Anton Chekhov. A complex sentence consisting of three or more parts. For two three minutes he did not move.

“Lisa...” muttered the doctor, suddenly leaning towards the computer screen with interest, sighing and moving his eyebrows, which were separate and wide on his face (he never knew how to pretend, just as he couldn’t cheat on tests at school). - You are mine, Lizonka...

- And you were right! - she continued with some kind of cheerful intensity, constantly touching with restless fingers the objects on the polished tabletop - a bronze bowl with paper clips, a stapler, a souvenir Hasidic dancer with a raised knee - now lining them up in an even line, then again pushing them apart with the movement of her index finger. – I was right that we need to start right off the bat, cutting everything off! I cut off everything in my life, Borya, without looking back, without fearing anything. I am now internally free, completely free from him! I am no longer a puppet that can...

And then, catching Boris’s helpless gaze directed over her head to the far corner of the room, she instantly turned around.

This was followed by a stormy, jerkily produced mise-en-scène: two men, as if on command, jumped up, and only the nets in their hands were not enough to slam down the butterfly that was sweeping in a dotted line. However, everything lasted no more than five seconds.

She silently sat down on a chair, covered her face with her palms and froze.

“Lisa...” Doctor Gorelik, crimson and unhappy, walked around the table and carefully touched her cramped, childish-looking shoulders. - You’re smart and you understand everything yourself... Well, well, Lisa, please don’t be so terribly embarrassed! You yourself know what is needed period umm...adaptation. There are also everyday circumstances, Lisa! They must be taken into account. A person cannot live outside of society, in the air, anywhere... You have already recovered, it’s true, and... everything is fine, and everything, believe me, will be just fine... But for now, you understand... you’re smart... Petya, only temporarily - think about it, - temporarily... well, just in quality ummm...a friendly shoulder...

The one in as a friendly shoulder, with a dead, bony face, with a pulsating pit under his ribs, with empty eyes, he looked out the window, where, under the control of the bearer of gifts the hands of the black sorcerer-guard slowly backed away towards the automatic gate bars, allowing an ambulance car into the hospital territory...

He knew that these first minutes would be exactly like this: her naked, helpless hatred; his, whatever one may say, naked helpless violence. I always prepared for these damned minutes - and was never ready for them.

* * *

All the way to Eilat, he remained outwardly unperturbed, whistled melancholy, and sometimes turned to her with some insignificant question:

– Do you want it by the window or?..

She, of course, did not answer.

This is normal, he told himself, everything is just like last time. I hoped for Eilat - forecasts promised heavenly blue and ruddy mountains there - and hoped for the hotel, for which, with all their seasonal benefits, I paid dazzling money.

By the time we arrived, by the time we checked into a shockingly luxurious room on the ninth floor, with a balcony overlooking the swaying of long lights in the water of the bay, on the yellow-blue electric haze of such close Aqaba, it had already gotten dark...

They went down and had a silent dinner in a Chinese restaurant a stone's throw from the sea, among the large-lipped, lacquered-scaled indoor dragons placed around the entire perimeter of the hall. She studied the menu for a long time and then spent fifteen minutes torturing the waiter - a stocky, quite natural-looking Chinese (probably still Thai) - about the composition of the sauces. She always chirped well in both French and English: her father's heritage.

In the end, I ordered something unpronounceable. Under the polite gaze of his impenetrable eyes, he muttered “ay tu”, after which he tried to cope with the sweet and sour pods mixed with pieces of spicy chicken meat with a fork. He didn’t feel like eating at all, although the last time he ate—or rather, drank vodka from a plastic cup—was at night, on the plane. And he knew that he wouldn’t be able to eat until...

After dinner, we walked - she in front, he behind - along the cheerful, stupidly and closely lined shopping area of ​​the embankment, where the wind was asking the price of colorful trousers, shiny scarves and long threads of slyly tinkling bells hanging everywhere. We walked along the shoulder of the Dutch bridge over the canal, in the black water of which a string of lights from the nearest hotel swayed in a fiery zigzag; milled around between the shelves of the Stematsky bookstore, where she suddenly rushed (a good sign!) and for about ten minutes, bending her flaming sheaf of curls to her shoulder, she read, moving her lips, the titles of books in the Russian section (three shelves of small motley roach of Russian breeding brought here ). He hurried to ask: “Would you like any?” - mistake, mistake! – she silently turned and headed towards the exit; he's behind her...

In the distance, the giant tower of some amusement ride was hurling black sky a fireball emanating a delightful girlish squeal.

She was still silent, but, sneaking a glance at her profile of a stained glass angel, illuminated by the light of shop windows and lanterns, he noticed with hope how her lips gave in slightly, deepening the tiny scar in the left corner of her mouth, how her chin slightly rounded, her mustard-honey eyes sparkled more animatedly ... And when they approached the attraction and inside the illuminated ball they saw a girl in a soldier’s uniform funnyly lifting up both her legs, she looked back at him, unable to contain her smile, and he dared to smile back at her...

We returned to the hotel by ten, and also drank some viscous liquor in the hotel bar (how damn expensive is everything here!); finally they entered the glass cylinder of a silent elevator and floated upward, rapidly, as if in a dream, stringing transparent floors one on top of another. Then, along the endless carpet of silence of the corridor, along the trembling - on the black mountains - crystal cloud of lights, they reached the desired door, and - here it is, in the underwater light of half-asleep floor lamps, their huge aquarium with floody a full-width balcony wall, with a magnificent, surgically white bathroom. Bravo, Petrushka!

