An excerpt of prose from fiction about love. A selection of texts to learn by heart for the "Living Classics" competition

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

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

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

“What cute children,” Chichikov said, looking at them, “and what year is it?”

“The eldest is eighth, and the youngest only turned six yesterday,” said Manilova.

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

Chichikov raised a few eyebrows when he heard such a partly Greek name, to which, for some unknown reason, Manilov ended in “yus,” but immediately tried to bring his face back to its normal position.

- Themistoclus, tell me, what is the best city in France?

Here the teacher turned all his attention to Themistocles and seemed to want to jump into his eyes, but finally calmed down completely and nodded his head when Themistocles said: “Paris.”

- What is our best city? - Manilov asked again.

The teacher focused his attention again.

“Petersburg,” answered Themistoclus.

- And what else?

“Moscow,” answered Themistoclus.

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

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

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

At this time, the footman standing behind wiped the messenger’s nose, and did a very good job, otherwise a fair amount of extraneous drop would have sunk into the soup.”

2 Fyodor Dostoevsky. "Demons"

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

The chronicler retells the content of a philosophical poem that the now aged liberal Stepan Trofimovich Verkhovensky wrote in his youth:

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

3 Anton Chekhov. "Drama"

Anton Chekhov. Collection "Motley Stories". St. Petersburg, 1897 Edition by A. S. Suvorin

The kind-hearted writer Pavel Vasilyevich is forced to listen to a long dramatic essay, which is read aloud to him by the graphomaniac writer Murashkina:

“Don’t you think this monologue is a little long? - Murashkina suddenly asked, raising her eyes.

Pavel Vasilyevich did not hear the monologue. He was embarrassed and said in such a guilty tone, as if it was not the lady, but he himself who had written this monologue:

- No, no, not at all... Very nice...

Murashkina beamed with happiness and continued reading:

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

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

“XVII phenomenon... When is the end? - he thought. - Oh my God! If this torment continues for another ten minutes, then I will shout the guard... Unbearable!

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

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

“I’m sorry...” interrupted Pavel Vasilyevich. - How many actions are there?

“Five,” Murashkina answered and immediately, as if afraid that the listener would leave, she quickly continued: “Valentin is looking out of the school window.” You can see how, at the back of the stage, the villagers are carrying their belongings to the tavern."

4 Mikhail Zoshchenko. "In Pushkin's days"

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

At a literary evening dedicated to the centenary of the poet’s death, the Soviet house manager gives a solemn speech about Pushkin:

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

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

So, a hundred years separate us from him! Time really does fly incredibly fast!

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

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

My grandmother, even purer, was born in 1836. That is, Pushkin could see her and even pick her up. He could nurse her, and she could, of course, cry in her arms, not knowing who took her in his arms.

Of course, it’s unlikely that Pushkin could have nursed her, especially since she lived in Kaluga, and Pushkin, it seems, had never been there, but we can still allow for this exciting possibility, especially since he could, it seems, come to Kaluga to see his acquaintances

My father, again, was born in 1850. But Pushkin, unfortunately, was no longer around then, otherwise he might even have been able to babysit my father.

But he could probably already hold my great-grandmother in his arms. Just imagine, she was born in 1763, so the great poet could easily come to her parents and demand that they let him hold her and nurse her... Although, however, in 1837 she was, perhaps, about sixty years old , so, frankly speaking, I don’t even know how it was there for them and how they managed it... Maybe even she nursed him... But what is shrouded in the darkness of the unknown for us, is for them, probably there was no difficulty, and they knew very well who to babysit and who to rock whom. And if the old woman really was about six or ten years old by that time, then, of course, it would be ridiculous to even think that anyone would nurse her there. So, it was she who was babysitting someone herself.

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

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

Daniil Kharms. Collection of stories "The Old Woman". Moscow, 1991 Publishing house "Juno"

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

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

“And I’ve been waiting for you for an hour already!”

“It’s not true,” says Tikakeev, “I’m only twenty-five minutes from home.”

“Well, I don’t know that,” said Koratygin, “but I’ve been here for a whole hour already.”

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

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

“I think...” Tikakeev began, but Koratygin interrupted him:

“If you think...” he said, but then Koratygin was interrupted by Tikakeyev and said:

- You yourself are good!

These words infuriated Koratygin so much that he pinched one nostril with his finger and blew his nose at Tikakeev with the other nostril. Then Tikakeev grabbed the largest cucumber from his wallet and hit Koratygin on the head with it. Koratygin grabbed his head with his hands, fell and died.

These are the big cucumbers they sell in stores now!”

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

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

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

“It’s impossible to accompany all orders, instructions and instructions with a thousand reservations so that the Basovs don’t do something stupid. Then a modest resolution, say, banning the transportation of live piglets in tram cars would have to look like this:

However, when collecting a fine, keepers of piglets should not:

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

7 Mikhail Bulgakov. "Theatrical Romance"

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

Playwright Sergei Leontievich Maksudov reads his play “Black Snow” to the great director Ivan Vasilyevich, who hates when people shoot on stage. The prototype of Ivan Vasilyevich was Konstantin Stanislavsky, Maksudov - Bulgakov himself:

“With the approaching twilight came a catastrophe. I read:

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

Petrov. What are you doing?!

Bakhtin (shoots himself in the temple, falls, an accordion was heard in the distance...).”

- This is in vain! - Ivan Vasilyevich exclaimed. - Why is this? This must be crossed out without hesitation for a second. Have mercy! Why shoot?

“But he must commit suicide,” I answered, coughing.

- And very good! Let him cum and let him stab himself with a dagger!

- But, you see, this is happening during a civil war... Daggers were no longer used...

“No, they were used,” objected Ivan Vasilyevich, “I was told by this... what’s his name... I forgot... that they were used... You cross out this shot!..”

I remained silent, making a sad mistake, and read further:

- “(...Monica and separate shots. A man appeared on the bridge with a rifle in his hand. Moon...)”

- My God! - Ivan Vasilyevich exclaimed. - Shots! Shots again! What a disaster this is! You know what, Leo... you know what, delete this scene, it’s unnecessary.

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

- A complete misconception! - Ivan Vasilyevich snapped. - This scene is not only not the main one, but it is not necessary at all. Why is this? Yours, what’s his name?..

- Bakhtin.

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

“But there’s no mother...” I said, looking stunned at the glass with the lid.

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

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

- And Ivanov will say all his monologues!.. You have good monologues, they need to be preserved. Ivanov will say - Petya stabbed himself and before his death he said this, this and that... It will be a very powerful scene.”

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

Vladimir Voinovich. "The life and extraordinary adventures of soldier Ivan Chonkin." Paris, 1975 Publishing house YMCA-Press

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

“Well then. “Putting his hands behind his back, he walked around the office. - You still do. You don't want to be honest with me. Well. Mil by force. You will not. As the saying goes. We will help you. But you don't want us. Yes. By the way, do you happen to know Kurt?

- Chickens? - Nyura was surprised.

- Well, yes, Kurta.

- Who doesn’t know chickens? - Nyura shrugged. - How can this be possible in a village without chickens?

- It is forbidden? - Luzhin quickly asked. - Yes. Certainly. In the village without Kurt. No way. It is forbidden. Impossible. “He pulled the desk calendar towards him and took a pen. - What's your last name?

“Belyashova,” Nyura said willingly.

- Belya... No. Not this. I don't need your last name, but Kurt's. What? - Luzhin frowned. - And you don’t want to say that?

Nyura looked at Luzhin, not understanding. Her lips trembled, tears appeared in her eyes again.

“I don’t understand,” she said slowly. - What kind of surnames can chickens have?

- At the chickens? - asked Luzhin. - What? Chickens? A? “He suddenly understood everything and, jumping to the floor, stamped his feet. - Get out! Go away".

9 Sergey Dovlatov. "Reserve"

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

The autobiographical hero works as a guide in the Pushkin Mountains:

“A man in a Tyrolean hat approached me shyly:

- Excuse me, can I ask a question?

- I'm hearing you.

- Was this given?

- That is?

- I ask, was this given? “The Tyrolean took me to the open window.

- In what sense?

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

- I don't understand.

The man blushed slightly and began to hastily explain:

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

- Philocartist. I collect postcards... Philos - love, cards...

- I have a color postcard - “Pskov distances”. And so I ended up here. I want to ask - was this given?

“In general, they did,” I say.

— Typically Pskov?

- Not without it.

The man walked away, beaming...”

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

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

A group of friends and acquaintances of the main character examines the sculptural composition by artist Orlov “People in Hats”:

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

“Everyone is wearing hats,” Orlov became excited. - And everyone has their own inner world under their hat. Do you see this big-nosed guy? He's a big-nosed guy, but he still has his own world under his hat. Which one do you think?

The girl Clara Courbet, and after her the others, closely examined the big-nosed member of the sculptural group, wondering what kind of inner world he had.

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

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

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

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

“All this is correct,” Orlov said, stuttering slightly. - Accurately noted. That's exactly the struggle...

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

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

“And underneath this there is a struggle between good and evil.”

“He-he,” answered Clara Courbet. - Nothing like this.

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

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

Peering at the sculptural group, Clara was silent.

“There's something else going on under that hat,” she began slowly. “This is... a fight of a fight with a fight!”

Excerpt from the story
Chapter II

My mommy

I had a mother, affectionate, kind, sweet. My mother and I lived in a small house on the banks of the Volga. The house was so clean and bright, and from the windows of our apartment we could see the wide, beautiful Volga, and huge two-story steamships, and barges, and a pier on the shore, and crowds of people walking who came out to this pier at certain hours to meet the arriving ships... And mommy and I went there, only rarely, very rarely: mommy gave lessons in our city, and she was not allowed to walk with me as often as I would like. Mommy said:

