Interesting excerpts from prose. Cheat sheet for applicants to theater schools

A touching excerpt from the prose of Russian classics

1. I went to the coffin. My son is in it and not mine. Mine is always a smiling, narrow-shouldered boy, with a sharp Adam's apple on a thin neck, and here lies a young, broad-shouldered, handsome man, his eyes are half-closed, as if he is looking somewhere past me, into a distant distance unknown to me. Only in the corners of the lips so forever remained the mixture of the former son, Only the one I once knew I kissed him and stepped aside. The lieutenant colonel spoke. Comrades, friends of my Anatoly, wipe their tears, and my unshed tears, apparently, have dried up in my heart. Maybe that's why it hurts so much? .

   I buried my last joy and hope in a foreign, German land, my son's battery struck, seeing off his commander on a long journey, and as if something broke in me. But then I was soon demobilized. Where to go? Really in Voronezh? Not for anything! I remembered that my friend lives in Uryupinsk, demobilized in the winter due to injury - he once invited me to his place - he remembered and went to Uryupinsk.

   My friend and his wife were childless, they lived in their own house on the edge of the city. Although he had a disability, he worked as a driver in an auto company, and I got a job there too. I settled with a friend, they sheltered me. We transferred various cargoes to the regions, in the fall we switched to the export of bread. At this time, I met my new son, this one, who plays in the sand.

   From a flight, it happened, you would return to the city - of course, first of all, to a tea room: to intercept something, well, of course, and drink a hundred grams from the exhaust. I must say, I have already become addicted to this harmful business, as it should be. And once I see this boy near the tea-shop, the next day I see it again. Such a little ragamuffin: his face is covered in watermelon juice, covered with dust, dirty as dust, unkempt, and his eyes are like stars at night after the rain! And I fell in love with him so much that I already, miraculously, began to miss him, I hasten to see him from the flight as soon as possible. Near the teahouse he fed himself, - who will give what.

   On the fourth day, straight from the state farm, loaded with bread, I turn to the tea house. My boy is sitting there on the porch, chatting with his little legs and, apparently, hungry. I leaned out the window, shouting to him: "Hey, Vanyushka! Get in the car, I'll drive it to the elevator, and from there we'll come back here, we'll have lunch." He shuddered at my cry, jumped off the porch, climbed on the footboard and quietly says: “How do you know, uncle, that my name is Vanya?” And he opened his eyes wide, waiting for me to answer him. Well, I tell him that I am, they say, a seasoned person and I know everything. He came in from the right side, I opened the door, put him next to me, let's go. Such a nimble boy, and suddenly he quieted down, thought about it and no, no, and he would look at me from under his long eyelashes bent upwards, sigh. Such a small bird, but already learned to sigh. Is it his business? I ask: "Where is your father, Vanya?" He whispers: "He died at the front." - "And mama?" - "Mom was killed by a bomb on the train when we were driving." - "Where did you come from?" - "I don't know, I don't remember" - "And you don't have any relatives here?" - "No one". - "Where do you spend the night?" - "And where you have to."

   A burning tear boiled up in me, and immediately I decided: "It will not happen that we disappear separately! I will take him to my children." And immediately my soul became light and somehow light. I leaned over to him, quietly asking: "Vanyushka, do you know who I am?" He asked as he exhaled: "Who?" I told him just as quietly. "I am your father".
   My God, what happened here! He rushed to my neck, kissed me on the cheeks, on the lips, on the forehead, and himself, like a waxwing, shouted so loudly and thinly that even in the booth it was muffled: “Dear folder! I knew! I knew that you would find me! You'll find it anyway! I've been waiting so long for you to find me!" He clung to me and trembled all over, like a blade of grass in the wind. And I have a fog in my eyes, and I also tremble all over, and my hands are shaking How I didn’t miss the helm then, you can be amazed! But nevertheless, he accidentally drove into a ditch, turned off the engine.

2. Monologue of Nina from "The Seagull" by A.P. Chekhov. We staged a performance based on Chekhov at the university, recorded this monologue and started recording ... it sounds both touching and creepy, heartbreaking.
   People, lions, eagles and partridges, horned deer, geese, spiders, silent fish that lived in the water, starfish and those that could not be seen with the eye - in a word, all lives, all lives, all lives, having completed a sad circle, died out .. .For thousands of centuries, as the earth does not bear a single living being, and this poor moon lights its lantern in vain. In the meadow the cranes no longer wake up with a cry, and May beetles are not heard in the linden groves. Cold, cold, cold. Empty, empty, empty. Scary, scary, scary.
   Pause.
   The bodies of living beings disappeared into dust, and eternal matter turned them into stones, into water, into clouds, and their souls all merged into one. General world soul- it's me... .I... .I have the soul of Alexander the Great, and Caesar, and Shakespeare, and Napoleon, and the last leech. In me, the consciousnesses of people have merged with the instincts of animals, and I understand everything, everything, and I relive every life in myself again.
3. Monologue of Nina from "The Seagull" by A.P. Chekhov. We staged a play based on Chekhov's motives at the university, we recorded this monologue and started recording ... sounds both touching and creepy, heartbreaking.
   People, lions, eagles and partridges, horned deer, geese, spiders, silent fish that lived in the water, starfish and those that could not be seen with the eye - in a word, all lives, all lives, all lives, having completed a sad circle, died out .. . For thousands of centuries the earth has not carried a single living being, and this poor moon has vainly kindled its lantern. In the meadow the cranes no longer wake up with a cry, and May beetles are not heard in the linden groves. Cold, cold, cold. Empty, empty, empty. Scary, scary, scary.
   Pause.
   The bodies of living beings disappeared into dust, and eternal matter turned them into stones, into water, into clouds, and their souls all merged into one. The common world soul is me... I.. . I have the soul of Alexander the Great, and Caesar, and Shakespeare, and Napoleon, and the last leech. In me, the consciousnesses of people have merged with the instincts of animals, and I understand everything, everything, and I relive every life in myself again.

Nikolay Gogol. "The Adventures of Chichikov, or Dead Souls". Moscow, 1846 university printing house

Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov is introduced to the sons of the landowner Manilov:

“There were already two boys in the dining room, the sons of Manilov, who were of those years when they already put children at the table, but still on high chairs. A teacher stood beside them, bowing politely and with a smile. The hostess sat down to her soup bowl; the guest was seated between the host and the hostess, the servant tied napkins around the children's necks.

"What lovely little children," said Chichikov, looking at them, "and what year is it?"

"The eldest is eighth, and the youngest was only six yesterday," said Manilova.

- Themistoclus! said Manilov, turning to the elder, who was trying to free his chin, which had been tied up in a napkin by the lackey.

Chichikov raised a few eyebrows, hearing this in part. Greek name, to which, for some unknown reason, Manilov gave the ending in "yus", but he tried at the same time to bring his face back to its usual position.

— Themistoclus, tell me which best city in France?

Here the teacher turned all his attention to Themistoclus and seemed to want to jump into his eyes, but at last he completely calmed down and nodded his head when Themistoclus said: "Paris."

What is the best city in our country? Manilov asked again.

The teacher turned his attention back.

"Petersburg," replied Themistoclus.

- And what else?

“Moscow,” answered Themistoclus.

- Clever, darling! Chichikov said to this. “Tell me, however…” he continued, immediately turning to the Manilovs with a kind of astonishment, “in such years and already such information! I must tell you that this child will have great abilities.

Oh, you don't know him yet! - answered Manilov, - he has an extremely large amount of wit. Here is the smaller one, Alcides, that one is not so fast, but this one now, if he meets something, a bug, a goat, his eyes suddenly start to run; will run after her and immediately pay attention. I'll read it on the diplomatic side. Themistoclus,” he continued, turning to him again, “do you want to be a messenger?

“I want to,” answered Themistoclus, chewing bread and shaking his head right and left.

At this time, the footman who was standing behind wiped the envoy's nose, and he did it very well, otherwise a pretty extraneous drop would have sunk into the soup.

2 Fyodor Dostoyevsky. "Demons"

Fedor Dostoevsky. "Demons". St. Petersburg, 1873 Printing house of K. Zamyslovsky

The chronicler retells the contents of a philosophical poem written in his youth by the now aged liberal Stepan Trofimovich Verkhovensky:

“The scene opens with a chorus of women, then a chorus of men, then some forces, and at the end of everything, a chorus of souls who have not yet lived, but who would very much like to live. All these choirs are singing about something very vague, for the most part about someone's curse, but with a touch of higher humor. But the scene suddenly changes, and some kind of “Celebration of Life” sets in, at which even insects sing, a tortoise appears with some kind of Latin sacramental words, and even, if I remember, one mineral sang about something - that is, the object is already completely inanimate. In general, everyone sings incessantly, and if they talk, they somehow vaguely scold, but again with a touch of higher significance. Finally, the scene changes again, and a wild place appears, and a civilized young man wanders between the cliffs, who picks and sucks some herbs, and to the question of the fairy: why is he sucking these herbs? he answers that, feeling an excess of life in himself, he seeks oblivion and finds it in the juice of these herbs; but that his main desire is to lose his mind as soon as possible (the desire, perhaps, is superfluous). Then suddenly a young man of indescribable beauty rides in on a black horse, followed by a terrible multitude of all nations. The young man represents death, and all peoples yearn for it. And, finally, in the very last scene suddenly the Tower of Babel appears, and some athletes finally complete it with a song of new hope, and when they have already completed it to the very top, then the owner, let’s say even Olympus, runs away in a comical form, and humanity, who has guessed, having taken possession of his place, immediately begins new life with a new penetration of things.

3 Anton Chekhov. "Drama"

Anton Chekhov. Collection "Colorful stories". St. Petersburg, 1897 Edition of A. S. Suvorin

The soft-hearted writer Pavel Vasilievich is forced to listen to the longest dramatic essay, which is read aloud to him by the graphomaniac writer Murashkina:

"Don't you think this monologue is a bit long? Murashkina suddenly asked, raising her eyes.

Pavel Vasilievich did not hear the monologue. He was embarrassed and said in such a guilty tone, as if not a mistress, but he himself wrote this monologue:

“No, no, not at all… Very nice…”

Murashkina beamed with happiness and continued to read:

— „Anna. You got caught up in the analysis. You stopped living with your heart too soon and trusted your mind. — Valentine. What is a heart? This is an anatomical concept. As a conventional term for what is called feelings, I do not recognize it. — Anna(confused). And love? Is it really the product of an association of ideas? Tell me frankly: have you ever loved? — Valentine(with bitterness). Let's not touch the old, not yet healed wounds (pause). What are you thinking about? — Anna. I think you are unhappy."

