Review a small portion of poison Konstantin Georgievich Paustovsky. Essay based on the text from the early exam

A small portion of poison

Sometimes the village pharmacist came to visit Uncle Kolya. His name was Lazar Borisovich.

This was a rather strange pharmacist, in our opinion. He wore a student jacket. His wide nose barely held a crooked pince-nez on a black ribbon. The pharmacist was short, stocky, with a beard overgrown to his eyes and very sarcastic.

Lazar Borisovich was from Vitebsk, he once studied at Kharkov University, but did not complete the course. Now he lived in a rural pharmacy with his hunchback sister. According to our guesses, the pharmacist was involved in the revolutionary movement.

He carried with him Plekhanov's pamphlets with many passages boldly underlined in red and blue pencil, with exclamation and question marks in the margins.

On Sundays, the pharmacist would climb into the depths of the park with these brochures, spread his jacket on the grass, lie down and read, crossing his legs and swinging his thick boot.

Once I went to Lazar Borisovich at the pharmacy to buy powders for Aunt Marusya. She started having a migraine.

I liked the pharmacy - a clean old hut with rugs and geraniums, earthenware bottles on the shelves and the smell of herbs. Lazar Borisovich himself collected them, dried them and made infusions from them.

I have never seen such a creaky building as a pharmacy. Each floorboard creaked in its own way. In addition, all the things squeaked and creaked: chairs, a wooden sofa, shelves and the desk at which Lazar Borisovich wrote recipes. Each movement of the pharmacist caused so many different creaks that it seemed as if several violinists in the pharmacy were rubbing their bows on dry, stretched strings.

Lazar Borisovich was well versed in these creaks and caught their most subtle shades.

Manya! - he shouted to his sister. - Don’t you hear? Vaska went to the kitchen. There's fish there!

Vaska was a mangy black chemist's cat. Sometimes the pharmacist would say to us visitors:

I beg you, do not sit on this sofa, otherwise such music will start that you will only go crazy.

Lazar Borisovich said, grinding powders in a mortar, that, thank God, in wet weather the pharmacy does not creak as much as in drought. The mortar suddenly squealed. The visitor shuddered, and Lazar Borisovich spoke triumphantly:

Yeah! And you have nerves! Congratulations!

Now, grinding powders for Aunt Marusya, Lazar Borisovich made a lot of squeaks and said:

The Greek sage Socrates was poisoned by hemlock. So! And there is a whole forest of this hemlock here, in the swamp near the mill. I warn you - white umbrella flowers. Poison in the roots. So! But, by the way, this poison is useful in small doses. I think that every person should sometimes add a small portion of poison to his food so that he can get through it properly and come to his senses.

Do you believe in homeopathy? - I asked.

In the field of psyche - yes! - Lazar Borisovich stated decisively. - Don't you understand? Well, let's check it out for you. Let's do a test.

I agreed. I was wondering what kind of test this was.

“I also know,” said Lazar Borisovich, “that youth has its rights, especially when a young man graduates from high school and enters university. Then there is a carousel in my head. But you still need to think about it!

Over what?

As if you have nothing to think about! - Lazar Borisovich exclaimed angrily. - Now you start to live. So? Who will you be, may I ask? And how do you propose to exist? Are you really going to be able to have fun, joke and brush off difficult questions all the time? Life is not a vacation, young man. No! I predict to you - we are on the eve of big events. Yes! I assure you of this. Although Nikolai Grigorievich is making fun of me, we will still see who is right. So, I'm wondering: who will you be?

I want... - I started.

Give it up! - shouted Lazar Borisovich. - What will you tell me? That you want to be an engineer, a doctor, a scientist or something else. It doesn't matter at all.

What is important?

Justice! - he shouted. - We need to be with the people. And for the people. Be whoever you want, even a dentist, but fight for good life for people. So?

But why are you telling me this?

Why? At all! For no reason! You are a pleasant young man, but you do not like to think. I noticed this a long time ago. So, please, think about it!

“I’ll be a writer,” I said and blushed.

A writer? - Lazar Borisovich adjusted his pince-nez and looked at me with menacing surprise. - Ho-ho! You never know who wants to be a writer! Maybe I also want to be Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoy.

But I already wrote... and published.

Then,” said Lazar Borisovich decisively, “be so kind as to wait!” I'll weigh out the powders, take you out, and we'll figure it out.

