Joseph Brodsky end of a beautiful era to read.

Because the art of poetry requires words
I am one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors
second-class power that has associated with this one -
not wanting to force my own brain,
giving myself clothes, I go down to the kiosk
for the evening paper.

The wind drives the leaves. Old light bulbs dim glow
in these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors,
with the assistance of puddles, it generates the effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal an orange by scraping the amalgam.
However, the feeling with which you look at yourself -
I forgot this feeling.

In these sad places, everything is designed for the winter: dreams,
prison walls, coats; brides' toilets - whites
New Year, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis;
Puritan manners. Linen. And in the hands of violinists -
wooden heaters.

This region is immovable. Introducing the volume of gross
cast iron and lead, shake your head stunned,
remember the old power on bayonets and Cossack whips.
But the eagles land like a magnet on the iron mixture.
Even wicker chairs are held here
on bolts and nuts.

Only fish in the seas know the price of freedom; but their
dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own
labels and cash registers. And the space sticks out like a price list.
Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things
it looks for the properties of both in raw vegetables.
Kochet listens to the chimes.

To live in the era of achievements, having an exalted disposition,
unfortunately difficult. Beauty dress up,
you see what you were looking for, and not new marvelous divas.
And it’s not that Lobachevsky is firmly observed here,
but the expanded world must narrow somewhere, and here —
here is the end of perspective.

Whether the map of Europe was stolen by agents of the authorities,
or five sixths of the remaining parts in the world
far too far. Is it some Kind fairy
He's telling fortunes over me, but I can't run away from here.
I pour Cahors for myself - do not shout to the servant -
I'm scratching the cat...

Either a bullet in the temple, as if in the place of an error with a finger,
or pull from here across the sea with the new Christ.
Yes, and how not to mix with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
a locomotive with a ship - you still won’t burn with shame:
like a boat on the water, will not leave a trace on the rails
locomotive wheel.

What do they write in the newspapers in the section "From the courtroom"?
The sentence has been carried out. Looking here
the layman sees through tin-rimmed glasses,
how a person lies face down brick wall;
but does not sleep. For disdain cumpol dreams
perforated right.

The vigilance of this era is rooted in those
times, unable in their general blindness
to distinguish those who fell out of the cradles from the fallen cradles.
The white-eyed monster does not want to look beyond death.
It's a pity, the saucers are full, but there is no one to turn the table with,
to ask you, Rurik.

The vigilance of these times is the vigilance to the things of a dead end.
It is not fitting for the tree to spread the mind yet,
but spitting on the wall. And do not wake up the prince - a dinosaur.
For the last line, eh, do not snatch a feather from a bird.
The innocent head of all and affairs is something to wait for an ax
yes green laurel.

Let's start with the most seemingly simple: what is the plot of the poem? If it seems to you that The End of a Beautiful Era has no plot as such, then you are mistaken, and now I will tell you why. Strictly speaking, everyone has a plot good poem. This is not always a series of events, as in prose; often the plot of the poem is a train of thought, experiences of the lyrical hero, which are closely related to each other and organize a strict sequence of conclusions. Literary critics even came up with special term - « lyrical plot ' applicable to poetic texts and describing not only the series of events, but also the change in the mood of the text. But in this case there is a plot in the most obvious sense of the word.

So, the events of the poem begin to develop when lyrical hero, « feeding himself clothes", going down" to the kiosk for the evening paper"- and all further narration will be based on the description little trip: from the house to the newsstand. It would seem that the situation is super-ordinary, but the strength of a true poet lies in the fact that he can use every detail, any household trifle to create a complex artistic canvas and important generalizations. Even a simple desire to buy a newspaper in Brodsky's text is motivated, frankly, pretentiously: the hero goes " for the evening paper» - « because the art of poetry requires words". Let's try to figure out what the author means.

It is unlikely that Brodsky needs a newspaper to get inspiration: official literature 60s was clearly not something that the future laureate could admire Nobel Prize. But " the art of poetry requires words”, because any work of art is always a response. In other words, feedback is a response to someone else's idea, to an event that has occurred; the poet, deprived of information from the outside, involuntarily begins to burn himself, finding himself in a dead end of his own thoughts and experiences. This is probably what Brodsky is talking about when he admits that “ does not want to force his own brain". So he goes for the newspaper. And we go further - according to the text of the poem.

