Viktor Petrovich Astafiev, the author of the story “The Dome Cathedral,” was born in troubled times and swallowed in full all the troubles and misfortunes that fate could have prepared for him. From an early age, life did not spoil him: first his mother died, and Victor could not come to terms with it until the end of his life; later his father brought a new wife into the house, but she could not stand the boy. So he ended up on the street. Later, Viktor Petrovich would write in his biography that he began an independent life suddenly and without any preparation.
Master of literature and hero of his time
The literary life of V.P. Astafiev will be quite eventful, and his works will be loved by all readers, from the smallest to the most serious.
Astafiev’s story “The Dome Cathedral” undoubtedly occupied one of the most honorable places in his literary biography and, even years later, continues to find connoisseurs among the modern generation.
V. Astafiev, “Dome Cathedral”: summary
In a hall crowded with people, organ music sounds, which gives the lyrical hero various associations. He analyzes these sounds, compares them either with the high and ringing sounds of nature, or with the hissing and low peals of thunder. Suddenly, his whole life appears before his eyes - his soul, the earth, and the world. He remembers the war, pain, losses and, amazed by the sound of the organ, is ready to kneel before the greatness of the beautiful.
Despite the fact that the hall is full of people, the lyrical hero continues to feel lonely. Suddenly a thought flashes through his mind: he wants everything to collapse, all executioners, murderers, and music to sound in people’s souls.
He talks about human existence, about death, about the path of life, about the significance of a little person in this big world and understands that the Dome Cathedral is a place where gentle music lives, where all applause and other exclamations are prohibited, that this is a house of peace and tranquility . The lyrical hero bows his soul before the cathedral and thanks him with all his heart.
Analysis of the work “Dome Cathedral”
Now let's take a closer look at the story that Astafiev wrote (“Dome Cathedral”). Analysis and comments on the story can be presented as follows.
From the first lines, the reader observes the author’s admiration for the majestic work of architectural art - the Dome Cathedral. Viktor Petrovich had to visit this cathedral more than once, which he soon fell in love with.
The building of the Dome Cathedral itself, located in Riga, has only partially survived to this day. Made in the Rococo style, the cathedral was built according to the design of foreign sculptors and architects, invited specifically to erect a new structure that would resonate for centuries and remain a wonderful reminder to subsequent generations of bygone times.
But what made the cathedral a real attraction was the organ, which has incredible acoustic power. Great virtuoso composers wrote their works specifically for this majestic organ and gave concerts there, in the cathedral. Thanks to the assonances and dissonances that V.P. Astafiev skillfully uses at the beginning of the story, the reader can feel himself in his place. The melodies of the organ, compared with the peals of thunder and the roar of waves, with the sounds of a harpsichord and a ringing stream, reach us seemingly through space and time...
The writer tries to compare the sounds of the organ with his thoughts. He understands that all those terrible memories, pain, grief, worldly vanity and endless problems - everything disappeared in an instant. The sound of the organ has such majestic power. This passage affirms the author’s point of view that solitude with high, time-tested music can work miracles and heal spiritual wounds, and this is exactly what Astafiev wanted to say in his work. “The Dome Cathedral” is rightfully one of his deepest philosophical works.
The image of loneliness and the soul in the story
Loneliness is not a fact, but a state of mind. And if a person is lonely, then even in society he will continue to consider himself that way. Organ music sounds through the lines of the work, and the lyrical hero suddenly realizes that all those people - evil, good, old and young - they have all dissolved. He feels only himself and no one else in the crowded hall...
And then, like a bolt from the blue, the hero is struck by a thought: he understands that at this very moment someone may be trying to destroy this cathedral. Endless thoughts swarm in his head, and the soul, healed by the sounds of the organ, is ready to die overnight for this divine melody.
The music stopped sounding, but left an indelible imprint on the soul and heart of the author. He, being impressed, analyzes every sound he hears and cannot help but simply say “thank you.”
The lyrical hero received healing from accumulated problems, grief and the killing bustle of the big city.
Genre of the Dome Cathedral
What else can be said about the story “The Dome Cathedral” (Astafiev)? It is difficult to determine the genre of a work, because it contains designations of several genres. “The Dome Cathedral” is written in the essay genre, reflecting the author’s internal state and impressions of one life event. Viktor Astafiev first published “The Dome Cathedral” in 1971. The story was included in the “Zatesi” cycle.