Wait, Lenusha, I’ll save up some money and take you along the Volga from our Rybinsk all the way to Astrakhan! Then we'll have a blast.
I was happy and waiting for spring.
By spring, mommy had saved up some money, and we decided to carry out our idea on the first warm days.
- As soon as the Volga is cleared of ice, you and I will go for a ride! - Mommy said, affectionately stroking my head.
But when the ice broke, she caught a cold and began to cough. The ice passed, the Volga cleared, but mommy coughed and coughed endlessly. She suddenly became thin and transparent, like wax, and she kept sitting by the window, looking at the Volga and repeating:
“The cough will go away, I’ll get better a little, and you and I will ride to Astrakhan, Lenusha!”
But the cough and cold did not go away; The summer was damp and cold this year, and every day mommy became thinner, paler and more transparent.
Autumn has come. September has arrived. Long lines of cranes stretched over the Volga, flying to warm countries. Mommy no longer sat by the window in the living room, but lay on the bed and shivered all the time from the cold, while she herself was hot as fire.
Once she called me over and said:
- Listen, Lenusha. Your mother will soon leave you forever... But don’t worry, dear. I will always look at you from heaven and will rejoice at the good deeds of my girl, and...
I didn’t let her finish and cried bitterly. And mommy started crying too, and her eyes became sad, sad, just like those of the angel I saw on the big icon in our church.
Having calmed down a little, mommy spoke again:
- I feel that the Lord will soon take me to Himself, and may His holy will be done! Be a good girl without a mother, pray to God and remember me... You will go to live with your uncle, my brother, who lives in St. Petersburg... I wrote to him about you and asked him to shelter an orphan...
Something painfully painful when hearing the word “orphan” squeezed my throat...
I began to sob, cry and huddle by my mother’s bed. Maryushka (the cook who lived with us for nine years, from the very year I was born, and who loved mommy and me madly) came and took me to her place, saying that “mama needs peace.”
I fell asleep in tears that night on Maryushka’s bed, and in the morning... Oh, what happened in the morning!..
I woke up very early, I think around six o’clock, and wanted to run straight to mommy.
At that moment Maryushka came in and said:
- Pray to God, Lenochka: God took your mother to him. Your mom died.
- Mommy died! - I repeated like an echo.
And suddenly I felt so cold, cold! Then there was a noise in my head, and the whole room, and Maryushka, and the ceiling, and the table, and the chairs - everything turned over and began to spin before my eyes, and I no longer remember what happened to me after this. I think I fell on the floor unconscious...
I woke up when my mother was already lying in a large white box, in a white dress, with a white wreath on her head. An old, gray-haired priest read prayers, the singers sang, and Maryushka prayed at the threshold of the bedroom. Some old women came and also prayed, then looked at me with regret, shook their heads and mumbled something with their toothless mouths...
- Orphan! Orphan! - Also shaking her head and looking at me pitifully, Maryushka said and cried. The old women also cried...
On the third day, Maryushka took me to the white box in which Mommy was lying, and told me to kiss Mommy’s hand. Then the priest blessed mommy, the singers sang something very sad; some men came up, closed the white box and carried it out of our house...
I cried loudly. But then old women I already knew arrived, saying that they were going to bury my mother and that there was no need to cry, but to pray.
The white box was brought to the church, we held mass, and then some people came up again, picked up the box and carried it to the cemetery. A deep black hole had already been dug there, into which mother’s coffin was lowered. Then they covered the hole with earth, placed a white cross over it, and Maryushka led me home.
On the way, she told me that in the evening she would take me to the station, put me on a train and send me to St. Petersburg to see my uncle.
“I don’t want to go to my uncle,” I said gloomily, “I don’t know any uncle and I’m afraid to go to him!”
But Maryushka said that it was a shame to tell the big girl like that, that mommy heard it and that my words hurt her.
Then I became quiet and began to remember my uncle’s face.
I never saw my St. Petersburg uncle, but there was a portrait of him in my mother’s album. He was depicted on it in a gold embroidered uniform, with many orders and with a star on his chest. He looked very important, and I was involuntarily afraid of him.
After dinner, which I barely touched, Maryushka packed all my dresses and underwear into an old suitcase, gave me tea and took me to the station.

Lydia Charskaya
NOTES OF A LITTLE GYMNASIUM STUDENT

Excerpt from the story
Chapter XXI
To the sound of the wind and the whistle of a snowstorm

The wind whistled, screeched, groaned and hummed in different ways. Either in a plaintive thin voice, or in a rough bass rumble, he sang his battle song. The lanterns flickered barely noticeably through the huge white flakes of snow that fell abundantly on the sidewalks, on the street, on carriages, horses and passers-by. And I kept walking and walking, forward and forward...
Nyurochka told me:
“You first have to go through a long, big street, where there are such tall houses and luxurious shops, then turn right, then left, then right again and left again, and then everything is straight, straight to the very end - to our house. You will recognize it right away. It’s near the cemetery, there’s also a white church... so beautiful.”
I did so. I walked straight, as it seemed to me, along a long and wide street, but I didn’t see any tall houses or luxury shops. Everything was obscured from my eyes by a white, shroud-like, living, loose wall of silently falling huge flakes of snow. I turned right, then left, then right again, doing everything with precision, as Nyurochka told me - and I kept walking, walking, walking endlessly.
The wind mercilessly ruffled the flaps of my burnusik, piercing me through and through with cold. Snow flakes hit my face. Now I was no longer walking as fast as before. My legs felt like they were filled with lead from fatigue, my whole body was shaking from the cold, my hands were numb, and I could barely move my fingers. Having turned right and left almost for the fifth time, I now went along the straight path. The quiet, barely noticeable flickering lights of lanterns came across me less and less often... The noise from the riding of horse-drawn horses and carriages in the streets died down significantly, and the path along which I walked seemed dull and deserted to me.
Finally the snow began to thin out; huge flakes did not fall so often now. The distance cleared up a little, but instead there was such a thick twilight all around me that I could barely make out the road.
Now neither the noise of driving, nor voices, nor the coachman's exclamations could be heard around me.
What silence! What dead silence!..
But what is it?
My eyes, already accustomed to the semi-darkness, now discern the surroundings. Lord, where am I?
No houses, no streets, no carriages, no pedestrians. In front of me is an endless, huge expanse of snow... Some forgotten buildings along the edges of the road... Some fences, and in front of me is something black, huge. It must be a park or a forest - I don’t know.
I turned back... Lights were flashing behind me... lights... lights... There were so many of them! Without end... without counting!
- Lord, this is a city! The city, of course! - I exclaim. - And I went to the outskirts...
Nyurochka said that they live on the outskirts. Yes of course! What darkens in the distance is the cemetery! There is a church there, and, just a short distance away, their house! Everything, everything turned out just as she said. But I was scared! What a stupid thing!
And with joyful inspiration I again walked forward vigorously.
But it was not there!
My legs could hardly obey me now. I could barely move them from fatigue. The incredible cold made me tremble from head to toe, my teeth chattered, there was a noise in my head, and something hit my temples with all its might. To all this was added some strange drowsiness. I wanted to sleep so badly, I wanted to sleep so badly!
“Well, well, a little more - and you will be with your friends, you will see Nikifor Matveevich, Nyura, their mother, Seryozha!” - I mentally encouraged myself as best I could...
But this didn’t help either.
My legs could barely move, and now I had difficulty pulling them, first one, then the other, out of the deep snow. But they move more and more slowly, more and more quietly... And the noise in my head becomes more and more audible, and something hits my temples stronger and stronger...
Finally, I can’t stand it and fall onto a snowdrift that has formed on the edge of the road.
Oh, how good! How sweet it is to relax like this! Now I don’t feel tired or pain... Some kind of pleasant warmth spreads throughout my whole body... Oh, how good! She would just sit here and never leave! And if it weren’t for the desire to find out what happened to Nikifor Matveyevich, and to visit him, healthy or sick, I would certainly fall asleep here for an hour or two... I fell asleep soundly! Moreover, the cemetery is not far away... You can see it there. A mile or two, no more...
The snow stopped falling, the blizzard subsided a little, and the month emerged from behind the clouds.
Oh, it would be better if the moon didn’t shine and at least I wouldn’t know the sad reality!
No cemetery, no church, no houses - there is nothing ahead!.. Only the forest turns black like a huge black spot there in the distance, and the white dead field spreads around me like an endless veil...
Horror overwhelmed me.
Now I just realized that I was lost.

Lev Tolstoy

Swans

The swans flew in a herd from the cold side to the warm lands. They flew across the sea. They flew day and night, and another day and another night, without resting, they flew over the water. There was a full month in the sky, and the swans saw blue water far below them. All the swans were exhausted, flapping their wings; but they did not stop and flew on. Old, strong swans flew in front, and those who were younger and weaker flew behind. One young swan flew behind everyone. His strength weakened. He flapped his wings and could not fly any further. Then he, spreading his wings, went down. He descended closer and closer to the water; and his comrades further and further became whiter in the monthly light. The swan descended onto the water and folded its wings. The sea rose beneath him and rocked him. A flock of swans was barely visible as a white line in the light sky. And in the silence you could barely hear the sound of their wings ringing. When they were completely out of sight, the swan bent its neck back and closed its eyes. He did not move, and only the sea, rising and falling in a wide strip, raised and lowered him. Before dawn, a light breeze began to sway the sea. And the water splashed into the white chest of the swan. The swan opened his eyes. The dawn reddened in the east, and the moon and stars became paler. The swan sighed, stretched out its neck and flapped its wings, rose up and flew, clinging to the water with its wings. He rose higher and higher and flew alone over the dark, rippling waves.

Paulo Coelho
Parable "The Secret of Happiness"

One merchant sent his son to learn the Secret of Happiness from the wisest of all people. The young man walked forty days through the desert and
Finally, he came to a beautiful castle that stood on the top of the mountain. There lived the sage whom he was looking for. However, instead of the expected meeting with a wise man, our hero found himself in a hall where everything was seething: merchants came in and out, people were talking in the corner, a small orchestra played sweet melodies and there was a table laden with the most exquisite dishes of the area. The sage talked with different people, and the young man had to wait about two hours for his turn.
The sage listened carefully to the young man's explanations about the purpose of his visit, but said in response that he did not have time to reveal to him the Secret of Happiness. And he invited him to take a walk around the palace and come again in two hours.
“However, I want to ask for one favor,” the sage added, handing the young man a small spoon into which he dropped two drops of oil. — Keep this spoon in your hand the entire time you walk so that the oil does not spill out.
The young man began to go up and down the palace stairs, not taking his eyes off the spoon. Two hours later he returned to the sage.
“Well,” he asked, “have you seen the Persian carpets that are in my dining room?” Have you seen the park that the head gardener took ten years to create? Have you noticed the beautiful parchments in my library?
The young man, embarrassed, had to admit that he did not see anything. His only concern was not to spill the drops of oil that the sage entrusted to him.
“Well, come back and get acquainted with the wonders of my Universe,” the sage told him. “You can’t trust a person if you don’t know the house in which he lives.”
Reassured, the young man took the spoon and again went for a walk around the palace; this time, paying attention to all the works of art hanging on the walls and ceilings of the palace. He saw gardens surrounded by mountains, the most delicate flowers, the sophistication with which each piece of art was placed exactly where it was needed.
Returning to the sage, he described in detail everything he saw.
- Where are the two drops of oil that I entrusted to you? - asked the Sage.
And the young man, looking at the spoon, discovered that all the oil had poured out.
- This is the only advice I can give you: The secret of Happiness is to look at all the wonders of the world, while never forgetting about two drops of oil in your spoon.

