Let the years go peacefully, and the wicked go by.

And who is this Valery Kosolapov, why should I write about him, and you read? Valery Kosolapov for one night became a righteous man, and if he did not, we would not have known the poem of Yevtushenko "Baby Yar". Kosolapov was then the editor of the "Literary newspaper", which published this poem on September 19, 1961. It was a real civil feat.
After all, Yevtushenko himself admitted that these poems were easier to write than to print at the time. The history of writing is related to the fact that the young poet met with the young writer Anatoly Kuznetsov, who told Yevtushenko about Baba Yar. Yevtushenko asked Kuznetsov to take him to the woods, and was completely shocked by what he saw.
“I knew there was no monument there, but I expected to see some memorial or some well-maintained place. And suddenly I saw the most ordinary garbage, which was turned into such a sandwich of stinking garbage. And this is in the place where tens of thousands of innocent people, children, old people, women, lay on the ground. In front of our eyes, trucks came in and dropped to the place where these victims were lying, new and new bunches of garbage,” Yevtushenko said.
He asked Kuznetsov, why a sinister conspiracy of silence around this place? Kuznetsov replied because 70 percent of the people who participated in these atrocities were Ukrainian police officers who cooperated with the Nazis, and the Germans provided them with all the darkest work of killing innocent Jews.
Yevtushenko was simply shocked, as he said, so "shamed" of what was seen, that in one night he composed his Poem, and that night he was definitely a righteous man. In the morning he was visited by several poets headed by Korotych, and he read them new poems, then he called some... someone "stuck" the Kiev authorities, and the concert Yevtushenko wanted to cancel. But he did not give up and threatened a scandal. And that evening, for the first time, “Baby Yar” sounded in the hall.
“There was a minute of silence, and I thought that silence was endless. There, a little old lady came out of the hall, shrinking, relying on a stick, slowly passed through the scene to me. She said that she was in Baba Yar, she was one of the few who managed to scatter through the dead bodies. She worshipped me with earthly worship and kissed my hand. I have never been kissed by anyone in my life,” Yevtushenko said.
Then Yevtushenko went to the “Literary newspaper”. Its editor was Valery Kosolapov, who replaced Twardovsky himself in this post. Kosolapov was heard as a very decent and liberal man, naturally within certain limits. His partner ticket was with him, otherwise he would never have been in the chair of the glove.
Kosolapov read the poems directly under Yevtushenko and with the arrangement immediately said that the poems are very strong and necessary.
What will we do with them? Cossack was thinking out loud.
How what? I pretended I didn’t understand Yushchenko. to print.
Yevtushenko knew very well that when they said “strong poems”, they immediately added, “but you can’t print them now.” But Kosolapov looked at Yevtushenko sadly and even with some tenderness. As if it was not his decision.
and yes. He thought and then said, “Well, you’ll have to wait, sit in the hallway. I have to call my wife. I asked, why should I call this woman? He says it must be a family decision. I wonder why family? I will be fired from this post when it is printed. I need to consult her. Go and wait. In the meantime, we will go to the set.
Kosolapov knew he would be fired. This is not just the loss of a job. This meant loss of status, falling out of the nomenclature. Deprivation of privileges, payments, travel to prestigious sanatoriums.
Yevtushenko was worried. He sat in the corridor and waited. The wait was long, and it was unbearable. The poem immediately broke up in editorial and printing. He was approached by simple working printing, congratulated, shrugged his hand. An old recruiter arrived. “He brought me a slice of vodka, and a salty cucumbers with a piece of blackheads. The old man said, “Hold on, you hold on, they’ll print, you’ll see.”
And then Kosolapov’s wife came and locked up with him in his office for almost an hour. She was a big woman. On the front she was a sanitary, many took on her shoulders from the battlefield. And here this grenader goes out and approaches Yevtushenko: "I't say that she was crying, but a little bit of her eyes were on a wet spot. He looks at me studying and smiles. And he says, “Don’t worry, Zhenya, we decided to be fired.”
Listen, it is just beautiful. It is strong: “We decided to be fired.” It was almost a heroic act. Only the woman who walked on the front under bullets could not be afraid.
Problems started in the morning. They came from the Central Committee and shouted, “Who missed, who drank?” but it was already late – the newspaper was sold in kiosks.
“During the week, thousands and tens of letters, telegrams and radiograms even came from ships. The poem spread like lightning. He was transmitted by phone. There were no faxes. Called, read and recorded. I even got a call from Kamchatka. I asked how you read it, because the newspaper has not reached you yet. No, they say, we were read by phone, we recorded from hearing,” Yevtushenko said.
At the top of course they were avenged. Articles were organized against Yevtushenko. Cosworth was fired.
Yevtushenko saved the reaction in the world. Over the course of a week, the poem was translated into 72 languages and printed on the front lines of all major newspapers, including American. Within a short period of time, Yevtushenko received 10,000 letters from different corners of the world. And of course, not only Jews wrote letters of thanks. Not just the Jews. The poem captured many. There were also a lot of hostile actions. He was scratched the word "J" on the car and threatened.
“Great, basketball-growth guys from the university came to me. They volunteered to protect me, although there were no attacks. But they could be. They were sleeping on the staircase cage, my mother saw them. So people supported me very much, Evtushchenko recalled. And the most important miracle, called Dmitry Dmitrievich Shostakovich. My wife and I didn’t believe it at first, we thought it was a kind of hooligan calling, playing us. He asked me if I would give permission to write music for my poem.”
This story has a good ending. Kosolapov so decently accepted his dismissal that the party conspiracy was frightened. They thought he was so calm that someone was probably behind him. And after some time he was returned and put in charge of the magazine "New World". “And there was only a conscience behind him,” Yevtushenko summed up. It was a man.
by Vadim Malev