During the 16th apparition, Pavel Vasilyevich yawned and accidentally made a sound with his teeth, like dogs make when they catch flies. He was frightened by this indecent sound and, in order to disguise it, gave his face an expression of touching attention.

„XVII phenomenon ... When will the end? he thought. - Oh my goodness! If this torment continues for another ten minutes, then I will call out to the guards… Unbearable!“

Pavel Vasilyevich sighed lightly and was about to get up, but immediately Murashkina turned the page and continued to read:

- Act two. The scene represents a rural street. To the right is the school, to the left is the hospital. On the steps of the latter sit villagers and villagers.

"I'm sorry..." Pavel Vasilyevich interrupted. - How many actions?

“Five,” Murashkina answered, and immediately, as if afraid that the listener would not leave, quickly continued: “Valentine is looking out of the school window. You can see how, in the back of the stage, the villagers carry their belongings to the tavern.

4 Mikhail Zoshchenko. "In Pushkin's Days"

Mikhail Zoshchenko. "Favorites". Petrozavodsk, 1988 Publishing house "Karelia"

On the literary evening, timed to coincide with the centenary of the death of the poet, the Soviet building manager makes a solemn speech about Pushkin:

“Of course, dear comrades, I am not a literary historian. I will allow myself to approach the great date simply, as they say, humanly.

Such a sincere approach, I believe, will bring the image of the great poet even closer to us.

So, a hundred years separate us from it! Time really runs incredibly fast!

The German war, as you know, began twenty-three years ago. That is, when it began, it was not a hundred years before Pushkin, but only seventy-seven.

And I was born, imagine, in 1879. Therefore, he was even closer to the great poet. Not that I could see him, but, as they say, we were separated by only about forty years.

My grandmother, even cleaner, was born in 1836. That is, Pushkin could see her and even pick her up. He could nurse her, and she could, what good, cry in her arms, not guessing who took her in her arms.

Of course, it is unlikely that Pushkin could nurse her, especially since she lived in Kaluga, and Pushkin, it seems, did not go there, but all the same, this exciting possibility can be admitted, especially since he could, it seems, stop by Kaluga to see his acquaintances.

My father, again, was born in 1850. But Pushkin, unfortunately, was no longer there, otherwise he, perhaps, could even nurse my father.

But he certainly could already take my great-grandmother in his arms. She, imagine, was born in 1763, so that the great poet could easily come to her parents and demand that they let him hold her and nurse her ... Although, however, in 1837 she was, perhaps, about sixty-odd years old , so, frankly, I don’t even know how they had it there and how they got along with it ... Maybe even she nursed him ... But what is covered with the darkness of obscurity for us is for them, it was probably no problem, and they knew perfectly well who to babysit and who to rock. And if the old woman really was about six or ten years old by that time, then, of course, it is ridiculous even to think that someone was nursing her there. So, it was she who nursed someone.

And, perhaps, pumping and singing lyrical songs to him, she, without knowing it, aroused poetic feelings in him and, perhaps, together with his notorious nanny Arina Rodionovna, inspired him to compose some individual poems.

5 Daniil Kharms. What are they selling in stores now?

Daniil Kharms. Collection of stories "The Old Woman". Moscow, 1991 Yunona Publishing House

“Koratygin came to Tikakeev and did not find him at home.

And Tikakeev at that time was in the store and bought sugar, meat and cucumbers there. Koratygin hovered at Tikakeev's door and was about to write a note, when suddenly he saw Tikakeev himself walking in and carrying an oilcloth purse in his hands. Koratygin saw Tikakeev and shouted to him:

"And I've been waiting for you for an hour!"

“That’s not true,” says Tikakeyev, “I’ve only been out of home for twenty-five minutes.

“Well, I don’t know that,” said Koratygin, “only I’ve been here for an hour already.

- Do not lie! Tikakeev said. - It's embarrassing to lie.

- Most gracious sovereign! Koratygin said. - Take the trouble to choose expressions.

“I think…” Tikakeyev began, but Koratygin interrupted him:

“If you think…” he said, but then Tikakeyev interrupted Koratygin and said:

- You're good yourself!

These words infuriated Koratygin so much that he pinched one nostril with his finger, and blew his nose at Tikakeyev with the other nostril. Then Tikakeyev snatched the biggest cucumber out of his purse and hit Koratygin on the head with it. Koratygin clutched his head with his hands, fell and died.

That's what big cucumbers are now sold in stores!

6 Ilya Ilf and Evgeny Petrov. "Knowing of limits"

Ilya Ilf and Evgeny Petrov. "Knowing of limits". Moscow, 1935 Publishing house "Spark"

A set of hypothetical rules for stupid Soviet bureaucrats (one of them, a certain Basov, is the anti-hero of the feuilleton):

“It is impossible to accompany all orders, instructions and instructions with a thousand reservations so that the Basovs do not do stupid things. Then a modest resolution, say, on the prohibition of the transport of live piglets in tram cars should look like this:

However, when levying a fine, piglet holders should not:

a) push in the chest;
b) call scoundrels;
c) push at full speed from the platform of the tram under the wheels of an oncoming truck;
d) they cannot be equated with malicious hooligans, bandits and embezzlers;
e) in no case should this rule be applied to citizens who bring with them not piglets, but small children under the age of three;
f) it cannot be extended to citizens who do not have piglets at all;
g) as well as schoolchildren singing revolutionary songs in the streets.”

7 Mikhail Bulgakov. "Theatrical Romance"

Michael Bulgakov. "Theatrical Romance" Moscow, 1999 Publishing house "Voice"

The playwright Sergei Leontievich Maksudov reads his play "Black Snow" to the great director Ivan Vasilievich, who hates shooting on the stage. The prototype of Ivan Vasilyevich was Konstantin Stanislavsky, Maksudova - Bulgakov himself:

“Along with the approaching twilight came the catastrophe. I read:

- "Bakhtin (to Petrov). Well, goodbye! Very soon you will come for me ...

P e tr o v. What are you doing?!

Bakhtin (shoots himself in the temple, falls, an accordion is heard in the distance ...) ".

- That's useless! exclaimed Ivan Vasilyevich. Why is this? It must be crossed out without a moment's delay. Have mercy! Why shoot?

"But he must commit suicide," I answered with a cough.

- And very well! Let him finish and let him be stabbed with a dagger!

But, you see, it's about civil war... Daggers were no longer used ...

- No, they were used, - Ivan Vasilyevich objected, - this one told me ... how he ... forgot ... that they were used ... You cross out this shot! ..

I kept silent, making a sad mistake, and read on:

- "(...monica and individual shots. A man appeared on the bridge with a rifle in his hand. Luna ...)"

- My God! exclaimed Ivan Vasilyevich. - Shots! Again shots! What a disaster! You know what, Leo ... you know what, you delete this scene, it's superfluous.

“I considered,” I said, trying to speak as softly as possible, “this scene is the main one ... Here, you see ...

- Formed delusion! Ivan Vasilyevich snapped. - This scene is not only not the main one, but it is not necessary at all. Why is this? Your this one, how is it?..

— Bakhtin.

- Well, yes ... well, yes, he stabbed himself there far away, - Ivan Vasilyevich waved his hand somewhere very far away, - and another comes home and says to his mother - Bekhteev stabbed himself!

“But there is no mother…” I said, staring dumbfounded at the glass with the lid.

- It is necessary! You write it. It is not hard. At first it seems that it is difficult - there was no mother, and suddenly she is - but this is a delusion, it is very easy. And now the old woman is crying at home, and who brought the news ... Call him Ivanov ...

- But ... after all, Bakhtin is a hero! He has monologues on the bridge... I thought...

- And Ivanov will say all his monologues! .. You have good monologues, they need to be preserved. Ivanov will say - here Petya stabbed himself and before his death he said such and such, such and such ... There will be a very strong scene.

8 Vladimir Voinovich. "The Life and Extraordinary Adventures of the Soldier Ivan Chonkin"

Vladimir Voinovich. "Life and extraordinary adventure soldier Ivan Chonkin. Paris, 1975 Publisher YMCA-Press

Colonel Luzhin is trying to extract information from Nyura Belyashova about a mythical fascist resident named Kurt:

“Well then. Putting his hands behind his back, he walked around the office. — You all the same. Frankly, you don't want to be with me. Well. Mil forcibly. You will not. As the saying goes. We help you. And you don't want us. Yes. By the way, you don't happen to know Kurt, do you?

— Kur something? Nura was surprised.

“Yeah, Kurt.

“Who doesn’t know chickens?” Nura shrugged. “But how is it possible in a village without chickens?”

- It is forbidden? Luzhin asked quickly. - Yes. Of course. In the village without Kurt. No way. It is forbidden. Impossible. He pulled the desk calendar toward him and picked up a pen. - What's your last name?

"Belyashova," Nyura announced eagerly.

— Belya… No. Not this. I need a surname not yours, but Kurt. What? Luzhin scowled. "And you don't want to say that?"

Nyura looked at Luzhin, not understanding. Her lips were trembling, and tears came back to her eyes.

"I don't understand," she said slowly. - What kind of surnames can chickens have?

- Chickens? Luzhin asked. - What? Chickens? BUT? He suddenly understood everything and, jumping to the floor, stamped his feet. - Out! Go away".

9 Sergei Dovlatov. "Reserve"

Sergey Dovlatov. "Reserve". Ann Arbor, 1983 Hermitage Publishing House

The autobiographical hero works as a guide in Pushkinskiye Gory:

“A man in a Tyrolean hat approached me shyly:

— Excuse me, can I ask a question?

- I'm listening.

- Did they give it?

- That is?

- I ask, did they give it? The Tyrolean drew me to the open window.

- In what sense?

- In direct. I would like to know if it was given or not given? If you didn't, say so.

- I do not understand.

The man blushed slightly and began to hurriedly explain:

- I had a postcard ... I am a philocartist ...

— Philokartist. I collect postcards... Philos - love, kartos...

- I have a color postcard - "Pskov Dali". And so I ended up here. I want to ask - is it given?

“In general, they did,” I say.

— Typically Pskov?

- Not without it.