He was apparently excited and, while he was weighing out the powders, he dropped his pince-nez twice.

We got out and walked across the field to the river, and from there to the park. The sun was sinking towards the forests on the other side of the river. Lazar Borisovich plucked the tops of the wormwood, rubbed them, sniffed his fingers and said:

This is a big deal, but it requires real knowledge of life. So? And you have very little of it, not to say that it is completely absent. Writer! He must know so much that it’s even scary to think about. He must understand everything! He must work like an ox and not pursue glory! Yes! Here. I can tell you one thing - go to the huts, to fairs, to factories, to shelters. All around, everywhere - in theaters, in hospitals, in mines and prisons. So! Everywhere. So that life permeates you like valerian alcohol! To get a real infusion. Then you can release it to people like a miraculous balm! But also in known doses. Yes!

He talked for a long time about his vocation as a writer. We said goodbye near the park.

You shouldn’t think that I’m a loafer,” I said.

Oh no! - Lazar Borisovich exclaimed and grabbed my hand. - I'm glad. You see. But you must admit that I was a little right and now you will think about something. After my little dose of poison. A?

He looked into my eyes without letting go of my hand. Then he sighed and left. He walked through the fields, short and shaggy, and still plucked the tops of the wormwood. Then he took a large penknife from his pocket, squatted down and began to dig some medicinal herb out of the ground.

The pharmacist's test was a success. I realized that I knew almost nothing and had not yet thought about many important things. I took this advice funny man and soon went into the people, into that worldly school that no books or abstract thoughts can replace.

It was a difficult and real deal.

Youth took its toll. I didn’t think about whether I had the strength to go through this school. I was sure that was enough.

In the evening we all went to Chalk Hill - a steep cliff above the river, overgrown with young pine trees. A huge warm autumn night opened up from Chalk Hill.

We sat down on the edge of a cliff. The water was noisy at the dam. The birds were busy in the branches, settling down for the night. Lightning blazed above the forest. Then thin clouds, like smoke, were visible.

What are you thinking about, Kostya? - asked Gleb.

So... in general...

I thought that I would never believe anyone, no matter who told me that this life, with its love, the desire for truth and happiness, with its lightning and the distant sound of water in the middle of the night, is devoid of meaning and reason. Each of us must fight for the affirmation of this life everywhere and always - until the end of our days.

Sometimes the village pharmacist came to visit Uncle Kolya. His name was Lazar Borisovich.

This was a rather strange pharmacist, in our opinion. He wore a student jacket. His wide nose barely held a crooked pince-nez on a black ribbon. The pharmacist was short, stocky, with a beard overgrown to his eyes and very sarcastic.

Lazar Borisovich was from Vitebsk, he once studied at Kharkov University, but did not complete the course. Now he lived in a rural pharmacy with his hunchback sister. According to our guesses, the pharmacist was involved in the revolutionary movement.

He carried with him Plekhanov's pamphlets with many passages boldly underlined in red and blue pencil, with exclamation and question marks in the margins.

On Sundays, the pharmacist would climb into the depths of the park with these brochures, spread his jacket on the grass, lie down and read, crossing his legs and swinging his thick boot.

Once I went to Lazar Borisovich at the pharmacy to buy powders for Aunt Marusya. She started having a migraine.

I liked the pharmacy - a clean old hut with rugs and geraniums, earthenware bottles on the shelves and the smell of herbs. Lazar Borisovich himself collected them, dried them and made infusions from them.

I have never seen such a creaky building as a pharmacy. Each floorboard creaked in its own way. In addition, all the things squeaked and creaked: chairs, a wooden sofa, shelves and the desk at which Lazar Borisovich wrote recipes. Each movement of the pharmacist caused so many different creaks that it seemed as if several violinists in the pharmacy were rubbing their bows on dry, stretched strings.

Lazar Borisovich was well versed in these creaks and caught their most subtle shades.

Manya! - he shouted to his sister. - Don’t you hear? Vaska went to the kitchen. There's fish there! Vaska was a mangy black chemist's cat. Sometimes the pharmacist would say to us visitors:

I beg you, do not sit on this sofa, otherwise such music will start that you will only go crazy.

