will be regarded, including by the beloved himself...
As we say: “Every man has the right to insist, and every woman has the duty to evade!”
Therefore, in order to somehow express her feelings, a woman had to resort to various tricks and allegories, and sometimes resort to secret writing.
Sometimes a girl who wanted to open her feelings to a guy would send him, say, an apple, a pomegranate and a book.
This meant that she had read hundreds of books and was very smart, but her heart yearned and languished without love, like a juicy apple, and she hoped that the guy would share her feelings and soon they would become a single family, like a pomegranate that unites dozens of little ones. seeds, and will be a blessed family, since the pomegranate is the only fruit that has a small crown of teeth at the top!
Or I sent the guy, say, two jugs, empty and filled with something. It had to be understood this way: her mind is full, like a full jug, and her heart is empty, like an empty one, and she is waiting for love to fill it...
Therefore your phrase: " in mine - only you" - I really liked it. Unusually piercing, lapidary and capacious!
Thank you!
Mountains of time sand- also a very beautiful metaphor. Sad and wise.
Garlic?..
Here I am, thinking...
You most likely took as a model Leili’s letter to Majnun from Nizami’s poem translated by Pavel Antokolsky.
Pavel Antokolsky is a wonderful poet. I really love his poem “Son” and the poem “She hasn’t slept in the wooden house for a long time”
But this translation still confused me...
Garlic, it seems to me, is out of whack...
Why?
Yes, because garlic was a cure for many troubles and ailments, the favorite seasoning of the poor. And the rich did not disdain them.
There is even a proverb about it: SarymsAg (garlic) - janYm sag (my soul is healthy)!
Now, if instead of garlic, you would have, for example, a gangue thorn A l, then this is a more traditional opposition. Love is a lily, a rose and separation, pain is a thorn.
Even in the famous dastan “Asli and Kerem” there is an episode when two beautiful roses grow on the grave of their lovers, and on the grave of their enemy there is a thorn, and this thorn reaches the roses and separates them!
But garlic is still a respected plant.
Although, I have my doubts.
If you give the name of the thorn - gangal, then you will have to give a footnote, explain that gangal is a thistle. Maybe wormwood is better?
You know, wormwood A Since ancient times it has been considered a Turkic herb. And Murad Adji, in his studies about the history of the Great Steppe and the Turks, mentions it. Moreover, this herb is believed to be capable of awakening memories of the Motherland and people dear to the heart.
Maybe in this case, wormwood will be justified? After all, a woman writes to her beloved from her homeland, trying to remind her of herself and that he was nice.
Although, of course, the author knows better...

There were no flower beds in the medieval East. Only the garden. Of course, roses, tulips, lilies, and hyacinths were planted in rows, but there were no flower beds as such. More like discounts. But in the poem, I think it’s better to just use the word “garden.”

But this is not the main thing.
One thought bothers me.
Who is the author of the letter? Girl or woman? By physical and social status?
If the poem is intended as a stylization of "Leyla and Majnun",
It is clear from everything that this is a letter from the married Leyla Majnun.
Not girls!!!. It's too revealing for a medieval Muslim girl:
(Every hair in you is dear to me,
And the tenderness of the mole on the chin
It will shine like a precious find
For the traveler with weary legs.
I want to live a century alone with you,
Sharing bread and bed with you alone,)
This letter women. And she says goodbye to her love, Tatyana. This is a scary step. She understands that her life is already over, she is the wife of Ibn Salam - a good, but not loved person.
And if an oriental married woman decided to write a letter to a virtually stranger, then this says a lot. This is goodbye.
This definitely needs to be emphasized. This thought of farewell should permeate the entire letter.
This is not just a love letter from a girl who may still be fine, nor is it a young, spoiled Oriental woman who wants to have fun.
This letter is tragic in its essence, the last letter. This certainly needs to be emphasized, it seems to me.

And the last, but very important note.
Tanya, here is Antokolsky’s phrase: “ Remember: God is close to the lonely."

And here's yours: Know that whoever suffers, God is with those.

Tanya, a huge, colossal difference!!! Colossal!!! In philosophy!!!

We have a proverb. When a person, for example, says that he is alone, that is, he has no relatives, they are dead or far away, then they answer him, wanting to console him: “Allah is also one.” That is - “God is with you, you are not alone!