Leonardo da Vinci
Parable "NEVOD"

And once again the seine brought a rich catch. The fishermen's baskets were filled to the brim with chubs, carp, tench, pike, eels and a variety of other food items. Whole fish families
with their children and household members, were taken to market stalls and prepared to end their existence, writhing in agony on hot frying pans and in boiling cauldrons.
The remaining fish in the river, confused and overcome with fear, not even daring to swim, buried themselves deeper in the mud. How to live further? You can't handle the net alone. He is abandoned every day in the most unexpected places. He mercilessly destroys the fish, and eventually the entire river will be devastated.
- We must think about the fate of our children. No one but us will take care of them and deliver them from this terrible obsession,” reasoned the minnows who had gathered for a council under a large snag.
“But what can we do?” the tench asked timidly, listening to the speeches of the daredevils.
- Destroy the seine! - the minnows responded in unison. On the same day, the all-knowing nimble eels spread the news along the river
about making a bold decision. All fish, young and old, were invited to gather tomorrow at dawn in a deep, quiet pool, protected by spreading willows.
Thousands of fish of all colors and ages swam to the appointed place to declare war on the net.
- Listen carefully, everyone! - said the carp, which more than once managed to gnaw through the nets and escape from captivity. “The net is as wide as our river.” To keep it upright under water, lead weights are attached to its lower nodes. I order all the fish to split into two schools. The first should lift the sinkers from the bottom to the surface, and the second flock will firmly hold the upper nodes of the net. The pikes are tasked with chewing through the ropes with which the net is attached to both banks.
With bated breath, the fish listened to every word of the leader.
- I order the eels to immediately go on reconnaissance! - continued the carp. - They must establish where the net is thrown.
The eels went on a mission, and schools of fish huddled near the shore in agonizing anticipation. Meanwhile, the minnows tried to encourage the most timid and advised not to panic, even if someone fell into the net: after all, the fishermen would still not be able to pull him ashore.
Finally the eels returned and reported that the net had already been abandoned about a mile down the river.
And so, in a huge armada, schools of fish swam to the goal, led by the wise carp.
“Swim carefully!” the leader warned. “Keep your eyes open so that the current doesn’t drag you into the net.” Use your fins as hard as you can and brake on time!
A seine appeared ahead, gray and ominous. Seized by a fit of anger, the fish boldly rushed to attack.
Soon the seine was lifted from the bottom, the ropes holding it were cut by sharp pike teeth, and the knots were torn. But the angry fish did not calm down and continued to attack the hated enemy. Grasping the crippled, leaky net with their teeth and working hard with their fins and tails, they dragged it in different directions and tore it into small pieces. The water in the river seemed to be boiling.
The fishermen spent a long time scratching their heads about the mysterious disappearance of the net, and the fish still proudly tell this story to their children.

Leonardo da Vinci
Parable "PELICAN"
As soon as the pelican went in search of food, the viper sitting in ambush immediately crawled, stealthily, to its nest. The fluffy chicks slept peacefully, not knowing anything. The snake crawled close to them. Her eyes sparkled with an ominous gleam - and the reprisal began.
Having received a fatal bite each, the serenely sleeping chicks never woke up.
Satisfied with what she had done, the villainess crawled into hiding to enjoy the bird’s grief to the fullest.
Soon the pelican returned from hunting. At the sight of the brutal massacre committed against the chicks, he burst into loud sobs, and all the inhabitants of the forest fell silent, shocked by the unheard-of cruelty.
“I have no life without you now!” lamented the unhappy father, looking at the dead children. “Let me die with you!”
And he began to tear his chest with his beak, right to the heart. Hot blood gushed out in streams from the open wound, sprinkling the lifeless chicks.
Losing his last strength, the dying pelican cast a farewell glance at the nest with the dead chicks and suddenly shuddered in surprise.
Oh miracle! His shed blood and parental love brought the dear chicks back to life, snatching them from the clutches of death. And then, happy, he gave up the ghost.

Lucky
Sergey Silin

Antoshka was running down the street, with his hands in his jacket pockets, tripped and, falling, managed to think: “I’ll break my nose!” But he didn’t have time to take his hands out of his pockets.
And suddenly, right in front of him, out of nowhere, a small, strong man the size of a cat appeared.
The man stretched out his arms and took Antoshka on them, softening the blow.
Antoshka rolled onto his side, got up on one knee and looked at the peasant in surprise:
- Who are you?
- Lucky.
-Who-who?
- Lucky. I will make sure that you are lucky.
- Does every person have a lucky person? - Antoshka asked.
“No, there aren’t that many of us,” the man answered. “We just go from one to the other.” From today I will be with you.
- I'm starting to get lucky! - Antoshka was delighted.
- Exactly! - Lucky nodded.
- When will you leave me for someone else?
- When necessary. I remember I served one merchant for several years. And I helped one pedestrian for only two seconds.
- Yeah! - Antoshka thought. - So I need
anything to wish?
- No no! - The man raised his hands in protest. - I am not a wish-fulfiller! I just give a little help to the smart and hardworking. I just stay nearby and make sure the person is lucky. Where did my invisibility cap go?
He groped around with his hands, felt for the invisibility cap, put it on and disappeared.
- Are you here? - Antoshka asked, just in case.
“Here, here,” responded Lucky. - Don't mind
me attention. Antoshka put his hands in his pockets and ran home. And wow, I was lucky: I made it to the start of the cartoon minute by minute!
An hour later my mother returned from work.
- And I received a prize! - she said with a smile. -
I'll go shopping!
And she went into the kitchen to get some bags.
- Mom got Lucky too? - Antoshka asked his assistant in a whisper.
- No. She's lucky because we're close.
- Mom, I'm with you! - Antoshka shouted.
Two hours later they returned home with a whole mountain of purchases.
- Just a streak of luck! - Mom was surprised, her eyes sparkling. - All my life I dreamed of such a blouse!
- And I’m talking about such a cake! - Antoshka responded cheerfully from the bathroom.
The next day at school he received three A's, two B's, found two rubles and made peace with Vasya Poteryashkin.
And when he returned home whistling, he discovered that he had lost the keys to the apartment.
- Lucky, where are you? - he called.
A tiny, scruffy woman peeked out from under the stairs. Her hair was disheveled, her nose, her dirty sleeve was torn, her shoes were asking for porridge.
- There was no need to whistle! - she smiled and added: “I’m unlucky!” What, you're upset, right?..
Don't worry, don't worry! The time will come, they will call me away from you!
“I see,” Antoshka said sadly. - A streak of bad luck begins...
- That's for sure! - Bad luck nodded joyfully and, stepping into the wall, disappeared.
In the evening, Antoshka received a scolding from his dad for losing his key, accidentally broke his mother’s favorite cup, forgot what he was assigned in Russian, and couldn’t finish reading a book of fairy tales because he left it at school.
And just in front of the window the phone rang:
- Antoshka, is that you? It's me, Lucky!
- Hello, traitor! - Antoshka muttered. - And who are you helping now?
But Lucky wasn’t the least bit offended by the “traitor.”
- To an old lady. Can you imagine, she had bad luck all her life! So my boss sent me to her.
Soon I will help her win a million rubles in the lottery, and I will return to you!
- Is it true? - Antoshka was delighted.
“True, true,” answered Lucky and hung up.
That night Antoshka had a dream. It’s as if she and Lucky are dragging four string bags of Antoshka’s favorite tangerines from the store, and from the window of the house opposite, a lonely old woman smiles at them, lucky for the first time in her life.

Charskaya Lidiya Alekseevna

Lucina's life

Princess Miguel

“Far, far away, at the very end of the world, there was a large, beautiful blue lake, similar in color to a huge sapphire. In the middle of this lake, on a green emerald island, among myrtle and wisteria, intertwined with green ivy and flexible vines, stood a high rock. On it stood a marble a palace, behind which there was a wonderful garden, fragrant with fragrance. It was a very special garden, which can only be found in fairy tales.

The owner of the island and the lands adjacent to it was the powerful king Ovar. And the king had a daughter, the beautiful Miguel, a princess, growing up in the palace...

A fairy tale floats and unfolds like a motley ribbon. A series of beautiful, fantastic pictures swirl before my spiritual gaze. Aunt Musya’s usually ringing voice is now reduced to a whisper. Mysterious and cozy in the green ivy gazebo. The lacy shadow of the trees and bushes surrounding her cast moving spots on the pretty face of the young storyteller. This fairy tale is my favorite. Since the day my dear nanny Fenya, who knew how to tell me so well about the girl Thumbelina, left us, I have listened with pleasure to the only fairy tale about Princess Miguel. I love my princess dearly, despite all her cruelty. Is it her fault, this green-eyed, soft pink and golden-haired princess, that when she was born, the fairies, instead of a heart, put a piece of diamond in her small childish breast? And that the direct consequence of this was the complete absence of pity in the princess’s soul. But how beautiful she was! Beautiful even in those moments when, with the movement of her tiny white hand, she sent people to a cruel death. Those people who accidentally ended up in the princess’s mysterious garden.

In that garden, among the roses and lilies, there were small children. Motionless pretty elves chained with silver chains to golden pegs, they guarded that garden, and at the same time they plaintively rang their bell-like voices.

Let us go free! Let go, beautiful princess Miguel! Let us go! - Their complaints sounded like music. And this music had a pleasant effect on the princess, and she often laughed at the pleas of her little captives.

But their plaintive voices touched the hearts of people passing by the garden. And they looked into the princess’s mysterious garden. Ah, it was no joy that they appeared here! With each such appearance of an uninvited guest, the guards ran out, grabbed the visitor and, on the orders of the princess, threw him into the lake from a cliff

And Princess Miguel laughed only in response to the desperate cries and groans of the drowning...

Even now I still cannot understand how my pretty, cheerful aunt came up with a fairy tale so terrible in essence, so gloomy and heavy! The heroine of this fairy tale, Princess Miguel, was, of course, an invention of the sweet, slightly flighty, but very kind Aunt Musya. Oh, it doesn’t matter, let everyone think that this fairy tale is a fiction, princess Miguel herself is a fiction, but she, my wondrous princess, is firmly entrenched in my impressionable heart... Whether she ever existed or not, what do I really care about? there was a time when I loved her, my beautiful cruel Miguel! I saw her in a dream more than once, I saw her golden hair the color of a ripe ear, her green, like a forest pool, deep eyes.

That year I turned six years old. I was already dismantling warehouses and, with the help of Aunt Musya, I wrote clumsy, lopsided letters instead of sticks. And I already understood beauty. The fabulous beauty of nature: sun, forest, flowers. And my eyes lit up with delight when I saw a beautiful picture or an elegant illustration on a magazine page.

Aunt Musya, dad and grandmother tried from my very early age to develop aesthetic taste in me, drawing my attention to what for other children passed without a trace.

Look, Lyusenka, what a beautiful sunset! You see how wonderfully the crimson sun sinks in the pond! Look, look, now the water has turned completely scarlet. And the surrounding trees seem to be on fire.

I look and seethe with delight. Indeed, scarlet water, scarlet trees and scarlet sun. What a beauty!

Yu.Yakovlev Girls from Vasilyevsky Island

I'm Valya Zaitseva from Vasilyevsky Island.

There is a hamster living under my bed. He will stuff his cheeks full, in reserve, sit on his hind legs and look with black buttons... Yesterday I beat one boy. I gave him a good bream. We, Vasileostrovsk girls, know how to stand up for ourselves when necessary...

It’s always windy here on Vasilyevsky. The rain is falling. Wet snow is falling. Floods happen. And our island floats like a ship: on the left is the Neva, on the right is the Nevka, in front is the open sea.

I have a friend - Tanya Savicheva. We are neighbors. She is from the Second Line, building 13. Four windows on the first floor. There is a bakery nearby, and a kerosene shop in the basement... Now there is no shop, but in Tanino, when I was not yet alive, there was always a smell of kerosene on the ground floor. They told me.