While she was splashing in the shower (a complex polyphony of tight pressure of water, whispering murmuring streams, the last breaths of a fading drop, finally, the buzzing of a hairdryer; for a moment I even thought of a slight purring?.. no, I was mistaken, don’t rush, it’s behind the wall or from the neighboring balcony) , he unswaddled the whitest Arctic bed with two huge icebergs of pillows, undressed, unraveled his braid, lifting his thick black hair with bright gray hairs with his fingers, and thereby transformed into a complete Indian, especially since, half naked, in an old Soviet T-shirt and shorts, he looked strange thus lost his sinewy frailty, revealing unexpectedly developed muscles of a fit, predatory body.

Sitting down on the bed, he took out his eternal tablet with sketches and drawings from his backpack, wondering for a minute whether it was worth pulling out all this stuff in front of her now. And he decided: it’s okay, she doesn’t think that he changed his profession. Let everything be as usual. Dr. Gorelik said: let everything be as usual. By the way, while looking for a pencil in the countless pockets of his backpack, he came across five rolled-up hundred dollar bills, which Borka managed to squeeze into the box with her lithium tablets. Ah, Borka...

He remembered how he fussed, accompanying them to the gate: the good doctor Aibolit, a giant who did not know what to do with himself; patted Petya on the back with a soft fist, as if trying to straighten his stoop, and muttered indignantly and foolishly:

- They're taking away! My legitimate wife is being kidnapped, huh?! – and Lisa never turned around.

...Finally she came out - in this huge terry robe (any one would have been too big for her), with a white turban on her head. Picking up the floors with both hands and still stepping on them with a clubfoot, she - hello, Little Mook! - she padded onto the balcony and stood there motionless for a long time, folding her thin hands in wide sleeves on the railing, like a diligent schoolgirl at her desk. I looked at the black expanse of water with smoky garnet constellations of yachts and ships and the carelessly circling crowd on the promenade. The fun was just beginning there. Both of them, slaves of touring galleys, had been accustomed to going to bed no later than eleven all their lives.

Returning to the room, she stopped in front of him - he was already lying in bed, putting ridiculous round glasses on his pointed nose and intently scribbling something on a sheet of paper on his tablet - she pulled the towel off her head, instantly puffing out the carmine heat in the firebox of the crazed floor lamp, and with she said with measured hatred, addressing him for the first time:

- Just dare to touch me!

Silence. He wiped off the rubber crumbs from the sheet on which, in search of better motor function, he was developing a fundamentally new mechanics of the puppet’s elbow assembly, and answered somewhat absent-mindedly:

- Well, baby... Lie down, otherwise you’ll get cold.

The debilitating hammer was still thumping in both temples. And it looks like, damn it, he forgot his blood pressure pills. Nothing, nothing... Actually, today he didn’t hope for anything. And in general, everything is so wonderful that it’s even hard to believe.

For about forty minutes he still tried to work, for the first time in many weeks, feeling on his left the blissful presence of a tightly wrapped terry cocoon with a shock of hair flickering fieryly at any turn of his head and a thin knee protruding outward. He will freeze, catch a cold... Be silent! Lie down, lie down, Petrushka, lie still, and someday you will be rewarded, you old fool.

Finally I reached for the switch - how convenient everything is here! - and at once extinguished the room, highlighting the blackened silver of the bay beyond the balcony...

In the pulsating darkness, from the depths of the hotel, from somewhere on the lower deck, an intermittent stream of music flowed - through the noise of the embankment, the clinking of dishes in the restaurant and the constant bursts of women's laughter, barely reaching their open balcony.

The double bass walked back and forth with imposing steps, as if some fat man, crouching funny, certainly wanted to make someone laugh. The banjo monotonously echoed him in the patter of street punks, while the fat man kept puffing up, puffing and trying to make jokes, breaking off pretzels with amusing syncopations; The banjo hilariously splashed thick bunches of chords, and, interspersed with a languidly flirting guitar and a vociferously soaring violin, everything merged into a simple-minded old foxtrot and carried off out to sea, to yachts invisible from here...

He lay with his hands behind his head, listening to the world beyond the balcony, to the inaudible uterine rustle of the bay, gradually calming down internally, although he continued to maintain within himself a wary, anxious, painful happiness... He lay there, his cast muscles glistening in the moonlight half-darkness, - habitually separate, like a dried chestnut fruit - and did not move when she stirred, freeing herself from her robe - in a dream? no, he didn’t doubt for a minute that she was awake - and she ducked under the blanket, rolled there, dousing him with accumulated warmth, suddenly finding herself very close (lie down, dog!) - although in the expanses of this majestic bed one could ride a bicycle...

All his muscles, all his thoughts and unfortunate nerves were stretched to the point where he could squeeze out a fountain of accumulated pain with an annoying blissful cry... And at that very moment he felt her hot palm on his tense thigh. This palm, as if surprised by the strange find, decided to thoroughly probe the boundaries of the object...

“I missed you,” he thought, I missed you, but you didn’t move, don’t move... don’t move... - and he couldn’t stand the torture, leaned towards her with his whole body, timidly met her hand, intertwined his fingers...

The next moment, a sharp slap in the face, quite enormous for such a small hand, shook his sonorous head.

– Don’t you dare!!! - she shouted. - White-eyed bastard!!! - and began to sob so desperately and fearfully that if the neighbors had not whiled away this hour in the taverns and bars of the embankment, one of them would have definitely called the police. And, by the way, this has already happened...

He jumped up and first of all closed the balcony door; and while she was coming out with inconsolable, sorrowful sobs, he silently rushed around the room, waiting out this indispensable stage returns, which actually wasn’t expected today, but apparently she missed her so much, she missed her so much, my poor thing! Yes, and too much has fallen on her today, too quick a change of scenery - from the hospital ward to these palace chambers... Maybe this is his next mistake, maybe he should have rented a modest room in an inexpensive boarding house? And why does he, the idiot he is, never feel her mood?!

When she finally calmed down, huddled under the blanket, he crept up, sat down next to her on the bed and sat there for a long time, thoughtfully slouching, pressing his palms between his knees, still not daring to lie down on the other side of the ridged blanket...