But suffering is precisely a sign of something not entirely good in Eastern philosophy and worldview. It is believed that if a person undergoes a lot of suffering and hardship, then, on the contrary, God does not love him, and therefore sends him hardship.
Tanya, suffering as a sign of purification, catharsis, this is more characteristic of Christian philosophy. Remember from Dostoevsky: “I want to suffer, and through suffering I will be cleansed!”
Never, never will any sane Eastern person say about himself: “I want to suffer, for through suffering I will be cleansed!”
They will simply twist a finger at his temple. They won't understand. This is not in Eastern philosophy.
Shaheeds don't count. They do not regard death as suffering. In their minds, they immediately go to heaven. That is, they do not suffer. Suffering - whether it exists or not - is on earth.
On the contrary, it is believed that the more a person is loved by Allah, the more serene his life is.
Well, at the beginning I mentioned the dastan “DedE-KorkUt”. There is also such an episode
The Shah gathers guests for a feast. There are white and gold tents everywhere. And one is black.
He gives the order to the servants to greet the guests, and depending on who has a son or daughter, or more sons or daughters, to lead them accordingly: if a person has a son, then to a white tent, and if a daughter, then to a golden one.
The vizier of the Shah Alp ArUz also comes to the feast. He is taken to a black tent.
He asks about the reason for such disfavor.
They answer him: “You have neither a son nor a daughter, the Creator did not love you, and we will not love you. Therefore, your place is in the black tent.”
Cruel?
Yes, Tanechka.
But it is so.
This is the ancient philosophy of Eastern man, his worldview. It hasn't changed much since then...

That’s why your phrase “Know that those who suffer, God is with them.” incorrect from the point of view of an Eastern person. An Eastern person will never say that.

“God is close to the lonely,” he will say. This is true, this is in the worldview of an Eastern person.
But “those who suffer, God is with them.” - No.

And so, I really liked everything, Tatyana.
Thank you for the gentle and subtle charm of your poem!

Early in the morning, coming out of the bath, Sergei Ivanovich immediately went to the computer, shuffling with his slippers and wiping his face. He urgently needed to send management the report he had been working on the entire previous evening. He sent the report, but what was his surprise when he found a strange letter in his inbox.

“Sergey, your story is an amazing thing. Thanks for your creativity. Sincerely."

My story?! – Sergei exclaimed and heard the smell of burning - his eggs were burning.
“How could I write a story if I only knew how to write reports all the way there?” The man was sincerely perplexed as he got ready for work. He said with annoyance: “I’m not a writer, but a simple manager.”
“Low level,” added an inner voice.
“Low-level,” Segrey reluctantly confirmed.
While putting on socks, trousers and a shirt, he looked at the computer with intrigue:
- When did I have time? Can't wait to read it! “But as soon as I reached out to click the link to my work, I saw a clock in the lower right corner. They showed that if he didn’t come out right away, he would be late for work.
“Fine for being late,” warned an inner voice, and Sergei, quietly swearing, turned off the computer.

On the way to work, he began to realize that he had actually written a story, but he didn’t remember it at all. It’s very interesting to read yourself from the outside. “What did I write about?” - Sergei Ivanovich asked himself and smiled. He felt as if magic had happened in his life. The whole working day I searched in my memory for traces, clues of some plot, but nothing was found. This intrigued him even more.

And when I was returning from work, I got caught in a downpour, got wet to the skin, and froze. In the apartment, he took off his wet clothes and, contrary to his plans, went to the bath rather than read his masterpiece. The hot water relaxed our hero, and he dozed off.

Phew, finally! – The controller in his head rejoiced. “I thought he would never calm down.” Not a single thought...What do we have here. - The controller looked around. Cabinets, bedside tables, tables. He took a pack of sticky notes and a pen from his pocket.
“This is for your inner voice,” the controller groaned, pasting stickers on the most prominent places on Sergei Ivanovich’s “head.” – These are fines, so you don’t forget. There are all sorts of fines, I won’t specify,” I stuck a piece of paper with the large word “Fines.” He hung up about ten of them with the word “Work”, pulled out a stack of report forms from the nightstand and solemnly laid them out on the desk. - Here. Let the guy do it. And what's that?! – The controller noticed a small shining piece of paper on the table, “Come on! Let’s read it!”
Suddenly the wind blew straight at the controller. The controller fell to the floor, covered his head with his hands and held his breath, he knew perfectly well what this meant: thought. He couldn't let thought notice him. The wind picked up the leaf and rushed with it back and forth, and it even seemed to the peeping inspector that the wind was shaking the leaf like a small child. Later the wind calmed down, leaving the leaf on the table, where it picked it up.
- I fell asleep again. – The Controller commented ironically. - So what kind of note is this?
- “...Thank you for your creativity. With respect...”, - Having read it, the Controller even covered his mouth in surprise. - What a bug! I managed to write. Well now I'm here for you! – He shouted and tore the letter into small pieces. Out of anger, he pushed the table and walked out. For a while.