The shoes that breathe in the rain are also drinking.

They went to the village (there is a friend's house), drunk, of course, in the mess. And here, when I was already thinking badly, someone from the local got a steak box with some grass/tobacco inside. He offered me. Without long thinking, I took one and ate. It was later explained to me that it was necessary for a moment to hold this green piece behind my lips and then spit that wild in the ashes, and then I didn’t know – and brutally paid. Overall, in a moment I felt something terrible started happening in my stomach: as if a volcano started erupting right inside of me! And at the same time, the information from the sensors on the valves went to the brain: the ass just started to break, and a nauseous bump drove to the throat. When I realized that I wasn’t an interlocutor anymore, I decided to go where my problems could be solved. But fucking, it’s a village, a sorter on the street, and I’m in a strange house and I don’t even know where the door is! Pulling my mouth with one hand and bulky with the other, I ran into the darkness of the hallway and saw the light at the end of the tunnel, it looked like an exit. At this point, the rear valve got very bad, I realized that the count was going for seconds and ran into the pleasant moonlight doorway. Running out to the doorstep I realized that... there is no wing, but there is a small slope, which I have already jumped through by inertia and dumbly fall down. Since I clamped the technological holes in my hands, I fell down like in a cartoon - plasma, fucking down. And then the terrible thing happened: the valve broke from the blow and I, blatantly, exploded - began to fight fiercely and blatantly at the same time. I licked in two streams, like from a projectile-thrown water pipeline! It was terrible, but I couldn’t do anything. All I had in mind was to run to the sorting, so I, continuing to blame and blame, got up and ran in the direction where he should have been in my opinion. I made a mistake and stumbled into the wool. He ran to the other side, and there was a chicken. It was at this moment that my disappearance was discovered and the owners of the house looked out the window, where a terrible picture appeared to their eyes: a guest from Moscow, taking off his pants, ran there and there along their site, blurring and squeezing everything on his way. This chewing stops only when there is no liquid left in the body except blood. Then I just fell and crashed. The area could no longer be saved. I even managed to get into a chicken. I think that time I lost five pounds in a couple of minutes.

For some reason, I was not invited to the village anymore.

It would be interesting to know if the wife asked Socrates the question, "Am I not fat?“And what did he answer to him?

Electricity is delayed for 20 minutes, on the platform all frozen and angry, after work, I want to go home, we wait.
No one announces when the train will arrive, like waiting for information.
Finally, the electric car arrives, everyone is loaded, sitting crowded, waiting for departure.
And then a ruby guy with a cake tied up with a tape enters the car and screams at the phone:
“You can imagine, today is the most fantastic day in my life! I ran out of inertia, in despair, I was terribly late! She is standing, waiting for me. I am going! I get to you! Ura is?“?”
And we all smiled, relaxed, as if we were all specifically waiting on the perron for him to get to her with his cake. Let’s go, let’s smile, let’s make a cake.

Russian athletes took at this Olympics 1 gold more than in the past. Germany is 9 fewer than the previous year.

German media outlets about a conspiracy against Germany? No is.

Is Germany getting hysterical? No is.