The quartet was still playing below; the guys honestly served their hack work until late at night. They played well, with taste and even some sophistication, compiling a program from the jazz music of the thirties and forties, and it sounded, nevertheless, warm, naive and sad hope sounded in these melodies: just a little more, endure a little more, and everything will work out! Tomorrow everything will be different... Sun, breeze, sea-boats... let's buy a swimsuit... some kind of ring, what else?

Suddenly - after a long pause, when he decided that the musicians had already received their payment for the day and, sitting down at the end table, were putting salads on plates, - the native tune of Django Reinhardt’s “Minor Swing”, hammered and drilled into every cell, flared up, smiled and floated. his body... Of course: he danced his number with Ellis hundreds of times to it... Yes, yes: these few rhythmic and perky bars of the introduction, during which - in a tailcoat, in ballroom patent leather shoes - he managed to slip onto the stage and pick her up, sitting alone in a chair.

And then it began: under the marzipan antics of the violin and the dry beats of the banjo, the main melody enters: tara-rara-rura-rira-a-a... and - oom-oom-oom-oom! - the double bass puffs, and right up to the interruption, to the tart violin soar: ju-didu-ji-ja-ju-ji-ja-a-a-a! - Ellis moves here, under his right hand, the crimson sheaf of her curls tickles his cheek... oops! – interception – four steps to the left – interception and – op! - interception again - four to the right, and let's go, let's go, let's go, my baby, synchronously: foot to foot, right-left, right-left, sharply with the whole body - sharper, sharper! Oops! Tara-rara-ruri-rira-a-ah... And now you are like a languid silk flap on my hand: float to the melancholy passage of guitar and violin, float, float... only fiery curls, hanging from the elbow, sway and curl and snake, like following the flow of a stream...

He didn’t pay attention to how he had already jumped out of bed, and was floating and swaying in the full-bodied darkness of the night - his right hand, hugging the thin back of an invisible partner, bent at the elbow, the left one stretched out pleadingly - and floating and floating through the mockingly sensual labyrinth “ Minor swing"…

He danced a complex counterpoint of the smallest movements; His skillful fingers moved by heart all the levers and buttons, with the help of which the languid gestures of the now absent little Ellis were extracted - this is how spirits are called from the kingdom of darkness. His spine, neck, sensitive shoulders, hands and feet knew by heart every centimeter of the rhythmic pattern of this complex and delightful dance, which was applauded by the public in many halls of the world; he spun and intercepted, and, sticking out his chin, cast a weightless, fragile shadow on his left elbow, now rushing forward, now stopping dead in his tracks, now leaning over her predatorily, now pressing her to his chest... And he did all this absolutely automatically, as if, lost in thought, he walked along a familiar street, not realizing the direction and purpose of the path, not even hearing his own steps. If his movements left a trace in the air, then a most complex pattern would gradually be woven before the viewer: an exquisite, hidden weaving of lace, the secret writing of a carpet...

Behind the railing of the balcony, high above the palm trees flowing in their rags, a perfectly crafted, albeit exaggerated copper moon, polished to an insolent shine, was firmly screwed into the starry sky (the lighting designers overdid it). It filled not only the entire bay, with all its shores, ships and boats at the piers; she invaded the room with an insistent paraffin glow, giving each object a single piece of black shadow, leaving sweeping strokes, intricate monograms and intricate monograms on the walls, endlessly launching and launching a lace carousel of shadows across the curtains...

And if only someone could witness this strange picture: a miniature woman in deep oblivion and a man with a moon face, with really very bright eyes even in the twilight, who scurried around her in a swift, broken, dissolute dance, stroking the emptiness with a hot palm, drawing this emptiness to his chest and freezing in an instant spasm of passion - such a witness could well take this scene for the strained discovery of a fashionable director.

Only one thing deserved real surprise (even, perhaps, admiration): a sharp-nosed and awkward, stooped man in funny family shorts and a cheap T-shirt while dancing was so bewitchingly plastic, so ironically sad and so in love with the precious emptiness under his right elbow...

With the last precise turn of his head, the music stopped. The carousel of shadows dragged all its ghostly carriages along the walls for the last time and stopped.

For two or three minutes he did not move, waiting for the silent applause of the audience; then he swayed, dropping his hands, as if throwing off an invisible burden, took a step or two towards the balcony and slowly opened the door, letting in the tight breath of the night bay...

His face was shining... As silently as he danced, he crept up to the bed, on which his beloved stood motionless. Exhaling deeply, he knelt down at the head of the bed, pressed his cheek to the blanket over her shoulder and whispered:

- Don’t rush... Don’t rush, my happiness...

Algorithm for placing punctuation marks in a complex sentence with two adjacent conjunctions:

For example: “The planes were already buzzing somewhere overhead, and although they were not visible, it was as if a black shadow passed over the girls’ faces” (A. Fadeev). Wed. : “The planes were already buzzing somewhere overhead, and although they were not visible, it was as if a black shadow from their wings passed over the girls’ faces.” Another example: “He knew that if the train was late, he would not meet her,” where a comma is not placed, since the conjunction “if” corresponds to the word “then.”

Levinson

The alarming news did not allow Levinson to move this entire cumbersome colossus: he was afraid to take a rash step. New facts either confirmed or dispelled his fears. More than once he accused himself of being overly cautious, especially when it became known that the Japanese had left Krylovka, and reconnaissance had not detected the enemy for many dozens of miles. However, no one except Stashinsky knew that Levinson could hesitate at all: he did not share his thoughts and feelings with anyone, and presented ready-made “yes” or “no.” Therefore, he seemed to everyone, with the exception of people like Dubov, Stashinsky, Goncharenko, a person of a special, correct breed. Each partisan, especially young Baklanov, who tried to be like the commander in everything, adopted everything from him, even his external manners. Levinson decided to spend the night in the taiga because he was not sure that the lower reaches of the Hauniheadza were free from the enemy. Despite being extremely tired, Levinson woke up at night and went to check the guards.