And Sergei Ivanovich woke up, leisurely left the bath, remembering that he had to spend the whole evening writing a report the next day, but he felt that he was angry with someone, but he didn’t know who.
-I’m probably angry with myself – I spent so much time sleeping in the bath! Who will write the report...

Samples of essays-letters to favorite writers from elementary school children:

G.H. Andersen

A.S. Pushkin

K.I. Chukovsky

Letter to a Favorite Writer

Hello, G.H. Andersen!

I am writing you a letter from the 21st century. All my friends, classmates and I really love your wonderful, magical fairy tales. After all, in them good always triumphs over evil. Thumbelina found her friends, Kai found Gerda again, the ugly duckling endured all the ridicule and became a charming swan, Eliza found happiness and brothers, having gone through all the difficulties along the way. Well, how can you not be happy!

Many years ago, my grandmother read your fairy tales, then my mother and father, and now my brother and I read them. I think that many more years will pass, the next century will come, and your works will also be popular in the world. My grandchildren will read them, which means you are an eternal storyteller who will live in the hearts of people for many generations!

Your reader Anastasia.

Hello dear Korney Ivanovich Chukovsky!

My name is Alina. I am in 3rd grade. During this time I read many of your interesting books.

From early childhood, my mother read your poems to me, and I listened to them with pleasure and believed in those miracles. I fell asleep sweetly to these poems. But if, like in a fairy tale, I managed to meet you, I would definitely tell you what interesting poems I read in your books.

I think that many children read and listen to “The Cockroach”, “The Tsokotukha Fly”, “The Stolen Sun”, “Fedorino’s Grief”. There are a lot of instructive things in the poem “Moidodyr”. My favorite work is “Aibolit”. I've read it many times.

When I meet you, I would thank you on behalf of myself and the many children who grew up reading your fairy tales.

Sincerely your reader Alina S.

Hello dear Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin!

I am writing to you with great gratitude for the wonderful works you have created. I really like reading them, especially I want to highlight the fairy tale “About the Dead Princess and the Seven Knights.” Your talent to write in poetry is rare and not everyone is given it.

I have your books in my small library, which I am very happy about. At any free moment for me, I can pick up and read already familiar and favorite poems or fairy tales. Of all the poems I have read, my favorite is the poem “The Prisoner.” In my opinion, it is suitable for every person who is in captivity of any kind. For example, I feel like that “prisoner” when I am punished by mom and dad. Sitting in my room, I reread the last quatrains, although I know it by heart:

“We are free birds! It's time brother, it's time!

Where the mountain is white behind the clouds,

Where the edges of the sea turn blue,

Where we walk only the wind and me!”

Even the cat Yeshe likes your works, because he comes and lies down next to me when I read them. Thank you very much for your works!

Sincerely your reader!

To download material or!

Ustinov Alexey, 6th grade student
(head - Ustinova Elena Mikhailovna)
MBOU Vyshkovskaya Secondary School
September 2015, Vyshkov village Essay on the topic
"Letter to a Favorite Writer"
Hello, dear Albert Anatolyevich!
Lesha Ustinov writes to you. Unfortunately, we don't know each other. And you, most likely, have never heard of me or our small village of Vyshkov. Yes, this is not surprising! After all, our country is huge, and there are so many boys like me in it.
Recently, a Russian language teacher told us that you can write a letter to your favorite writer. And I immediately decided to contact you.
Albert Anatolyevich, do you know how I met you, or rather, your works? This happened two years ago. I was in a hospital in Moscow, I was there for a long time, more than a month. Everything is terribly boring! I had an operation ahead, and I (I’ll tell you a secret) was afraid. My mother constantly supported me, and then one day she brought a book to my room. This was an unusual book. No matter which way you turn it, you can read it! Great idea! But what struck me most were the titles of the works: “The Boy Who Doesn’t Hurt” and “The Girl Who Doesn’t Care.” I was intrigued and started reading about The Boy. Albert Anatolyevich, you have no idea how much I liked the book! Thank you for such a wonderful piece. I was very worried about the Boy. It always seemed to me that if a person is not in pain, it is good. But it turns out that not always! The boy couldn't feel his legs, so he remained motionless. And how dad and grandmother wanted the Boy to say: “I feel it!” Hurt!". The most interesting thing is that now I am no longer afraid of pain. Can you imagine, Albert Anatolyevich, the doctor after the operation asks: “How are you? Hurts?". And I joyfully said: “It hurts!” He was even surprised, and then he noticed your book on the nightstand and smiled: “Well done! Keep it up!".
Albert Anatolyevich, it seems to me that you are not entirely right in calling the book that. Well, how come the Boy isn’t in pain?! I think his soul hurts because his mother abandoned him, she will now have another husband and a healthy child. It seems to me that the Boy understands everything. My mother was also left alone, but did not abandon me; on the contrary, she is always with me, supports me and loves me very much, and also says that everything will definitely work out. I also hope that everything will be fine for the Boy, because he finally felt pain in his legs, which means he will be able to walk.
Albert Anatolyevich, thank you for the book! She taught me perseverance, helped me deal with problems courageously, and I also realized how much I love my mother, and she loves me. Now I will try not to offend her and protect her, because in our family I am the man!
Goodbye, dear Albert Anatolyevich! Hope to see you someday!