Are the Bundestag deputies craving? No is.

It is surprising, right?

The people who kill,

Officials are richer.

This story is often remembered in our family.
Before the war, my grandfather had a stomach ulcer. The hospital was in the neighborhood, and his best friend, on a spring break, dragged his dying grandfather on his sandwiches all night long, saying:
Hold on, my friend, hold on!
I didn’t believe I would bring him alive. The ulcer turned out to be perforated, peritonitis began, the operation was long, heavy, but a miracle happened, the grandfather survived. When the war began, he was not taken to the front because of his disability.
Grandpa and Grandpa had four children. One boy died of typhus in the autumn of 1941. And in the winter, two three-year-old twin girls, Lenochka and Raechka, swelled from hunger and slept.
In the family there was a favorite cat Vaska. He properly caught mice and placed them on the threshold of the masters - it was that it was not a darmood. And at night he went to bed with the girls, lay between them, murmured and heated them with his warmth. The girls from weakness could not even raise thin, like fireworks, pins to lick the cat.
And then came the terrible day when one of the little girls, Raečka, died. My grandmother cried and cursed the war. The cat got stuck in the corner, realizing that something terrible had happened. In the morning, he brought a piece of black bread into the house and laid it in front of his grandmother: “Here is my prey.” The grandmother did not believe her eyes, and the cat shrugged at her feet, as if comforting her.
The grandmother mixed the bread in boiling water and fed the little daughter. By the evening, Lenochka smiled and was able to chew the cat with a weakened hand. The next day, the cat pulled the tail from the silk. My grandmother cried, praising him. She cooked a fish bouillon.
On the third day, the cat did not come home. He stole food from the German kitchen. They pursued him and asked for a row from the machine. The wounded cat was tied to a pillar and hanged a “PARTISAN” sign. They expelled all the inhabitants and warned that this would be the case with anyone who dared to bring food to the partisans.
But it turned out that Vaska was not shot, but only wounded. At night, slightly alive, Vaska somehow freed himself and came home. And the grandfather, in fear of death, hid it in a basket under the floor. For a week my grandfather tried to get out of the feeder. She whispered to the cat’s ear:
“If I survived, you will hesitate, cats have seven lives, hold on to a friend, hold on to a friend, the partisans don’t give up.
The wounds were severe and the cat did not survive. His grandfather buried Vaska outside the house.
This is how an ordinary village cat saved a little girl from starving death. It was my mother.
Olesya Afonskaya

At the table with 20 cakes are sitting a member of parliament, a worker and an immigrant. A member of the parliament eats 19 cakes and then says:
“Workers, be careful, an immigrant wants to take away your cake!

xxx: Today at work, a colleague told a sad story about how he bought a blueberry because he wanted to, and his unemployed wife and a retired aunt were drinking him all night for waste, because the time is right for the mortgage payment.

“Thanks to the bleach, I’ve clearly seen what kind of witches I live with under the same roof,” he said sadly pulling a cigarette.

I have a problem, not only with the absence of a girlfriend, but also with the absence of friends.

At the same time, I myself regularly reflect, analyze my behavior, and do not demand anything from others, but all my interest revolves around comp (series, movies, games) and online communication with a couple of people and here, on Picaba.

At the same time, in my life, as I say in vacancies, an active life position, I develop regularly at work, change positions, I also go to the gym. But outside of the house, I’m not interested in anything.

I try to meet girls on dating sites, but somehow everything fails.

Now came the thought: maybe try to create some information hunger? Per, refusing to communicate on the Internet (for example, here) will give some internal impetus and I will figure out where exactly I want to compensate for the lack of communication.



YYY: Of course, turn off the computer. right now. Look in the closet, there is probably a decent shirt or fashionable shirt. Wash, hair and go out! Directly to the beer store. Take the stock to four liters for the price of three. Then, go to the King burger and take a double Vopper with cheese, Stack House or Baconizer, potatoes and cheese sauce. Then go home and sit down at the computer. Drink a cool beer, eat hot hamburgers, and watch funny videos on YouTube or a series. To the fuck of these friends and babs))



Zzzz: Well finally normal, fucking advice!

The change of power is not a toast, but an article.

I met a nice young Russian couple in Egypt. Together we went to the dining room, bathed together and went on excursions. An Egyptian staff member greeted us:
Rousseau is a tourist. A form of morality!
A form of immorality? I don’t understand the businessman’s wife. I looked at my husband and he shrugged his shoulders.
And I realized that for the first time in my life I met adult Russians who did not watch Diamond Hand.