The man, beaming, walked away ... "

10 Yuri Koval. "The lightest boat in the world"

Yuri Koval. "The lightest boat in the world." Moscow, 1984 Publishing house "Young Guard"

A group of friends and buddies of the protagonist are considering sculptural composition artist Orlov "People in hats":

“People in hats,” said Clara Courbet, smiling thoughtfully at Orlov. What an interesting idea!

"Everyone is wearing hats," Orlov got excited. - And everyone has their own inner world under the hat. See this nosy one? Nosy, he is nosy, but under his hat he still has his own world. What do you think?

The girl Clara Courbet, and behind her the rest, looked intently at the big-nosed member of the sculptural group, wondering what kind of inner world he had.

“It is clear that there is a struggle going on in this man,” Clara said, “but the struggle is not easy.

Everyone stared at the big-nosed one again, wondering what kind of struggle could be going on in him.

“It seems to me that this is a struggle between heaven and earth,” Clara explained.

Everyone froze, and Orlov was taken aback, apparently not expecting such a forceful look from the girl. The policeman, the artist, was clearly dumbfounded. It probably never occurred to him that heaven and earth could fight. Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at the floor, and then at the ceiling.

"That's all right," Orlov said, stuttering a little. - Accurately noted. That is the fight...

“And under that crooked hat,” Clara continued, “under that crooked hat is a struggle of fire and water.

The policeman with the gramophone finally staggered. By the power of her views, the girl Clara Courbet decided to outshine not only the gramophone, but also the sculptural group. The policeman-artist was worried. Choosing one of the simpler hats, he pointed his finger at it and said:

- And under this there is a struggle between good and evil.

"Hehe," said Clara Courbet. - Nothing like this.

The policeman shuddered and, closing his mouth, looked at Clara.

Orlov elbowed Petyushka, who was crunching something in his pocket.

Peering into the sculptural group, Clara was silent.

"There's something else going on under that hat," she began slowly. “It’s… fighting fighting fighting!”

17 responses

I would read Chekhov's Gooseberry in its entirety or this part

And he ate greedily and kept repeating:

Ah, how delicious! You try!

It was tough and sour, but, as Pushkin said, "the darkness of truth is dearer to us than the uplifting deceit." I have seen happy person, whose cherished dream came true so obviously, who achieved the goal in life, got what he wanted, who was pleased with his fate, with himself. For some reason, something sad was always mixed with my thoughts about human happiness, but now, at the sight of a happy person, a heavy feeling, close to despair, took possession of me. It was especially hard at night. They made a bed for me in the room next to my brother's bedroom, and I could hear how he did not sleep and how he got up and went to a plate of gooseberries and took a berry. I thought: how, in fact, there are many satisfied, happy people! What an overwhelming power! Take a look at this life: the impudence and idleness of the strong, the ignorance and bestiality of the weak, impossible poverty all around, cramped conditions, degeneration, drunkenness, hypocrisy, lies... Meanwhile, in all the houses and on the streets, there is silence and calmness; out of fifty thousand people living in the city, not a single one who would scream, loudly indignant. We see those who go to the market for provisions, eat during the day, sleep at night, who talk their nonsense, get married, grow old, complacently drag their dead to the cemetery, but we we do not see and do not hear those who suffer, and what is terrible in life happens somewhere behind the scenes. Everything is quiet, calm, and only mute statistics protest: so many went crazy, so many buckets were drunk, so many children died from malnutrition ... And such an order is obviously needed; Obviously, the happy one feels good only because the unfortunate bear their burden in silence, and without this silence, happiness would be impossible. This is general hypnosis. It is necessary that behind the door of every contented, happy person someone stands with a hammer and constantly reminds by knocking that there are unfortunate people, that no matter how happy he is, sooner or later life will show him its claws, trouble will strike - illness, poverty, loss, and no one will see or hear him, just as now he does not see or hear others. But there is no man with a hammer, the happy one lives for himself, and petty worldly worries excite him slightly, like the wind does aspen - and everything is going well.

I want to give another passage that immediately came to my mind as soon as I saw this question. This is also not Russian literature, but still a classic. 3-4 paragraph from chapter VIII. People of the "Planet of Humans" Exupery:

To understand a person, his needs and aspirations, to comprehend his very essence, you do not need to oppose your obvious truths to each other. Yes you are right. All of you are right. Anything can be proven logically. Even the one who takes it into his head to blame the hunchbacks for all the misfortunes of mankind is right. It is enough to declare war on the humpbacks - and we will immediately inflame with hatred for them. We will begin to take cruel revenge on the hunchbacks for all their crimes. And among the hunchbacks, of course, there are also criminals.

In order to understand what the essence of a person is, one must at least for a moment forget about disagreements, because every theory and every faith establishes a whole Koran of unshakable truths, and they give rise to fanaticism. You can divide people into right and left, into hunchbacked and not humpbacked, into fascists and democrats - and you cannot refute any such division. But truth, as you know, is what makes the world simpler, not what turns it into chaos. Truth is a language that helps to comprehend the universal. Newton did not at all "discover" the law, which remained a mystery for a long time - only puzzles solve this way, and what Newton did was creativity. He created a language that tells us both about the fall of an apple on the lawn and about the rising of the sun. Truth is not what is provable, truth is simplicity.

Why argue about ideologies? Any of them can be supported by evidence, and they all contradict each other, and from these disputes you only lose all hope of saving people. But people around us, everywhere and everywhere, strive for the same thing.

We want freedom. Anyone who works with a pick wants to have meaning in every blow. When a convict works with a pick, each blow only humiliates the convict, but if the pick is in the hands of a prospector, each blow elevates the prospector. Hard labor is not where they work with a pickaxe. It's terrible not because it's hard work. Penal servitude is where the blows of the pick are meaningless, where labor does not unite man with people. And we want to escape from hard labor.

In Europe, two hundred million people vegetate senselessly and would be glad to be reborn for true existence. Industry has torn them away from the life that generation after generation leads as a peasant family, and has locked them up in huge ghettos, similar to marshalling yards, packed with strings of wagons black with soot. People buried in workers' settlements would be glad to wake up to life.

There are others who have been drawn into tedious, monotonous work, the joys of a discoverer, a believer, a scientist are inaccessible to them. Some have imagined that it is not so difficult to elevate these people, it is only necessary to clothe them, feed them, satisfy their daily needs. And little by little they raised them to be bourgeois in the spirit of Courteline's novels, rural politicians, narrow-minded specialists without any spiritual interests. These people are well trained, but they have not yet joined the culture. Those for whom culture is reduced to hardened formulas have the most miserable idea of ​​it. The last scholar in the department of exact sciences knows much more about the laws of nature than Descartes and Pascal knew. But is a schoolboy capable of thinking like them?

All of us - some vaguely, some more clearly - feel: we need to awaken to life. But how many false paths open up... Of course, people can be inspired by dressing them up in some form. They will sing martial songs and break bread in the circle of their comrades. They will find what they were looking for, they will feel unity and community. But this bread will bring them death.

You can unearth forgotten wooden idols, you can resurrect old, old myths that, for better or worse, have already shown themselves, you can again inspire people to believe in Pan-Germanism or in the Roman Empire. It is possible to stupefy the Germans with arrogance, because they are Germans and Beethoven's compatriots. So you can turn your head and the last chimney sweep. And it's much easier than awakening Beethoven in a chimney sweep.

But these idols are carnivorous idols. The man who dies for scientific discovery or in order to find a cure for a serious illness, by his very death he serves the cause of life. It may be beautiful to die in order to conquer new lands, but modern warfare destroys everything for which it is allegedly waged. Now it is no longer a matter of shedding a little sacrificial blood to revive whole nation. From the hour when the plane and mustard gas became weapons, the war became just a massacre. Enemies hide behind concrete walls, and each, not knowing how to find a better way out, night after night sends out squadrons that get close to the very heart of the enemy, bombard his vital centers, paralyze industry and means of communication. Victory will go to the one who rots last. And both opponents are rotting alive.

The world has become a desert, and we all yearn to find comrades in it; in order to taste bread among comrades, we accept war. But in order to gain this warmth, in order to strive shoulder to shoulder towards the same goal, there is no need to fight at all. We are deceived. War and hatred add nothing to the joy of the general rapid movement.

Why should we hate each other? We are all one, carried away by the same planet, we are the crew of one ship. It is good when something new, more perfect is born in a dispute between different civilizations, but it is monstrous when they devour each other.

To free us, we only need to help us see the goal to which we will go side by side, united by the bonds of brotherhood - but then why not look for a goal that will unite everyone? The doctor, examining the patient, does not listen to the groans: it is important for the doctor to heal the person. The doctor serves the laws of the universal. They are also served by the physicist, who deduces almost divine equations in which the essence of the atom and the stellar nebula is determined at once. A simple shepherd also serves them. Worth the one who modestly guards under starry sky a dozen sheep, comprehend his work - and now he is no longer just a servant. He is a sentry. And each sentry is responsible for the fate of the empire.

Do you think the shepherd does not seek to comprehend himself and his place in life? At the front near Madrid, I visited a school - it was on a hillock, behind a low fence made of stone, five hundred meters separated it from the trenches. In this school, one corporal taught botany. In the rough hands of the corporal was a poppy flower, he carefully parted the petals and stamens, and from all sides from the trench mud, under the roar of shells, pilgrims overgrown with beards flocked to him. They surrounded the corporal, sat down right on the ground, legs crossed, chin rested on their palms, and listened. They frowned, clenched their teeth, the lesson was not very clear to them, but they were told: “You are dark, you are animals, you are just getting out of your lair, you need to catch up with humanity!” - and, stepping heavily, they hurried after.

When we comprehend our role on earth, even the most modest and inconspicuous, then only we will be happy. Only then will we be able to live and die in peace, for what gives meaning to life gives meaning to death.

A man departs in peace when his death is natural, when, somewhere in Provence, an old peasant, at the end of his reign, gives his sons his goats and his olives for safekeeping, so that the sons in due time give them to the sons of their sons. In a peasant family, a person dies only half. At the appointed hour, life disintegrates like a pod, yielding seeds.

One day I happened to be standing with three peasants at their mother's deathbed. It was bittersweet to say. The umbilical cord was torn a second time. The knot that connected generation to generation was untied for the second time. The sons suddenly felt lonely, they seemed to themselves clumsy, helpless, there was no longer that table at which the whole family gathered on a holiday, that magnet that attracted them all. And I saw that here not only the connecting threads are torn, but life is given a second time. For each of the sons in his turn will become the head of the clan, the patriarch around whom the family will gather, and when the time comes, he will in turn hand over the reins of government to the kids that are now playing in the yard.