Tanya Savicheva was the same age as I am now. She could have grown up long ago and become a teacher, but she would forever remain a girl... When my grandmother sent Tanya to get kerosene, I was not there. And she went to the Rumyantsevsky Garden with another friend. But I know everything about her. They told me.

She was a songbird. She always sang. She wanted to recite poetry, but she stumbled over her words: she would stumble, and everyone would think that she had forgotten the right word. My friend sang because when you sing, you don't stutter. She couldn’t stutter, she was going to become a teacher, like Linda Augustovna.

She always played teacher. He will put a large grandmother's scarf on his shoulders, clasp his hands and walk from corner to corner. “Children, today we will do repetition with you...” And then he stumbles on a word, blushes and turns to the wall, although there is no one in the room.

They say there are doctors who treat stuttering. I would find one like that. We, Vasileostrovsk girls, will find anyone you want! But now the doctor is no longer needed. She stayed there... my friend Tanya Savicheva. She was taken from besieged Leningrad to the mainland, and the road, called the Road of Life, could not give Tanya life.

The girl died of hunger... Does it matter whether you die from hunger or from a bullet? Maybe hunger hurts even more...

I decided to find the Road of Life. I went to Rzhevka, where this road begins. I walked two and a half kilometers - there the guys were building a monument to the children who died during the siege. I also wanted to build.

Some adults asked me:

- Who are you?

— I’m Valya Zaitseva from Vasilyevsky Island. I also want to build.

I was told:

- It is forbidden! Come with your area.

I didn't leave. I looked around and saw a baby, a tadpole. I grabbed it:

— Did he also come with his region?

- He came with his brother.

You can do it with your brother. With the region it is possible. But what about being alone?

I told them:

- You see, I don’t just want to build. I want to build for my friend... Tanya Savicheva.

They rolled their eyes. They didn't believe it. They asked again:

— Is Tanya Savicheva your friend?

-What's special here? We are the same age. Both are from Vasilyevsky Island.

- But she’s not there...

How stupid people are, and adults too! What does “no” mean if we are friends? I told them to understand:

- We have everything in common. Both the street and the school. We have a hamster. He'll stuff his cheeks...

I noticed that they didn't believe me. And so that they would believe, she blurted out:

“We even have the same handwriting!”

- Handwriting? - They were even more surprised.

- And what? Handwriting!

Suddenly they became cheerful because of the handwriting:

- This is very good! This is a real find. Come with us.

- I'm not going anywhere. I want to build...

- You will build! You will write for the monument in Tanya’s handwriting.

“I can,” I agreed. - Only I don’t have a pencil. Will you give it?

- You will write on concrete. You don't write on concrete with a pencil.

I've never written on concrete. I wrote on the walls, on the asphalt, but they brought me to the concrete plant and gave me Tanya’s diary - a notebook with the alphabet: a, b, c... I have the same book. For forty kopecks.

I picked up Tanya’s diary and opened the page. It was written there:

I felt cold. I wanted to give them the book and leave.

But I am Vasileostrovskaya. And if a friend’s older sister died, I should stay with her and not run away.

- Give me your concrete. I will write.

The crane lowered a huge frame of thick gray dough to my feet. I took a stick, squatted down and began to write. The concrete was cold. It was difficult to write. And they told me:

- Do not rush.

I made mistakes, smoothed the concrete with my palm and wrote again.

I didn't do well.

- Do not rush. Write calmly.

While I was writing about Zhenya, my grandmother died.

If you just want to eat, it’s not hunger - eat an hour later.

I tried fasting from morning to evening. I endured it. Hunger - when day after day your head, hands, heart - everything you have goes hungry. First he starves, then he dies.

Leka had his own corner, fenced off with cabinets, where he drew.

He earned money by drawing and studied. He was quiet and short-sighted, wore glasses, and kept creaking his pen. They told me.

Where did he die? Probably in the kitchen, where the potbelly stove smoked like a small weak locomotive, where they slept and ate bread once a day. A small piece is like a cure for death. Leka didn't have enough medicine...

“Write,” they told me quietly.

In the new frame, the concrete was liquid, it crawled onto the letters. And the word “died” disappeared. I didn't want to write it again. But they told me:

- Write, Valya Zaitseva, write.

And I wrote again - “died.”

I am very tired of writing the word “died”. I knew that with each page of Tanya Savicheva’s diary it was getting worse. She stopped singing a long time ago and did not notice that she stuttered. She no longer played teacher. But she didn’t give up - she lived. They told me... Spring has come. The trees have turned green. We have a lot of trees on Vasilyevsky. Tanya dried out, froze, became thin and light. Her hands were shaking and her eyes hurt from the sun. The Nazis killed half of Tanya Savicheva, and maybe more than half. But her mother was with her, and Tanya held on.

- Why don’t you write? - they told me quietly. - Write, Valya Zaitseva, otherwise the concrete will harden.

For a long time I did not dare to open a page with the letter “M”. On this page Tanya’s hand wrote: “Mom May 13 at 7.30 o’clock.

morning 1942." Tanya did not write the word “died”. She didn't have the strength to write the word.

I gripped the wand tightly and touched the concrete. I didn’t look in my diary, but wrote it by heart. It's good that we have the same handwriting.

I wrote with all my might. The concrete became thick, almost frozen. He no longer crawled onto the letters.

-Can you still write?

“I’ll finish writing,” I answered and turned away so that my eyes could not see. After all, Tanya Savicheva is my... girlfriend.

Tanya and I are the same age, we, Vasileostrovsky girls, know how to stand up for ourselves when necessary. If she hadn’t been from Vasileostrovsk, from Leningrad, she wouldn’t have lasted so long. But she lived, which means she didn’t give up!

I opened page “C”. There were two words: “The Savichevs died.”

I opened the page “U” - “Everyone Died.” The last page of Tanya Savicheva’s diary began with the letter “O” - “There is only Tanya left.”

And I imagined that it was me, Valya Zaitseva, who was left alone: ​​without mom, without dad, without my sister Lyulka. Hungry. Under fire.

In an empty apartment on the Second Line. I wanted to cross out this last page, but the concrete hardened and the stick broke.

And suddenly I asked Tanya Savicheva to myself: “Why alone?

And I? You have a friend - Valya Zaitseva, your neighbor from Vasilyevsky Island. You and I will go to the Rumyantsevsky Garden, run around, and when you get tired, I’ll bring my grandmother’s scarf from home and we’ll play teacher Linda Augustovna. There is a hamster living under my bed. I'll give it to you for your birthday. Do you hear, Tanya Savicheva?”

Someone put his hand on my shoulder and said:

- Let's go, Valya Zaitseva. You did everything you needed to do. Thank you.

I didn’t understand why they were saying “thank you” to me. I said:

- I’ll come tomorrow... without my area. Can?

“Come without a district,” they told me. - Come.

My friend Tanya Savicheva did not shoot at the Nazis and was not a scout for the partisans. She simply lived in her hometown during the most difficult time. But perhaps the reason the Nazis did not enter Leningrad was because Tanya Savicheva lived there and there were many other girls and boys who remained forever in their time. And today’s guys are friends with them, just as I am friends with Tanya.

But they are only friends with the living.

Vladimir Zheleznyakov “Scarecrow”

A circle of their faces flashed in front of me, and I rushed around in it, like a squirrel in a wheel.

I should stop and leave.

The boys attacked me.

“For her legs! - Valka yelled. - For your legs!..”

They knocked me down and grabbed me by the legs and arms. I kicked and kicked as hard as I could, but they grabbed me and dragged me into the garden.

Iron Button and Shmakova dragged out a scarecrow mounted on a long stick. Dimka came out after them and stood to the side. The stuffed animal was in my dress, with my eyes, with my mouth from ear to ear. The legs were made of stockings stuffed with straw; instead of hair, there was tow and some feathers sticking out. On my neck, that is, the scarecrow, dangled a plaque with the words: “SCACHERY IS A TRAITOR.”

Lenka fell silent and somehow completely faded away.

Nikolai Nikolaevich realized that the limit of her story and the limit of her strength had come.

“And they were having fun around the stuffed animal,” said Lenka. - They jumped and laughed:

“Wow, our beauty-ah!”

“I waited!”

“I came up with an idea! I came up with an idea! - Shmakova jumped for joy. “Let Dimka light the fire!”

After these words from Shmakova, I completely stopped being afraid. I thought: if Dimka sets it on fire, then maybe I’ll just die.

And at this time Valka - he was the first in time everywhere - stuck the scarecrow into the ground and sprinkled brushwood around it.

“I don’t have matches,” Dimka said quietly.

“But I have it!” - Shaggy put matches in Dimka’s hand and pushed him towards the scarecrow.

Dimka stood near the scarecrow, his head bowed low.

I froze - I was waiting for the last time! Well, I thought he would look back and say: “Guys, Lenka is not to blame for anything... It’s all me!”

“Set it on fire!” - ordered the Iron Button.

I couldn’t stand it and screamed:

“Dimka! No need, Dimka-ah-ah!..”

And he was still standing near the scarecrow - I could see his back, he was hunched over and seemed somehow small. Maybe because the scarecrow was on a long stick. Only he was small and weak.

“Well, Somov! - said the Iron Button. “Finally, go to the end!”

Dimka fell to his knees and lowered his head so low that only his shoulders stuck out, and his head was not visible at all. It turned out to be some kind of headless arsonist. He struck a match and a flame of fire grew over his shoulders. Then he jumped up and hurriedly ran to the side.

They dragged me close to the fire. Without looking away, I looked at the flames of the fire. Grandfather! I felt then how this fire engulfed me, how it burned, baked and bited, although only waves of its heat reached me.

I screamed, I screamed so much that they let me out of surprise.

When they released me, I rushed to the fire and began to kick it around with my feet, grabbing the burning branches with my hands - I didn’t want the scarecrow to burn. For some reason I really didn’t want this!

Dimka was the first to come to his senses.

“Are you crazy? “He grabbed my hand and tried to pull me away from the fire. - This is a joke! Don’t you understand jokes?”

I became strong and easily defeated him. She pushed him so hard that he flew upside down - only his heels sparkled towards the sky. And she pulled the scarecrow out of the fire and began waving it over her head, stepping on everyone. The scarecrow had already caught fire, sparks were flying from it in different directions, and they all shied away in fear from these sparks.

They ran away.

And I got so dizzy, driving them away, that I couldn’t stop until I fell. There was a stuffed animal lying next to me. It was scorched, fluttering in the wind and that made it look like it was alive.

At first I lay with my eyes closed. Then she felt that she smelled something burning and opened her eyes - the scarecrow’s dress was smoking. I slammed my hand down on the smoldering hem and leaned back onto the grass.

There was a crunch of branches, retreating footsteps, and then there was silence.

"Anne of Green Gables" by Lucy Maud Montgomery

It was already quite light when Anya woke up and sat up in bed, looking confusedly out the window through which a stream of joyful sunlight was pouring and behind which something white and fluffy was swaying against the background of the bright blue sky.