A. Fadeev “Destruction”.

In the forest

We go further into the forest, into the bluish darkness, cut by the golden rays of the sun. In the warmth and comfort of the forest, some special noise is quietly breathing, dreamy and exciting dreams. Crossbills creak, tits ring, the cuckoo laughs, the oriole whistles, the jealous song of the finch sounds incessantly, and a strange bird, the bee-eater, sings thoughtfully. (...) A squirrel clicks, its fluffy tail flashes in the paws of the pine trees; you see an incredible amount, you want to see more and more, go further.

Between the trunks of the pine trees there are transparent airy figures huge people and disappear into the green density; the blue (...) sky shines through it. Moss lies under your feet like a lush carpet (...), drupes sparkle in the grass with drops of blood, mushrooms tease with a strong smell.

Grandmother in the forest is like the owner and dear to everything around - she walks like a bear, sees everything, praises and thanks everything. (...) So we lived all summer, until late autumn, collecting herbs, berries, mushrooms and nuts. The grandmother sold what she collected, and this was what they fed on.

M. Gorky “Childhood”.

Maxim Maksimych

After parting with Maxim Maksimych, I galloped briskly through the Tersk and Daryal gorges, had breakfast in Kazbek, drank tea in Lars, and arrived in Vladikavkaz in time for dinner. I will spare you descriptions of mountains, exclamations that express nothing, pictures that depict nothing, especially for those who have not been there, and statistical remarks that absolutely no one will read.

I stopped at a hotel where all travelers stay and where, meanwhile, there is no one to order the pheasant to be fried and the cabbage soup to be cooked, because the three invalids to whom it is entrusted are so stupid that no sense can be achieved from them.

They announced to me that I had to live here for three more days, because the “opportunity” from Yekaterinograd had not yet arrived and, therefore, could not go back.

I spent the first day very boring; on another, early in the morning, a cart drives into the yard... Ah! Maxim Maksimych!

Maxim Maksimych roasted the pheasant surprisingly well, successfully poured cucumber brine over it, and I must admit that without it I would have had to remain on a dry diet.

Exploration of Metelitsa

Sending Metelitsa on reconnaissance, Levinson ordered him to return that same night at all costs... It was already completely dark when he finally escaped from the taiga and stopped near an old and rotten omshanik with a collapsed roof, apparently abandoned by people a long time ago.

He tied up his horse and, grabbing the loose edges of the frame that were crumbling under his hands, climbed up to the corner, risking falling into a dark hole. Rising up on tenacious, bent legs, he stood for ten minutes without moving, vigilantly peering and listening into the night, invisible against the dark background of the forest and even more like a bird of prey. In front of him lay a gloomy valley in dark haystacks and groves, sandwiched by two rows of hills, thickly blackened against the background of an unkind starry sky.

Metelitsa jumped into the saddle and rode out onto the road. Its black, long-untrodden ruts appeared in the grass. Thin birch trunks quietly whitened in the darkness, like extinguished candles.

He climbed the hill: to the left there was still a black ridge of hills, curved like the backbone of a giant beast; the river was noisy. About two versts away, probably near the river itself, a fire was burning - it reminded Metelitsa of the lonely loneliness of a shepherd’s life; further, crossing the road, stretched the yellow, unblinking lights of the village. The line of hills on the right turned away to the side, getting lost in the blue darkness; in this direction the terrain dropped greatly. As you can see, there was an old river bed there; Along it lay a gloomy forest.

“The swamps are there, no less,” thought Metelitsa. He felt cold: he was wearing an unbuttoned soldier's sweatshirt over a tunic with torn buttons and an open collar. He decided to go first to the fire.

A. Fadeev “Destruction”.

Hero of our time

The conversation ended there, and we continued to walk silently next to each other. The sun set and night followed day without interval (...). I ordered my suitcase to be put in the cart, the oxen replaced by horses, and for the last time I looked back down at the valley. A thick fog, rushing in waves from the gorge, covered it completely, and not a single

the sound did not reach our ears. (...) The station was still about a mile away. It was so quiet all around that you could follow its flight by the buzzing of a mosquito. To the left was a deep gorge; behind him and in front of us, the dark blue peaks of the mountains were drawn on the pale horizon, which still retained the last glow of dawn. Stars began to flicker in the dark sky, and it seemed to me that they were much higher than here in the north. Bare black stones stuck out on both sides of the road; Here and there bushes peeked out from under the snow, but not a single dry leaf moved, and it was fun to hear, amid this dead sleep of nature, the snorting of the tired postal troika and the uneven jingling of the Russian bell.

M. Lermontov “Hero of Our Time.”

Why is the bike stable?

The bicycle must be stable due to the actions of its “rider”, who, feeling that his carriage is tilting, turns the steering wheel in the direction of the fall. The bicycle begins to move along a curve, a centrifugal force appears, directed in the direction opposite to the inclination. She straightens the car. This point of view explains why a stationary bicycle falls, why it is easier to maintain balance the higher the speed, and why you cannot ride a bicycle whose handlebars do not turn.

However, this theory cannot be true, or at least it is not completely true. Anyone who has ridden a bicycle has probably noticed that high speed The bike is very stable and cannot fall, even if you want to. When moving, the bicycle is largely stable on its own, and the rider's job is not to interfere with the machine's ability to exhibit this stability.

It can be said that learning to ride a bicycle consists of instilling in the student confidence in the stability of the machine and teaching him how to maintain it with timely light turns of the steering wheel.