“Cathedral of the Dome”: essay plan
- The Dome Cathedral is a place of music, silence and peace of mind.
- An atmosphere filled with music that evokes many associations.
- Only the sounds of music can touch the strings of the human soul so subtly and deeply.
- Getting rid of burdens, mental heaviness and accumulated negativity under the influence of a wonderful medicine.
- Gratitude of the lyrical hero for healing.
Finally
It is worth noting that the author undoubtedly has the ability to feel music so much, to be healed under its influence and to convey his inner state to the reader with subtle, gentle words. Victor Astafiev deserves respect as a phenomenon of our time. And everyone should definitely read Viktor Astafiev’s work “The Dome Cathedral”.
Text No. 1
(1) Dome Cathedral. (2)House... (H)House... (4)House..
(5) The vaults of the cathedral are filled with the singing of the organ. (b) From the sky, from above, there floats either a rumble, or thunder, or the gentle voice of lovers, or the call of the vestals, or the roulades of a horn, or the sounds of a harpsichord, or the talk of a rolling stream...
(7)3sounds sway like incense smoke. (8)0 neither thick, tangible, (9)0 nor everywhere, and everything is filled with them: the soul, the earth, the world.
(10) Everything froze, stopped.
(11) Mental turmoil, the absurdity of a vain life, petty passions, everyday worries - all, all of this remained in another place, in another world, in another life, distant from me, there, somewhere.
“(12) Maybe everything that happened before was a dream? (13) Wars, blood, fratricide, supermen playing with human destinies in order to establish themselves above the world... (14) Why do we live so tensely and difficultly on our land? (15) Why? (16) Why?
(17)House.(18)House.(19)House...
(20) Blagovest. (21) Music. (22) The darkness disappeared. (23) The sun has risen. (24) Everything around is transformed.
(25) There is no cathedral with electric candles, with ancient sculptures, with glass, toys and candies depicting heavenly life. (26) There is the world and I, subdued with awe, ready to kneel before the greatness of the beautiful.
(27) The hall is full of people, old and young, Russian and non-Russian, evil and good, vicious and bright, tired and enthusiastic, all kinds.
(28) And there is no one in the hall!
(29) There is only my humble, disembodied soul, it oozes with incomprehensible pain and tears of quiet delight.
(30) She is being cleansed, my soul, and it seems to me that the whole world is holding its breath, this bubbling, menacing world of ours is thinking, ready to fall to its knees with me, to repent, to fall with a withered mouth to the holy spring of goodness...
(31) Dome Cathedral. (32) Dome Cathedral.
(33) They don’t applaud here. (34) Here people are crying from the tenderness that stuns them.
(35) Everyone cries for his own reason. (36) But together everyone is crying that the beautiful dream is ending, that the wonderful dream is falling, that the magic is short-lived, the deceptively sweet oblivion and endless torment.
(37) Dome Cathedral. (38) Dome Cathedral.
(39) You are in my shuddering heart. (40) I bow my head before your singer, thank you for the happiness, albeit short-lived, for the delight and faith in the human mind, for the miracle created and sung by this mind, thank you for the miracle of resurrecting faith in life. (41) 3 and thank you for everything!
(According to V. Astafiev)
Essay sample
Music.
| Introduction | Music is the greatest of the arts, accompanying humanity throughout its centuries-old history. The sounds of music make you freeze with delight and tenderness, inspire the human soul, bring peace and tranquility to the hustle and bustle of human life. |
| Formulation of the main problem of the text | It is about the ability of music to transform the world around us, to heal human hearts that V. Astafiev writes in his text. |
| Commentary on the main problem of the text | The author, reflecting on the power of music, is based on his personal impressions of hearing the “singing of the organ” in the Dome Cathedral. “Before great music, “mental turmoil, the absurdity of a vain life, petty passions, everyday worries receded,” the author recalls. “Before the greatness of the beautiful” the people who filled the cathedral were ready to bend their knee, crying from the “tenderness that stunned them.” Everything except the music seemed ridiculous and meaningless. |
| Definition of the author's position | The author’s position is obvious, the reader understands that V. Astafiev wants to emphasize the ability of music to transform the world around him, to resurrect faith in life. “For everything, thank you for everything!” - exclaims the author. |
| Statement of your own position | I agree with the writer’s opinion and believe that music has enormous power; it can make, at least for a moment, a person happy, fill his soul with kindness and peace. |
| 1st argument | Let us remember the distant war years, besieged Leningrad and the music of Shostakovich, which sounded in the besieged city. She gave strength to exhausted people, forced them to live and fight. |
| 2nd argument | And more recently, symphonic music was performed on the ruins of Tskhinvali. This was the best gift for people who experienced tragedy and lost their loved ones. V. Gergiev and his orchestra healed the suffering hearts of the Ossetian residents with their art. |
| Conclusion | Music is necessary for humanity at all times. This great art is the key to man's deepest passions and emotions. |
Text No. 2
(1) Clutching a pitchfork in her hand, Maria threw back the manhole cover and pulled back. (2) On the earthen floor of the cellar, leaning against a low tub, sat a living German soldier. (3) At some elusive moment, Maria noticed that the German was afraid of her, and realized that he was unarmed.
