18.03.2012

Russian classics about liberals

A.P. Chekhov

I do not believe in our intelligentsia, hypocritical, false, hysterical, ill-mannered, deceitful, I do not even believe when it suffers and complains, because its oppressors come out of its very depths.

F. M. Dostoevsky

Our liberal is, first of all, a lackey, who only looks at whoever has to clean his boots.

If someone ruins Russia, it will not be communists, not anarchists, but damned liberals. The more national we become, the more we will be Europeans (all human beings)

F. I. Tyutchev

... It would be possible to give an analysis of a modern phenomenon that is acquiring an increasingly pathological character. This is the Russophobia of some Russian people ... They used to tell us, and they really thought so, that in Russia they hate lawlessness, lack of freedom of the press, and so on. etc., that it is precisely the indisputable presence of all this in it that they like Europe ... And now what do we see? As Russia, seeking greater freedom, more and more asserts itself, the dislike of these gentlemen for her only grows. They have never so much hated previous institutions as they hate modern trends in social thought in Russia.
As for Europe, then, as we see, no violations in the field of justice, morality and even civilization have in any way diminished their disposition towards it ... only instincts ...

Wasted labor - no, you can't bring them to their senses, -
The more liberal, the more vulgar they are,
Civilization is a fetish for them
But their idea is inaccessible to them.
No matter how you bend before her, gentlemen,
You cannot win recognition from Europe:
In her eyes you will always be
Not servants of enlightenment, but slaves.
May 1867

L. N. Gumilev

Lev Gumilyov was once asked by a TV interviewer:
- Lev Nikolaevich, are you an intellectual?
And Gumilyov soared:
- God save me! The current intelligentsia is such a spiritual sect.
What is characteristic: they know nothing, they know nothing, but they judge everything and absolutely do not accept dissent ...

V.O. Klyuchevsky

There is such a weak-necked intelligentsia that cannot keep silent about anything, cannot convey anything to the place, but through the newspapers it pours out everything that clogs its indiscriminate stomach.

A.S. Pushkin

You illuminated your mind with enlightenment,
You saw the face of truth
And tenderly he loved foreign peoples,
And he wisely hated his own.

source politonline.ru

Read poems on this page "Waste labor - no, you can't bring them to their senses ..." Russian poet Fyodor Tyutcheva written in 1867 year.

Waste labor - no, you can't bring them to their senses ...

Waste labor - no, you can't bring them to their senses - The more liberal, the more vulgar they are, Civilization is a fetish for them, But their idea is inaccessible to them. No matter how you bend before her, gentlemen, you will not win recognition from Europe: In her eyes you will always be Not servants of enlightenment, but slaves.

May 1867

Fedor Tyutchev. Favorites.
World Library of Poetry.
Rostov-on-Don, "Phoenix", 1996.