S. Grankovsky “Why is the bicycle stable?”

in spring

The snow has not yet melted from the ground, but spring is already asking for the soul. If you have ever recovered from a serious illness, then you know the blissful state when you freeze with vague premonitions and smile for no reason. Apparently, nature is now experiencing the same state.

The ground is cold, the mud and snow squelches underfoot, but how cheerful, affectionate, and welcoming everything is all around! The air is so clear and transparent that if you climb a dovecote or a bell tower, you seem to see the entire universe from edge to edge. The sun is shining brightly, and its rays, playing and smiling, bathe in the puddles along with the sparrows. The river is swelling and darkening, it has already woken up and will not roar today or tomorrow. The trees are bare, but they already live and breathe.

At such times, it is good to push dirty water in ditches with a broom or shovel, launch boats on the water, or break stubborn ice with your heels.

Yes, everything is fine at this happy time of year.

A. Chekhov (140 words)

Bezhin meadow

I finally found out where I had gone. This meadow is famous in our neighborhoods under the name Bezhin meadow... But there was no way to return home, especially at night; my legs gave way beneath me from fatigue. I decided to approach the lights and, in the company of those people whom I took to be the herd workers, wait for dawn. I safely went down, but did not have time to let go of the last branch I had grabbed from my hands, when suddenly two large, white shaggy dogs rushed at me with an angry bark. Children's clear voices rang out around the lights, and two or three boys quickly rose from the ground. I responded to their questioning cries. They ran up to me, immediately called back the dogs, who were especially struck by the appearance of my Dianka, and I approached them.

These were peasant children from a neighboring village who guarded the herd.

I. Turgenev “Bezhin Meadow”.

(123 words)

In the Ussuri region

The firmament seemed like a blue crystal bowl, with which it was as if they had deliberately covered the earth, just as young shoots are covered so that they grow faster. Not a breath of breeze below, not a single cloud in the sky. The sultry air hovered over the road. The trees and bushes were numb from the heat and their leaves were drooping. The river flowed quietly, silently. The sun reflected in the water, and it seemed as if two suns were shining: one from above, and the other from somewhere below. All the small animals hid in their holes. Only the birds showed signs of life. The Manchurian lark still had the strength to describe circles in the air and greet the hot summer with ringing singing. In the open woods near the road I noticed two blue magpies. These cautious, cunning birds jumped on the branches, deftly slipped through the foliage and timidly looked around. In another place, in an old swampy channel, I scared the northern pliska - a small gray-green bird with a yellow belly and a yellow neck. She rose into the air to fly away, but saw a dragonfly and, not at all embarrassed by my presence, began to hunt.

(112 words)

Frontal attack

Imagine two fast fighter jets heading straight towards each other at full combat speed. The enemy's plane is growing before our eyes. Here it flashed in all its details, its planes, the sparkling circle of the propeller, the black dots of the guns are visible. Another moment - and the planes will collide and scatter into such pieces that it will be impossible to guess either the car or the person. At this moment, not only the will of the pilot is tested, but also all his spiritual powers. Anyone who is cowardly, who cannot withstand monstrous nervous tension, who does not feel able to die for victory, will instinctively pull the handle towards himself in order to jump over the deadly hurricane rushing towards him, and in the next moment his plane will fly down with a torn belly or a severed flat. There is no salvation for him. Experienced pilots know this very well, and only the bravest of them decide to launch a frontal attack.

The enemies rushed madly at each other. Alexey got ready for instant death. And suddenly, somewhere, as it seemed to him, at an arm's length from his plane, the German could not stand it, slid upward, and when a sunlit blue belly flashed ahead, like a flash of lightning, Alexey, pressing all the triggers at once, ripped him open with three fiery jets.

B. Polevoy “The Tale of a Real Man.”

To the son of a fallen warrior

A soldier's son who grew up without a father

And he matured noticeably before his time,

You are the memory of a hero and father

Not separated from cherished joys.

He didn’t ban you

In his posthumous way, harsh

On what the living one lived with joy,

What calls all living things with a compelling call...

But if you happen somehow,

Out of stupidity, out of early youth

You decide to take a shameful path,

Forgetting about honor, duty and calling:

You can’t support a comrade in trouble,

Turn someone's grief into fun,

Cheat in work. Lie. Offend your mother.

To equal glory with an unkind friend -

Then before you - there is only one testament to you, -

Just remember, boy, whose son you are.

Alexander Tvardovsky (99 words)

To a man in love with the world

To a man in love with the world,

Where was gunpowder invented long ago?

Each leaf is both close and sweet,

Each ray is both priceless and dear.

He walks lightly on the ground,

He smiles brightly at people

He is omnipotent in his craft,

He has the globe as if on a platter.

He admires every river,

Worships every field.

He has the ocean at his fingertips

There is a pole under his palms.

This is what a person is like, this is what he is like!

He doesn't need anything else

If only they would be forever and ever

The world is around and your comrades are nearby.

Mark Lisyansky (82 words)

Gooseberry

Since early morning, the entire sky was covered with rain clouds; it was quiet, not hot and boring, as happens on gray cloudy days, when clouds have long hung over the field, you wait for rain, but it doesn’t come. The veterinarian Ivan Ivanovich and the gymnasium teacher Burkin were already tired of walking, and the field seemed endless to them. Far ahead were barely visible windmills village of Mironositsky, on the right a row of hills stretched and then disappeared far behind the village, and both of them knew that this was the bank of a river, there were meadows, green willows, estates, and if you stood on one of the hills, then from there you could see such a huge field, a telegraph and a train , which from a distance looks like a crawling caterpillar, and in clear weather even the city can be seen from there. Now, in calm weather, when all nature seemed meek and thoughtful, Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were imbued with love for this field and both thought about how great and how beautiful this country is.