At first, she couldn't remember where she was. At first she felt a delightful thrill, as if something very pleasant had happened, then a terrible memory appeared. It was Green Gables, but they didn’t want to leave her here because she was not a boy!

But it was morning, and outside the window stood a cherry tree, all in bloom. Anya jumped out of bed and in one leap found herself at the window. Then she pushed the window frame - the frame gave way with a creak, as if it had not been opened for a long time, which, however, was in fact - and sank to her knees, peering into the June morning. Her eyes sparkled with delight. Ah, isn't this wonderful? Isn't this a lovely place? If only she could stay here! She will imagine herself staying. There is room for imagination here.

A huge cherry tree grew so close to the window that its branches touched the house. It was so densely strewn with flowers that not a single leaf was visible. On both sides of the house there were large gardens, on one side an apple tree, on the other a cherry tree, all in bloom. The grass under the trees seemed yellow from the blooming dandelions. A little further away in the garden one could see lilac bushes, all in clusters of bright purple flowers, and the morning breeze carried their dizzyingly sweet aroma to Anya’s window.

Further beyond the garden, green meadows covered with lush clover descended to a valley where a stream ran and many white birch trees grew, the slender trunks of which rose above the undergrowth, suggesting a wonderful holiday among ferns, mosses and forest grasses. Beyond the valley was a hill, green and fluffy with spruce and fir trees. Among them there was a small gap, and through it one could see the gray mezzanine of the house that Anya had seen the day before from the other side of the Lake of Sparkling Waters.

To the left were large barns and other outbuildings, and beyond them green fields sloped down to the sparkling blue sea.

Anya’s eyes, receptive to beauty, slowly moved from one picture to another, greedily absorbing everything that was in front of her. The poor thing has seen so many ugly places in her life. But what was revealed to her now exceeded her wildest dreams.

She knelt, forgetting about everything in the world except the beauty that surrounded her, until she shuddered, feeling someone's hand on her shoulder. The little dreamer did not hear Marilla enter.

“It’s time to get dressed,” said Marilla shortly.

Marilla simply did not know how to talk to this child, and this ignorance, which was unpleasant to her, made her harsh and decisive against her will.

Anya stood up with a deep sigh.

- Ah. isn't it wonderful? - she asked, pointing her hand at the beautiful world outside the window.

“Yes, it’s a big tree,” said Marilla, “and it blooms profusely, but the cherries themselves are no good—small and wormy.”

- Oh, I'm not just talking about the tree; of course, it is beautiful... yes, it is dazzlingly beautiful... it blooms as if it were extremely important for itself... But I meant everything: the garden, and the trees, and the stream, and the forests - the whole big beautiful world. Don't you feel like you love the whole world on a morning like this? Even here I can hear the stream laughing in the distance. Have you ever noticed what joyful creatures these streams are? They always laugh. Even in winter I can hear their laughter from under the ice. I'm so glad there's a stream here near Green Gables. Maybe you think it doesn't matter to me since you don't want to leave me here? But that's not true. I will always be pleased to remember that there is a stream near Green Gables, even if I never see it again. If there had not been a stream here, I would always have been haunted by the unpleasant feeling that it should have been here. This morning I am not in the depths of grief. I am never in the depths of grief in the morning. Isn't it wonderful that there is morning? But I'm very sad. I just imagined that you still need me and that I will stay here forever, forever. It was a great comfort to imagine this. But the most unpleasant thing about imagining things is that there comes a moment when you have to stop imagining, and this is very painful.

“Better get dressed, go downstairs, and don’t think about your imaginary things,” said Marilla, as soon as she managed to get a word in edgewise. - Breakfast is waiting. Wash your face and comb your hair. Leave the window open and turn the bed around to air it out. And hurry up, please.

Anya obviously could act quickly when required, because within ten minutes she came downstairs, neatly dressed, with her hair combed and braided, her face washed; At the same time, her soul was filled with the pleasant consciousness that she had fulfilled all of Marilla’s demands. However, in fairness, it should be noted that she still forgot to open the bed for airing.

“I’m very hungry today,” she announced, slipping into the chair indicated to her by Marilla. “The world no longer seems as dark a desert as it did last night.” I'm so glad it's a sunny morning. However, I love rainy mornings too. Every morning is interesting, right? There is no telling what awaits us on this day, and there is so much left to the imagination. But I’m glad that it’s not raining today, because it’s easier not to be discouraged and to endure the vicissitudes of fate on a sunny day. I feel like I have a lot to endure today. It's very easy to read about other people's misfortunes and imagine that we too could heroically overcome them, but it's not so easy when we actually have to face them, right?

“For God's sake, hold your tongue,” said Marilla. “A little girl shouldn’t talk so much.”

After this remark, Anya fell completely silent, so obediently that her continued silence began to irritate Marilla somewhat, as if it were something not entirely natural. Matthew was also silent - but at least that was natural - so breakfast passed in complete silence.

As he neared the end, Anya became more and more distracted. She ate mechanically, and her large eyes were constantly, unseeingly looking at the sky outside the window. This irritated Marilla even more. She had an unpleasant feeling that while the body of this strange child was at the table, his spirit was soaring on the wings of fantasy in some transcendental land. Who would want to have such a child in the house?

And yet, what was most incomprehensible, Matthew wanted to leave her! Marilla felt that he wanted it this morning as much as he did last night, and that he intended to continue to want it. It was his usual way to get some whim into his head and cling to it with amazing silent tenacity - ten times more powerful and effective thanks to silence than if he talked about his desire from morning to evening.

When breakfast was over, Anya came out of her reverie and offered to wash the dishes.

— Do you know how to wash dishes properly? asked Marilla incredulously.

- Pretty good. True, I am better at babysitting children. I have a lot of experience in this matter. It's a pity that you don't have children here for me to take care of.

“But I wouldn’t want there to be any more children here than there are at the moment.” You alone are enough trouble. I can't imagine what to do with you. Matthew is so funny.

“He seemed very nice to me,” said Anya reproachfully. “He’s very friendly and didn’t mind at all, no matter how much I said it—he seemed to like it.” I felt a kindred spirit in him as soon as I saw him.

“You're both eccentrics, if that's what you mean when you talk about kindred spirits,” Marilla snorted. - Okay, you can wash the dishes. Use hot water and dry thoroughly. I already have a lot of work to do this morning because I have to go to White Sands this afternoon to see Mrs. Spencer. You will come with me, and there we will decide what to do with you. When you're done with the dishes, go upstairs and make the bed.

Anya washed the dishes quite quickly and thoroughly, which did not go unnoticed by Marilla. Then she made the bed, though with less success, because she had never learned the art of fighting feather beds. But still the bed was made, and Marilla, in order to get rid of the girl for a while, said that she would allow her to go into the garden and play there until dinner.

Anya rushed to the door, with a lively face and shining eyes. But right at the threshold she suddenly stopped, turned sharply back and sat down near the table, the expression of delight disappearing from her face, as if the wind had blown it away.

- Well, what else happened? asked Marilla.

“I don’t dare go out,” said Anya in the tone of a martyr renouncing all earthly joys. “If I can’t stay here, I shouldn’t fall in love with Green Gables.” And if I go out and get acquainted with all these trees, flowers, and garden, and stream, I cannot help but fall in love with them. My soul is already heavy, and I don’t want it to become even heavier. I really want to go out - everything seems to be calling me: “Anya, Anya, come out to us! Anya, Anya, we want to play with you!” - but it's better not to do this. You shouldn't fall in love with something you'll be torn away from forever, right? And it’s so hard to resist and not fall in love, isn’t it? That's why I was so happy when I thought I'd stay here. I thought there was so much to love here and nothing would get in my way. But this brief dream passed. Now I have come to terms with my fate, so it’s better for me not to go out. Otherwise, I'm afraid I won't be able to reconcile with him again. What is the name of this flower in a pot on the windowsill, please tell me?

- This is a geranium.

- Oh, I don't mean that name. I mean the name you gave her. You didn't give her a name? Then can I do it? Can I call her... oh, let me think... Darling will do... can I call her Darling while I'm here? Oh, let me call her that!

- For God's sake, I don't care. But what's the point in naming geraniums?

- Oh, I like things to have names, even if it's just geraniums. This makes them more like people. How do you know you're not hurting geranium's feelings when you just call it "geranium" and nothing more? After all, you wouldn’t like it if you were always called just a woman. Yes, I will call her Darling. I gave a name to this cherry tree under my bedroom window this morning. I named her the Snow Queen because she is so white. Of course, it won’t always be in bloom, but you can always imagine it, right?

“I’ve never seen or heard anything like this in my life,” Marilla muttered, fleeing to the basement for potatoes. “She's really interesting, as Matthew says.” I can already feel myself wondering what else she will say. She casts a spell on me too. And she’s already unleashed them on Matthew. That look he gave me as he left again expressed everything he had said and hinted at yesterday. It would be better if he were like other men and talked about everything openly. Then it would be possible to answer and convince him. But what can you do with a man who only watches?

When Marilla returned from her pilgrimage to the basement, she found Anne again falling into a reverie. The girl sat with her chin resting on her hands and her gaze fixed on the sky. So Marilla left her until dinner appeared on the table.

“Can I take the mare and the gig after lunch, Matthew?” asked Marilla.

Matthew nodded and looked sadly at Anya. Marilla caught this glance and said dryly:

“I’m going to go to White Sands and resolve this issue.” I'll take Anya with me so Mrs. Spencer can send her back to Nova Scotia right away. I'll leave some tea for you on the stove and come home in time for milking.

Again Matthew said nothing. Marilla felt that she was wasting her words. Nothing is more annoying than a man who doesn't respond...except a woman who doesn't respond.

In due time, Matthew harnessed the bay horse, and Marilla and Anya got into the convertible. Matthew opened the courtyard gate for them and, as they slowly drove past, he said loudly, apparently not addressing anyone:

“There was this guy here this morning, Jerry Buot from Creek, and I told him I'd hire him for the summer.

Marilla did not answer, but whipped the unfortunate bay with such force that the fat mare, unaccustomed to such treatment, broke into a gallop indignantly. When the convertible was already rolling along the high road, Marilla turned around and saw that the obnoxious Matthew was leaning against the gate, sadly looking after them.

Sergey Kutsko

WOLVES

The way village life is structured is that if you don’t go out into the forest before noon and take a walk through familiar mushroom and berry places, then by evening there’s nothing to run for, everything will be hidden.

One girl thought so too. The sun has just risen to the tops of the fir trees, and I already have a full basket in my hands, I’ve wandered far, but what mushrooms! She looked around with gratitude and was just about to leave when the distant bushes suddenly trembled and an animal came out into the clearing, its eyes tenaciously following the girl’s figure.

- Oh, dog! - she said.

Cows were grazing somewhere nearby, and meeting a shepherd dog in the forest was not a big surprise to them. But the meeting with several more pairs of animal eyes put me in a daze...

“Wolves,” a thought flashed, “the road is not far, run...” Yes, the strength disappeared, the basket involuntarily fell out of his hands, his legs became weak and disobedient.