Themes of the poem

Other poems by Fyodor Tyutchev

Select verses ... December 1, 1837 (So it is destined here ...) May 11, 1869 (All of us, gathered ...) April 12, 1865 (Everything is decided ...) 1856 (We stand blindly ... ) February 19, 1864 (And quiet ...) January 29, 1837 (From whose hand ...) Encyclica Mala aria Memento Silentium! To AF Hilferding Alps Skald harp Madness Insomnia Gemini Brother, who accompanied me for so many years ... In the village In the stuffy air, silence ... In the sky, clouds melt ... There is a high meaning in separation ... In a crowd of people, in an immodest the noise of the day ... In the hours when it happens ... Vatican anniversary We are submissive to the highest ... The great day of Cyril's death ... Venice Spring waters Spring thunderstorm Spring All day she lay in oblivion ... Evening Vision Again I see your eyes ... Wave and Duma The East was turning white. The rook was rolling ... From sea to sea ... I hear in my sleep - and I can't ... The executing god took everything away from me ... Everything that I managed to save ... I am all-powerful and weak together ... I looked, standing over the Neva ... Gus at the stake Yes, you kept your word ... Two voices Two unity There are two forces - two fatal forces ... For two friends December morning The day is getting dark, the night is close ... Day and night Day of the Orthodox East ... To my friend Ya.P. Polonsky, my soul is the Elysium of shadows ... my soul would like to be a star ... The smoke of E.N. There is also in my suffering stagnation ... The sight of the earth is still sad ... I am still languishing with the longing of desires ... Here, where the vault of heaven is so sluggish ... Winter is not without reason angry ... And in God's world it happens ... And the coffin has already been lowered into the grave ... And there is no feeling in your eyes ... Play while over you ... From Goethe (Joy and sorrow ...) From edge to edge, from hail to hail ... From Michelangelo To a different inherited from nature ... So, oops I saw you ... Italian villa Towards Hanka How true is the common sense of the people ... How cheerful is the roar of summer storms ... Like a dear daughter being slaughtered .. Like a pillar of smoke brightens in the sky! .. Like summer sometimes sometimes .. Like over hot ash ... No matter how we are oppressed by parting ... How unexpected and bright ... Like an unsolved mystery ... No matter how infuriated the evil speech ... No matter how hot noon breathes ... No matter how hard the last hour is. .. Like the ocean embraces the globe of the earth ... How he loved his family ate ... Like a bird, in the early dawn ... How sweetly the dark green garden slumbers ... How good you are, oh night sea ... Like this posthumous album ... What a wild gorge ... To Prince Gorchakov (you have a fateful vocation. ..) To Prince PA Vyazemsky When in the circle of murderous worries ... When decrepit forces ... When there is no God's consent ... When your eighteen years ... Columbus The feast is over, the choirs are silent ... Sea horse Whoever you are, but when you meet her ... Swan Summer evening Summer 1854 Leaves Dear papa! I love your eyes, my friend .. M.P. Pogodinu (My poems here ...) The East is dubiously silent ... The sea and the cliff Motive Heine (If death is night ...) N.I. Krol N.F. Shcherbina On the way back On the high tree of mankind ... On the anniversary of N.M. Karamzin Above the vineyards ... Above the old-time Russian Vilna ... Above this dark crowd ... On the eve of the anniversary of August 4, 1864 We cannot predict ... Napoleon Waste labor - no, you can't bring them to their senses ... Our century You did not serve God and not Russia ... Do not believe, do not believe the poet, virgin ... Not everything painful dreams of the soul ... Do not speak! He's just like before ... Don't give us the spirit of idle talk ... You don't know what flattering things are for human wisdom ... I don't know if grace will touch ... Do not argue, do not bother! .. Not what you think, nature ... The sky is pale blue ... No wonder the merciful God ... Neman Reluctantly and timidly ... There is no day when the soul does not ache ... No, my addiction to you ... The night sky is so gloomy ... Oh my prophetic soul! .. What are you howling about, the night wind? .. Oh, these days are fatal days ... Oh, how destructively we love ... Oh, do not disturb me ... Oh, this South, oh, this Nice! .. Wrapped in a slumber ... Loneliness He, dying, doubted ... She was sitting on the floor ... Again I stand over the Neva ... Late autumn sometimes ... Autumn evening From the life that raged here ... Answer to the address In memory of V.A.Zhukovsky (I saw your evening ...) In memory of E.P. Kovalevsky (And now in the ranks ...) In memory of M.K. The first leaf Free flowing sand up to the knees ... The flame burns, the flame blazes ... On the plain of azure waters ... Under the breath of bad weather ... Fires Midday The last cataclysm The last love The stream thickened and grows dim ... Send, Lord, your joy. .. Poetry Predestination His beautiful day in the West has disappeared ... When the New Testament was sent, Nature is a sphinx ... A glimpse of Prophecy Let the hearts of the Zoils whine with envy ... A kite has risen from the clearing ... A well-deserved punishment is being accomplished ... The holy night has risen to the sky. .. Today, friend, fifteen years have passed ... I am sitting thoughtfully and alone ... The sun is shining, the waters are shining ... To the Slavs (They are screaming, they are threatening ...) To the Slavs (Hello to you sincere, brothers ...) Tears human, oh human tears ... Look how the west flared up ... Look how the river is open ... See how the grove turns green ... Snowy mountains Modern Dream at sea Means and ends The royal son dies in Nice ... So, in life there are moments ... The gray shadows are mixed ... Now you have no time for poetry ... It is quietly flowing in the lake ... On a quiet night, in late summer ... You will be behind the fog for a long time ... You, wave my sea ... Alas, that our ignorance ... A terrible dream weighed over us ... The mind cannot understand Russia ... Calm The business has subsided ... Breathes easier ... Morning in the mountains Charon Fountain and Cicero Kachenovsky in Winter. .. No matter what life teaches us ... What you prayed with love ... Black Sea Your palace, savior, I see, is decorated ... What are you leaning over the waters ... These poor villages ... Yu.F .Abaze (Ta k - harmonic instruments ...) I met you - and all the past ... I knew her even then ... I love Lutherans ... I knew eyes - oh, those eyes! .. I remember the golden time. ..