Attached files

We remember what Fitzgerald wrote to his daughter Scottie, what Vonnegut decided to draw the attention of his descendants to, and what facts Petrarch told future generations about himself

Mark Zuckerberg published a letter dedicating it to his newborn daughter, and on occasion we re-read three other letters written by two writers and one poet and addressed not only to children, but also to descendants. We give the floor to Francis Scott Fitzgerald, Francesco Petrarca and Kurt Vonnegut.

“Dear chicken, I will be very strict in making sure that you do everything that needs to be done. Please write to me in detail what you read in French. It’s very good that you feel completely happy, but you know that I don’t particularly believe in happiness. And in misfortune too. Both of these things only happen in plays, in movies, and in books, but in life, none of this really exists.

I believe that a person lives the way he deserves (according to his talents and qualities), and if he doesn’t do what he needs to do, then he has to pay for it, and not just, but doubly. If you have a library at camp, ask Mrs. Tyson to find Shakespeare's sonnets, and read the sonnet with the following lines:

Thistle is sweeter and dearer to us
corrupted roses, poisoned lilies.

Today I didn’t think about anything all day, I just wrote a story for the Saturday Evening Post from morning to night. I remember you, and it always makes me feel good, but if you call me “dad” again, I will take your white cat out of the toy box and give him a good spanking, six spanks every time you are rude to me. Have you clearly understood this?

Let them send me the bill from the camp, I will pay.

So, here's your stupid father's advice.

What you need to achieve:
Try to be brave
Clean,
Able to work well
And also good on horseback,
And so on...

What not to achieve:
Don't try to make everyone like you
And so that your dolls don’t get sick,
And don't think about the past,
And also about the future,
And about what will happen to you when you grow up,
And about how no one gets ahead of you,
And about your successes,
And also about failures, if they are not your fault,
And how painful mosquitoes sting,
And also flies
And other insects
Don't think about your parents
And about the boys
And about your disappointments,
As well as about your joys
Or just a pleasant feeling.

Things to think about:
What do I strive for in life?
Am I better or worse than others?
a) in studies,
b) the ability to understand people and get along with them,
c) the ability to control one’s own body.

Love you.
Father

P.S. If you call me “folder”, I will call you Protoplasm, because you are at the most primitive stage of life, and therefore I can throw you into the trash can if I want, and even better - I’m just everyone I’ll tell you that you are Protoplasm. How do you like it - Protoplasm Fitzgerald, or just Plasma, or Marasma, or something else like that? You'll see, address me like that just one more time, and then the nickname I'll come up with will haunt you all your life. Maybe it's not worth it?

I still kiss you."

“I believe that a person lives the way he deserves (according to his talents and qualities), and if he doesn’t do what he needs to do, then he has to pay for it, and not just, but doubly.”