A second-rate power, Brodsky, most likely, with a fair amount of irony (hence intentional alogism ) names the Jewish nation, and demonstrative pronoun"this one" clearly shows that Brodsky does not identify himself as part of the Soviet state. Not without reason, already in exile, Brodsky said the following about himself: I am a Jew, a Russian poet and an American citizen". Agree, a good set?

The second stanza is a picture that a person sees when he leaves the entrance of his house: old foliage, weakly burning lamps of lanterns reflected in puddles. I already wrote above that the poet is capable of generalizations that are striking in their globality: indeed, describing only one single courtyard, Brodsky makes it emblem all" these sad lands”, the essence of which is endless repetition, duplicity which the poet brings to the point of absurdity. So, even thieves steal not the orange itself, but its reflection in the mirror, " amalgam scraping» (amalgam is an ore alloy that is used in the manufacture of mirrors). In such a world of endless reflections, it is difficult to see the real oneself, which is necessary for poetic reflections (I think it’s easy to see in this term, which refers to the artist’s listening to himself, English word reflection - reflection) - therefore, Brodsky seems to cut off his speech, admitting that he does not remember feelings, " with which you look at yourself».

We listen to the song performed by Alexander Vasiliev

Parallel lines do not intersect. But it is not exactly

The next two stanzas are an emblematic description of the surrounding world and the whole country. Here the author focuses on two features: cold and static. It is important that these characteristics are seen by Brodsky as historically conditioned: even walls are erected with the expectation of the cold season, and literally steel static manifests itself from generation to generation - as political regime, as base economic policy as the basis of production. This idea will be developed in the final stanzas of the poem. Apparently, rushing towards them, Alexander Vasilyev does not perform the next stanza, so I bring it up.

Only fish in the seas know the price of freedom; but their
dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own
labels and cash registers. And the space sticks out like a price list.
Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things
properties of both it seeks in raw vegetables.
Kochet listens to the chimes.

There are several thoughts here that are quite characteristic of Brodsky. First of all, the tragic discord between man and nature: not being able to understand the language of nature (the image of dumb fish, but knowing the price of freedom), a person builds his own world, assigning a price to everything and hanging labels on everything that make sense only in this absurd "market" system . It turns out that it is not the living world that dictates its primordial rules to man, but, on the contrary, man subjugates nature, distorting it - and now the birds are building their routine, focusing not on the biological rhythm, but on exact time, which is beaten by the chimes of the Spasskaya Tower.

Let me give you one more comment. The paradox “time is created by death” vividly reflects the pessimism of Brodsky’s stoic philosophy: to paraphrase the poet, we can say that life exists because it is finite, and any beginning has value only in the context of an inevitable end. Death is inevitably inherent in the material world.

As you can see, several voices seem to be intertwined in the poem: one describes the details of the real world specifically and accurately; he is echoed by a voice with sad and ironic intonations, laughing sadly at the surrounding reality and, thus, as if generalizing it. And a third voice sounds - the voice of a gloomy philosopher, who speaks dryly and aphoristically.

So, intonation The next stanza is set, of course, by an ironic voice. It would seem that the idea that unfortunately, it is difficult to live in an era of accomplishments, having an exalted disposition» can be confirmed by any example from life creative people Soviet era; Brodsky himself, let me remind you, was branded a parasite, was subjected to compulsory treatment in a mental hospital and was exiled to forced labor in the Arkhangelsk region. But no: it suddenly turns out that the problem of high temperament is that any carnal attraction inevitably leads to the same thing (guess what), but not to " marvelous divas". This episode seems especially important: Brodsky, while painting an extremely minor picture of reality, does not consider the socio-political system to be the root of all evil. It's about the man himself Furthermore! - in the world order.

And the name of Lobachevsky appears in the text not by chance: it was Nikolai Lobachevsky who created a geometric theory that suggests the possibility of crossing two parallel lines. But regardless of through what scientific and philosophical optics man trying to look at real world, in the most simple things man remains powerless. So passion again and again turns into only carnal pleasure, and it is precisely in this that the “end of perspective”, which is formed by two lines female legs, in this hopelessness to become higher than what surrounds you, than you surround yourself. Love, which is traditionally an opportunity in art to relieve the burden of earthly burdens, is found to be just as heavy and mundane in Brodsky's work. In many ways, one feels bitterness and disappointment from the break with Marianna Basmanova, the woman whom Brodsky loved. most his life, but with whom he could not build a relationship.