I looked at my mother, at an old peasant woman with a calm and stern face, at her tightly compressed lips - not a face, but a mask carved from stone. And in him I recognized the features of sons. Their faces are a cast from this mask. This body molded their bodies - perfectly sculpted, strong, masculine. And here it lies, devoid of life, but it is the lifelessness of a decayed shell, from which a ripe fruit has been extracted. And in their turn, her sons and daughters mold new people from their flesh. In the peasant family do not die. Mother is dead, long live mother!

Yes, it is bitter, but it is so simple and natural - the dimensional tread of the kind: leaving on the way one after another the mortal shells of gray-haired workers, constantly renewing, it moves towards the unknown truth.

That is why that evening, in the death knell that floated over the village, I heard not grief, but hidden meek joy. The bell that glorified funerals and christenings with the same ringing again announced the change of generations. And this song to the glory of the betrothal of the old toiler to the earth filled the soul with quiet tranquility.

This is how life is transmitted from generation to generation - slowly, like a tree grows - and consciousness is transmitted with it. What an amazing climb! From molten lava, from that dough from which stars are molded, from a miraculously born living cell, we - people - came out and rose higher and higher, step by step, and now we are writing cantatas and measuring constellations.

The old peasant woman gave her children not only life, she taught them mother tongue, entrusted them with wealth that had been accumulating slowly, over centuries: the spiritual heritage that she got to keep - a modest stock of legends, concepts and beliefs, everything that distinguishes Newton and Shakespeare from the primitive savage.

That hunger that drove the soldiers of Spain to a botany lesson under fire, that drove Mermoz to the South Atlantic, and another to poetry - this eternal feeling of unsatisfaction arises because man has not yet reached the peak in his development, and we still need to understand ourselves yourself and the universe. It is necessary to throw bridges in the darkness. This is not recognized only by those who consider selfish indifference as wisdom; but such wisdom is a pitiful deceit. Comrades, my comrades, I take you as witnesses: what are the happiest hours of our lives?

And on the last pages of this book, I again recall the aged officials - our escorts at the dawn of that day when we were finally entrusted with a mail plane for the first time and we were preparing to become people. But they were like us in everything, but they did not know that they were hungry.

There are too many people in the world who have not been helped to wake up.

Several years ago, during a long trip by rail, I wanted to explore this state on wheels, in which I found myself for three days; For three days there was nowhere to go from the incessant knocking and roar, as if the surf was rolling pebbles, and I could not sleep. At about one in the morning I walked the whole train from end to end. The sleeping cars were empty. The first class carriages were also empty.

And hundreds of Polish workers huddled in third-class carriages, they were expelled from France, and they returned to their homeland. In the corridors I had to step over the sleeping ones. I stopped and by the light of the nightlights began to look closely; the car was without partitions, just like a barracks, and it smelled like a barracks or a police station, and the course of the train shook and tossed up bodies dumped by fatigue.

An entire nation immersed in heavy sleep returned to bitter poverty. Large, shaved heads rolled on wooden benches. Men, women, children tossed and turned from side to side, as if trying to hide from the continuous roar and shaking that haunted them in oblivion. Even sleep was not a safe haven for them.

The economic ebb and flow tossed them around Europe from end to end, they lost their house in the department of Nore, a tiny garden, three pots of geraniums, which I once saw in the windows of Polish miners - and it seemed to me that they had lost half their human appearance. They took with them only kitchen utensils, blankets and curtains, miserable belongings in loose, somehow tied knots. They had to leave everything that was dear to them, everything they were attached to, everyone they had tamed in four or five years in France - a cat, a dog, geraniums - they could only take pots and pans with them.

The mother was breastfeeding the baby; deadly tired, she seemed to be asleep. In the midst of the nonsense and chaos of these wanderings, life was transmitted to the child. I looked at my father. The skull is heavy and bare as a rock. Shackled by sleep in an awkward position, squeezed by work clothes, a shapeless and awkward body. Not a man - a clod of clay. So at night, on the benches of the market, homeless vagrants lie in piles of rags. And I thought: poverty, dirt, ugliness - that's not the point. But after all, this man and this woman once met for the first time, and, probably, he smiled at her and, probably, brought her flowers after work. Perhaps shy and awkward, he was afraid of being laughed at. And she, confident in her charm, out of purely feminine coquetry, perhaps, was pleased to torment him. And he, now turned into a machine, only capable of forging or digging, languished with anxiety, from which his heart sank sweetly. It is incomprehensible how they both turned into clods of dirt? Under what terrible pressure did they fall? What made them so twisted? The animal retains grace even in old age. Why is the noble clay from which man is fashioned so mutilated?

I walked on among my fellow travelers, who slept in a heavy, restless sleep. Snoring, groans, indistinct muttering, the grinding of rough shoes on wood, when the sleeper, trying to get comfortable on a hard bench, turns from side to side - everything merged into a deaf, incessant noise. And behind all this - the incessant rumble, as if pebbles are rolling under the blows of the surf.

I sit down opposite the sleeping family. Between the father and mother somehow nestled the baby. But then he turns in his sleep, and by the light of the night lamp I see his face. What a face! From these two, a wonderful golden fruit was born. These shapeless heavy coolies gave birth to a miracle of grace and charm. I looked at the smooth forehead, at the plump tender lips and thought: here is the face of a musician, here is little Mozart, he is all - a promise! He is just like a little prince from a fairy tale, he would grow up, warmed by vigilant reasonable care, and he would justify the wildest hopes! When in the garden, after a long search, they finally bring out a new rose, all gardeners come into excitement. The rose is separated from others, she is vigilantly cared for, cared for and cherished. But people grow up without a gardener. Little Mozart, like everyone else, will fall under the same monstrous pressure. And he will begin to enjoy the vile music of base taverns. Mozart is doomed.

I returned to my wagon. I told myself: these people do not suffer from their fate. And it's not compassion that torments me. It's not about shedding tears over a never-healing sore. Those who are struck by it do not feel it. The ulcer did not strike an individual, it corrodes humanity. And I do not believe in pity. The care of the gardener torments me. It is not the sight of poverty that torments me; in the end, people get used to poverty, just as they get used to idleness. In the East, many generations live in filth and do not feel unhappy at all. What torments me cannot be cured by free soup for the poor. Painfully not the ugliness of this shapeless, crumpled human clay. But in each of these people, perhaps, Mozart is killed.

The Spirit alone, touching the clay, creates a Man out of it.

excerpt ( last paragraph, to be more precise) from the story of I. A. Bunin "The Caucasus". I remember I was shocked by the ending when I read it for the first time:

“He was looking for her in Gelendzhik, in Gagra, in Sochi. The next day, upon arrival in Sochi, he swam in the sea in the morning, then shaved, put on clean linen, a snow-white tunic, had breakfast in his hotel on the restaurant terrace, drank a bottle of champagne, drank coffee with chartreuse, slowly smoked a cigar. Returning to his room, he lay down on the sofa and shot himself in the whiskey with two revolvers.

No. Today, everything is taken in a hurry, little by little, removing foam. Art requires a different kind of immersion, reflection and a look of effort, and if only to cast a glance at the simplest things, both the opera and the play - any word will seem empty. We not only need to read - we need to think and put together a mosaic in our memory. Not so great is a writer, master, and, in general, any creator, as our service, work, dialogue is great - we talk with a poet, with a playwright, although the other plays a role, but, listening, we are involved: without us, culture dies, and eternity not eternal. And snatching five minutes for distraction in the stream of days and the hustle and bustle of affairs - everything will be forgotten in an instant, only the nerve will touch the thoughts, but the thought will not give birth.

She sank into a chair and burst into tears. But suddenly something new shone in her eyes; she looked intently and stubbornly at Aglaya and got up from her place:

Do you want me now ... come, do you hear? only tell him, and he will immediately leave you and stay with me forever, and marry me, and you will run home alone? Do you want, do you want? she cried like a mad woman, perhaps almost not believing herself that she could utter such words.

Aglaya, frightened, rushed to the door, but stopped at the door, as if chained, and listened.

Do you want me to drive Rogozhin away? Did you think that I already married Rogozhin for your pleasure? Right now, in front of you, I’ll shout: “Go away, Rogozhin!”, And I’ll say to the prince: “Do you remember what you promised?” God! But why did I humiliate myself before them? Is it not you, prince, who assured me that you would follow me, no matter what happened to me, and you would never leave me; that you love me, and forgive me everything, and I have ... uva ... Yes, you said that too! And just to untie you, I ran away from you, but now I don’t want to! Why did she treat me like a dissolute? Am I dissolute, ask Rogozhin, he will tell you! Now that she has dishonored me, and even in your eyes, and you will turn away from me, and take her by the arm with you? Damn you after that because I believed in you alone. Go away, Rogozhin, you are not needed! she screamed almost without memory, with an effort to let the words out of her chest, with a distorted face and parched lips, obviously not believing an iota of her fanfare, but at the same time, at least for a second, still wanting to prolong the moment and deceive herself. The impulse was so strong that perhaps she would have died, at least it seemed to the prince. - Here he is, look! she finally shouted to Aglaya, pointing with her hand at the prince. “If he doesn’t come to me now, doesn’t take me and doesn’t leave you, then take him for yourself, I give in, I don’t need him! ..

Both she and Aglaya stopped as if in anticipation, and both looked at the prince like crazy. But he, perhaps, did not understand the full force of this challenge, one can even say for sure. He only saw before him a desperate, insane face, from which, as he let slip to Aglaya, "his heart was pierced forever." He could no longer bear it, and turned to Aglaya with a plea and reproach, pointing to Nastasya Filippovna:

Is it possible! After all, she ... so unhappy!

But that was all he managed to utter, speechless under Aglaya's terrible gaze. This look expressed so much suffering and at the same time endless hatred that he threw up his hands, screamed and rushed to her, but it was already too late! She could not endure even a moment of his hesitation, covered her face with her hands, cried out: "Oh, my God!" - and rushed out of the room, followed by Rogozhin, to unlock the bolt for her at the door to the street.

The prince also ran, but on the threshold they wrapped their arms around him. The stricken, distorted face of Nastasya Filippovna looked at him point-blank, and her bluish lips moved, asking:

For her? For her?..