Francesco Petrarca. Letter to descendants

“If you hear something about me - although it is doubtful that my insignificant and dark name will penetrate far through space and time - then perhaps you will want to know what kind of person I was and what was the fate of my writings, especially those about whom rumor or at least a faint rumor has reached you. People's judgments about me will be many different, for almost everyone speaks as he is inspired not by the truth, but by whim, and there is no measure for either praise or blasphemy. I was one of your herd, a pitiful mortal man, neither too high nor low in origin. My family (as Caesar Augustus said about himself) is ancient. And by nature my soul was not devoid of either straightforwardness or modesty, unless it was spoiled by an infectious habit. Youth deceived me, youth carried me away, but old age corrected me and through experience convinced me of the truth of what I had read long before, namely, that youth and lust are vanity; or rather, this was taught to me by the Creator of all ages and times, who sometimes allows poor mortals in their empty pride to go astray, so that, having realized at least late their sins, they would know themselves. In my youth my body was not very strong, but extremely dexterous; my appearance did not stand out as beautiful, but I could like it in my blooming years; my complexion was fresh, between white and dark, my eyes were lively and my vision was unusually sharp for a long time, but after my sixtieth year it, contrary to expectation, became so weakened that I was forced, albeit with disgust, to resort to glasses. My body, completely healthy all my life, was overcome by old age and besieged by the usual army of ailments. I have always deeply despised wealth, not because I did not want it, but out of disgust for the labors and worries that are its inseparable companions. I did not seek with wealth to acquire the opportunity for luxurious meals, but, eating meager food and simple dishes, I lived more cheerfully than all the followers of Apicius with their exquisite dinners. I have always disliked so-called feasts (but in essence drinking bouts, hostile to modesty and good morals); It seemed to me burdensome and useless to convene others for this purpose, and no less to accept invitations myself. But it was so pleasant for me to eat a meal with friends that no thing could give me greater pleasure than their unexpected arrival, and I never ate food with pleasure without a companion. Most of all, I hated pomp, not only because it is bad and contrary to humility, but also because it is shy and hostile to peace. I have always kept my distance from all kinds of temptations, not only because they are harmful in themselves and do not agree with modesty, but also because they are hostile to a measured and calm life. In my youth I suffered from a burning, but united and decent love, and would have suffered from it even longer if a cruel but useful death had not extinguished the already dying flame. I would like to have the right to say that I was completely alien to carnal passions, but if I said so, I would be lying; However, I will say with confidence that, although the ardor of youth and temperament carried me towards this baseness, in my soul I always cursed it. Moreover, soon, approaching the age of forty, when I still had enough heat and strength, I completely abandoned not only this vile business, but also any memory of it, as if I had never looked at a woman; and I consider this perhaps my greatest happiness and thank the Lord, who delivered me, while still in the bloom of health and strength, from slavery so despicable and always hated by me.

“I did not seek with wealth to acquire the opportunity for luxurious meals, but, eating meager food and simple dishes, I lived more cheerfully than all the followers of Apicius with their exquisite dinners.”