We listen to a poem performed by Joseph Brodsky

Reading the newspaper and looking for "Easter eggs"

The next two stanzas are united by the idea of emigration. These lines are quite transparent, but I want to dwell on the words " or a bullet in the temple, as if in the place of an error with a finger». motive suicide is a frequency not only in Brodsky's lyrics, but, alas, in his life. In 1963, while in prison, Brodsky makes an attempt to commit suicide - fortunately, unsuccessfully. It is also important that the poet, speaking of " place of error"points precisely to his head - this is not so much a variation on the theme of" grief from the mind ", but again the removal of responsibility for the painful state from the outside world. Brodsky does not shift, I apologize for the pun, guilt from a sick head to a healthy one and vice versa, but he is clearly aware of the responsibility that each person bears for his thoughts and for what is happening in his head.

And the ninth stanza returns us from the world of abstractions to artistic specificity. The lyrical hero finally buys a newspaper and the first thing his eyes come across is the section “ From the courtroom". Why does the poet concentrate on this particular detail? Firstly, I think that the topic of judicial arbitrariness is close to Brodsky, who himself became a victim of Soviet justice. On the other hand, the news about the murder of a person - even if by a court decision! - is, on reflection, scary enough to overshadow all the others that the newspapers of the "epoch of great deeds" can write about. It seems to me enough interesting finale this stanza: removing copyright inversion (indirect word order in a sentence), we get the phrase: a murdered person does not sleep, because dreams have the right to disdain a perforated cumpole. Word " bonce" on prison jargon denotes a head. Here you can hear the horror that suggests violence and death: a person is deprived of dreams (at a metaphorical level - high matter, soul) and forever remains just a body with a shot through "kumpol", one of the many murdered prisoners - it doesn't matter for what and why . It is worth noting that Brodsky was close to atheism and hardly believed in the possibility of an afterlife, accepting Christian dogmas only partially on an ethical and largely on an aesthetic level. A bullet in a cumpole will forever remain a bullet in a cumpole: death is final and therefore so terrible.

In the last two stanzas, the voice of a gloomy philosopher sounds more and more confident, as if taking away the mocking intonations necessary to sum up the poem, generalize moods and thoughts. So, paradoxically, the vigilance of this " belle epoch grows out of the blindness of former times. Okay, but what kind of cradles in question? I confess: this is one of the most difficult places in the poems, the explanation of which was found by the famous philologist Lev Losev. According to the scientist, this is a reference to the XII chapter of Gogol's "Taras Bulba": in the midst of the battle, Taras loses his smoking pipe, but decides to pick it up (" Stop! a cradle with tobacco fell out ...”), because of which he is captured and dies. Senseless, universal rigidity, recklessness and inappropriate heroism, inevitably leading to new and new victims, described by Gogol, are the features that have shaped the current "beautiful era".

But in these stanzas you can find two more references, a kind of literary "Easter eggs". For example, " white-eyed chud"is a collective character of Finnish, Russian and Komi folklore, which can be compared with Western European gnomes. But Brodsky, most likely, creates a pun and adds gloomy mythological features to the Finno-Ugric ethnic group " chud”, which, according to some theories (so thought, including Alexander Blok), took an active part in the formation of the modern Russian nation. No wonder a few lines below Brodsky will say: “ It’s not right to spread the mind along the tree yet"- clearly referring to famous expression from the Old Russian Tale of Bygone Years.

Inherited from Brodsky and Rurik - the first Novgorod prince, progenitor royal dynasty Romanovs. " It's a pity, the saucers are full, but there is no one to turn the table with”, says Brodsky, wishing for a metaphysical meeting with Rurik: “to turn the table” in the jargon of spiritualists means to make contact via astral communication, to call on the spirit. But even this is not enough for Brodsky: do not wake up the prince - a dinosaur is necessary to understand the causes of the current "vigilance to dead end things", that is, stagnation. It turns out that the problem of the “beautiful era” lies not only in the unwillingness to look “beyond death” (that is, to live not only for the current day, but also to think about the legacy for future generations). The tragedy of the situation is thought by Brodsky, most likely, more globally: it is not national, but, probably, civilization catastrophe , a mistake in the initial choice of the path of human development, the result of which are punched cumpoles that have fallen out of cradles, innocent poets waiting for an ax.