Thank you for participating in the dialogue of those persons who are keenly peering into historical events and defending our Fatherland. After all, a word is also a deed that leaves a trace in space. Please hear us and help us to curb information rapists with your word ...

"Air merchants" and distributors of information viruses

As an inquisitive person knows from scientific or esoteric periodicals, language can be used as a genetic weapon, that is, a genetic poison, when the code of an alien language is launched against the language code of another people, depriving it of self-identification with its roots, tribal and domestic culture.
We also know about the direct impact of the word not only on the material (physical) plane with the help of acoustic and electromagnetic waves, but also on the subtle plane, that is, on the field level. Scientists make a conclusion about the ability of information to influence the state of the genome and individual genes of all living things. This is supported by scientific experiments.
Moreover, evolutionary scientists got to the bottom of such discoveries that a living cell of any biosystem is an ideal environment for the spread of information viruses.
This blitz-scientific base proves what a monstrous information crime was and is being committed against the citizens of Russia ...
When, during the period of Yeltsinovism, the Vlasovites from the Kremlin corridors of the authorities sold the information field of Russia to their "partners", "friends" and "brothers" in the Masonic lodges, that is, to Anglo-American black people from politics, a total, unrestrained information violence began by Anglo-Saxon vibrations as through means mass media, and openly in the space of Russian cities.
In other words, the subtle substance of air - ether - was totally filled with songs in English, that is, our cultural, language code was scrapped by criminals, thrown away the protective mechanism of the people's consciousness and launched for many decades a destructive cultural and language code of the Anglo-Saxons, which, like shameless cancer cells, affects the ether of our fatherland, and the whole world, spreading information viruses throughout the planet.
What happens in practical life? Let's look at an example. For many years, even decades to this day, the entire city of Voronezh, that is, all squares, streets, markets, have become a place of infection of the consciousness of citizens with viruses of Anglo-Saxon vibrations, hostile to the world of good by their nature, their genetic code. It is not difficult to trace this by making an honest excursion into the history of the Anglo-Saxons ...
Even if a person, walking around the city, when a tub of English-language vibrations is poured on him, does not notice the viral informational danger, he can be struck through subthreshold information. Young people and children are especially susceptible to the influence of information viruses, due to their fragile psyche. With a long stay in such poisoned fields infected by Anglo-Saxon information viruses, people with a fragile psyche, with a weak spiritual platform and a superficial mind turn into similarities of mankurt, that is, creatures who have forgotten about their roots, their culture, who have also lost their moral guidelines and spiritual support.
Seeing a grave information crime committed over Russia, emanating from the world, to put it mildly, Russia's enemies, with the connivance of the "hobbled" hypocritical politicians of the central and peripheral levels of all branches of government, for ten years we tried to reach out to officials of different levels and to the heads of the media ... This is found some reflection in our book "Captivity of illusion is not sweet, or What is the happiness of birds in the snares of bird-catchers" (site poisk-istiny.ru).
But alas ... They are more than surprised by that deafness, that indifference, that meanness that our addressees showed with their minds castrated by state psy-technologies to the issue of total information violence against our people, which criminals in the power and media structures have been turning into “information meat "for the Anglo-Saxons ... Now they cannot get cannon fodder from Russia, so with all their wolfhound appetite they devour" informational meat "from the Voronezh anti-Russian lackeys and lackeys of the capital.
Informational violence committed against our people is, of course, a crime against humanity and against the nation as a whole. And although specific criminals hide their "images" of information rapists from the people, taking advantage of the ignorant complacency of many citizens, they cannot escape the high court ... And woe to the descendants of the rapists! ..
We do not in any way encroach on the freedom of citizens to enjoy the Anglo-Saxon vibrations (especially if they have already "picked up" the Anglo-Saxon virus and are sitting on the "addiction needle"), and can even, of their own free will, enjoy the sounds emanating from jackals, hyenas, vultures, but only in personal space (apartment, mansion, in a car), but in no case - in a public space! This is the principle of human community.
Once, from Ilya Ehrenburg's book "People, Years, Life" we learned about his slogan at the beginning of the Patriotic War: "Kill the German!" We did not for a moment justify this position, since there were many anti-fascists among the Germans, who were hunted by the possessed Hitlerites infected with the "brown plague" viruses.
Now, when a brutal information war against Russia has been going on for more than two decades, in front of officials of the entire vertical of power, violence is being carried out in the airspace of our Fatherland through the information viruses of the "Anglo-Saxon plague." And we call on the citizens of Russia, whose minds have not been destroyed by information rapists, to curse the adversaries who are conducting a criminal program to recode the consciousness of the people of the Russian-Russian world, to destroy the genetic code of an entire multinational state.
Along the entire vertical of power and in all its branches, urgent measures must be taken to categorically exclude information violence from the entire space of Russia, including through media channels. Power should not be criminal in relation to the people and loyal to its enemies. We are waiting for cardinal changes!