- Mother! - this sudden cry stopped the flock, which had already reached the middle of the clearing. - People, help! - flashed three times over the forest.

As the shepherds later said: “We heard screams, we thought the children were playing around...” This is five kilometers from the village, in the forest!

The wolves slowly approached, the she-wolf walked ahead. This happens with these animals - the she-wolf becomes the head of the pack. Only her eyes were not as fierce as they were studying. They seemed to ask: “Well, man? What will you do now, when there are no weapons in your hands, and your relatives are not nearby?

The girl fell to her knees, covered her eyes with her hands and began to cry. Suddenly the thought of prayer came to her, as if something stirred in her soul, as if the words of her grandmother, remembered from childhood, were resurrected: “Ask the Mother of God! ”

The girl did not remember the words of the prayer. Making the sign of the cross, she asked the Mother of God, as if she were her mother, in the last hope of intercession and salvation.

When she opened her eyes, the wolves, passing the bushes, went into the forest. A she-wolf walked slowly ahead, head down.

Boris Ganago

LETTER TO GOD

This happened at the end of the 19th century.

Petersburg. Christmas Eve. A cold, piercing wind blows from the bay. Fine prickly snow is falling. Horses' hooves clatter on the cobblestone streets, shop doors slam - last-minute shopping is being done before the holiday. Everyone is in a hurry to get home quickly.

Only a little boy slowly wanders along a snowy street. Every now and then he takes his cold, red hands out of the pockets of his old coat and tries to warm them with his breath. Then he stuffs them deeper into his pockets again and moves on. Here he stops at the bakery window and looks at the pretzels and bagels displayed behind the glass.

The store door swung open, letting out another customer, and the aroma of freshly baked bread wafted out. The boy swallowed his saliva convulsively, stomped on the spot and wandered on.

Dusk is falling imperceptibly. There are fewer and fewer passers-by. The boy pauses near a building with lights burning in the windows, and, rising on tiptoe, tries to look inside. After a moment's hesitation, he opens the door.

The old clerk was late at work today. He's in no hurry. He has been living alone for a long time and on holidays he feels his loneliness especially acutely. The clerk sat and thought with bitterness that he had no one to celebrate Christmas with, no one to give gifts to. At this time the door opened. The old man looked up and saw the boy.

- Uncle, uncle, I need to write a letter! - the boy said quickly.

- Do you have money? - the clerk asked sternly.

The boy, fiddling with his hat in his hands, took a step back. And then the lonely clerk remembered that today was Christmas Eve and that he really wanted to give someone a gift. He took out a blank sheet of paper, dipped his pen in ink and wrote: “Petersburg. 6th January. Mr...”

- What is the gentleman's last name?

“This is not sir,” muttered the boy, not yet fully believing his luck.

- Oh, is this a lady? — the clerk asked, smiling.

No no! - the boy said quickly.

So who do you want to write a letter to? - the old man was surprised,

- To Jesus.

“How dare you make fun of an elderly man?” — the clerk was indignant and wanted to show the boy to the door. But then I saw tears in the child’s eyes and remembered that today was Christmas Eve. He felt ashamed of his anger, and in a warmer voice he asked:

-What do you want to write to Jesus?

— My mother always taught me to ask God for help when it’s difficult. She said God's name is Jesus Christ. “The boy came closer to the clerk and continued: “And yesterday she fell asleep, and I can’t wake her up.” There’s not even bread at home, I’m so hungry,” he wiped the tears that had come to his eyes with his palm.

- How did you wake her up? - asked the old man, rising from his table.

- I kissed her.

- Is she breathing?

- What are you talking about, uncle, do people breathe in their sleep?

“Jesus Christ has already received your letter,” said the old man, hugging the boy by the shoulders. “He told me to take care of you, and took your mother to Himself.”

The old clerk thought: “My mother, when you left for another world, you told me to be a good person and a pious Christian. I forgot your order, but now you won’t be ashamed of me.”

Boris Ganago

THE SPOKEN WORD

On the outskirts of a big city stood an old house with a garden. They were guarded by a reliable guard - the smart dog Uranus. He never barked at anyone in vain, kept a vigilant eye on strangers, and rejoiced at his owners.

But this house was demolished. Its inhabitants were offered a comfortable apartment, and then the question arose - what to do with the shepherd? As a watchman, Uranus was no longer needed by them, becoming only a burden. There were fierce debates about the dog's fate for several days. Through the open window from the house to the guard kennel, the plaintive sobs of the grandson and the menacing shouts of the grandfather often reached.

What did Uranus understand from the words he heard? Who knows...

Only his daughter-in-law and grandson, who were bringing him food, noticed that the dog’s bowl remained untouched for more than a day. Uranus did not eat in the following days, no matter how much he was persuaded. He no longer wagged his tail when people approached him, and even looked away, as if no longer wanting to look at the people who had betrayed him.

The daughter-in-law, expecting an heir or heiress, suggested:

- Isn’t Uranus sick? The owner said in anger:

“It would be better if the dog died on its own.” There would be no need to shoot then.

The daughter-in-law shuddered.

Uranus looked at the speaker with a look that the owner could not forget for a long time.

The grandson persuaded the neighbor's veterinarian to look at his pet. But the veterinarian did not find any disease, he only said thoughtfully:

- Maybe he was sad about something... Uranus soon died, until his death he barely moved his tail only to his daughter-in-law and grandson, who visited him.

And at night the owner often remembered the look of Uranus, who had faithfully served him for so many years. The old man already regretted the cruel words that killed the dog.

But is it possible to return what was said?

And who knows how the voiced evil hurt the grandson, attached to his four-legged friend?

And who knows how it, scattering around the world like a radio wave, will affect the souls of unborn children, future generations?

Words live, words never die...

An old book told the story: one girl’s father died. The girl missed him. He was always kind to her. She missed this warmth.

One day her dad dreamed of her and said: now be kind to people. Every kind word serves Eternity.

Boris Ganago

MASHENKA

Yule story

Once, many years ago, a girl Masha was mistaken for an Angel. It happened like this.

One poor family had three children. Their dad died, their mom worked where she could, and then got sick. There wasn’t a crumb left in the house, but I was so hungry. What to do?

Mom went out into the street and began to beg, but people passed by without noticing her. Christmas night was approaching, and the woman’s words: “I’m not asking for myself, but for my children... For Christ’s sake! “were drowning in the pre-holiday bustle.

In desperation, she entered the church and began to ask Christ Himself for help. Who else was left to ask?

It was here, at the icon of the Savior, that Masha saw a woman kneeling. Her face was flooded with tears. The girl had never seen such suffering before.

Masha had an amazing heart. When people were happy nearby, and she wanted to jump with happiness. But if someone was in pain, she could not pass by and asked:

What happened to you? Why are you crying? And someone else's pain penetrated her heart. And now she leaned towards the woman:

Are you in grief?

And when she shared her misfortune with her, Masha, who had never felt hungry in her life, imagined three lonely children who had not seen food for a long time. Without thinking, she handed the woman five rubles. It was all her money.

At that time, this was a significant amount, and the woman’s face lit up.

Where is your home? - Masha asked goodbye. She was surprised to learn that a poor family lived in the next basement. The girl did not understand how she could live in a basement, but she knew exactly what she needed to do on this Christmas evening.

The happy mother, as if on wings, flew home. She bought food at a nearby store, and the children greeted her joyfully.

Soon the stove was blazing and the samovar was boiling. The children warmed up, satiated and became quiet. The table laden with food was an unexpected holiday for them, almost a miracle.

But then Nadya, the smallest one, asked:

Mom, is it true that at Christmas time God sends an Angel to children, and he brings them many, many gifts?

Mom knew very well that they had no one to expect gifts from. Glory to God for what He has already given them: everyone is fed and warm. But kids are kids. They so wanted to have a Christmas tree, the same as all the other children. What could she, poor thing, tell them? Destroy a child's faith?

The children looked at her warily, waiting for an answer. And my mother confirmed:

This is true. But the Angel comes only to those who believe in God with all their hearts and pray to Him with all their souls.

“But I believe in God with all my heart and pray to Him with all my heart,” Nadya did not back down. - Let him send us His Angel.

Mom didn't know what to say. There was silence in the room, only the logs crackled in the stove. And suddenly there was a knock. The children shuddered, and the mother crossed herself and opened the door with a trembling hand.

On the threshold stood a little fair-haired girl Masha, and behind her was a bearded man with a Christmas tree in his hands.

Merry Christmas! - Mashenka joyfully congratulated the owners. The children froze.

While the bearded man was setting up the Christmas tree, Nanny Machine entered the room with a large basket, from which gifts immediately began to appear. The kids couldn't believe their eyes. But neither they nor the mother suspected that the girl had given them her Christmas tree and her gifts.

And when the unexpected guests left, Nadya asked:

Was this girl an Angel?

Boris Ganago

BACK TO LIFE

Based on the story “Seryozha” by A. Dobrovolsky

Usually the brothers' beds were next to each other. But when Seryozha fell ill with pneumonia, Sasha was moved to another room and was forbidden to disturb the baby. They just asked me to pray for my brother, who was getting worse and worse.

One evening Sasha looked into the patient’s room. Seryozha lay with his eyes open, seeing nothing, and barely breathing. Frightened, the boy rushed to the office, from which the voices of his parents could be heard. The door was ajar, and Sasha heard his mother, crying, say that Seryozha was dying. Dad answered with pain in his voice:

- Why cry now? There's no way to save him...

In horror, Sasha rushed to his sister’s room. There was no one there, and he fell to his knees, sobbing, in front of the icon of the Mother of God hanging on the wall. Through the sobs the words broke through:

- Lord, Lord, make sure that Seryozha doesn’t die!

Sasha's face was flooded with tears. Everything around blurred as if in a fog. The boy saw in front of him only the face of the Mother of God. The sense of time disappeared.

- Lord, you can do anything, save Seryozha!

It was already completely dark. Exhausted, Sasha stood up with the corpse and lit the table lamp. The Gospel lay before her. The boy turned over a few pages, and suddenly his gaze fell on the line: “Go, and as you believed, so be it for you...”

As if he had heard an order, he went to Seryozha. My mother sat silently at the bedside of her beloved brother. She gave a sign: “Don’t make noise, Seryozha fell asleep.”

Words were not spoken, but this sign was like a ray of hope. He fell asleep - that means he’s alive, that means he will live!

Three days later, Seryozha could already sit in bed, and the children were allowed to visit him. They brought their brother’s favorite toys, a fortress and houses that he had cut out and glued before his illness - everything that could please the baby. The little sister with the big doll stood next to Seryozha, and Sasha, jubilantly, took a photograph of them.

These were moments of real happiness.

Boris Ganago

YOUR CHICKEN

A chick fell out of the nest - very small, helpless, even its wings had not yet grown. He can’t do anything, he just squeaks and opens his beak - asking for food.

The guys took him and brought him into the house. They built him a nest from grass and twigs. Vova fed the baby, and Ira gave him water and took him out into the sun.