Watch the clip of Kirill Serebrennikov

(be careful, postmodern!)

Two people in the room: me and Brodsky

“The End of a Beautiful Era” is a poem in which a banal plot - a walk for a newspaper - grows into a reflection on the fate of the country, the fate of the artist, the fate of everything human world. I would like to try to answer the question (it torments me too) - why is Brodsky's poem so good? I will try to put it this way: the poet accurately notes the details that are painfully familiar to all of us, from puddles to criminal chronicles (replace the image of the newspaper with a black box with NTV turned on), succinctly and at the same time ironically, thereby preventing pathos from dulling the sharpness of thought, expresses the thoughts that swarm in the head of every thinking person (what to do with love, with the country, yes, damn it, with this very life?).

At the same time, Brodsky does not give unambiguous answers (yes, this is impossible in principle!) - but provides us tools For self search solutions to these problems. When I talk about tools, I'm talking about conclusions, ideas, emotions, finally! - about everything that is necessary for every person who does not want to force his own brain and needs an interlocutor. In an attentive, ironic, gloomy and infinitely intelligent interlocutor, which Brodsky is for his reader.

For such a conversation, you don’t even need to “turn the table”.

It is enough just to buy a book of poems.

Or, at worst, listen to Vasiliev's track again.

In these sad places, everything is designed for the winter: dreams,
prison walls, coats; brides' toilets - whiteness
New Year, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis;
Puritan manners. Linen. And in the hands of violinists -
wooden heaters.

Only fish in the seas know the price of freedom; but their
dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own
labels and cash registers. And the space sticks out like a price list.
Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things
properties of both it seeks in raw vegetables.
Kochet listens to the chimes.

Whether the map of Europe was stolen by agents of the authorities,
or five sixths of the remaining parts in the world
far too far. Is it some good fairy?
He's telling fortunes over me, but I can't run away from here.
I pour Cahors for myself - do not shout to the servant -
I'm scratching the cat...

What do they write in the newspapers in the section "From the courtroom"?
The sentence has been carried out. Looking here
the layman sees through tin-rimmed glasses,
how a man lies face down against a brick wall;
but does not sleep. For disdain cumpol dreams
perforated right.

Analysis of the poem "The End of a Beautiful Era" by Brodsky

The poem "The End of a Beautiful Era" was written by I. Brodsky in 1969 and later included in the collection of the same name. It reflects the poet's negative view of the Soviet reality surrounding him, which he compares with "the end of a beautiful era."

The work begins with the fact that the lyrical hero leaves the house for a newspaper. He compares himself to "the ambassador of a second-rate power", alluding to his belonging to the Jewish nation. Brodsky constantly emphasized his alienness. Surrounding reality for him - "sad edge". He believes that in Russia there was a "victory of mirrors." This led to the emergence of the realm of illusions. The wealth of the country and the people is just an apparent phenomenon, intensified by multiple reflections. At the same time, all the mirrors in the realm are crooked, so you cannot vouch for the plausibility of all reflections. The author sadly admits that he completely forgot "the feeling with which you look at yourself."

Soviet Russia for the lyrical hero is a country in which "everything is designed for the winter," that is, for the cold and harsh season. This setting has become an integral part national mentality and penetrated even into the dreams of people. The author is overwhelmed by the soullessness of communism, under which the country's successes are determined not by spiritual development, but are reduced to the volume of gross output. Autocracy, the horrors of which Soviet historians loved to scare, cannot be compared with the scale of modern power. Even eagles (symbol tsarist Russia) have lost all their pride and "sit ... on an iron mixture."

The lyrical hero believes that only fish can consider themselves free in the USSR. The fear of openly expressing one's views brings people closer to the dumb inhabitants of the seas. Life according to the order and firmly established routine leads to a paradoxical situation when "the kochet listens to the chimes" and not to the sunrise.

The author hates the “epoch of accomplishments” proclaimed by the authorities, which confused the “beautiful era”. Sublime ideas and morals were replaced by a rough materialistic awareness of reality, which means "the end of perspective."

The lyrical hero would like to escape from his country as quickly and as far as possible, but he cannot do this, because "the agents of the authorities have stolen the map of Europe." It should be noted that in three years he will be “kindly” given such an opportunity.