But I move on to other things. I knew pride only in others, but not in myself; no matter how small I was, I always valued myself even lower. My anger has very often harmed myself, but never others. I can safely say - because I know that I am telling the truth - that, despite the extreme irritability of my disposition, I quickly forgot insults and firmly remembered blessings. I was extremely greedy for noble friendship and cherished it with the greatest fidelity. But such is the sad fate of the aged that they often have to mourn the death of their friends. I was honored by the favor of princes and kings and the friendship of nobles to such an extent that even aroused envy. However, I withdrew from many of their number, whom I loved very much; The love of freedom was so strong in me that I did my best to avoid those whose very name seemed to me contrary to this freedom. The greatest crown-bearers of my time, competing with each other, loved and honored me, and why - I don’t know: they themselves didn’t know; I only know that some of them valued my attention more than I valued them, as a result of which their high position gave me only many conveniences, but not the slightest bother. I was gifted with a mind that was more level than insightful, capable of assimilating all good and saving knowledge, but predominantly inclined towards moral philosophy and poetry. Over time, I lost interest in the latter, carried away by sacred science, in which I now felt a secret sweetness that I had previously neglected, and poetry remained for me only a means of decoration. With the greatest zeal I devoted myself to the study of antiquity, for the time in which I lived was always so disliked to me that if my attachment to my loved ones had not prevented it, I would always have wished to be born in any other century and, in order to forget this one constantly tried to live with his soul in other centuries. Therefore, I read historians with enthusiasm, although their disagreements confused me a lot; in doubtful cases I was guided either by the probability of the facts or by the authority of the narrator. My speech was, as some said, clear and strong; as it seemed to me - weak and dark. And even in everyday conversation with friends and acquaintances, I never cared about eloquence, and therefore I am sincerely amazed that Caesar Augustus adopted this concern for himself. But where, as it seemed to me, the matter or the place, or the listener required something different, I made some effort to succeed; let those to whom I spoke judge this. It is important to live a good life, and as I said, I attached little importance, the glory acquired by the mere brilliance of a word is vain. I was born of respectable, not rich, or, to tell the truth, almost poor parents, Florentines by birth, but exiled from their homeland - in Arezzo, in exile, in the year of this last era, which began with the birth of Christ, 1304, at dawn on Monday 20 July. This is how partly fate, partly my will, have distributed my life to this day. I spent the first year of my life, and not all of it, in Arezzo, where nature brought me into the world, the next six in Excise, on my father’s estate, fourteen thousand steps from Florence. Upon my mother's return from exile, I spent the eighth year in Pisa, the ninth and subsequent years in Transalpine Gaul, on the left bank of the Rhone; Avignon is the name of this city, where the Roman high priest holds and has long kept the Church of Christ in shameful exile. True, a few years ago Urban V seemed to have returned it to its rightful place, but this matter, as we know, ended in nothing - and what especially pains me is that during his lifetime he definitely repented of this good deed. Had he lived a little longer, he would, no doubt, have heard my reproaches, for I was already holding the pen in my hand when he suddenly abandoned his glorious intention along with his life. Unhappy! How happily he could have died before the altar of Peter and in his own home! For one of two things: either his successors would have remained in Rome, and then the initiative of a good deed would have belonged to him, or they would have left there - then his merit would have been all the more visible, the more striking their guilt. But this complaint is too broad and out of place here. So, here, on the banks of a wind-swept river, I spent my childhood under the supervision of my parents and then all my youth under the rule of my vanity. However, not without long absences, for during this time I lived for four full years in Carpentras, a small town closest to the east of Avignon, and in these two cities I learned the rudiments of grammar, dialectics and rhetoric, as much as my age, or rather, my age, allowed. how much is usually taught in schools - which, as you understand, dear reader, is not much. From there I moved to study laws in Montpellier, where I spent another four years, then to Bologna, where for three years I attended the entire course of civil law. Many thought that, despite my youth, I would achieve great success in this matter if I continued what I started. But I completely abandoned these studies as soon as I was freed from the guardianship of my parents, not because the power of the laws was not to my liking - for their significance is undoubtedly very great and they are replete with Roman antiquity, which I admire - but because they application is distorted by human dishonesty. I hated to delve into the study of something that I did not want to use dishonestly, but honestly could not, and even if I wanted to, the purity of my intentions would inevitably be attributed to ignorance. So, at the age of twenty-two, I returned home, that is, to exile in Avignon, where I had lived since the end of my childhood. There I had already begun to gain fame, and prominent people began to seek my acquaintance - why, I admit, now I don’t know and am amazed at it, but then I was not surprised at this, since, according to the custom of my youth, I considered myself fully worthy of any honor. I was especially sought after by the glorious and noble Colonna family, which then often visited, or rather, adorned the Roman Curia with its presence; they caressed me and showed me honor, which is unlikely even now, and then, without a doubt, I did not deserve. The famous and incomparable Giacomo Colonna, at that time Bishop of Lombez, a man whose equal I have hardly seen and will hardly ever see, took me to Gascony, where, at the foot of the Pyrenees, in the charming company of the owner and his entourage, I spent an almost unearthly summer, so that To this day I cannot remember that time without sighing. After returning from there, I lived for many years with his brother, Cardinal Giovanni Colonna, not as a master, but as a father, even more, as if with a dearly beloved brother, or rather, as if with myself and in my own home.

“I hated to delve into the study of something that I did not want to use dishonestly, but honestly could not, and even if I wanted to, the purity of my intentions would inevitably be attributed to ignorance.”