She fell unconscious into his arms. He picked her up, carried her into the room, laid her in an armchair, and stood over her in stupid expectation. There was a glass of water on the table; Rogozhin, returning, seized him and splashed water in her face; she opened her eyes and for a minute did not understand anything; but suddenly she looked around, shuddered, cried out and rushed to the prince.

My! My! she cried. - Has the proud young lady left? Ha ha ha! she laughed hysterically, ha-ha-ha! I gave it to this young lady! What for? For what? Crazy! Crazy!.. Go away, Rogozhin, ha-ha-ha!

Rogozhin looked fixedly at them, did not say a word, took his hat and went out. Ten minutes later the prince was sitting beside Nastasya Filippovna, looking at her without stopping, and stroking her head and face with both hands, like a little child. He laughed at her laughter and was ready to cry at her tears. He did not say anything, but listened intently to her impetuous, enthusiastic and incoherent babble, hardly understood anything, but smiled softly, and as soon as it seemed to him that she began again to yearn or cry, reproach or complain, he immediately began her again stroking her head and gently running his hands over her cheeks, comforting and persuading her, like a child.

"A Hero of Our Time", a letter from Vera and Pechorin, who rushes to Pyatigorsk. The scene in which main character opened up to me in a completely different way.

Like a madman, I jumped out onto the porch, jumped on my Circassian, who was led around the yard, and set off at full speed on the road to Pyatigorsk. I mercilessly drove the exhausted horse, which, wheezing and covered in foam, raced me along the rocky road.

The sun was already hidden in a black cloud resting on the crest of the western mountains; the valley became dark and damp. Podkumok, making his way over the stones, roared muffled and monotonous. I jumped, panting with impatience. The thought of not finding her in Pyatigorsk hit my heart like a hammer! - one minute, one more minute to see her, to say goodbye, to shake her hand ... I prayed, cursed, cried, laughed ... no, nothing will express my anxiety, despair! .. With the opportunity to lose her forever, Vera became dearer to me everything in the world - dearer than life, honor, happiness! God knows what strange, what frenzied ideas were swarming in my head ... And meanwhile I kept galloping, chasing me mercilessly. And so I began to notice that my horse was breathing more heavily; he had already stumbled twice out of the blue... There were five versts left to Essentuki, a Cossack village where I could change horses.

Everything would have been saved if my horse had had enough strength for another ten minutes! But suddenly, rising from a small ravine, at the exit from the mountains, at a sharp turn, he slammed into the ground. I quickly jumped off, I want to pick him up, I pull on the reins - in vain: a barely audible groan escaped through his clenched teeth; after a few minutes he died; I was left alone in the steppe, having lost my last hope; I tried to walk - my legs buckled; exhausted by the anxieties of the day and insomnia, I fell on the wet grass and wept like a child.

And for a long time I lay motionless and wept bitterly, not trying to hold back my tears and sobs; I thought my chest would burst; all my hardness, all my composure - vanished like smoke. The soul was exhausted, the mind fell silent, and if at that moment someone saw me, he would have turned away with contempt.

Vladimir Nabokov "Other Shores". Every evening I open a random page and read aloud. One of my favorite passages (chapter 6, last paragraph):

"And the highest pleasure for me - outside the devilish time, but very much even inside the divine space - is a landscape chosen at random, no matter what strip, tundra or sagebrush, or even among the remains of some old pine forest near the railway between the dead in this context Albany and Schenectady (one of my favorite godchildren flies there, my blue samuelis) - in a word, any corner of the earth where I can be in the company of butterflies and their food plants. It's like some kind of instantaneous physical void, where everything that I love in the world rushes to fill it. It's like an instant thrill of tenderness and gratitude addressed, as they say in American official recommendations, to whom it may concern - I don’t know to whom and to what - whether it’s a brilliant counterpoint of human fate or benevolent spirits pampering the earthly lucky one.

In the early morning of the fourteenth day of the spring month of Nisan, in a white cloak with a bloody lining, shuffling with a cavalry gait, the procurator of Judea, Pontius Pilate, entered the covered colonnade between the two wings of the palace of Herod the Great.

More than anything in the world, the Procurator hated the smell of rose oil, and everything now foreshadowed a bad day, since this smell began to haunt the Procurator from dawn. It seemed to the procurator that the cypresses and palms in the garden exuded a pink smell, that the accursed pink stream was mixed with the smell of leather and guards. From the outbuildings in the rear of the palace, where the first cohort of the twelfth lightning legion, which had come with the procurator to Yershalaim, was stationed, smoke was drifting into the colonnade through the upper platform of the garden, and the same greasy pink spirit. Oh gods, gods, why are you punishing me?

"Yes, no doubt! It's her, her again, the invincible, terrible disease of hemicrania, which hurts half the head. There is no cure for it, there is no escape. I'll try not to move my head."

An armchair had already been prepared on the mosaic floor near the fountain, and the procurator, without looking at anyone, sat down in it and held out his hand to the side.

The secretary respectfully placed a piece of parchment in that hand. Unable to restrain himself from a painful grimace, the procurator glanced sideways at what had been written, returned the parchment to the secretary, and said with difficulty:

Under investigation from Galilee? Did you send a case to the tetrarch?

Yes, Procurator, answered the secretary.

What is he?

He refused to give an opinion on the case and sent the death sentence of the Sanhedrin for your approval, - the secretary explained.

The procurator twitched his cheek and said quietly:

Bring in the accused.

And immediately, from the garden platform under the columns to the balcony, two legionnaires brought in and placed a man of about twenty-seven in front of the chair of the procurator. This man was dressed in an old and tattered blue chiton. His head was covered with a white bandage with a strap around his forehead, and his hands were tied behind his back. The man had a large bruise under his left eye, and an abrasion with dried blood in the corner of his mouth. The man brought in looked at the procurator with anxious curiosity.

He paused, then quietly asked in Aramaic:

So it was you who persuaded the people to destroy the Yershalaim temple?

At the same time, the procurator sat like a stone, and only his lips moved a little as he uttered the words. The procurator was like a stone, because he was afraid to shake his head, burning with hellish pain.

The man with his hands tied leaned forward a little and began to speak:

Kind person! Believe me...

But the procurator, still not moving and not raising his voice in the least, immediately interrupted him:

Are you calling me a good person? You're wrong. In Yershalaim everyone whispers about me that I am a ferocious monster, and this is absolutely true, - and he added in the same monotone: - Centurion Ratslayer to me.

It seemed to everyone that it had darkened on the balcony when the centurion, the commander of a special centurion, Mark, nicknamed the Ratslayer, appeared before the procurator.

Ratslayer was a head taller than the tallest soldier in the Legion, and so broad-shouldered that he completely blocked out the low sun.

The procurator addressed the centurion in Latin:

The criminal calls me "good man". Get him out of here for a minute, explain to him how to talk to me. But don't hurt.

And everyone, except for the motionless procurator, looked after Mark Ratslayer, who waved his hand to the arrested man, indicating that he should follow him.

In general, everyone watched the Ratslayer, wherever he appeared, because of his height, and those who saw him for the first time, because of the fact that the face of the centurion was disfigured: his nose had once been broken by a blow from a German club.

Mark's heavy boots tapped on the mosaic, the bound man followed him noiselessly, complete silence fell in the colonnade, and one could hear the cooing of pigeons on the garden platform near the balcony, and the water sang an intricate pleasant song in the fountain.

The procurator wanted to get up, put his temple under the jet, and freeze like that. But he knew that this would not help him either.

Taking the arrested person out from under the columns into the garden. Ratslayer took out of the hands of the legionnaire, who was standing at the foot of bronze statue, a scourge and, waving slightly, hit the arrested person on the shoulders. The movement of the centurion was careless and light, but the bound one instantly collapsed to the ground, as if his legs had been cut off, he choked on air, the color fled from his face and his eyes became meaningless. Mark with one left hand, as easily as empty bag, lifted the fallen man into the air, put him on his feet and spoke in a nasal voice, pronouncing the Aramaic words poorly:

The Roman procurator is called hegemon. Don't say any other words. Stand still. Do you understand me or hit you?

The arrested man staggered, but controlled himself, the color returned, he took a breath and answered hoarsely:

I understood you. Do not hit me.

A minute later he was again standing in front of the procurator.

My? the arrested man hastily responded, expressing with his whole being his readiness to answer sensibly, not to arouse more anger.

The procurator said quietly:

Mine - I know. Don't pretend to be more stupid than you are. Your.

Yeshua, - the prisoner hastily answered.

Is there a nickname?

Ha-Notsri.

Where you're from?

From the city of Gamala, - the prisoner answered, showing with his head that there, somewhere far away, to his right, in the north, there is the city of Gamala.

Who are you by blood?

I don't know for sure, - the prisoner replied briskly, - I don't remember my parents. I was told that my father was a Syrian...

Where do you live permanently?

I don’t have a permanent home,” the prisoner answered shyly, “I travel from city to city.

This can be expressed briefly, in one word - a vagabond, - said the procurator and asked: - Do you have any relatives?

There is no one. I am alone in the world.

Do you know grammar?

Do you know any language other than Aramaic?

I know. Greek.

The swollen eyelid lifted, the eye veiled in a haze of suffering stared at the prisoner. The other eye remained closed.

Pilate spoke in Greek:

So you were going to destroy the temple building and called the people to this?

Here the prisoner perked up again, his eyes ceased to express fear, and he spoke in Greek:

I, dob ... - here horror flashed in the eyes of the prisoner because he almost made a slip of the tongue - I, hegemon, never in my life was going to destroy the building of the temple and did not incite anyone to this senseless action.

Surprise showed on the face of the secretary, hunched over a low table and taking down his testimony. He raised his head, but immediately bowed it again to the parchment.

Lots of different people flocks to this city for the holiday. There are magicians, astrologers, soothsayers and murderers among them,” the procurator said in a monotone, “but there are also liars. For example, you are a liar. It is written clearly: he incited to destroy the temple. This is what people testify.

These good people,” the prisoner began and, hastily adding: “hegemon,” he continued: “they didn’t learn anything and everyone mixed up what I said. In general, I begin to fear that this confusion will continue for a very long time. And all because he incorrectly writes down after me.

There was silence. Now both diseased eyes looked hard at the prisoner.

I repeat to you, but last time: stop pretending to be crazy, robber, - Pilate said softly and monotonously, - there is not much written down for you, but enough written down to hang you.