(4) Hatred and hot, blind anger overwhelmed Maria, squeezed her heart, and rushed to her throat with nausea. (5) A scarlet fog obscured her eyes, and in this thin fog she saw a silent crowd of farmers, and Ivan swinging on a poplar branch, and Feni’s bare feet hanging on the poplar, and a black noose on Vasyatka’s childish neck, and them, the fascist executioners, dressed in gray uniforms with black ribbon on the sleeves. (6) Now here, in her, Mary’s, cellar, lay one of them, a half-crushed, unfinished bastard, dressed in the same gray uniform, with the same black ribbon on the sleeve, on which the same alien, incomprehensible, hooked letters were silver...
(7) Here is the last step. (8) Maria stopped. (9) She took another step forward, the German boy moved.
(10) Maria raised her pitchfork high, turned away slightly so as not to see the terrible thing she had to do, and at that moment she heard a quiet, strangled cry that seemed like thunder to her:
Mother! Ma-a-ma!..
(11) A weak cry, like many hot knives, dug into Maria’s chest, pierced her heart, and the short word “mother” made her shudder with unbearable pain. (12) Maria dropped the pitchfork, her legs gave way. (13) She fell to her knees and, before losing consciousness, she saw very close the boy’s light blue eyes, wet with tears...
(14) She woke up from the touch of the wounded man’s wet hands. (15) Choking with sobs, he stroked her palm and said something in his own language, which Maria did not know. (16) But from the expression of his face, from the movement of his fingers, she understood that the German was talking about himself: that he did not kill anyone, that his mother was the same as Maria, a peasant woman, and his father had recently died near the city of Smolensk, that He himself, having barely finished school, was mobilized and sent to the front, but he had never been in a single battle, he only brought food to the soldiers.
(17) Maria cried silently. (18) The death of her husband and son, the hijacking of farmers and the death of the farm, martyrdom days and nights in the corn field - everything that she experienced in her severe loneliness broke her, and she wanted to cry out her grief, tell about it to a living person, the first one who who she had met in the last few days. (19) And although this man was dressed in the gray, hated uniform of the enemy, he was seriously wounded, moreover, he turned out to be just a boy and - apparently - could not be a killer. (20) And Maria was horrified that just a few minutes ago, holding a sharp pitchfork in her hands and blindly obeying the feeling of anger and revenge that gripped her, she could kill him herself. (21) After all, only the holy word “mother”, that prayer that this unfortunate boy put into his quiet, choking cry, saved him.
(22) With a careful touch of her fingers, Maria unbuttoned the German’s bloody shirt, tore it slightly, exposing her narrow chest. (23) There was only one wound on her back, and Maria realized that the second fragment of the bomb did not come out, but was lodged somewhere in her chest.
(24) She squatted down next to the German and, supporting his hot back of his head with her hand, gave him milk. (25) Without letting go of her hand, the wounded man sobbed.
(26) And Mary understood, she could not help but understand, that she was the last person whom the German doomed to death sees in his life, that in these bitter and solemn hours of his farewell to life, in her, in Mary, lies everything that else connects him with people - mother, father, sky, sun, native German land, trees, flowers, the whole huge and beautiful world, which is slowly leaving the consciousness of the dying man. (27) And his thin, dirty hands stretched out to her, and his fading gaze full of prayer and despair - Maria understood this too - express the hope that she is able to defend his passing life, to drive away death... (According to V. Zakrutkin)
Essay sample
Introduction
Insulted human dignity and cruelty can cause a response - revenge. What is revenge? This is the deliberate infliction of evil in order to repay an insult or insult. But not everything is so simple, because revenge is the most complex and contradictory phenomenon in the life of society.