Lazar Borisovich said, grinding powders in a mortar, that, thank God, in wet weather the pharmacy does not creak as much as in drought. The mortar suddenly squealed. The visitor shuddered, and Lazar Borisovich spoke triumphantly:

Yeah! And you have nerves! Congratulations! Now, grinding powders for Aunt Marusya, Lazar Borisovich made a lot of squeaks and said:

The Greek sage Socrates was poisoned by hemlock, Yes! And there is a whole forest of this hemlock here, in the swamp near the mill. I warn you - white umbrella flowers. Poison in the roots. So! But, by the way, this poison is useful in small doses. I think that every person should sometimes add a small portion of poison to his food so that he can get through it properly and come to his senses.

“Do you believe in homeopathy?” I asked.

In the field of the psyche, yes! - Lazar Borisovich declared decisively. - Don’t you understand? Well, let's check it out for you. Let's do a test.

I agreed. I was wondering what kind of test this was.

“I also know,” said Lazar Borisovich, “that youth has its rights, especially when a young man graduates from high school and enters university. Then there is a carousel in my head. But you still need to think about it!

Over what?

“As if you have nothing to think about!” Lazar Borisovich exclaimed angrily. “Now you are starting to live.” So? Who will you be, may I ask? And how do you propose to exist? Are you really going to be able to have fun, joke and brush off difficult questions all the time? Life is not a vacation, young man, No! I predict to you - we are on the eve of big events. Yes! I assure you of this. Although Nikolai Grigorievich is making fun of me, we will still see who is right. So, I'm wondering: who will you be?

I want... - I started.

Stop it! - shouted Lazar Borisovich. - What do you tell me? That you want to be an engineer, a doctor, a scientist or something else. It doesn't matter at all.

What is important?

“Justice!” he shouted. “We must be with the people.” And for the people. Be whoever you want, even a dentist, but fight for a good life for people. So?

But why are you telling me this?

Why? At all! For no reason! You are a pleasant young man, but you do not like to think. I noticed this a long time ago. So, please, think about it!

“I’ll be a writer,” I said and blushed.

A writer? - Lazar Borisovich adjusted his pince-nez and looked at me with menacing surprise. - Ho-ho? You never know who wants to be a writer! Maybe I also want to be Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoy.

But I already wrote... and published.

Then,” said Lazar Borisovich decisively, “be so kind as to wait!” I'll weigh out the powders, take you out, and we'll figure it out.

He was apparently excited and, while he was weighing out the powders, he dropped his pince-nez twice.

We got out and walked across the field to the river, and from there to the park. The sun was sinking towards the forests on the other side of the river. Lazar Borisovich plucked the tops of the wormwood, rubbed them, sniffed his fingers and said:

This is a big deal, but it requires real knowledge of life. So? And you have very little of it, not to say that it is completely absent. Writer! He must know so much that it’s even scary to think about. He must understand everything! He must work like an ox and not pursue glory! Yes! Here. I can tell you one thing - go to the huts, to fairs, to factories, to shelters. All around, everywhere - in theaters, in hospitals, in mines and prisons. So! Everywhere. So that life permeates you like valerian alcohol! To get a real infusion. Then you can release it to people like a miraculous balm! But also in known doses. Yes!

He talked for a long time about his vocation as a writer. We said goodbye near the park.

You shouldn’t think that I’m loafing,” I said.

“Oh, no!” Lazar Borisovich exclaimed and grabbed my hand. “I’m glad.” You see. But you must admit that I was a little right, and now you will think about something. After my little dose of poison. A?

He looked into my eyes without letting go of my hand. Then he sighed and left. He walked through the fields, short and shaggy, and still plucked the tops of the wormwood. Then he took a large penknife from his pocket, squatted down and began to dig some medicinal herb out of the ground.

The pharmacist's test was a success. I realized that I knew almost nothing and had not yet thought about many important things. I accepted the advice of this funny man and soon went out into the world, into that worldly school that no books or abstract thoughts can replace.

It was a difficult and real deal.

Youth took its toll. I didn’t think about whether I had the strength to go through this school. I was sure that was enough.

In the evening we all went to Chalk Hill - a steep cliff above the river, overgrown with young pine trees. A huge warm autumn night opened up from Chalk Hill.

We sat down on the edge of a cliff. The water was noisy at the dam. The birds were busy in the branches, settling down for the night. Lightning blazed above the forest. Then thin clouds, like smoke, were visible.

“What are you thinking about, Kostya?” asked Gleb.

So... in general...

I thought that I would never believe anyone, no matter who told me that this life, with its love, the desire for truth and happiness, with its lightning and the distant sound of water in the middle of the night, is devoid of meaning and reason. Each of us must fight for the affirmation of this life everywhere and always - until the end of our days.