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On March 21, Poetry Day is celebrated all over the world, and this is a great occasion to remember our favorite authors and their work. After all, even about those poets whose poems we remember from school, you can learn a lot of new things.

Today site shares with his readers poetic observations and findings.

Fake Tyutchev

Recently, a hooligan poem about Europe, allegedly written by Fyodor Tyutchev, has become widespread on the Runet:

Shut up, shameful Europe, and do not swing your rights!
You are just an ass in Russia, but you think it's a head!

In fact, of course, these lines have nothing to do with Tyutchev. This is a revised quatrain from a poem by Vladimir Sablin, written at the end of the twentieth century:

Freeze filthy Europe
And do not "download" your rights!
You are in RUSSIA - just f *,
And you think that the head.

Tyutchev himself really has a poem "Waste labor - no, you can't understand them", in which the poet speaks unambiguously, but absolutely within the framework of the literary norm, about his attitude towards Europe:

No matter how you bend before her, gentlemen,
You cannot win recognition from Europe:
In her eyes you will always
Not servants of enlightenment, but slaves.

Militant Akhmatova

During her lifetime, Anna Akhmatova was constantly accused of the fact that her themes were too small, everyday, intimate, that all these love poems were unworthy of the title of true poetry. Many of us are still familiar with Akhmatova as a master of psychological lyrics and the author of sensual lines about love. When they say "civic lyrics", it is unlikely that the name of Anna Akhmatova will come to someone's head first (even second or third). But it is she who owns one of the most heartfelt poems about the years of Yezhovism, when the poetess spent 17 months in prison lines in Leningrad, “Requiem”. In this poem, the civic position of the lyrical, far from worldly affairs Akhmatova sounds absolutely clear:

And if someday in this country
They plan to erect a monument to me,
I give consent to this celebration,
But only with a condition - do not put it
Not near the sea where I was born:
The last one with the sea is severed,
Not in the royal garden at the treasured stump,
Where an inconsolable shadow seeks me
And here, where I stood for three hundred hours
And where the bolt was not opened for me.
Then, as in blissful death I am afraid
Forget the rumbling of black marus,
Forget how the hateful slammed the door
And the old woman howled like a wounded animal.
And let from motionless and bronze eyelids
Melted snow flows like tears
And let the prison dove walk in the distance,
And the ships are quietly walking along the Neva.