Main part
Revenge or refusal to take revenge - this is the main problem of the text I read.
“A scarlet fog obscured her eyes, and in this thin fog she saw... Ivan swinging on a poplar branch, and Feni’s bare feet hanging on the poplar, and a black noose on Vasyatka’s childish neck.” After reading this sentence, I understand that the author considers the desire to avenge the death of loved ones to be a feeling that is difficult to resist. And his heroine raises a pitchfork...
But at the last moment Maria hears a strangled cry: “Mom!” Why did the author put this particular word into the mouth of a wounded German? Of course, this was not done by accident. Only a boy scared to death could scream like that. At the same time, Maria, hearing the word “mother”, understands that in front of her is a helpless person who needs help.
And the heroine makes a choice. And this choice coincides with the author’s position: a defeated, and therefore no longer dangerous, enemy has the right to humane treatment.
This position has been close to me since the time when I read the book by L.N. Tolstoy "War and Peace".
Russian soldiers warm and feed Rambal and Morel, and they, hugging them, sing a song. And it seems that the stars are happily whispering to each other. Perhaps they admire the nobility of the Russian soldiers, who chose compassion for the defeated enemy instead of revenge.
This is also the position of the writer Grossman in the work “Life and Fate”. Yes, war brings death. But even during a war, a person can overcome the desire to take revenge on a former enemy who is unarmed and suffering.
Conclusion
1) Revenge or renunciation of revenge is a choice that each of us may face.
However, it is worth noting that the problem of revenge is not only associated with military events and exists not only in the adult world. Revenge or non-revenge is a choice that each of us may face. In this regard, I remember the story
V. Soloukhin “The Avenger”. In the soul of the hero-narrator there is a struggle between the desire for revenge and the reluctance to beat a trusting friend. As a result, he manages to break the vicious circle, and his soul becomes easy.
So to take revenge or not to take revenge? I think that a defeated, resigned enemy should be forgiven, remembering that “to dry one tear is more valor than to shed a whole sea of blood.”
Text No. 3
Most people imagine happiness very specifically: two rooms are happiness, three are more happiness, four are just a dream. Or beautiful appearance: although everyone knows about “don’t be born beautiful...”, however, deep down in our souls we firmly believe that with a different ratio of waist and hip volumes, our life could have turned out differently.
Wishes can come true. There is always hope, if not for slender hips, then at least for an extra room, and if you are very lucky, then for a house overlooking the sea. But what if our homes and figure have nothing to do with the feeling of complete bliss? What if each of us is born with a greater or lesser capacity for happiness, like an ear for music or mathematical ability?
This is exactly the conclusion that psychologist Robert McCray came to after a ten-year study of about 5,000 people. At the beginning and end of the experiment, participants were asked to talk about the events of their lives and characterize themselves. Are they smiling or gloomy? Do they see the glass as half full or half empty?
Surprisingly, the level of satisfaction with one's own life was almost the same at the beginning and end of the study, regardless of what was happening in the lives of its participants. People rejoiced, were upset, and mourned, but as time passed, they returned to their starting point. Each person's level of happiness was related mainly to his personality, and not to the circumstances of his life.
Then they decided to measure this elusive constant. Psychologist Richard Davidson used a special technology - positron emission tomography - to measure neural activity in the brain in different states. It turned out that people who are naturally energetic, enthusiastic and optimistic have high activity in a certain area of the cerebral cortex - the left prefrontal zone, which is associated with positive emotions. The activity of this zone is a surprisingly constant indicator: scientists took measurements at intervals of up to 7 years, and the level of activity remained the same. This means that some people are literally born happy. Their wishes come true more often, and even if this does not happen, they do not dwell on failures, but find the bright side in the situation.
But what about those whose left prefrontal area is not as active? It's a shame to live and know that even a crystal palace on a tropical island will not bring you happiness! Why then all the effort? Why make a career and build houses, diet and sew clothes, if the amount of happiness is measured out to you at birth and will not change one iota?
(According to N. Korshunova)
________________________________________________________________________
Essay sample
In this text, Korshunova raises a problem that probably worried each of us. How to relate to the surrounding reality, if it is quite possible that you do not have physiological signs that will make you happy? Should you accept your fate, be a pessimist, or look at the world optimistically and strive, no matter what, for happiness?