Hello, Lyubov Mikhailovna. Please check my essay.
Is it easy to become a real writer? What qualities should he have?
In his text, Konstantin Georgievich Paustovsky raises the important problem of human vocation. This question occupies a special place in people’s lives, because, knowing our own calling, we do not think about how to become the best in our field.
To attract the attention of readers, the author turns to one incident from the life of the narrator, which made him think about the vocation of a writer. First of all, becoming a real writer is not an easy task: “It is a big deal, but it requires real knowledge of life.” Secondly, the text talks about the qualities that a real writer:"He must work like an ox." Thus, in order to become the best in your field, you should improve and work on yourself.
Author's position is this: a real writer must be a real worker who knows and understands life in all its manifestations.
Of course, the author is right. Really, writing - hard work. That is why a real writer must have not only great imagination and inspiration, but also hard work, perseverance, knowledge and understanding of life.
Anna Andreevna Akhmatova is rightfully a real writer - talented woman, who continued to write her own works, no matter what. In her poems she wrote about those terrible years, who changed the entire country and its destiny.
Another example is Viktor Petrovich Astafiev, who, thanks to his perseverance and love of hard work, wrote beautiful works. A difficult childhood, the years of war - all these events were reflected in his writing activity, which became the real calling of Viktor Petoich.
Thus, becoming a real writer is not easy. Hard work, perseverance, understanding of life - these are the qualities that every writer should have.