A. Chekhov “Gooseberry”.

Gaia system

... To achieve what they want, people must have certain capabilities - the means to achieve the goal. So, we can obtain such means and resources necessary to ensure the co-evolution of man and the biosphere only through the power that humanity has acquired in recent decades. These are new technologies that will make it possible to include into the sphere of human activity the forces of nature that are still hidden from him, this is a new technology that is continuously being created, and, of course, the energy produced by man. Thus, the means to ensure the harmonious development of nature and man should precisely be the power of civilization, which is fraught with the main dangers for its fate. This is the dialectic and eternal contradiction of our life.

Finally, the third position. For a captain leading his ship, it is not enough to know the goal and have the means to achieve it - sails, oars, engine, rudder... He also needs knowledge, he needs a tool that allows him to accurately predict the position of the ship, the speed of its movement, depending on how those or other opportunities on the way to the goal. The captain must be able to foresee his future depending on the actions he takes.

Now we see that the third condition, necessary for humanity to enter the era of the noosphere and be able to solve the problems of controlled development, can already be fulfilled today.

N. Moiseev “Gaia System”.

In the Ussuri region

As we went deeper into the mountains, the vegetation became better. (...) We also encountered animal trails; we used them as long as they stretched in the direction we desired, but mostly they went in virgin lands. (...) Leaving the people below, Polikarp Olentyev and I climbed to one of the neighboring peaks to see from there how far was still left to the pass. All the mountains were clearly visible from above. It turned out that the watershed was two or three kilometers away from us. It became clear; that by evening we would not reach it, and if we did, we would risk spending the night without water, because at this time of year the black springs at the source almost completely dry up. I decided to bivouac where the horses remained, and tomorrow with fresh strength I would go to the pass. (...)

The sun had just managed to disappear behind the horizon, and while its rays were still gilding

the tops of the mountains, twilight shadows appeared in the valleys.

V. Arsenyev “Around the Ussuri region.”

Dnieper

The Dnieper is wonderful in calm weather, when its full waters freely and smoothly rush through forests and mountains. It will neither rustle nor thunder. You look and don’t know whether its majestic width is moving or not, and it seems as if it is all cast from glass and as if a blue mirror road, without measure in width, without end in length, is soaring and winding through the green world. It’s nice then for the hot sun to look back from the top and plunge its rays into the cold glassy waters, and for the coastal forests to shine brightly in the waters. Green-haired ones! They crowd together with wildflowers to the waters and, bending down, look into them and can’t get enough of their bright eyes, and grin at him, and greet him, nodding their branches. They do not dare to look into the middle of the Dnieper: no one looks into it except the sun and the blue sky. A rare bird will fly to the middle of the Dnieper. Lush! There is no equal river in the world.

N. Gogol “Terrible Revenge.”

(144 words)

Seryozha

At the appointed hour, Shurik and Seryozha came to Valery. Lariska, Valeria’s sister, was sitting on the porch, embroidering cross stitches on canvas. She was planted here for the purpose that if someone else came in, they would say that no one was home.

The guys gathered in the courtyard near the bathhouse: all the boys, from the fifth and even sixth grade, and one girl, fat and pale, with a very serious face and a drooping, thick and pale lower lip; it seemed that it was this drooping lip that gave the face such a serious, impressive expression, and if the girl had picked it up, she would have become completely frivolous and unimpressive... The girl - her name was Kapa - cut bandages with scissors and folded them on a stool. Kapa was a member of the sanitary commission at her school. She covered the stool with a clean cloth.

V. Panova “Seryozha”.

When I think about mom

When I think about mom

I see a quiet village

And the garden, shrouded in smoke,

So that the apple trees are warm.

And that smokehouse where it’s not hot in the heat

And on a winter evening grace,

Where nothing is a pity for us,

In war, accustomed to starving.

When I think about mom

I remember my father too.

That thirty-odd years have not been with us,

At least he was faithful to us to the end.

He left the sweet fields for battle

And rivers from the father's side.

And will never get older

Soldiers returning from war.

When I think about mom

My, only, dear,

Snow lying in the hills

It's like they're melting in front of me.

And to me, who was chilled on the road,

Where they only dream of warmth,

The grass falls softly on your feet,

And the earth smells of bread.

The sun laughs in every frame,

And distant people are closer...

When I think about mom

The whole Motherland stands behind her.

Vladimir Demidov (140 words)

Meetings with a spring drop

The day turned out to be hot. The dew had dried, and there was a strong hover from the ground. Corydalis and shaggy yellow bells bloomed along the edges in purple clearings. At noon the kidneys became so tense that no force could hold them in place anymore. And then they began to shoot out green tongues of wrinkled leaves. The bird cherry tree was the first to turn green in the evening. Pakhom came (May 28) - there was a smell of warmth. It's a good time on earth at this time!

About two kilometers from the clearing, where I go in the spring to see grouse, there is a tall triangular tower built by surveyors in a forest clearing. She stands out for her extraordinary height even among the giantess sisters living in the area. I have long wanted to climb onto it and look at the surrounding forests from above.

A dilapidated staircase leads up from flight to flight, and at the very tip there is a platform, and in the middle of the platform there is a table on one leg. (A surveyor I know explained: the table is so that there is somewhere to put the rangefinder device.)

The higher I climbed along the shaky, unreliable passages, the stronger the wind hummed in the rafters and the more noticeably the entire structure swayed with a wooden creaking. But here comes the last flight, I climb out through the hatch onto the platform and...

I saw the familiar land far away and free. I saw an undulating country of watercolor birch forests, white-trunked, delicately chocolate-colored, but already beginning to be enveloped in a translucent haze of blossoming foliage. The groves and copses thinned out the farther from me, the clearings between them became wider, and somewhere in the distance real fields emerged from them, along which small cars crawled like beetles day and night - there people were in a hurry to put grains of bread in the warmed ground. But this was only guessed by imagination.