Very strange Bryusov

There are a lot of nominees for the honorary title of the strangest poem, but perhaps one of the most worthy is the famous Russian monosy of the symbolist Valery Bryusov:

Close your pale legs.

Critics took the work very sharply. Moreover, "Why one line?" - was the first question, and only the second - "What are these legs?" The poet himself never explained the content of the text, so many interpretations appeared. The version about the religious implication of the poem remains the most widespread to this day: supposedly this line is the exclamation of Judas, who saw the bare feet of the crucified Christ.

Impermissible Lermontov

The famous poem about the death of Pushkin "The Death of a Poet", which each of us remembers from the school curriculum, at one time became one of the most resonant works and cost Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov his arrest and exile. The investigation was conducted on the "Case of impermissible verses written by the cornet of the Life Guards Hussar Regiment Lermontov, and on the distribution of these by the provincial secretary Raevsky." The authorities reacted to the second edition, supplemented by 16 lines. The very first edition of the poem, as the evidence shows, did not arouse the tsar's displeasure. And here are these 16 fatal lines for the poet:

And you arrogant descendants
The famous meanness of the glorified fathers,
Fifth slave trampled wreckage
Play the happiness of offended childbirth!
You, a greedy crowd standing at the throne,
Freedom, Genius and Glory executioners!
You hide under the shade of the law,
The judgment is before you and the truth - keep quiet! ..
But there is also God's judgment, confidants of debauchery!
There is a formidable judgment: it is waiting;
He is not available to the ringing of gold,
And he knows thoughts and deeds in advance.
Then in vain will you resort to backbiting:
It won't help you again
And you won't wash away with all your black blood
Righteous blood poet!

Especially dangerous Mandelstam

If Lermontov was simply transferred to the Nizhny Novgorod dragoon regiment for the "impermissible" poem, then the poets of the twentieth century had to pay much harder for the freedom of their speech. For example, Osip Mandelstam wrote an epigram on Stalin in November 1933:

We live without feeling the country under us,
Our speeches are not heard ten steps away,
And where is enough for half a conversation,
There they will remember the Kremlin highlander.
His fingers are fat like worms,
And the words, like pood weights, are true,
Cockroaches laugh their eyes.
And his bootlegs shine.
And around him a rabble of thin-necked leaders,
He plays with the services of demihumans.
Who whistles, who meows, who whimpers,
He only babachits and pokes.,
Like a horseshoe, he gives a decree behind the decree -
Some in the groin, some in the forehead, some in the eyebrow, some in the eye.
Whatever execution he has, it's raspberries
And the wide chest of an Ossetian.

On the night of May 16-17, 1934, Mandelstam was arrested for this poem. True, famous poets stood up for him, and he was given a mild sentence - exile with his wife to the Perm region without the right to return to Moscow. And in April 1938 he was arrested again - allegedly for the fact that, despite the ban, he still visits Moscow with his literary friends. Mandelstam was sentenced to 5 years in the camps, and in the camp he died of typhus.

But even from the camp, Mandelstam wrote: "Since poetry is killed, it means that it is given due honor and respect, it means that it is power." .

Fatal Yesenin

It is no secret that according to one version, Sergei Yesenin committed suicide. Legends circulate around his last poem, allegedly written before this tragic event. They say that it was inscribed in the blood of a poet and carried almost magical power:

Goodbye my friend, goodbye.
My dear, you are in my chest.
The intended parting
Promises to meet ahead.

Goodbye my friend, no hand, no word,
Do not be sad and not sadness of eyebrows, -
In this life, dying is nothing new
But living, of course, is not new.