The author introduces us to the scientific works of such scientists as Robert McCray and Richard Davidson. McCray, analyzing the results of a ten-year study, came to the conclusion that a person’s level of happiness is associated with his personality, and not with life events. Davidson, using special technology, was able to establish that the more active the left prefrontal zone of the brain, the happier the person. These studies show that it turns out that a person is happy or unhappy by nature.
N. Korshunova herself does not express a specific opinion on this issue, but calls us to think by asking a series of questions at the end of the story. However, some pessimism of the author is felt. She doubts the need for efforts, which, in her opinion, will not help in any way to find happiness, and firmly notes that each of us has already been measured out a share of happiness, and this share cannot be changed.
I do not completely share the point of view of N. Korshunova. In my opinion, happiness and joy can always be found in our world and one must remain optimistic. "Optimism is the religion of revolutions," Banville said. That is, faith in the best can turn over and change everything in the world, including, perhaps, our innate misfortune. Also positive is Alain Chartier, who said that “pessimism is a mood, and optimism is a will.” In business, for example, a person who listens to his mood will achieve little, but a strong-willed person is capable of anything. Therefore, even knowing that a certain amount of happiness is inherent in us, we must remain optimistic. And if we show our will, we can believe that man is created for happiness, then it is quite possible that our desire will be able to push the physiological causes of unhappiness into the background and make us happy.
Text No. 4
(1) Relatively recently, the American scientist Edward de Bono, in his book “The Birth of a New Idea,” devoted a special chapter to chance. (2) He showed how a free “game of the mind” and a happy accident best help to make a scientific discovery, to express an unexpected, witty, correct idea that did not occur to the minds of dozens, hundreds of specialists engaged in a persistent and systematic search for it. (3) What's the matter?
(4) Let's remember the fairy tale. (5) The man had three sons. (6) “The eldest was a smart kid, the middle son was this way and that, the youngest was completely a fool.” (7) The eldest and middle sons, despite all their tricks (and even precisely because of their tricks), are left with nothing, and the youngest receives the full measure of happiness. (8) Maybe this is where the optimistic saying comes from: happiness for a fool. (9) Negative option: grief from mind.
(10) Ivanushka is favored by “His Majesty Chance,” the ruler of our world. (11) But that’s not the only thing.
(12) Remember: Ivanushka went into the field at night to guard a thief. (13) Simplicity! (14) The smart brothers managed to do nothing, lie smoothly and, in addition, receive gratitude from their father. (15) And this one took on a difficult task, got into a lot of troubles and... finally became a prince!
(16) Moving from fairy tales to reality, let us remember Fleming, the discoverer of life-saving penicillin. (17) When he persistently strove to achieve a goal, overcoming a confluence of undesirable circumstances, this was not an accident, but a manifestation of his character. (18) When Fleming examined a drug contaminated with mold in the hope of luck, he thereby sought to subjugate chance and use it to solve his problem. (19) And this is also a manifestation of his character, mentality.
(20) Chance has a habit of “selecting” the most worthy from among scientists, helping them achieve their goals and make important discoveries. (21) You must be able to use unexpected circumstances. (22) This is not given to everyone. (23) As de Bono rightly noted, “the world of science is full of hard-working scientists who have abundant ability to think logically, great conscientiousness in their work, and yet they are forever deprived of the ability to put forward new ideas.”
(24) Why does this happen?
(25) According to de Bono, much knowledge prevents a scientist from discovering something new and unexpected. (26) The scientist loses the ability to be surprised. (27) So, over time, children lose their world of fairy tales and secrets, receiving in return ready-made standard explanations for everything in the world - like labels for every thing. (28) The bright world of childhood dims, becomes gray and boring. (29) Spontaneity, liveliness, and greed of perception are lost. (ZO) This is why those who believe that discoveries themselves “find” the lucky ones are wrong. (31) No, in science “lucky” are those who have retained a clear and keen eye, who have not lost a living desire for truth and are not tired of being amazed at the mysterious beauty of the world with childish spontaneity.
(according to R. Balandin)
Sample and analysis of an essay based on the text by R. Balandin
Introduction
Are you familiar with the concept of “brainstorming”? To solve a problem, experts in the fields of various sciences gather and begin to sketch out possible solutions. And eventually someone comes up with the absolutely right idea, often a simple idea. As a rule, this is done by a person who does not “get hung up” on one thing, but maintains clear and versatile thinking. In my opinion, R. Balandin’s text is precisely about preserving a living and clear view of the world.