I looked the other way. Deaf ravines overgrown with pine trees and old birches ran down from the hillock, and under the mountain, through the plush pine crowns, a blue shard of glass showed through the spill of a wide-spread taiga river. Behind it, the continuous dark taiga stretched towards the horizon. It was drawn by several thin lines of clearings, which were diagonally crossed by the thick line of a high-voltage transmission. And again the imagination guessed in the distance logging roads and rectangles of cutting areas, on which

From morning to evening, chainsaws ring and skidders rumble.

V. Petrov “Meetings with a spring drop.”

(243 words)

Touches to the portrait

Valentin Ivanovich Dikul has the hands of a craftsman, and the head of an inventor, a creator. He belongs to that happy category of people who, no matter what they undertake, set everything in motion, and everything works out for them. In any matter, he achieves professionalism and gets to the bottom of the main problems. And even if he doesn’t know the solution, his innate intuition unmistakably tells him the path to the goal. He knows how to make those around him like-minded, he charges you with his energy, you want to keep up with him.

How does he manage to do everything, where does he find time for everything? From morning to evening, seven days a week, at the circus. There are always people in the makeup room, and he helps everyone. If he leaves for an hour or two, he warns the watchman, and you always know when he will be back. Often he doesn’t have time to eat properly or rest. There are daily rehearsals and every evening performances in the arena, the same one where he holds the Volga, fixes a ton in the “pyramid” and juggles 80 kilogram weights.

In the hotel, the phone rings continuously from ten to eleven in the evening. And he patiently talks with everyone, asks questions, gives advice, asks to come or promises to visit himself. It’s hard to imagine where his strength comes from.

And they expect help from him. He dictates, his wife Lyudmila types. Unfortunately, it is not always possible to respond immediately.

It is impossible to see Dikul idle. Therefore, you have to talk to him in fits and starts: during rehearsals, on the way to the hotel or to the circus, between telephone conversations or dictation of letters, at best, while eating. When talking with him about patients, you forget that he is not a doctor - his medical erudition is so wide and versatile.

M. Zalessky (185 words)

River in the morning

The river is especially beautiful in the morning. In these early hours, the wind does not yet disturb her bosom, and it, reflecting the clear pink-blue sky, shines with an even light, transparent and cool, like crystal. Not a single longboat plows the surface of the river, and if a noisy carp jumps up somewhere or a fast osprey in flight scratches the water with a sharp, white-lined wing, then circles will spread across the calm water, for a moment stir up a pinkish spill and disappear imperceptibly, silently, as if they never existed.

Only a fisherman truly knows what a morning river is: these ethereal, white and blue mists that melt at dawn; these green shores, on which golden sands stretch far, far away, and above them - a dark strip of poplar forest; these rainbow highlights rising sun on clear water, the fresh smell of wet sand and fish, resin and herbs; this is an indestructible silence in which every sound, even the most indistinct and weak, evokes a warm, lively response in the human heart.

V. Zakrutkin “Floating village”.

A.K. Timiryazev – lecturer

The complete opposite of other lectures are the lectures of Kliment Arkadyevich Timiryazev, a representative of the discipline that became the most distant to me at the time he began reading to us. And, besides, very loaded with the interests of literature, art, methodology, I went to listen to Timiryazev from time to time, in order to see a beautiful, animated man, with the rhythmic upward zigzags of a rushing inspired voice.

I admired him: excited, nervous, with the most delicate face, on which there was a change of through expressions, especially vivid during pauses, when he, stretching his body forward and stepping back with his foot, as if in a minuet, was preparing to rush with his voice, thought, hand and hair in a squeal . Thus he flew into a large physical auditorium, where he read and where people flocked from all faculties and courses to greet him with thunderous applause and shouts. He stood, half-bent, but as if outstretched or drawn towards us, with a very thin, elegant hand hanging in the air.

This welcoming gesture to us, like an answer to a greeting, was so suitable for him, flying so unconsciously that any thought as if it was aimed at effects (slanderers said so about him) disappeared.

At the first lecture for the third year, he took off to the stamping and applause with a watermelon under his arm; They knew that he would leave this watermelon, the watermelon would be eaten by the students.

It (watermelon) is a demonstration of a cell: a rare example that it can be seen with the eyes; Timiryazev cut pieces of watermelon and passed them between the rows.

At this time, his struggle with the ministry proceeded with the same ups and downs; I remember how he threw down the gauntlet when he left the university and how, persecuted, he finally achieved his goal; I remember how the crowd flocked to greet him, and he blossomed in front of them...

A. Bely “At the turn of two centuries.”

He didn’t pay attention to how he had already jumped out of bed, and was floating and swaying in the full-bodied darkness of the night - his right hand, hugging the thin back of an invisible partner, bent at the elbow, the left one stretched out pleadingly - and floating and floating through the mockingly sensual labyrinth “ Minor swing"…

He danced a complex counterpoint of the smallest movements; His skillful fingers moved by heart all the levers and buttons, with the help of which the languid gestures of the now absent little Ellis were extracted - this is how spirits are called from the kingdom of darkness. His spine, neck, sensitive shoulders, hands and feet knew by heart every centimeter of the rhythmic pattern of this complex and delightful dance, which was applauded by the public in many halls of the world; he spun and intercepted, and, sticking out his chin, cast a weightless, fragile shadow on his left elbow, now rushing forward, now stopping dead in his tracks, now leaning over her predatorily, now pressing her to his chest... And he did all this absolutely automatically, as if, lost in thought, he walked along a familiar street, not realizing the direction and purpose of the path, not even hearing his own steps. If his movements left a trace in the air, then a most complex pattern would gradually be woven before the viewer: an exquisite, hidden weaving of lace, the secret writing of a carpet...