At this time, I was overcome by a youthful passion to travel around France and Germany, and although I put forward other reasons to justify my departure in the eyes of my patrons, the real reason was a passionate desire to see a lot. On this trip I saw Paris for the first time, and it was fun for me to explore what was true and what was false in the current stories about this city. Returning from there, I went to Rome, which had been my ardent desire since childhood, and here I fell so in love with the magnanimous head of that family, Stefano Colonna, equal to any of the ancients, and was so dear to him that it seemed there was no difference between me and any of his sons. This excellent man's love and affection for me remained unchanged until the end of his days; my love for him lives in me to this day and will never fade away until I myself fade away. Upon returning from there, being unable to bear any longer the disgust and hatred inherent in my soul from time immemorial towards everything, especially this most vile Avignon, I began to look for some kind of refuge, like a pier, and found a tiny, but secluded and cozy valley, which called Locked, fifteen thousand steps from Avignon, where the queen of all springs, Sorga, is born. Enchanted by the charm of this place, I moved there with my dear books when I was already thirty-four years old. My story would be too long if I began to explain what I did there for many, many years. In short, almost all the works I published were either written, started, or conceived there - and there were so many of them that some of them still occupy and disturb me. For my spirit, like my body, was distinguished by dexterity rather than strength; Therefore, I abandoned many works that seemed easy to me in concept but turned out to be difficult in execution. Here the very character of the place inspired me with the idea of ​​composing a “Bucolic Song” of a shepherd’s content, as well as two books “on a solitary life” dedicated to Philip, an always great man, who was then the minor bishop of Cavallion, and now occupies the high post of cardinal-bishop of Sabina; he is the only one still alive of all my old friends, and he loved and loves me not out of the duty of a bishop, like Ambrose Augustine, but brotherly. One day, wandering in those mountains, on Friday of Holy Week, I was seized by an irresistible desire to write a poem in the heroic style about the elder Scipio Africanus, whose name, for some unknown reason, had been dear to me since childhood. Having already begun this work with great enthusiasm, I soon put it aside, distracted by other concerns; nevertheless, the poem, which I, in accordance with its subject, called “Africa,” was loved by many even before it became known. I don't know whether I should attribute this to my luck or hers. While I was living calmly in these places, strangely, on the same day I received two letters - from the Roman Senate and from the Chancellor of the University of Paris, which vied with each other inviting me, one to Rome, the other to Paris, to crown me with laurel wreath Rejoicing in youthful vanity, weighing not my own merits, but the evidence of others, I considered myself worthy of what such outstanding people recognized me as worthy of, and only hesitated for a short time who to give preference to. I asked the aforementioned Cardinal Giovanni Colonna for advice by letter on this matter, because he lived so close that, by writing to him late in the evening, I could receive his answer the next day before three o'clock in the afternoon. Following his advice, I decided to prefer the authority of Rome to any other, and my two letters to him, in which I expressed my agreement with his advice, have been preserved. So I set out on my journey, and although I, according to the custom of a young man, judged my labors with an extremely lenient court, I was ashamed to rely on my own testimony about myself or on the testimony of those who invited me and who, no doubt, would not have done so. this, if they did not consider me worthy of the proposed honor. Therefore, I decided to go first to Naples and went to the great king and philosopher Robert, as famous for his learning as for his government, so that he, who alone among the princes of our century can be called a friend of science and virtue, expressed his opinion about me. To this day I am amazed at how highly he assessed me and how warmly he gave me a welcome, and you, reader, I think, would be amazed if you knew. Having learned about the purpose of my visit, he was unusually happy, partly flattered by the confidence of the young man, partly, perhaps, in the hope that the honor that I sought would add a grain to his glory, since I chose him alone of all mortals as worthy judge. In a word, after numerous interviews on various subjects and after I showed him my “Africa”, which delighted him so much that he, as a great reward, begged for its dedication, which I, of course, could not and did not I wanted to refuse him, he finally appointed me a specific day for the business for which I came. That day he kept me from noon until evening; but since the circle of the test was expanding and there was not enough time, he continued the same for the next two days. So he examined my ignorance for three days and on the third day he declared me worthy of a laurel wreath. He offered it to me in Naples and with many requests he tried to force my consent. But my love for Rome prevailed over the flattering insistence of the great king. So, seeing my unyielding determination, he gave me a letter and escorts to the Roman Senate, through whom they expressed their opinion about me with great favor. This royal assessment at that time coincided with the assessment of many and especially with my own; now I do not approve of his, or my judgment, or the judgment of everyone who thinks like that; he was guided not so much by the desire to observe the truth as by his love for me and condescension for my youth. Still, I went to Rome and there, although unworthy, but firmly relying on such an authoritative assessment, I accepted, as an ignorant student, the poet’s laurel wreath amid the great rejoicing of the Romans who happened to be present at this solemn ceremony. There are also my letters about this event, both in poetry and prose. The laurel wreath did not give me any knowledge, but brought upon me the envy of many; but even this story would be longer than the space here allows. So, from there I went to Parma, where I lived for some time with the sovereign lords of Correggio, who did not get along with each other, but treated me with the utmost mercy and kindness. It has never known such a government as this principality enjoyed under their rule in the memory of people and, I believe, will never know in our century. I did not forget about the honor that had befallen me, and I was worried that people would think that it had been given to an unworthy person. And then one day, having climbed the mountains, I accidentally reached Selvapiana across the Enza River in the region of Reggio, and here, struck by the extraordinary appearance of the area, I again took up the interrupted “Africa”; the spiritual fervor that seemed to have died down flared up again; I wrote a little that day and in the days that followed I wrote a little every day until, returning to Parma and finding myself a secluded and quiet house, which I later bought and still belongs to me, in a short time: with such ardor I brought this work to end, which I myself am now amazed at. From there I returned to the Sorgi spring, to my trans-Alpine solitude. A long time later, thanks to the rumor that spread my fame, I gained the favor of Giacomo Carrara the younger, a man of rare virtues, to whom hardly any of the Italian sovereigns of his time was like, rather, I am sure, no one. Sending me ambassadors and letters even beyond the Alps, when I lived there, and everywhere in Italy, wherever I was, for many years he did not tire of besieging me with his persistent requests and offers of his friendship, which, although I did not expect anything from the greats of this world, I finally decided to visit him and see what this extraordinary persistence of such a significant, although unfamiliar, person means. So, although it was late, and having been delayed on the way in Parma and Verona, I went to Padua, where this man of most glorious memory received me not only with human cordiality, but as blessed souls are received in heaven, with such joy, with such invaluable love and tenderness, which, not hoping to fully express them in words, I am forced to hide them in silence. By the way, knowing that from my early youth I was committed to church life, in order to more closely connect me not only with himself, but also with his city, he ordered me to be appointed canon of Padua. And if his life had been destined to last, my wanderings and wanderings would have come to an end. But alas! Nothing lasts between mortals, and if anything sweet happens, it soon ends in a bitter end. After leaving him to me, the fatherland and the world for less than two years, the Lord called him to himself, because neither I, nor the fatherland, nor the world - I say this, not blinded by love - were worth him. And although he was succeeded by his son, a man of rare intelligence and nobility, who, following the example of his father, always showed me love and honor, but I, having lost the one with whom I was more closely related especially by equality of years, returned again to France, unable to stay in one place, not so much trying to see again what I have seen thousands of times, but with the goal, following the example of the sick, to calm my melancholy by changing places.”