Soon the chick grew stronger, and feathers began to grow instead of fluff. The guys found an old birdcage in the attic and, to be safe, they put their pet in it - the cat began to look at him very expressively. All day long he was on duty at the door, waiting for the right moment. And no matter how much his children chased him, he did not take his eyes off the chick.

Summer flew by unnoticed. The chick grew up in front of the children and began to fly around the cage. And soon he felt cramped in it. When the cage was taken outside, he hit the bars and asked to be released. So the guys decided to release their pet. Of course, they were sorry to part with him, but they could not deprive the freedom of someone who was created for flight.

One sunny morning the children said goodbye to their pet, took the cage out into the yard and opened it. The chick jumped onto the grass and looked back at his friends.

At that moment the cat appeared. Hiding in the bushes, he prepared to jump, rushed, but... The chick flew high, high...

The holy elder John of Kronstadt compared our soul to a bird. The enemy is hunting for every soul and wants to catch it. After all, at first the human soul, just like a fledgling chick, is helpless and does not know how to fly. How can we preserve it, how can we grow it so that it does not break on sharp stones or fall into the net of a fisherman?

The Lord created a saving fence behind which our soul grows and strengthens - the house of God, the Holy Church. In it the soul learns to fly high, high, to the very sky. And she will know such a bright joy there that no earthly nets are afraid of her.

Boris Ganago

MIRROR

Dot, dot, comma,

Minus, the face is crooked.

Stick, stick, cucumber -

So the little man came out.

With this poem Nadya finished the drawing. Then, fearing that she would not be understood, she signed under it: “It’s me.” She carefully examined her creation and decided that it was missing something.

The young artist went to the mirror and began to look at herself: what else needs to be completed so that anyone can understand who is depicted in the portrait?

Nadya loved to dress up and twirl in front of a large mirror, and tried different hairstyles. This time the girl tried on her mother’s hat with a veil.

She wanted to look mysterious and romantic, like the long-legged girls showing fashion on TV. Nadya imagined herself as an adult, cast a languid glance in the mirror and tried to walk with the gait of a fashion model. It didn't turn out very nicely, and when she stopped abruptly, the hat slid down onto her nose.

It’s good that no one saw her at that moment. If only we could laugh! In general, she didn’t like being a fashion model at all.

The girl took off her hat, and then her gaze fell on her grandmother’s hat. Unable to resist, she tried it on. And she froze, making an amazing discovery: she looked exactly like her grandmother. She just didn't have any wrinkles yet. Bye.

Now Nadya knew what she would become in many years. True, this future seemed very distant to her...

It became clear to Nadya why her grandmother loves her so much, why she watches her pranks with tender sadness and secretly sighs.

There were footsteps. Nadya hastily put her hat back in place and ran to the door. On the threshold she met... herself, only not so frisky. But the eyes were exactly the same: childishly surprised and joyful.

Nadya hugged her future self and quietly asked:

Grandma, is it true that you were me as a child?

Grandma paused, then smiled mysteriously and took out an old album from the shelf. After flipping through a few pages, she showed a photograph of a little girl who looked very much like Nadya.

That's what I was like.

Oh, really, you look like me! - the granddaughter exclaimed in delight.

Or maybe you are like me? - Grandmother asked, squinting slyly.

It doesn't matter who looks like whom. The main thing is that they are similar,” the little girl insisted.

Isn't it important? And look who I looked like...

And the grandmother began to leaf through the album. There were all sorts of faces there. And what faces! And each was beautiful in its own way. The peace, dignity and warmth that radiated from them attracted the eye. Nadya noticed that all of them - small children and gray-haired old men, young ladies and fit military men - were somehow similar to each other... And to her.

Tell me about them,” the girl asked.

The grandmother hugged her blood to herself, and a story flowed about their family, going back from ancient centuries.

The time for cartoons had already come, but the girl didn’t want to watch them. She was discovering something amazing, something that had been there for a long time, but living inside her.

Do you know the history of your grandfathers, great-grandfathers, the history of your family? Maybe this story is your mirror?

Boris Ganago

PARROT

Petya was wandering around the house. I'm tired of all the games. Then my mother gave instructions to go to the store and also suggested:

Our neighbor, Maria Nikolaevna, broke her leg. There is no one to buy her bread. He can barely move around the room. Come on, I'll call and find out if she needs to buy anything.

Aunt Masha was happy about the call. And when the boy brought her a whole bag of groceries, she didn’t know how to thank him. For some reason, she showed Petya the empty cage in which the parrot had recently lived. It was her friend. Aunt Masha looked after him, shared her thoughts, and he took off and flew away. Now she has no one to say a word to, no one to care about. What kind of life is this if there is no one to take care of?

Petya looked at the empty cage, at the crutches, imagined Aunt Mania hobbling around the empty apartment, and an unexpected thought came to his mind. The fact is that he had long been saving the money that he was given for toys. I still couldn't find anything suitable. And now this strange thought is to buy a parrot for Aunt Masha.

Having said goodbye, Petya ran out into the street. He wanted to go to a pet store, where he had once seen various parrots. But now he looked at them through the eyes of Aunt Masha. Which one of them could she become friends with? Maybe this one will suit her, maybe this one?

Petya decided to ask his neighbor about the fugitive. The next day he told his mother:

Call Aunt Masha... Maybe she needs something?

Mom even froze, then hugged her son to her and whispered:

So you become a man... Petya was offended:

Wasn’t I a human before?

There was, of course there was,” my mother smiled. - Only now your soul has also awakened... Thank God!

What is the soul? — the boy became wary.

This is the ability to love.

The mother looked searchingly at her son:

Maybe you can call yourself?

Petya was embarrassed. Mom answered the phone: Maria Nikolaevna, excuse me, Petya has a question for you. I'll give him the phone now.

There was nowhere to go, and Petya muttered embarrassedly:

Aunt Masha, maybe I should buy you something?

Petya didn’t understand what happened on the other end of the line, only the neighbor answered in some unusual voice. She thanked him and asked him to bring milk if he went to the store. She doesn't need anything else. She thanked me again.

When Petya called her apartment, he heard the hasty clatter of crutches. Aunt Masha didn’t want to make him wait extra seconds.

While the neighbor was looking for money, the boy, as if by chance, began to ask her about the missing parrot. Aunt Masha willingly told us about the color and behavior...

There were several parrots of this color in the pet store. Petya took a long time to choose. When he brought his gift to Aunt Masha, then... I don’t undertake to describe what happened next.

A touching excerpt from the prose of Russian classics

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

   I buried my last joy and hope in a foreign, German land, my son’s battery struck, seeing off its commander on a long journey, and it was as if something in me had snapped. I arrived at my unit not being myself. But then I was soon demobilized. Where to go? Is it really in Voronezh? No way! I remembered that my friend lived in Uryupinsk, demobilized in the winter due to injury - he once invited me to his place - I remembered and went to Uryupinsk.

   My friend and his wife were childless and lived in their own house on the edge of the city. Although he had a disability, he worked as a driver at a car dealership, and I got a job there too. I stayed with a friend and they gave me shelter. We transported various cargoes to the regions, and in the fall we switched to exporting bread. It was at this time that I met my new son, this one who plays in the sand.

   From a flight, it used to be that when you returned to the city, of course, the first thing you did was go to the teahouse: grab something, and, of course, drink a hundred grams from your drink. I must say, I’ve already become thoroughly addicted to this harmful business. And then one time I saw this guy near the tea shop, and the next day I saw him again. Such a little ragged guy: his face is covered in watermelon juice, covered with dust, dirty as dust, unkempt, and his eyes are like stars at night after the rain! And I fell in love with him so much that, miraculously, I already began to miss him, and I’m in a hurry to get off the flight to see him as soon as possible. He fed himself near the teahouse - whoever would give him what.

   On the fourth day, straight from the state farm, loaded with bread, I turned up to the teahouse. My boy is sitting there on the porch, dangling his little legs and, apparently, hungry. I leaned out the window and shouted to him: “Hey, Vanyushka! Get in the car quickly, I’ll take you to the elevator, and from there we’ll come back here and have lunch.” He shuddered at my shout, jumped off the porch, climbed onto the step and quietly said: “How do you know, uncle, that my name is Vanya?” And he opened his eyes wide, waiting for me to answer him. Well, I tell him that I am an experienced person and know everything. He came in from the right side, I opened the door, sat him next to me, and off we went. Such a smart guy, and suddenly he became quiet for some reason, thought about it, and no, no, and looked at me from under his long, upward-curved eyelashes, and sighed. Such a small bird, but he has already learned to sigh. Is it his business? I ask: “Where is your father, Vanya?” He whispers: “He died at the front.” - “And mom?” - “Mom was killed by a bomb on the train while we were traveling.” - “Where were you coming from?” - “I don’t know, I don’t remember.” - “And you don’t have anyone relatives here?” - “Nobody.” - “Where are you spending the night?” - “Where will you have to?”

   A burning tear began to boil inside me, and I immediately decided: “It’s impossible for us to disappear separately! I’ll take him as my child.” And immediately my soul felt light and somehow light. I leaned over to him and quietly asked: “Vanyushka, do you know who I am?” He asked and exhaled: “Who?” I told him just as quietly. "I am your father".
   My God, what happened here! He rushed to my neck, kissed me on the cheeks, on the lips, on the forehead, and he, like a waxwing, screamed so loudly and thinly that even in the booth it was muffled: “Dear dad! I knew! I knew that you would find me! You'll find me anyway! I've been waiting for so long for you to find me! " He pressed himself close to me and trembled all over, like a blade of grass in the wind. And there’s a fog in my eyes, and I’m also trembling all over, and my hands are shaking. How I didn’t lose the steering wheel then, you can wonder! But he still accidentally drove into a ditch and turned off the engine.

2. Nina's monologue from "The Seagull" by A.P. Chekhov. At the university we staged a play based on Chekhov, we recorded this monologue and played the recording... it sounds at the same time touching and creepy, heartbreaking.
   People, lions, eagles and partridges, horned deer, geese, spiders, silent fish that lived in the water, starfish and those that could not be seen with the eye - in a word, all lives, all lives, all lives, having completed a sad circle, faded away ...For thousands of centuries the earth has not carried a single living creature, and this poor moon lights its lantern in vain. Cranes no longer wake up screaming in the meadow, and cockchafers are no longer heard in the linden groves. Cold, cold, cold. Empty, empty, empty. Scary, scary, scary.
   Pause.
   The bodies of living beings disappeared into dust, and eternal matter turned them into stones, into water, into clouds, and the souls of them all merged into one. The common world soul is me... I... I have the soul of Alexander the Great, and Caesar, and Shakespeare, and Napoleon, and the last leech. In me, the consciousness of people has merged with the instincts of animals, and I understand everything, everything, and I experience every life in myself again.
3. Nina's monologue from "The Seagull" by A.P. Chekhov. At the university we staged a play based on Chekhov, we recorded this monologue and started recording it... It sounds both touching and eerie, heartbreaking.
   People, lions, eagles and partridges, horned deer, geese, spiders, silent fish that lived in the water, starfish and those that could not be seen with the eye - in a word, all lives, all lives, all lives, having completed a sad circle, faded away .. . For thousands of centuries the earth has not carried a single living creature, and this poor moon lights its lantern in vain. Cranes no longer wake up screaming in the meadow, and cockchafers are no longer heard in the linden groves. Cold, cold, cold. Empty, empty, empty. Scary, scary, scary.
   Pause.
   The bodies of living beings disappeared into dust, and eternal matter turned them into stones, into water, into clouds, and the souls of them all merged into one. The common world soul is me... I.. . I have the soul of Alexander the Great, and Caesar, and Shakespeare, and Napoleon, and the last leech. In me, the consciousness of people has merged with the instincts of animals, and I understand everything, everything, and I experience every life in myself again.