Source
Sometimes the village pharmacist came to visit Uncle Kolya. His name was Lazar Borisovich. This was a rather strange pharmacist, in our opinion. He wore a student's uniform
jacket. His wide nose barely held a crooked pince-nez on a black ribbon. The pharmacist was short, stocky, with a beard overgrown to his eyes and very sarcastic. Lazar Borisovich was from Vitebsk, he once studied at Kharkov University, but did not complete the course. Now he lived in a rural pharmacy with his hunchback sister. According to our guesses, the pharmacist was involved in the revolutionary movement. He carried with him Plekhanov’s pamphlets with many passages boldly underlined in red and blue pencil, with exclamation and question marks in the margins. On Sundays, the pharmacist climbed with these pamphlets into the depths of the park, laid them out on the grass jacket, lay down and read, crossing his legs and swinging his thick boot. Once I went to Lazar Borisovich at the pharmacy to buy powders for Aunt Marusya. She began to have a migraine. I liked the pharmacy - a clean old hut with rugs and geraniums, earthenware bottles on the shelves and the smell of herbs. Lazar Borisovich himself collected them, dried them and made infusions from them. I have never seen such a creaky house as a pharmacy. Each floorboard creaked in its own way. In addition, all the things squeaked and creaked: chairs, a wooden sofa, shelves and the desk at which Lazar Borisovich wrote recipes. Each movement of the pharmacist caused so many different creaks that it seemed as if in the pharmacy several violinists were rubbing their bows on dry, stretched strings. Lazar Borisovich was well versed in these creaks and caught their most subtle shades. - Manya! - he shouted to his sister. - Don’t you hear? Vaska went to the kitchen. There's fish there! Vaska was a black, mangy chemist's cat. Sometimes the pharmacist told us, the visitors: “I beg you, don’t sit on this sofa, otherwise such music will start that you will only go crazy.” Lazar Borisovich said, grinding powders in a mortar, that, thank God, in wet weather the pharmacy does not creak as much as in a drought. The mortar suddenly squealed. The visitor shuddered, and Lazar Borisovich said triumphantly: “Aha!” And you have nerves! Congratulations! Now, grinding powders for Aunt Marusya, Lazar Borisovich made many creaks and said: “The Greek sage Socrates was poisoned by hemlock.” So! And there is a whole forest of this hemlock here, in the swamp near the mill. I warn you - white umbrella flowers. Poison in the roots. So! But, by the way, this poison is useful in small doses. I think that every person should sometimes add a small portion of poison to their food so that they get through it properly and come to their senses. - Do you believe in homeopathy? - I asked. - In the field of the psyche - yes! - Lazar Borisovich stated decisively. - Don't you understand? Well, let's check it out for you. Let's do a test. I agreed. I was wondering what kind of test this was. “I also know,” said Lazar Borisovich, “that youth has its rights, especially when a young man graduates from high school and enters the university.” Then there is a carousel in my head. But you still need to think about it! - About what? - As if you have nothing to think about! - Lazar Borisovich exclaimed angrily. - Now you start to live. So? Who will you be, may I ask? And how do you propose to exist? Are you really going to be able to have fun, joke and brush off difficult questions all the time? Life is not a vacation, young man. No! I predict to you - we are on the eve of big events. Yes! I assure you of this. Although Nikolai Grigorievich is making fun of me, we will still see who is right. So, I’m wondering: who will you be? “I want...” I began. “Come on!” - shouted Lazar Borisovich. - What will you tell me? That you want to be an engineer, a doctor, a scientist or something else. This is completely unimportant. - What is important? - Justice! - he shouted. - We need to be with the people. And for the people. Be whoever you want, even a dentist, but fight for a good life for people. So? - ​​But why are you telling me this? - Why? At all! For no reason! You are a pleasant young man, but you do not like to think. I noticed this a long time ago. So, please, think about it! “I’ll be a writer,” I said and blushed. “A writer?” - Lazar Borisovich adjusted his pince-nez and looked at me with menacing surprise. - Ho-ho! You never know who wants to be a writer! Maybe I also want to be Leo Nikolayevich Tolstoy. “But I already wrote... and was published.” “Then,” said Lazar Borisovich decisively, “be kind enough to wait!” I’ll weigh out the powders, accompany you, and we’ll find out. He was apparently excited and, while he was weighing out the powders, he dropped his pince-nez twice. We went out and walked across the field to the river, and from there to the park. The sun was sinking towards the forests on the other side of the river. Lazar Borisovich plucked the tops of the wormwood, rubbed them, sniffed his fingers and said: “This is a big deal, but it requires real knowledge of life.” So? And you have very little of it, not to say that it is completely absent. Writer! He must know so much that it’s even scary to think about. He must understand everything! He must work like an ox and not pursue glory! Yes! Here. I can tell you one thing - go to the huts, to fairs, to factories, to shelters. All around, everywhere - in theaters, in hospitals, in mines and prisons. So! Everywhere. So that life permeates you like valerian alcohol! To get a real infusion. Then you can release it to people like a miraculous balm! But also in known doses. Yes! He talked for a long time about his vocation as a writer. We said goodbye near the park. “You shouldn’t think that I’m a loafer,” I said. “Oh, no!” - Lazar Borisovich exclaimed and grabbed my hand. - I'm glad. You see. But you must admit that I was a little right and now you will think about something. After my little dose of poison. Huh? He looked into my eyes, without letting go of my hand. Then he sighed and left. He walked through the fields, short and shaggy, and still plucked the tops of the wormwood. Then he took a large penknife from his pocket, squatted down and began to dig some medicinal herb out of the ground. The pharmacist’s test was a success. I realized that I knew almost nothing and had not yet thought about many important things. I accepted the advice of this funny man and soon left for the people, for that worldly school that no books or abstract thoughts can replace. It was a difficult and real matter. Youth took its toll. I didn’t think about whether I had the strength to go through this school. I was sure that would be enough. In the evening we all went to Chalk Hill - a steep cliff above the river, overgrown with young pine trees. A huge warm autumn night opened up from the Chalk Hill. We sat down on the edge of the cliff. The water was noisy at the dam. The birds were busy in the branches, settling down for the night. Lightning blazed above the forest. Then clouds as thin as smoke were visible. “What are you thinking about, Kostya?” - asked Gleb. “So... in general... I thought that I would never believe anyone, no matter who told me that this life, with its love, the desire for truth and happiness, with its lightning and the distant sound of water in the middle of the night, is deprived meaning and reason. Each of us must fight for the affirmation of this life everywhere and always - until the end of our days.

Unfortunately, the only one available ways transmission of information in society to at the moment the word appears - it is through speech, both written and oral, that communication is carried out, the expression of thoughts and feelings, which gradually began to develop into a problem. In this text D.S. Likhachev invites us to think about actual problem man's relationship to language.

Addressing the topic, the author compares a person’s speech with his appearance: sloppiness in clothing, as well as in language, is disrespect for oneself and for others, indicates a person’s taste, as well as a lack of education and intelligence. The writer draws our attention to the fact that there is no reason to prohibit a person from being proud of his homeland and using village motifs in his speech - often this brings pleasure to others, but the situation is completely different with those who “show off” in this way: speech must correspond to the person’s personality, depending from his true origin, hobbies and age. The author emphasizes that flaunting rudeness in clothing, manners, and speech is a sign of cruelty, weakness and psychological vulnerability person: by demonstrating contempt for certain phenomena, we thereby express our indifference to them, interest, fear and excitement.