Kurt Vonnegut. Ladies and gentlemen of 2088

“It is believed that people should appreciate words of wisdom from our past, and some of us from the 20th century should send you a few. Remember Polonius’s advice from Shakespeare’s Hamlet: “Be true to yourself above all things”? Or at least the parting words of John the Theologian: “Fear God and give glory to Him, for His hour has come”? The best advice from my era to you and to everyone at any time, I believe, is a prayer that was first used by alcoholics who hoped never to drink again: “God, give me the peace of mind to accept the things I cannot change, the power to change the things I cannot change.” what I can, and wisdom to distinguish one from another.”

Our age cannot boast as much wisdom as any other, I think, because we were the first to be able to get to reliable information about the position of man in the world: how many of us there are, how much food we can grow or collect, how quickly we reproduce, what we get sick from, what we die from, how much harm we do to our atmosphere, soil, waters on which Life on the planet depends, how cruel and heartless our planet can be, and so on and so forth. So who will decide to “freeze” wisdom with such disappointing news breaking out from everywhere? What was truly shocking for me was the news that Nature is far from being an expert in the protection and rational use of its own resources. She absolutely does not need our help to destroy the planet piece by piece, and then put it back together in a new form, without necessarily improving the living conditions on it. Nature burns forests with one flash of lightning. It floods huge areas of arable land with lava, after which they become completely unsuitable for anything except urban parking areas. In the past, it brought down glaciers from the North Pole, which swallowed up much of Asia, Europe and North America. And we have no reason to be sure that she won't do it again. At this very moment it is turning African farms into deserts.<...>Today, of course, we need leaders not those who promise unconditional victory over nature through their own perseverance, as we do now, but those who have the courage and ability to present to the world the severity of nature and reasonable solutions:

1. Reduce and stabilize the population.
2. Stop air, water and soil pollution.
3. Stop the military race and begin to solve real existing problems.
4. Teach your children and yourself how to live on a small planet without participating in its destruction.
5. Stop hoping for science, which can solve all problems for a trillion dollars.
6. Stop believing that your grandchildren will be fine, no matter how wasteful and destructive your actions are, even if they can go live on a new planet in a spaceship. This is truly disgusting and stupid. And so on and so forth.

Am I too pessimistic about life in 100 years? Perhaps I spent too much time with scientists and not enough with those who write speeches for politicians. As far as I know, even homeless people and homeless people will have their own helicopters or rockets in 2088. No one will have to leave the house even to go to school or work, let alone just stop watching TV. Everyone will sit for days on end, connected to the world's computer terminals, drinking orange juice through a straw like astronauts."

“Our age cannot boast of as much wisdom as any other, I think, because we were the first who were able to get to reliable information about the position of man in the world.”