No, no, hegemon,” the prisoner began, straining to convince, “walks, walks alone with goat parchment and writes incessantly. But once I looked into this parchment and was horrified. Absolutely nothing of what is written there, I did not say. I begged him: burn your parchment for God's sake! But he snatched it from me and ran away.

Who it? Pilate asked with disgust and touched his temple with his hand.

Levi Matthew, - the prisoner readily explained, - he was a tax collector, and I met him for the first time on the road to Bethphage, where the fig garden comes out at the corner, and talked with him. Initially, he treated me with hostility and even insulted me, that is, he thought that he was insulting me by calling me a dog, - then the prisoner grinned, - I personally don’t see anything wrong in this beast to be offended by this word ...

The secretary stopped taking notes and surreptitiously threw a surprised look, not at the arrested man, but at the procurator.

However, after listening to me, he began to soften, - continued Yeshua, - finally threw money on the road and said that he would go traveling with me ...

Pilate grinned on one cheek, showing his yellow teeth, and said, turning his whole body to the secretary:

Oh, the city of Yershalaim! What can you not hear in it. The tax collector, you hear, threw money on the road!

Not knowing how to answer this, the secretary found it necessary to repeat Pilate's smile.

Still grinning, the procurator looked at the arrested man, then at the sun steadily rising above the equestrian statues of the hippodrome, which lay far below to the right, and suddenly, in some kind of nauseating torment, he thought that it would be easiest to drive this strange robber from the balcony, uttering only two words: "Hang him." Expel the convoy as well, leave the colonnade inside the palace, order the room to be darkened, lie down on the couch, demand cold water, call Bang's dog in a plaintive voice, complain to her about hemicrania. And the thought of poison suddenly flashed seductively into the procurator's sick head.

He looked at the prisoner with dull eyes and was silent for some time, painfully remembering why, in the merciless morning sun of Yershalaim, a prisoner with a face disfigured by beatings was standing in front of him, and what questions no one else needed he would have to ask.

Yes, Matvey Levi, - a high, tormenting voice reached him.

But what did you say about the temple to the crowd in the bazaar?

I, hegemon, said that the temple of the old faith would collapse and a new temple of truth would be created. I said it so it would be clearer.

Why, then, you vagabond, did you embarrass the people in the bazaar, telling about the truth, about which you have no idea? What is truth?

And then the procurator thought: "Oh, my gods! I'm asking him about something unnecessary at the trial ... My mind does not serve me anymore ..." And again he imagined a bowl with a dark liquid. "Poison me, poison!"

The truth is, first of all, that your head hurts, and it hurts so badly that you cowardly think about death. Not only are you unable to speak to me, but it is difficult for you to even look at me. And now I am unwittingly your executioner, which saddens me. You can't even think of anything and only dream of your dog coming, apparently the only creature to which you are attached. But your torment will now end, your head will pass.

The secretary widened his eyes at the prisoner and did not finish the word.

Pilate raised martyr eyes at the prisoner and saw that the sun was already quite high above the hippodrome, that a ray had penetrated the colonnade and was crawling up to Yeshua's worn-out sandals, that he was shunning the sun.

Here the procurator got up from his chair, clasped his head in his hands, and horror was expressed on his yellowish, shaven face. But he immediately suppressed it with his will and sank back into his chair.

Meanwhile, the prisoner continued his speech, but the secretary did not write down anything else, but only, stretching his neck like a goose, tried not to utter a single word.

Well, it's all over, - said the prisoner, looking benevolently at Pilate, - and I am extremely glad about this. I would advise you, hegemon, to leave the palace for a while and take a walk somewhere in the vicinity, well, at least in the gardens on the Mount of Olives. A thunderstorm will begin, - the prisoner turned, squinted at the sun, - later, towards evening. A walk would be of great benefit to you, and I would gladly accompany you. Some new thoughts have occurred to me which I think you might find interesting, and I would gladly share them with you, the more so since you seem to be a very intelligent person.

The secretary turned deathly pale and dropped the scroll to the floor.

The trouble is, - continued the unstoppable bound man, - that you are too closed off and have finally lost faith in people. After all, you must admit, you can’t put all your affection in a dog. Your life is poor, hegemon, - and here the speaker allowed himself to smile.

The secretary now thought of only one thing, whether to believe his ears or not. I had to believe. Then he tried to imagine what kind of bizarre form the anger of the hot-tempered procurator would take at this unheard-of impudence of the arrested person. And the secretary could not imagine this, although he knew the procurator well.

Untie his hands.

One of the escort legionnaires rapped his spear, handed it to another, approached and removed the ropes from the prisoner. The secretary held up the scroll and decided not to write anything down for the time being and not to be surprised at anything.

Confess, - Pilate asked softly in Greek, - are you a great doctor?

No, procurator, I'm not a doctor,' replied the prisoner, rubbing his crumpled and swollen crimson hand with pleasure.

Steeply, frowningly, Pilate bored into the eyes of the prisoner, and in these eyes there was no longer any turbidity, the familiar sparks appeared in them.

I didn't ask you, - said Pilate, - maybe you also know Latin?

Yes, I know, - the prisoner answered.

The color came out on the yellowish cheeks of Pilate, and he asked in Latin:

How did you know that I wanted to call the dog?

It’s very simple,” the prisoner answered in Latin, “you moved your hand through the air,” the prisoner repeated Pilate’s gesture, “as if you wanted to stroke, and lips ...

Yes, Pilate said.

There was a pause, then Pilate asked a question in Greek:

So, are you a doctor?

No, no, - the prisoner answered briskly, - believe me, I am not a doctor.

OK then. If you want to keep it a secret, keep it. This has nothing to do with the case. So you're saying you didn't call for the temple to be destroyed... or set on fire or otherwise destroyed in any way?

I, hegemon, did not call anyone to similar actions, I repeat. Do I look like an idiot?

Oh, yes, you don't look like an idiot," the procurator replied quietly and smiled with some kind of terrible smile, "so swear that it didn't happen.

What do you want me to swear? - He asked, very animated, untied.

Well, at least by your life, - answered the procurator, - it's time to swear by it, since it hangs by a thread, know that!

Don't you think you hung her, hegemon? - asked the prisoner, - if so, you are very mistaken.

Pilate shuddered and answered through his teeth:

I can cut this hair.

And in this you are mistaken, - the prisoner objected, smiling brightly and shielding himself from the sun with his hand, - agree that only the one who hung it up can probably cut the hair?

So, so, - Pilate said with a smile, - now I have no doubt that idle onlookers in Yershalaim followed you on your heels. I don't know who hung your tongue, but it is hung well. By the way, tell me: is it true that you came to Yershalaim through the Susa gate on a donkey, accompanied by a crowd of mob, shouting greetings to you as if to some kind of prophet? - Here the procurator pointed to a scroll of parchment.

The prisoner looked at the procurator in bewilderment.

I don’t even have a donkey, hegemon,” he said. - I came to Yershalaim exactly through the Susa Gate, but on foot, accompanied by one Levi Matvey, and no one shouted anything at me, since no one knew me then in Yershalaim.

Don't you know such people, - continued Pilate, without taking his eyes off the prisoner, - a certain Dismas, another - Gestas, and a third - Bar-Rabban?

I don’t know these good people,” the prisoner answered.

Now tell me, why are you always using the words "good people"? Is that what you call everyone?

All, - the prisoner answered, - evil people not in the world.

This is the first time I hear about it,” Pilate said, smiling, “but perhaps I know little about life! You don’t have to write down the rest,” he turned to the secretary, although he didn’t write anything anyway, and continued to say to the prisoner: “Did you read about this in any of the Greek books?

No, I came up with this on my own.

And you preach it?

But, for example, the centurion Mark, he was nicknamed the Ratslayer, - is he kind?

Yes, - answered the prisoner, - it is true, he is an unhappy person. Since the good people mutilated him, he became cruel and callous. It would be interesting to know who crippled him.

I can gladly report this,” Pilate answered, “for I was a witness to this. Kind people attacked him like dogs attacking bears. The Germans clung to his neck, arms, legs. The infantry maniple fell into the sack, and if the cavalry turma had not cut in from the flank, and I commanded it, you, philosopher, would not have had to talk with Ratslayer. It was in the battle of Idistaviso, in the valley of the Devas.

If I could talk to him, - the prisoner suddenly said dreamily, - I am sure that he would change dramatically.

I believe, - Pilate answered, - that you would bring little joy to the legate of the legion if you took it into your head to talk to one of his officers or soldiers. However, this will not happen, fortunately for everyone, and the first person to take care of this will be me.

At this time, a swallow swiftly flew into the colonnade, made a circle under the golden ceiling, descended, almost touched the face of the copper statue in the niche with its sharp wing, and disappeared behind the capital of the column. Perhaps the idea came to her to build a nest there.

In the course of her flight, a formula formed in the procurator's now bright and light head. It was as follows: the hegemon examined the case of the wandering philosopher Yeshua, nicknamed Ha-Notsri, and did not find corpus delicti in it. In particular, I did not find the slightest connection between the actions of Yeshua and the riots that took place in Yershalaim recently. The wandering philosopher turned out to be mentally ill. As a result of this, the procurator does not approve the death sentence of Ha-Notsri, pronounced by the Small Sanhedrin. But in view of the fact that the insane, utopian speeches of Ha-Nozri can be the cause of unrest in Yershalaim, the procurator removes Yeshua from Yershalaim and subjects him to imprisonment in Caesarea Stratonova on the Mediterranean Sea, that is, exactly where the residence of the procurator is.