D.S. Likhachev believes that language is the most important part of our image. Only a person who is aware of the weight of his speech, aware of the significance of every spoken word, and who respects his language, can be considered a truly strong, healthy and balanced person. By how and what we say, those around us create our image and determine the degree of our intelligence, psychological balance and level of complexity.

I completely agree with the author’s opinion and also believe that how and what a person says completely creates his psychological and moral character. Therefore, it is very important to monitor your speech, as well as your appearance, and respect every word spoken.

DI. Fonvizin in the comedy “Minor” using the characters’ lines in full measure expresses them moral character. Main character, Mrs. Prostakova, with abusive expressions, rudeness, cruelty, hatred towards both serfs and family members, creates for herself the image of an illiterate tyrant. The more we delve into the work, the more we understand that this is a hypocritical, mercantile, greedy, evil, rude and at the same time very stupid woman. And the way she flatters to please herself, how she communicates with the serfs, taking every last thing from them, how she takes advantage of Sophia’s orphanhood, how she treats family members, and, most importantly, how she treats her son - confirms the first impression of the heroine , created using speech characteristics.

Evgeny Onegin, hero of the novel by A.S. Pushkin’s “Eugene Onegin”, created for himself the image of a secular intellectual, extraordinary, smart person not only with the help of neat appearance, but also mostly through speech. Being to some extent a well-read person, Evgeniy could support any conversation, insert several the right words, somewhere to show off lines from famous works. That's why the hero for a long time easily enjoyed success with the ladies, but later we learn that created through speech characteristics morality and self-confidence crumble due to Eugene’s two-facedness, his behavior in the village, before and after the duel.

Thus, we can conclude that our image, image, role in society forms a person’s language, and therefore it is very important to monitor the state of our speech, its purity, correctness and compliance with the real appearance of the individual.

Text No. 2:

Mikhail Sholokhov is a master of large literary canvases, but at the same time his essays are filled with the same depth and breadth that is inherent in great stories. In their small works the author subtly conveys the feelings of the people and demonstrates the connection between literature and their lives.

In this wonderful essay, Sholokhov raised various problems and voiced various questions. But I would like to consider the most striking of them - the question of the greatness of the Russian people. This essay opens with a warm, intimate conversation between the author and the reader about the heroism of the Russian people. The author himself recalls the battles near hero cities, the graves of fallen soldiers, and gray-haired single parents. He zealously calls on us to continue to fight for what we have already achieved and not to lose hope for a bright future.

One cannot but agree with the author. The experience of past years and post-war achievements in various industries cannot but delight and inspire new achievements. The tireless Russian spirit of Soviet times can and should serve as a guiding beacon for our contemporaries.

This text is permeated with enthusiasm and admiration of the author. This effect is achieved through the use of a large amount artistic means expressiveness: exclamatory sentences, addresses (“my friend”, “mother”), epithets (“black destruction”).

I think this kind of heroism is similar to sacrifice. So, for example, in his extremely honest work “Doctor Zhivago” B.L. Pasternak, through the mouth of the protagonist’s uncle N. Vedenyapin, expresses that the beast living in the soul of each of us cannot be stopped with a whip. Only a person who sacrifices himself can do this. And of course, you can’t ignore wonderful work E. Hemingway “The Old Man and the Sea”, which tells about the nature of courage and heroism. In it, the writer utters important words: “Man was not created to suffer defeat. You can destroy it, but you can’t defeat it!”

Sholokhov perfectly conveyed the spiritual growth of the Russian person, the changes in him caused by difficult life, strength of spirit and the greatest transformations of the country itself. After such instruction, I want to revive the country together, no matter what. To continue to be the same great and invincible people that the writer sees us as.

Text No. 3:

They say that in the old days, all significant persons, great and important people- kings, nobles, their families and close associates - from childhood, small portions of poison were added to food and drink. This was done so that the body would get used to the foreign substance and subsequently react calmly to large doses. Now such an act seems funny or stupid. But aren't we doing the same thing? Maybe poison is not only a physical substance?