Behind the railing of the balcony, high above the palm trees flowing in their rags, a perfectly crafted, albeit exaggerated copper moon, polished to an insolent shine, was firmly screwed into the starry sky (the lighting designers overdid it). It filled not only the entire bay, with all its shores, ships and boats at the piers; she invaded the room with an insistent paraffin glow, giving each object a single piece of black shadow, leaving sweeping strokes, intricate monograms and intricate monograms on the walls, endlessly launching and launching a lace carousel of shadows across the curtains...

And if only someone could witness this strange picture: a miniature woman in deep oblivion and a man with a moon face, with really very bright eyes even in the twilight, who scurried around her in a swift, broken, dissolute dance, stroking the emptiness with a hot palm, drawing this emptiness to his chest and freezing in an instant spasm of passion - such a witness could well take this scene for the strained discovery of a fashionable director.

Only one thing deserved real surprise (even, perhaps, admiration): a sharp-nosed and awkward, stooped man in funny family shorts and a cheap T-shirt while dancing was so bewitchingly plastic, so ironically sad and so in love with the precious emptiness under his right elbow...

With the last precise turn of his head, the music stopped. The carousel of shadows dragged all its ghostly carriages along the walls for the last time and stopped.

For two or three minutes he did not move, waiting for the silent applause of the audience; then he swayed, dropping his hands, as if throwing off an invisible burden, took a step or two towards the balcony and slowly opened the door, letting in the tight breath of the night bay...

His face was shining... As silently as he danced, he crept up to the bed, on which his beloved stood motionless. Exhaling deeply, he knelt down at the head of the bed, pressed his cheek to the blanket over her shoulder and whispered:

- Don’t rush... Don’t rush, my happiness...

“...Let it flutter to you, doctor! It’s time to come to your senses: they left for three hours, and you’re still looking for the fifth corner...

No, as I remember this convoy: in front of her is the ghost of a woman, a fiery-haired elf with a schizo-affective disorder, and behind him: with shoulders as hard as a vaga, stooped shoulders and a constrained gait, looking more like a puppet than all his dolls put together . Well, simply - Bluebeard with his innocent victim...

Actually, why am I writing this? Is it possible that after so many years, some graphomaniac ambitions are still alive in me? Yes, it seems not... For a long time now, when I accidentally stumbled upon publications of poems and stories in folders by a certain Boris Gorelik, this ardent fool, I don’t feel anything at all: apparently, emigration is killing some kind of spiritual liver; all the more successful emigration, like mine - if, of course, you consider the divorce from Maya a success.

No, lofty urges have nothing to do with it. Just a sudden desire to write down some thoughts opened the floodgates in my memory, from which the past first poured in like a trickle, and then like a torrent, retroactively explaining the events of our lives - welded together, as it turned out, more closely than any of us three could ever have imagined.

And every day, writing several pages, you involuntarily construct some kind of picture of the world, albeit splintered, tongue-twisting and lame. It’s worse when you try to find your place in this picture, you think about it and... you discover an imposing mustachioed nonentity under your own name.

And I always feel insignificant when I am present at the meeting of these two after separation.

The most ridiculous thing is that officially she really is my wife. How else could I get her into our clinic if she doesn’t have the slightest reason for repatriation to Israel?

When, in ninety-six, the frantic Petka first called me from Prague (they were there at the next festival of puppet theaters, having no housing, no citizenship, no medical insurance; and this unfortunate child of theirs had just died - and thank God! - when he called me, he was absolutely insane, so at first I couldn’t really understand which of the two of them was crazy, and screamed: “Do something, save her, Borka!!!” - It was then that I had to remember that I had been happily divorced for six months and was quite ready for new idiotic achievements.

I don’t know what happened to my brain at that moment, but my heart was breaking with pity for both of them.

The main thing is that at that moment I for some reason - how it hit me! – I remembered the prophetic words of my unforgettable grandmother Vera Leopoldovna on the day when Petka announced that he and Lisa had decided...

“Boba...” she said, entering my room and tightly closing the door with her wide back. - You will not be a friend, but a real piece of shit, if you do not dissuade Petrusha from this disastrous step.

The unforgettable grandmother spoke four languages ​​and all of them decisively and picturesquely, as good gynecologists usually express themselves, but in Russian she expressed her thoughts especially naturally and weightily, with a tart interspersed with obscenities - when she considered it emotionally necessary. Sometimes, as a child, he would enter my room in the midst of a game, with an invariable cigarette in his mouth, and bark in his inimitable bass voice: “Oh, Petlyura! Why is it so crap all around, good people?!”

“Stop this crazy cart, Boba, it will crush him,” said the grandmother.

- Why? – I asked, puzzled.

- Because this baby is not from a good basket...

And when I jumped up and began to seethe, she besieged me the way only she knew how: with a contemptuous cold look. (My father, her only son, said in such cases, grinning: “let’s open the problem with a scalpel.”)

“Fool,” she said quietly and imperiously. - I'm a doctor. I don’t care about the morality of that whole family. I don’t care which wife her dad lost at cards, or with what joy her unfortunate mother jumped out of the bedroom window in her nightgown. I’m talking about something else now: there’s a bad gene in the family, and this is no joke.

“What other gene...” I muttered, feeling the darkness and cold of a deep pool behind her words.

– And such that her mother gave birth to two boys before Lisa, one after the other, and both with the syndrome. It's good that they weren't residents.

– What kind of syndrome? Down?

- No Another. Who cares?

- No, just talk, talk! – I jumped up.

“Well... there’s one,” she said. – It is called “Angelman syndrome” or “laughing doll syndrome”, and also “Parsley syndrome”. Haven't taught it yet? There’s a mask on the face that looks like frozen laughter, bursts of sudden laughter and... dementia, of course. Doesn't matter! Talk to him like a man if you don't want me to interfere.