“Yes, this has been my fate since childhood. Everyone read on my face signs of bad feelings, which were not there; but they were supposed - and they were born. I was modest - I was accused of slyness: I became secretive. I deeply felt good and evil; no one caressed me, everyone insulted me: I became vindictive; I was gloomy - other children are cheerful and talkative; I felt superior to them—I was placed inferior. I became envious. I was ready to love the whole world - no one understood me: and I learned to hate. My colorless youth flowed in the struggle with myself and the light; my best feelings, fearing ridicule, I buried in the depths of my heart: they died there. I told the truth - they did not believe me: I began to deceive; knowing well the light and springs of society, I became skilled in the science of life and saw how others without art were happy, enjoying the gift of those benefits that I so tirelessly sought. And then despair was born in my chest - not the despair that is cured at the muzzle of a pistol, but cold, powerless despair, hidden behind “courtesy and a good-natured smile. I became moral cripple: one half of my soul did not exist, it dried up, evaporated, died, I cut it off and threw it away, while the other moved and lived at the service of everyone, and no one noticed this, because no one knew about the existence of its dead half; but now you have awakened in me the memory of her, and I have read her epitaph to you. To many, all epitaphs in general seem ridiculous, but not to me, especially when I remember what lies beneath them. However, I do not ask you to share my opinion: if my trick seems ridiculous to you, please laugh: I warn you that this will not upset me in the least. At that moment I met her eyes: tears ran in them; her hand, leaning on mine, trembled; cheeks glowed; she felt sorry for me! Compassion, a feeling that all women submit so easily, let its claws into her inexperienced heart. During the whole walk she was absent-minded, did not flirt with anyone - and this is a great sign! M. Yu. Lermontov "A Hero of Our Time"

Anton Chekhov "WALLET" Three wandering actors - Smirnov, Popov and Balabaykin walked one fine morning along the railway sleepers and found a wallet. Opening it, they, to their great surprise and satisfaction, saw in it twenty bank notes, six winning tickets of the 2nd loan and a check for three thousand. First of all, they shouted "hurrah", then they sat down on the embankment and began to indulge in delights. - How much is it for each? said Smirnov, counting the money. - Dads! Five thousand four hundred and forty-five rubles each! My dears, you'll die from this kind of money! - I'm not so happy for myself, - said Balabaykin, - as for you, my dear fellows. You will not starve now and walk barefoot. I'm glad for the art... First of all, brothers, I'll go to Moscow and go straight to Aya: you give me a wardrobe, brother... I don't want to play peyzans, I'll switch to the role of veils and dudes. I will buy a top hat and hat. For veils gray cylinder. “Now I would like to have a drink and a bite to celebrate,” remarked the jeune premier Popov. - After all, we ate dry food for almost three days, now we need something like that ... Eh? .. - Yes, it would be nice, my dear darlings ... - Smirnov agreed. - There is a lot of money, but there is nothing, my precious ones. That's what, dear Popov, you are the youngest and lightest of us, take a ruble from your wallet and march for provisions, my good angel ... Voooon village! Do you see the white church behind the mound? It will be five versts, no more ... See? The village is big, and you'll find everything there... Buy a bottle of vodka, a pound of sausage, two loaves of bread and a herring, and we'll wait for you here, my dear, my love... Popov took the ruble and got ready to leave. Smirnov, with tears in his eyes, hugged him, kissed him three times, crossed him and called him a darling, an angel, a soul ... Balabaykin also hugged him and swore eternal friendship - and only after a whole series of outpourings, the most sensitive, touching, Popov went down from the embankment and directed his steps towards the darkening village in the distance. “After all, such happiness!” he thought on the way. if the whole wallet were mine, well, then it’s another matter ... Such a theater person would roll, such that my respect. Strictly speaking, Smirnov and Balabaikin - what kind of actors are they? They are mediocrity, pigs in a yarmulke, stupid ... trifles will take away, but I would benefit the fatherland and immortalize myself ... That's what I'll do ... I'll take it and put poison in vodka. They will die, but on the other hand, there will be a theater in Kostroma, which Russia has not yet known "Someone, it seems, MacMahon, said that the end justifies the means, and MacMahon was a great man. While he was walking and reasoning like this, his companions Smirnov and Balabaikin were sitting and talking like this: “Our friend Popov is a nice fellow,” Smirnov said with tears in his eyes, “I love him, I deeply appreciate his talent, I’m in love with him, but ... you know? - this money will ruin him ... He will either drink them away, or he will start a scam and break his neck. He is so young that it is too early for him to have his own money, you are my good darling, my dear ... "Yes," Balabaikin agreed and kissed Smirnov - Why does this boy need money? Another thing is you and me ... We are family people, positive ... For you and me, an extra ruble means a lot ... (Pause.) You know what, brother? We won’t talk for a long time and to be sentimental: let's take it and kill him!.. Then you and I will have eight thousand each. We'll kill him, and in Moscow we'll say that he was run over I adore him, but the interests of art, I believe, come first. In addition, he is mediocre and stupid, like this sleeper. - What are you, what?! - scared Smirnov. - This is such a nice, honest ... Although, on the other hand, frankly, you are my dear, he is a decent pig, durrrak, intriguer, gossip, swindler ... If we really kill him, then he himself will thank us , my dear, my dear ... And so that he would not be so offended, we in Moscow will print a touching obituary in the newspapers. It will be friendly. No sooner said than done... When Popov returned from the village with provisions, his comrades hugged him with tears in their eyes, kissed him, assured him for a long time that he was a great artist, then suddenly attacked him and killed him. To hide the traces of the crime, they put the dead man on the rails... Having shared the find, Smirnov and Balabaykin, touched, speaking affectionate words to each other, began to eat, in full confidence that the crime would go unpunished... But virtue always triumphs, and vice is punished . The poison thrown by Popov into a bottle of vodka belonged to a highly effective one: before the friends had time to drink from another, they were already lying lifeless on the sleepers ... An hour later, crows were flying over them with a croak. Moral: when the actors with tears in their eyes talk about their dear comrades, about friendship and mutual "solidarity", when they hug and kiss you, then don't get too carried away.

Boris Pasternak "Doctor Zhivago"

Hello, friends!

I promised to write this post for a long time, and now it is finally brought to your attention.

Today you can find a huge number of recommendations for admission to the theater school. The reason is simple - everyone wants to make money preparing you for admission. Unfortunately, not really worrying that your future acting fate largely depends on their "advice".

However, due to not a deep understanding of the topic and the authors' own interpretation, I associate these recommendations with Solieri, who tried to compose music with the help of mathematics. I hope you remember what came of it... He killed Mozart.

Some even bring tears to my eyes. Unfortunately not happy...

I will not hide, earlier I also followed this path from my inexperience and commercialism, but now I try not to succumb to the greedy temptation and grief of popularity. And my latest recommendations already look more ... professional and sensible, or something ...

But let's not talk about it. The purpose of today's post is quite different. Now I will share with you really proven ways to get into drama schools, which in many cases really work.

So, you have decided to become a dramatic actor or theater and film actress. And mothers, fathers and other relatives and distant relatives failed to dissuade you from this crazy idea. The next step in achieving your dream will be admission to a theater university or, in common people, a theater school. And most importantly, the passage of a creative competition.

And immediately a lot of questions: What is a creative competition? What does it consist of? How to prepare for it? What is better to take prose, poems and fables? What is the selection criterion? How long should they be? How should you look and what to wear? What are these examiners conducting competitive selection? Evil or good? What else can be asked to do and why?

Ai...Oi... PANIC!!!

Where to rush? Who to contact for help? What to do? Ha... ha... The eternal Russian question.

SET UP!

First of all, calm down and relax. Now let's figure everything out. "Relax", as my Teacher - Felix Mikhailovich Ivanov used to say.

First, what is a creative competition, why is it needed and what is it eaten with.

The creative competition is a mandatory exam in all theater schools in our country.
To understand what it is, imagine a set of sifters for sifting flour. Each subsequent sieve has holes of smaller diameter.
A creative competition is exactly the same set, consisting of previews - an interview, several rounds, they are also called auditions, a plastic exam and a colloquium - a conversation with the artistic director and teachers of the future course.

The number of stages in the set and their purpose may change, for example, vocal listening will be added, or plastic will be replaced with dance. It depends on the nature of the training at the school and the preferences of the head of the course. Each sieve in the set is needed to identify the abilities and natural data required in the acting profession. And as a result, screening of applicants not suitable for training.

By the way. Having passed one of the stages, do not think that you have been taken and you are the happy owner of the winning ticket. No. This is only the beginning of the marathon distance and the end is still very far away. But you will get there. I am sure about that.

Let's continue. Now about each stage in more detail.

Previews.

It all starts with a preview. At this stage, there is the largest screening of those wishing to become actors, but the requirements here are the softest. Your task is simply to attract attention to yourself, to stand out from the general mass of applicants. And as a result, get admission to the first round of the competition.
In many schools, this primary selection is carried out by graduate students, teaching assistants, trainees or second teachers. Masters and leading teachers are very rarely present at auditions. But there are exceptions.

How to make it so that they would pay attention to you?

You must be something different from everyone in your twenty, ten or five. For this, all means are good. No need to be shy. Everything is like in the market. You are a commodity. And any seller knows that at the beginning the buyer is attracted only by the appearance of the product, and only then by the taste. They will try you later. On tours.

Now you have decided that you do not have external data for the acting profession? Not very beautiful and too plump? But what about then Evgeny Pavlovich Leonov, Alexei Nikolaevich Gribov, Faina Georgievna Ranevskaya, Tatyana Ivanovna Peltzer and Inna Mikhailovna Churikova? Let's just say they're not handsome. However, they can be safely attributed to the category of great actors. They are the glory of the Russian theater and our pride.

A small explanation: the course needs students with different external and internal data. different. And preferably in two or even three copies, in case of illness or expulsion of one of the students. Please note that the head and teachers of the course must stage graduation performances, and for this, performers of various roles are needed. So don't worry. Everyone is taken to this "ark": tall, short, fat, thin, beautiful and ... not very.

I advise you to watch on MTV or on the Internet the series "America's Next Top Model" with Tyra Banks. Even in the modeling business, different people win. Including Tyra herself, who has a very problematic lower body.

So, at the stage of preliminary auditions, the most important thing is the right attitude, correctly selected reading material and a good appearance - clothes, hairstyle and competent make-up for girls (make-up).

About reading material a little later. Now about the mood and appearance and its use.

Psychological setting for the most creative competition important element your preparation.

It must begin with work with imaginary images, in other words, with fantasies. Imagine passing the exam as a fait accompli with a positive result for you. These representations should be bright and very realistic. With all the details, including smells, sounds, music, voices of people and machines, the actions that people perform in your images. Add to that the taste experience. The picture should be complete, like in a 3D cinema.

You need to start this preparation two weeks before the preliminary audition in order to develop a stable attitude to win as an intermediate goal in your acting career, and the attitude to entering the school, as the most joyful event in your life. I recommend repeating this training as often as possible. At least once a day.

During the competition itself, before reading your material, I recommend sniffing something with a strong but pleasant smell. This will help you keep the right attitude in such a nervous environment.

By the way, Innokenty Mikhailovich Smoktunovsky sniffed oranges at the rehearsals of The Idiot. And that helped him a lot.

By the way. Please note that in most cases, the school accepts people who came to the exam for the company with friends, just to support them. The mood of such applicants was the most correct. At that moment, they were interested in the process of getting friends, and not their own result. It was this attitude that helped them to show their best at the competition. natural potential.