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

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The speech was rhythmic, and rather similar to poetic, this is the most difficult thing, because you cannot do without it - poetic excerpts legends are simply necessary along with prosaic ones. I won’t lie, I have a version of such an epic, at least... a draft version of pages of 600 printed text, where the poetic excerpts coexist with prosaic fairy tales, legends, traditions, and myths. The main events take place in a protected forest - the same...

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...separate excerpts from an essay on philosophy. (The author, - on the global Internet, ... - unfortunately, has not been identified. “And yet, in comparison with the Infinite World, the picture turns out ... of both being and non-being, that is, visible to man and invisible; and how separately, so first of all and in indissoluble unity." Obviously, the author of the abstract ( excerpts from which we quote here) was somewhat confusing... or rather, he did not want to edit his “absolutely right”... which he wrote about above... Isn’t that why it’s so difficult...

Hello, friends!

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

Today you can find a huge number of recommendations for entering a theater school. The reason is simple - everyone wants to make money by preparing you for admission. Unfortunately, you are not very worried that your future acting destiny largely depends on their “advice.”

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

And some opuses even bring tears to your eyes. Unfortunately, not with joy...

I won’t hide the fact that earlier I also followed this path due to my inexperience and commercialism, but now I’m trying not to give in to the greedy temptation and grief of popularity. And my latest recommendations look more... professional and sensible, or something...

But let's not talk about that. The purpose of today's post is completely different. Now I will share with you really proven methods of entering theater schools, which in many cases really work.

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

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

Aw...Oh... PANIC!!!

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

CALM DOWN!

First of all, calm down and relax. Now let's figure it all out. “Relax,” as my Teacher, Felix Mikhailovich Ivanov, said.

First, what is a creative competition, why is it needed and what is it used for.

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

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

By the way. Having passed one of the stages, do not think that you have been accepted and you are the happy owner of a winning ticket. No. This is just the beginning of the marathon and there is still a long way to go to the end. But you will get there. I am sure about that.

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

Previews.

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

How to make sure that people pay attention to you?

You must be somehow different from everyone in your twenty, ten or five. All means are good for this. There is no need to be shy. Everything is like on the market. You are a commodity. And any seller knows that the buyer is initially attracted only by the appearance of the product, and only then by the taste. They will try you later. On tours.

Now you have decided that you do not have the external qualities for the acting profession? Not very beautiful and too plump? But what about Evgeny Pavlovich Leonov, Alexey Nikolaevich Gribov, Faina Georgievna Ranevskaya, Tatyana Ivanovna Peltzer and Inna Mikhailovna Churikova? Frankly speaking, they are not handsome. However, they can safely be classified as great actors. They are the glory of the Russian theater and our pride.

A small explanation: the course requires students with different external and internal characteristics. Different. And preferably in two or even three copies, in case of illness or expulsion of one of the students. Please note that the course director and teachers must stage graduation performances, and this requires performers of various roles. So don't worry. They take everyone on this “ark”: tall, short, fat, thin, beautiful and... not so much.

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

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

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

Psychological attunement to a creative competition is the most important element of your preparation.

You need to start by working with imaginary images, in other words, with fantasies. Imagine passing the exam as a fait accompli with a positive result for you. These representations should be vivid and very realistic. With all the details, including smells, sounds, music, voices of people and cars, actions performed by people in your images. Add to this the taste sensations. The picture should be full, like in a 3D cinema.

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

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

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

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

Now about the appearance and its use.

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

For girls. Dresses, skirts, blouses. And no trousers or pantsuits, T-shirts or bra straps peeking out from under clothes. This is how you will dress later when you go to college. I recommend the top with long sleeves. Excitement causes blood vessels to narrow and blood supply is disrupted. Hands look blue. Better to cover them. There is no need for too deep cutouts on the chest and neckline. There are many women on the admissions committee. Your breasts may be better than theirs. And your admission will end in a fiasco. But if the reception is held by men, then it is better to have a blouse with buttons.

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

The bottom should show that you have legs. The length is better classic, five to ten centimeters below the knees. For those with leg problems, the length is ankle length. Be careful with miniskirts and slits, the recommendations are the same as with the neckline. In general, in my opinion, a loose-fitting dress that reaches the knees or slightly below is better. The color and pattern on the clothes can be any. Preferably pastel colors. Avoid polka dots, very small and variegated checks, and flowers that are too large or too small. They dazzle the eyes and irritate already tired teachers. The middle stripe is ideal. But we must remember that the vertical lengthens the figure and is suitable for those who are not tall and plump, while the horizontal one makes the figure look fuller and visually shortens it. Remember this and use it wisely.

For young people with a well-proportioned figure, a slightly fitted top with long sleeves will suit them. It could be a shirt, turtleneck or, at worst, a sweatshirt. Preferably not in variegated colors, and without pictures or inscriptions on the chest. Hawaiian shirts and tank tops are not suitable. Guys with a non-standard figure should wear striped clothing that creates the illusion of a harmonious figure. The recommendations are the same as for girls.

Bottoms - trousers are better, not jeans. They should be loose-fitting so that your manhood does not stick out. It should be demonstrated to girls in bed, but not to teachers. But it's up to you.

Now, the trick. In clothing, detail is important. Bright, catchy, which others do not have and which can be quickly changed. Shawl, stole, scarf or belt for girls. Tie, neckerchief or pocket square for boys. You need to take several of them with you and change them depending on how others in your ten are dressed. Also, as a last resort, you can use a jacket, sweater and jacket. Don't change your clothes, especially on tours. Teachers may not remember you.

The hairstyle should open up your face, especially your eyes. As they say, eyes are the mirror of the soul and the main means of expression of an actor. For boys and girls. Get your bangs out of your eyes! They really irritate the teachers in the admissions office.

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

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

For the guys. Hair can be any length, but not below zero and not longer than the shoulder line. And not any dirty, greasy patches. Hair should be clean, the hairstyle should be decent and slightly careless.

If all the boys in your group have their hair combed, then lightly ruffle their hair. If on the contrary, lick it slightly with water. Do this quickly right before entering the audition room.

For girls. There should be almost no makeup... visible. It must be extremely natural. Many girls wear Mohawk war paint on their faces. Apply tone and highlight your eyes.

Guys. Tint pimples and boils on your face. That's all for you.

I advise you to look online at specialized sites for more detailed information.

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

At this stage, the most stringent selection of future students occurs. And you need to come to it well prepared. Here you need to show all your data, all your natural potential: charisma, emotionality, organicity. Everything you are capable of and even more. On tours, there are usually three of them, although there may be additional ones, you have to take risks and go to the end. There may not be a second chance. It is necessary to amaze the minds of the members of the selection committee, to surprise them to the depths of their souls.

How to do it?

With the help of correctly selected and very well read prose, poems and fables.

There is only one criterion for choosing recitation material, and I am convinced of this - it should be close to you in spirit and move you emotionally. No. It shouldn’t just please you, it should excite you, excite you to the core. And these experiences must be absolutely sincere.

The one done at school with a tutor will not work. They'll find out about you. Experienced teachers can immediately see that the material is done. They have been sitting on the commission for several years and during this time they have seen a lot of different things. Their task is to find an uncut diamond, and you are trying to sell them fake jewelry. It may be well made, but not real. Who will like it?

Understand. What matters is not how correctly you read, with or without accents, whether you pause or not, where you place the accents. This is what they will teach you in school. What matters is what this reading reveals in you. And this is NATURAL POTENTIAL! Discovering it is most important. Remember this.

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

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

Prose or prose passage. They help you see your ability to create in your imagination and convey to your listeners visual pictures of what you are talking about. The ability to attract the attention of viewers, the so-called deception. And also the ability to lead a thought to its logical conclusion.

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

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

Recommendations:
Don't take too long passages of prose. It’s better to take several, each a minute and a half maximum, different in character and genre. I assure you, they won’t listen any longer, and if they ask you to continue, you will have something else. The passage must have one strong and very striking event somewhere in the middle, and there must be a beginning and an end.
There is no need to tempt fate with monologues from plays. Especially Shakespeare. The level of the material is not yet yours. You won't be able to pull it off.

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

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

It’s better to take fables by I. Krylov or S. Mikhalkov; I don’t recommend taking Aesop. It is more difficult due to translation.

And I’ll repeat it again. Prose, poems and fables should not only please you, but evoke an emotional response in you. This is the key to success.
Yes, and read it like it’s the last time in your life. After that, even a flood.

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

You won’t be able to guess how to do it correctly, so you shouldn’t try to please the teachers. Act, and only then think like an animal. Or rather, like a primitive man. Trust your intuition. She will tell you the right way.

The movement exam is needed to test the coordination and performance of your musculoskeletal system.

You can take simpler clothes for this exam, but dark colors are better. A long or short sleeve T-shirt, sweatpants, sneakers or jazz shoes will do. For dancing - shoes for girls and boots for boys with low heels.

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

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

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

Let me make a reservation right away: the artistic director and teachers are interested in recruiting talented students. The attitude towards them and new enrollments into their courses depend greatly on who they graduate and how many of them are in demand in the future. Take them in consideration of the above. They are your good friends, not enemies.

Therefore, behave calmly and answer with dignity, without rushing. There is no need to flirt and make faces. If you don’t know what to answer, it’s better to ask again. There will be time to think.

Finally, a few tips.

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

Therefore, do not get into quarrels and conflicts, do not run to discos and noisy parties with friends, do not drink alcohol and do not use all sorts of energy drinks.
You need to drink tea, preferably green or plain water.
Food should be natural and rich in carbohydrates. Emotions are very energy-consuming things.
Try to get enough sleep, but don't oversleep.
Listen to music, preferably jazz.
Watch a classic movie. I recommend watching old comedies.
It is important. Charges your emotional cushion.

Bring a bottle of plain water with you to the competition; it will prevent dry mouth. Avoid sugary drinks, energy drinks and juices. The saliva in your mouth will become viscous and half the letters will disappear when reading.

You also need to take five heels of Bon-Paris lollipops. Eating candy five minutes before entering the audition room will dramatically increase your carbohydrate levels. This will give you a new surge of strength.

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

I wish you to enroll in a theater school and, thereby, begin to learn the acting profession. Good luck to you in the creative competition.

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

Stay with me and appreciate each other!

Yours, Igor Afonchikov.