Formulation of one of the problems
Reflecting on the role of chance in scientific discoveries, the author seems to ask the questions: “Why can’t many experienced and very smart people make discoveries? What is the real answer to scientific achievements?”
The Dome Cathedral
House... House... House...
Dome Cathedral, with a cockerel on the spire. Tall, stone, it sounds like over Riga.
The vaults of the cathedral are filled with the singing of the organ. From the sky, from above, there floats a rumble, then thunder, then the gentle voice of lovers, then the call of the vestals, then the roulades of a horn, then the sounds of a harpsichord, then the talk of a rolling stream...
And again, a menacing wave of raging passions demolishes everything, again a roar.
The sounds sway like incense smoke. They are thick and tangible. They are everywhere, and everything is filled with them: the soul, the earth, the world.
Everything froze, stopped.
Mental turmoil, the absurdity of a vain life, petty passions, everyday worries - all, all of this remained in another place, in another world, in another life, distant from me, there, somewhere.
“Maybe everything that happened before was a dream? Wars, blood, fratricide, supermen playing with human destinies in order to establish themselves above the world.
Why do we live so tensely and difficultly on our land? For what? Why?"
House. House. House…
Blagovest. Music. The darkness has disappeared. The sun has risen. Everything is changing around.
There is no cathedral with electric candles, with ancient sculptures, with glass, toys and candies depicting heavenly life. There is a world and I, subdued with awe, ready to kneel before the greatness of beauty.
The hall is full of people, old and young, Russian and non-Russian, party and non-party, evil and good, vicious and bright, tired and enthusiastic, everyone.
And there is no one in the hall!
There is only my humble, disembodied soul, it oozes with incomprehensible pain and tears of quiet delight.
She is being cleansed, my soul, and it seems to me that the whole world is holding its breath, this bubbling, menacing world of ours is thinking, ready to fall to its knees with me, to repent, to fall with a withered mouth to the holy spring of goodness...
And suddenly, like an obsession, like a blow: and yet at this time somewhere they are aiming at this cathedral, at this great music... with guns, bombs, rockets...
This can't be true! Must not be!
And if there is. If we are destined to die, burn, disappear, then let now, let at this moment, fate punish us for all our evil deeds and vices. Since we cannot live freely, together, then at least let our death be free, and our soul depart to another world lighter and lighter.
We all live together. We die separately. It's been like this for centuries. It was like that until this moment.
So let's do it now, let's do it quickly, while there is no fear. Don't turn people into animals before killing them. Let the vaults of the cathedral collapse, and instead of crying about the bloody, criminal path, people will carry into their hearts the music of a genius, and not the bestial roar of a murderer.
The Dome Cathedral! The Dome Cathedral! Music! What have you done to me? You are still trembling under the arches, still washing the soul, chilling the blood, illuminating everything around with light, knocking on armored breasts and aching hearts, but a man in black is already coming out and bowing from above. A little man, trying to convince him that it was he who performed the miracle. A wizard and a singer, a nonentity and a God, to whom everything is subject: both life and death.
The Dome Cathedral. The Dome Cathedral.
There's no applause here. Here people cry from the tenderness that stuns them. Everyone cries for their own reasons. But together everyone cries that the beautiful dream is ending, that the magic is short-lived, the deceptively sweet oblivion and endless torment.
The Dome Cathedral. The Dome Cathedral.
You are in my shuddering heart. I bow my head before your singer, thank you for the happiness, albeit short-lived, for the delight and faith in the human mind, for the miracle created and sung by this mind, thank you for the miracle of resurrecting faith in life. For everything, thank you for everything!
The narrator is convinced that only music will save the world and each of us from internal decay and will help us better understand ourselves.
K. Paustovsky “The Old Cook”
For the blind hero of this story, Mozart’s music recreated a visible picture, helped him return to the past, and see the happiest events of his life.
V. Korolenko “The Blind Musician”
Petrus was born blind, and music helped him survive and become a truly talented pianist.
A.P. Chekhov "Rothschild's Violin"
Yakov Matveevich, the hero of the story, the melody he found, amazingly beautiful, touching and sad, forces him to make philosophical generalizations of a humane nature: if there were no hatred and malice between people, the world would become beautiful, no one would bother each other. For the first time, he felt shame from offending others.
