Text #000884

— Yes, son.

— Well, son! Probably, poor thing, he also does not know love, does not know how to love... — I sincerely felt sorry for the author's son Dovzhenko.

— Sashko! He's not even ten...

— So much the worse! Oh, poor thing... Such a boring father he has!.. No, he's lying! Young people are reading love poems, crying on "Romeo and Juliet", I saw it myself, I barely got a ticket... He's all lying!.. Lenya, have you noticed how often in our scenarios love for some reason begins with a quarrel? Be sure to start with a quarrel! It seems that they put a young man and a girl in a bag and they are there like a cat with a dog — meow... rrr... meow... rrr... and then: "You suit me!"... Ha! — Dovzhenko laughed devilishly. —Well, all right," he continued after he had finished laughing. — People get rude in everyday disorder... Suppose, though doubtful! But even if that's the case, that's why you're an artist, to take their hands in yours, lead them to the top of feelings and thoughts and tell them: look around! Look at yourself from the height of life, and you, despite the poverty and disorder of your life, will see how beautiful, how beautiful your love is, how beautifully you love each other! And tell them: you, exactly you, are the salt of the earth! And you carry the petty shortcomings of your being in the name of the great goal of rebuilding the foundations of all life on earth! And tell them... — Dovzhenko suddenly interrupted his pathetic passage. — He's lying, he's lying! — he wagged his finger at the author, who, quite possibly, at the same time was telling over tea in the family circle about the strange and already boring eccentricities of this stubborn straggler.

— He's lying! — he shook his finger at him again. — And he's lying about suffering! What does he understand about suffering?! What is his suffering?! Suffers, probably, due to the fact that he does not have his own car...

— It seems he has a car, Sashko!

— And fine! Take away his car, so he will suffer, or even wither away! And people, suffering from love, and now commit suicide! — in the heat of the moment, Dovzhenko pronounced this as the highest praise for the alleged suicides and immediately continued: — Here, Mayakovsky! Probably this one, who "suits me", memorized at school: "The best poet of our era." And he, the best, lacked air, did not have enough height in love: "the love boat crashed on everyday life," and he shot himself!

— Everything was more complicated, Sashko. And you know it well...

— I know, Lenya... I know! But I still believe it! If he had met a good, kind woman, he would have stayed alive no matter what! Woman... Dovzhenko repeated thoughtfully. — Yes, you know... — he began the next sentence and suddenly stopped, noticing something, froze in place. I followed his gaze. There, a woman was walking towards us along the wide sidewalk of Tchaikovsky Street. In a light summer dress fluttering on the move, in sandals on bare feet, with a bouquet of lilacs in her hands, it seemed that she was not walking, but flying, so swiftly was her gait. She was pretty, very pretty! This became more and more irrefutable as she approached us. But then she caught up with us. Dovzhenko was looking at her so intently, attentively, so steadily that she could not help noticing it, involuntarily slowed down her pace, almost stopped, slightly squinting her dark eyes, peered, — maybe an acquaintance, — smiled confusedly and immediately hurried on.

I don't know if she had time to notice how low, how respectfully Dovzhenko bowed his gray head before her, or rather, after her. She walked away from us with her light, flying gait, never turning around, and, of course, she, busy with her thoughts and her worries, did not care about this elderly eccentric, who, admiring her, looked after her for so long, looked after her until she was lost in the in the summer haze, obscured by the dark and light backs of other passers-by. Outra opção interessante da Mostbet é a venda de mostbet pt No entanto, servem clientes de diferentes países nas suas plataformas oficiais.

História

Text #000884