Every few years, Putin gives the government the same assignments that they do not cope with.
Strangely enough, neither he nor they get bored.

Xxx: I recently read an article about South Africa. In general, of course, a bullish and fucking country. They allow same-sex marriages and officially recognize religious marriages of 5 confessions. They also allow polygamy and even have a reality show about a man who has 3 wives. So they decided recently to change the constitution and allow the multitude, which is common in some tribes. And the religious were opposed, this is typically contrary to their statutes and it will be difficult to determine from whom the child is, if a woman, for example, has 7 husbands (like the heroine in the article). So same-sex marriages and polygamy are not contradictory, and polygamy is contradictory. I wonder what they will decide in the end.



Yyy : LOL By the way, if the husband is only one, it is still not so easy to determine who the child is from.

Xxx: From my mother’s words, I started speaking quite early. She talked to me as if I was an adult. And there was no such sushi-pussy, Lila, Daddy.

Then we came to grandmother. And it began: and who is this thy maceshenky, and this is for a bird. I turn to my mom and say.

Does my grandmother not know how to speak?

After that, the grandmother complained that the niece struck her granddaughter, that he would troll her.

xxx: I’m doing a post with Google’s criticism. The next drop shows the street next to my house.

Careful observation

On Russian television, only sports commentators speak well about Ukraine, suffering for Ukrainian athletes as their own.

© Dmitry Sviridov

He spent an hour there and an hour back. On the trolleybus. As they say, from the end to the end. It was when there was no traffic in the city.
At first – it was about six months ago – he was dumb looking out the window. Then I thought he was wasting time. I started learning French for some reason. Why exactly French? He himself did not know. I got a self-taught. Record the phonetic exercises. In the film.
He lived in one area and worked in another. The subway appeared later. A trolleybus and only a trolleybus. You sit on the bench so that you are not pushed, and you go. boring to drive. In the opposite. When you learn, time goes faster.
Twenty years, like a day. and resigned. Because of pension.
Home was not boring: there was the Internet. French could be improved.
Then he and his wife moved to the village. Tired of the city. The apartment is for a married son. And there, in nature.
The house is good. Two rooms with one door. One room from another. The ancestors wanted them. Per, and specifically, a separate bowl was made.
I brought a garden. And he, a former city worker, looked like a simple village man. He shaved every three or four days. He wore old pants, filled in boots, sometimes black calas on his bare leg, shirt colored on his shoulders. There is no place to dress in the village.
Gas in the house. Summer water in the garden. Beds and beds, a small chicken family - you can live.
No need to miss. Because a reasonable person will always find a job. He will never sit without work. Only sometimes when they get tired. Or after the bath.
A friend from the city called. Asked to give it to his friends. A couple from Moscow. Very intelligent. He agreed.
Apartments have appeared. Polite and educated people. Gorky liked it. The village liked it too. A man went out into the yard with a computer and was writing something. 2 or 3 hours. On the grass, a couple of references. His wife painted.
The Aquarius. And the village street, and the chicken family, and the grass grown near the fence.
He wrote something, she painted. In the evening we went for a walk. We did not communicate with the owners of the house. Sometimes something at home.
Very friendly and educated people. Watching them is a pleasure. Because culture, because sophistication, because sophistication.
He once pulled out a crap from the street. The residents went out to sit on the bench. Suddenly I heard French. He immediately dropped everything inside, and then rose again - from enthusiasm. And he deliberately moved closer to the speakers to listen and enjoy. And to communicate is to communicate!
The artist said, “Look at this man. All his life he cuts urticaria, and in winter he screams at the window. And he needs nothing. A primitive village. You look: a brush, an old shirt and boots. Time stopped at him. Probably from the 19th century.”
And the man writer answers, “Yes, and we’re all about spiritual problems. All about them. The eternal search for meaning that escapes.
The owner of the house laid his hair, wiped his hands on the old pants. And in French he said, “You are not looking for meaning there. There is no pride or pride in him. There was not and will not be.”
He has a good pronunciation. There are no mistakes in speech. He knew that not. I didn’t want to see them pale, their faces stretched out. They ran after him, drowned. And questions, questions: “Who are you? What kind of man are you?”
He turned and said. Again in French: “And I am a dispatched Decabrist. The Lord Nicholas sent. Participation in the Uprising. Since the nineteenth century it is here. In the summer I crack. “In the winter I’m at the window.”
George is hot.