Returning to reality, the lyrical hero opens the newspaper. The announcement of the death sentence being carried out only adds to his gloomy mood. True reasons for the emergence of a totalitarian society, the author sees in times Ancient Rus'. Calling distant ancestors "white-eyed monster", the author dreams of addressing Rurik himself with reproach.

The poem "The End of a Beautiful Era" vividly reflects Brodsky's tendency to see everything in a black light. The positive aspects of Soviet reality and all national history the disgraced poet simply did not notice or did not want to do this.

Because the art of poetry requires words
I am one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors
second-class power that has contacted this one -
not wanting to force my own brain,
giving myself clothes, I go down to the kiosk
for the evening paper.

In these sad lands, everything is designed for the winter: dreams,
walls of prisons, coats, toilets of brides - whites
New Year, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis;
Puritan manners. Lingerie. And in the hands of violinists -
wooden heaters.

This region is immovable. Representing the volume of gross
cast iron and lead, stunned shake your head,
remember the old power on bayonets and Cossack whips.
But the eagles land like a magnet on the iron mixture.
Even wicker chairs are held here
on bolts and nuts.

Only fish in the seas know the price of freedom; but their
dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own
labels and cash registers. And the space sticks out like a price list.
Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things
properties of both it seeks in raw vegetables.
Kochet listens to the chimes.

Either a bullet in the temple, as if in the place of an error with a finger,
whether to pull from here across the sea with the new Christ.
Yes, and how not to mix with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
a locomotive with a ship - you still won’t burn with shame:
like a boat on the water, will not leave a trace on the rails
locomotive wheel.

Because the art of poetry requires words, I am one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors of a second-rate power that has contacted this one, not wanting to violate my own brain, giving my own clothes, I go down to the kiosk for the evening newspaper. The wind drives the leaves. The dim glow of old light bulbs in these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors, with the assistance of puddles, creates the effect of abundance. Even thieves steal an orange by scraping the amalgam. However, the feeling with which you look at yourself is a feeling I forgot. In these sad places, everything is designed for the winter: dreams, prison walls, coats; brides' toilets - New Year's whites, drinks, second hands. Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis; Puritan manners. Linen. And in the hands of violinists - wooden heating pads. This region is immovable. Representing the volume of gross pig iron and lead, you will shake your head stunned, remember the former power on bayonets and Cossack whips. But the eagles land like a magnet on the iron mixture. Even wicker chairs are held here by bolts and nuts. Only fish in the seas know the price of freedom; but their dumbness compels us, as it were, to create our own labels and cash registers. And the space sticks out like a price list. Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things, it seeks the properties of both in raw vegetables. Kochet listens to the chimes. Unfortunately, it is difficult to live in an era of achievements, having an exalted disposition. Lifting up the dress to the beauty, you see what you were looking for, and not new marvelous divas. And it's not that Lobachevsky is firmly observed here, but the expanded world must narrow somewhere, and here - here the end of perspective. Either the map of Europe was stolen by agents of the authorities, or the five-sixths remaining in the world are too far away. Either some good fairy is telling me fortune, but I can’t run away from here. I pour Cahors for myself - do not shout to the servant - but scratch the cat ... Either a bullet in the temple, as if with a finger in the place of an error, or pull from here across the sea with the new Christ. Yes, and how not to mix from drunken eyes, stunned by the frost, a steam locomotive with a ship - you still won’t burn with shame: like a boat on the water, the wheel of a steam locomotive will not leave a trace on the rails. What do they write in the newspapers in the section "From the courtroom"? The sentence has been carried out. Looking here, the inhabitant will see through tin-rimmed glasses how a man lies face down against a brick wall; but does not sleep. For it is right to disdain the cumpol of dreams with holes. The vigilance of this era is rooted in those times, unable in their general blindness to distinguish those who fell out of the cradles from the fallen cradles. The white-eyed monster does not want to look beyond death. It's a pity, the saucers are full, but there is no one to turn the table with to ask you, Rurik. The vigilance of these times is the vigilance to the things of a dead end. It is not fitting for the tree to spread the mind yet, but spitting on the wall. And do not wake up the prince - a dinosaur. For the last line, eh, do not snatch a feather from a bird. The innocent head of all and affairs is something to wait for an ax and a green laurel.