Simple and easy, at first glance, the story of K.G. Paustovsky is not at all as simple as it seems. The author raises an important problem - the problem of perception of life with all its difficult moments. Of course, life is a holiday, but is it possible to educate yourself, your personality and your character, if you do not perceive it holistically: with all the difficulties and problems? What if you don’t try to solve them yourself? What if we don’t dilute this holiday with “small portions of poison”?

Undoubtedly, this problem relevant at all times. More and more often you can see how modern youth are trying to hide from the problems that have arisen. It is very easy to abandon your difficulties and shift them and all responsibility onto the shoulders of other people. The easiest thing to say is, “It wasn’t me.” But will the character of such a person be formed?

The author's position is easily discernible in the speech of his pharmacist character. The author believes that it is impossible to joke, have fun, and perceive life as eternal vacation. You need to fight for a good life, but not avoid difficulties.

I agree with the author. It’s not for nothing that there is such a concept - a school of life. These are exactly those moments that force you to keep yourself in line, not to lose heart and not to lower your head. Fight with yourself and the world around you, cultivate your fighting spirit and character.

The author's text is very colorful, it is easy and interesting to read. This effect is created thanks to a large number artistic means of expression: comparisons (“it soaked valerian like alcohol”), exclamatory sentences.

I again remember the work of the great classic F. Dostoevsky and his novel “Crime and Punishment”. For me central place Sonechka Marmeladova occupied it. This fragile girl with an unfortunate fate overcame such difficulties that not everyone can endure. She hardened like steel, becoming even stronger than she was, earning the reader's respect. Or let us remember the sad fate of Natalya from Sholokhov’s epic novel “ Quiet Don" I was waiting for this woman tragic ending, but to the end she was honest, sincere, real. The brightest, in my opinion, image of the work.

I remembered the saying: in every barrel there is a fly in the ointment. Maybe, life difficulties- and there is this tar. But without it it is impossible to discern and feel the wonderful taste of everything that surrounds and fills our barrel of life.

What is the essence of writing as a vocation? KG Paustovsky answers this question in his work “The Tale of Life.” Addressing the problem, the author introduces the reader to the story of a young writer who had the honor of receiving instructions from rural pharmacist Lazar Borisovich. It is worth noting that, despite his profession, Lazar knew very well about all the intricacies of a writer. He advised to the young hero go to people and “be everywhere” there: from theaters to prisons, and only then will he be able to ask himself questions and comprehend all the secrets of the craft. Paustovsky’s position on this issue was simple: it is difficult to be awarded the title of writer. You need to “work like an ox and not chase fame” in order to understand “life in all its manifestations” and only after that be able to present it to the reader in “known doses.”

So, for example, the biography of Solzhenitsyn and his works “ Matrenin Dvor", "The Gulag Archipelago" and "One day in the life of Ivan Denisovich." These are the very topics that were not discussed in society, but Alexander Isaevich was still read, despite all the prohibitions from the state. If these were ephemera books that were created from the writer’s fantasies, and not from that worldly school, would people of that time be able to buy these books as contraband under pain of the law? After all, they reflected the very essence of a person: not what was promoted on TV, but which was real and present to one degree or another in everyone’s life. And everyone knew this, which is why they wanted to reveal the hidden pages as soon as possible.

Or vice versa, if the author tried not for the benefit of society, but for his own self-interest? Then writers from the MASSOLIT organization, from Bulgakov’s novel “The Master and Margarita,” would take this role. In the book, absolutely all members wrote works only those that were pleasing to the authorities and the state. And in return they claimed apartments, dachas, vouchers - everything except art. Were their manuscripts imbued with life or meaning? Most likely not. The Master opposed them. In contrast to the unification, he was able to raise the deeply moral problems of humanity. And although he had few readers, the master’s book was dedicated eternal questions, so it was saved, and ended up in Woland’s hands, because “manuscripts don’t burn.” Roman, he gave most of your days, your health and your mental state, becoming a victim of critics. He wrote not for the sake of fame, but so that there would be someone who would read it. This knowledge also did not originate in his head from his fantasies. The work consecrated that his path was varied: starting with a worker in a museum, “a historian by training,” ending with a translator in five languages.

Being a writer is a difficult niche. He should never pursue earthly values. His facts are drawn from the endless stream of life, and his only reward is grateful readers, only they can properly pay for the work that the writer put into his creation. This is the essence of writing as a vocation.

Effective preparation for the Unified State Exam (all subjects) -