Whether it is true or not, we cannot say, but its poetic impact was so strong that after publication a wave of suicides swept across the country. Vladimir Mayakovsky even wrote the poem "Sergei Yesenin" in many ways to "sober up" overly impressionable readers. It ends with lines like this:

For fun
our planet
little equipped.
Necessary
to snatch
joy
the days to come.
In this life
die
not difficult.
Make life
much more difficult.

Resourceful Twisted

Do you know which poem in history is considered the most "Russian"? According to the futurist Alexei Kruchenykh, it was he who wrote such a work. It consists of only five lines:

Hole bul shyly
ubesh schur
skoom
you boo
r l ez

There is an opinion that it was precisely from this five-verse, devoid of any definite meaning, that the language of the futurists “grew up” - zaum. And Kruchenykh said about his poem that there is "more Russian nationality in it than in all of Pushkin's poetry."

Non-standard Pushkin

"Our everything", the sun of Russian poetry, the founder of the literary Russian language, Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin, is often idealized and presented in an almost angelic image. In fact, Pushkin, like any person, was characterized by earthly weaknesses. Everyone knows that the poet was a witty conversationalist, but in addition, he was also incontinent in his language. The poet's personal correspondence, including with his wife Natalia Goncharova, is replete with profanity. Dozens of ambiguous erotic poems belong to Pushkin, and obscene expressions are found even in the poet's familiar poems. For example, in this excerpt from the famous poem "The Cart of Life":

In the morning we sit in the cart;
We are glad to break our heads
And, despising laziness and bliss,
We shout: - Let's go! Yeah ... yeah mother!

And in the notes in the margins to the novel in verse "Eugene Onegin" you can find the following lines:

"The navel turns black through the shirt
Outside the tit is a cute look!
Tatyana crumples a piece of paper in her hand,
Zane's stomach hurts:
She then got up in the morning
With the pale months of the rays
And tore it for a wipe,
Of course, "Nevsky Almanac".

Gentle Mayakovsky

Vladimir Mayakovsky, unlike Pushkin, could hardly surprise us with obscene verses - indeed, he had them. It would seem, what else to expect from a throat-throat, a rebel, a singer of the proletariat - this is how most of us know Vladimir Vladimirovich from school textbooks. However, Mayakovsky not only wrote poetry about the "red-skinned passport" and other joys of contemporary realities, but was also an amazing lyric poet. His love story with Lilya Brik gave the world many tender, piercing, emotional and deep poems. One of them - "Lilichka" - a recognized masterpiece of Russian love lyrics:

The smoke escaped the tobacco air.
Room -
chapter in kruchenykhovsky hell.
Remember -
outside this window
first
I stroked your hands, frenzied.
Today you sit here
heart in iron.
Another day -
expel
maybe by scolding.
It won't fit in a muddy hall for a long time
a trembling broken arm in a sleeve.
I'll run out
I will throw the body into the street.
Wild,
go crazy
excised by despair.
Don't need it
expensive,
good,
let us say goodbye now.
Does not matter
my love -
a heavy weight, after all -
hanging on you
wherever she ran b.
Let me scream in the last cry
bitterness of offended complaints.
If the bull is killed by labor -
he will leave,
will lay down in cold waters.
Besides your love,
to me
there is no sea,
but your love cannot even beg for rest with crying.
A tired elephant wants to rest -
the regal one will lie in the burnt sand.
Besides your love,
to me
no sun
and I don’t know where you are and with whom.
If I tortured the poet like that,
he
I would exchange my beloved for money and fame,
and me
not a single bell is joyful,
except for the ringing of your favorite name.
And I won't throw myself into the flight,
and I will not drink poison,
and I can't press the trigger over my temple.
Above me
except for your look
the blade of not a single knife is imperious.
You will forget tomorrow
that you were crowned
that he burned out the soul blooming with love,
and hectic days a swept carnival
will ruffle the pages of my books ...
Are my words dry leaves
make you stop
breathing greedily?

Give at least
cover with the last tenderness
your outgoing step.