Now about the appearance and its use.

Clothing, as well as hair and make-up, should, if possible, hide flaws and reveal advantages.

For girls. Dresses, skirts, blouses. And no trousers or trouser suits, T-shirts and strapless bras peeking out from under the clothes. This is how you will dress when you go to college. Top with long sleeves. From excitement, the vessels narrow and the blood supply is disturbed. Hands look blue. It's better to cover them up. Do not cut too deep on the chest and neckline. There are many women on the admissions committee. Your breasts may be better than theirs. And the receipt for you will end in a fiasco. But if the reception is carried out by men, then it is better to have a blouse with buttons.

All teachers are people and nothing human is alien to them.

The bottom should show that you have legs. The length is better than the classic, five to ten centimeters below the knees. Who has a problem with the legs - the length is up to the ankle. Be careful with mini skirts and slits, the recommendations are the same as with the neckline. In general, in my opinion, a free-cut dress to the knees or slightly lower is better. Color and pattern on clothes can be any. Preferably pastel colors. Avoid polka dots, very small and colorful checks, and flowers that are too large or too small. From them ripples in the eyes and irritates already tired teachers. The middle strip is perfect. But we must remember that the vertical one lengthens the figure and is suitable for not tall and full, while the horizontal one makes it look fat and visually makes the figure shorter. Remember this and use it wisely.

Young people with a well-proportioned figure will suit a slightly fitted top with long sleeves. It can be a shirt, a turtleneck or, at worst, a sweatshirt. Preferably not colorful colors, and without pictures and inscriptions on the chest. Hawaiian style shirts and T-shirts will not work. Children with a non-standard figure should use striped clothes that create the illusion of a harmonious figure. The recommendations are the same as for girls.

Bottom - better trousers, not jeans. They should be loose-fitting so that your manhood. It is necessary to demonstrate it to girls in bed, but to teachers. But it's up to you.

Now, the trick. Detail is important in clothing. Bright, catchy, which others do not have and which can be quickly changed. Shawl, tippet, scarf or belt for girls. Tie, neckerchief or pocket square for boys. You need to take a few of them with you and change them depending on how others in your top ten are dressed. Also, in extreme cases, you can use a jacket, sweater and jacket. Don't change your clothes, especially on tours. The teachers may not remember you.

The hairstyle should reveal your face, especially your eyes. As they say, the eyes are the mirror of the soul and the main means of expression actor. For boys and girls. Get your bangs out of your eyes! They are very annoying teachers in the selection committee.

For girls. Open the neck and ears, if there are no obvious problems with them (very large or too protruding).
Now tricks. Long curls along the face will help hide large cheekbones. Dumped forward on the chest - a short neck. The bangs raised on the pile - a small forehead, slightly lowered - too large.

Pin your hair in a bun or ponytail if most of the girls in your top ten are fluffy, and vice versa, loosen it if they are short.

For guys. Hair can be any length, but not below zero and not longer than the line of the shoulders. And not any dirty, greasy patches. Hair should be clean, hair decent and slightly sloppy.

If all the boys in your group are combed, then slightly tousle your hair. Otherwise, apply with a little water. Do this quickly right before entering the listening room.

Girls. There should be almost no make-up ... visible. It must be extremely natural. Many girls do Mohawk war paint on their faces. Apply tone and emphasize the eyes.

Guys. Tone acne and boils on the face. For you, this is everything.

I advise you to look on the Internet at specialized sites for more detailed information.

Now they will start “trying” you to the fullest, but don’t be shy - we’ll break through.

At this stage, the most rigorous selection of future students takes place. And you have to come well prepared. Here you need to show all your data, all natural potential: charisma, emotionality, organics. Everything you can do and more. On tours, there are usually three of them, although there may be additional ones, you have to take risks and go to the end. There may not be a second chance. It is necessary to hit the consciousness of the members of the selection committee, to surprise them to the core.

How to do it?

With the help of well-chosen and very well read prose, poems and fables.

There is only one criterion for choosing reading material, and I am convinced of this - it should be close to you in spirit and excite you emotionally. No. Not just like it, but it should excite you, excite you to the core. And these experiences must be absolutely sincere.

Made at school with a tutor will not work. You will be bitten. The fact that the material is done, experienced teachers see immediately. They have been sitting in the commission for more than a year, and during this time they have seen many different things. Their task is to find a diamond that is not faceted, and you are trying to sell them fake jewelry. Let perfectly made, but not real. Who will like it?

Understand. It is not important how you read correctly, with or without accents, whether you keep a backlash or not, where you put stresses. This will be taught to you in school. What matters is what this reading reveals in you. And this is NATURAL POTENTIAL! Revealing it is the most important thing. Remember this.

Only such an approach to reading material will lead to success and you will read it perfectly.

Now, why precisely prose, poem and fable? The secret is simple.

Prose or prose passage. They help to see in you the ability to create in your imagination and convey to the audience visual pictures of what you are talking about. The ability to attract the attention of the audience, the so-called mankost. As well as the ability to lead a thought to its logical conclusion.

Poem. Reveals the degree of your emotionality and sense of rhythm.

Fable. It shows how free you are, as well as the ability to quickly transform and be different. When reading a fable, it is very important to be organic and not depict anything.

Recommendations:
Do not take too long passages of prose. Better take a few minutes and a half maximum different in character and genre. I assure you, they won't listen any longer, and if they ask you to continue, you'll have something else. The passage should be with one strong and very bright event somewhere in the middle, and it is imperative that there be a beginning and an end.
No need to tempt fate with monologues from plays. Especially Shakespeare. The level of the material is not yours yet. Don't pull.

Choose small poems. Lyrical, heroic, tragic, dramatic, love, but not philosophical. Emotions are needed, gentlemen, emotions!

Do not read works of a gender other than your own. Young people choose poems and prose for men, and girls for women. Otherwise, it may raise strange questions. And it sounds terrible.

It is better to take fables by I. Krylov or S. Mikhalkov, I do not advise taking Aesop. It is more difficult because of the translation.

And once again I will repeat. You should not only like prose, poems and fables, but evoke an emotional response in you. This is the key to success.
Yes, and read like the last time in your life. After that, at least the flood.

On tours, you may also be asked to complete some task. For example, surprise or frighten those present, squat down, climb onto a chair and crow, open an imaginary can of canned food in which a live snake sits.
All this in order to determine the degree of your freedom and imagination, the reactivity of your brain. Here you just need to let go of yourself and do the first thing that comes to mind - it will be true.

You won’t be able to guess how to do it right, so don’t try to please the teachers. Act, and only then think like an animal. Rather, as a primitive man. Trust your intuition. She will guide you on the right path.

The Movement Examination is designed to test the coordination and working qualities of your musculoskeletal system.

Clothes for this exam can be taken in a simpler, but better dark color. A long or short sleeve T-shirt, sweatpants, sneakers or jazz shoes will do. For dancing - shoes for girls and shoes for boys with a small heel.

Please note that if you have passed the main rounds, this exam is a pure formality. It is sometimes used to screen out controversial applicants. I hope you are not. True, there are stubborn stage movers and crazy dance teachers. So, still be on the lookout.

But the vocal exam is a more serious matter. Especially if the artistic director tends to musical theater. There can be only one recommendation here - SING! And preferably, sing well.

The colloquium, as I said, is a conversation with the artistic director and teachers of the future course to find out your cultural level and how strong and realized the desire to become an actor or actress is in you. Actually, it's more like an interview. Questions and answers.

I must say right away that the artistic director and teachers are interested in recruiting capable students. The attitude towards them and new sets for their courses are highly dependent on who they graduate and how many of them are in demand in the future. Take them with the above in mind. They are your good friends, not enemies.

Therefore, behave calmly and answer with dignity, slowly. No need to flirt and grimace. If you do not know what to answer, it is better to ask again. There will be time to think.

Finally, a few tips.

You have to be well prepared to go. Your psychophysical apparatus must be in working condition throughout the entire creative competition, and this is not easy.
To do this, you need to accumulate emotions all the time and spend them only on exams.

Therefore, do not enter into quarrels and conflicts, do not run to discos and noisy parties with friends, do not drink alcohol and do not use any energy drinks there.
You need to drink tea, preferably green or plain water.
Food should be natural and rich in carbohydrates. Emotions are very energy intensive things.
Try to get enough sleep, but don't oversleep.
Listen to music, better jazz.
Watch classic movies. I advise you to watch old comedies.
It is important. Recharges your emotional pillow.

Take a bottle of plain water with you to the competition, it will not allow dry mouth to form. Avoid sugary drinks, energy drinks and juices. The saliva in the mouth will become viscous and when reading, half of the letters will disappear.

And you also need to take five heels of Bon-Pari type candies. Eating a candy five minutes before entering the listening room will dramatically increase your carbohydrate levels. This will give you a new surge of strength.

If suddenly, right before reading, you feel that your mouth is dry and numb, lightly bite the tip of your tongue. Everything will pass right away. Bite carefully! The language will also come in handy.

I wish you to enter the theater school and, thereby, begin to study the acting profession. Good luck on creative competition.

P.S. Next time we will touch on the topic of acting training. And we will do it according to the most progressive methods. Do you know what techniques and exercises to use? Then you will know.

Stay with me and appreciate each other!

Yours, Igor Afonchikov.

excerpts from experiences: 04/02/2009 1) I see a man getting up from the bushes, from the ground, he has a fork in one hand, I asked him: “What are you eating there?” He walks towards me and replies with a smirk: "No...

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The speech was rhythmic, and more like a poetic one, this is the most difficult, because one cannot do without it - poetic excerpts legends are simply necessary along with prosaic ones. I will not dissemble, I have a version of such an epic, at least ... a draft version of 600 pages of printed text, where poetic excerpts side by side with prosaic tales, legends, traditions, myths. The main events unfold in the reserved forest - the same...

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…individual excerpts from an essay on philosophy. (The author, - in the global network of the Internet, .. - unfortunately, has not been established. “And yet, in comparison with the Infinite World, the picture turns out ... both being and non-being, that is visible to man and invisible; and both separately, and above all, and in inseparable unity. Obviously, the author of the abstract ( excerpts from which we cite here) was somewhat embarrassing, .. more precisely, he did not want to edit his “absolutely right”, .. which he wrote about above ... Isn’t that why it’s so difficult ...