L.N. Tolstoy “Albert”
The main character of the story is a brilliant musician. He plays the violin mesmerizingly, and the listeners feel as if they are once again experiencing something that has been lost forever, that their souls are warming.
L.N. Tolstoy "War and Peace"
With her singing, Natasha Rostova is able to influence the best in a person. This is how she saved her brother Nikolai from despair after he lost a large sum of money.
The role of fiction in the development of personality
M. Gorky “My Universities”
Alyosha, the hero of the story, believed that only the books he read helped him to withstand the most difficult trials of life, to become a man...
The roles of reading in human life
R. Bradbury "Fahrenheit 451."
The science fiction writer believed that an ordinary person can see only one hundredth of it with his own eyes, and the remaining ninety-nine percent he learns through a book.
R. Bradbury "Memoirs"
“Libraries raised me. I don't trust colleges and universities, I believe in libraries... I was educated in a library, not in college."
The moral value of fiction
R. Bradbury "451° Fahrenheit"
In the utopian world of the future there are no social problems. They were defeated by the destruction of books - because literature makes you think. Bonfires from works of art symbolize the death of human spirituality, the transformation of people into hostages of primitive mass culture.
Y. Bondarev “Rare Gift”
In his article, the writer discusses how, from childhood, the fairy tales and poems of Korney Ivanovich Chukovsky instill in readers the great qualities of humanity: nobility, love of life, hatred of evil, cowardice, and cruelty.
V. Shukshin
“Literature should help us understand what is happening to us.”
The role of painting in human life
B. Ekimov “Music of the old house”
Sketches by Shishkin and Serov in the Russian Museum helped the narrator see the beauty of the earth, people, and life.
The role of art in human life
V. Tendryakov “Date with Nefertiti”
Preservation of culture
D.S. Likhachev “Letters about the good and the beautiful”
Political eras change, but in our country the attitude of the authorities towards monuments of national culture, churches, museums, and libraries has never inspired optimism. The ecology of culture should become one of the most important tasks of our time: after all, it is the origin of morality, without which man is unthinkable.
R. Bradbury "Smile"
During the next “cultural revolution”, the boy Tom, risking his life, takes away and hides the canvas on which Mona Lisa is depicted. He wants to preserve it in order to later return it to people: Tom believes that real art can ennoble even a wild crowd.
The relationship between power and personality, power and the artist
The master in the novel is not created for the brutal struggle to which society condemns him and does not understand that, having become a writer, he thereby turns into a competitor of mediocrities and demagogues who have seized the “literary field” and consider it their patrimony. They are untalented and therefore hate talented people; For them, opportunists and lackeys, a terrible anger is caused by a person who is internally free, who says only what he thinks. And they are trying to destroy him.
A.I. Herzen "The Thief Magpie"
The main character of the story, Aneta, is a talented serf actress of the wealthy Prince Stalinsky. One of the prince's favorites
Y. Golovanov “Sketches about Scientists”
The life of the famous Russian inventor Ivan Kulibin is a severe indictment of ignorance and bureaucracy. His largest projects never entered our lives: they remained in bureaucratic files. When serious work required the help of the authorities, inventors faced a wall of indifference.
OTHER PROBLEMS
Personalities and authorities
M. Zamyatin “We”
A single state with its totalitarian power has destroyed the personality in everyone: there are no people in the country, but there are “numbers” similar to programmed people.
The reign of evil in the world (just retribution)
M. Bulgakov “The Master and Margarita”
Evil dominates because there is no force in society capable of exposing and punishing it, but punishment, according to Bulgakov, is necessary: the writer is clearly not a supporter of the idea of non-resistance to evil through violence; on the contrary, in his opinion, it is possible to bring people who are entrenched in evil to their senses only by force and even violence, fear, because these people behave humanly only when they are afraid to behave differently. Woland's retinue, thus, embodies the principle of justice and retribution in the novel.
The connection was often broken, and we had a lot of work to do. The telephone line was stretched across the park and went into the basement of the master's house, where the company commander arrived and settled with his servants. According to a very clever procedure that was not established by us, if the connection was broken, we, the already confused and delayed signalmen from the front line, had to correct it under fire, and the company signalmen had to scold us, since we did not do it very quickly. In turn, company signalmen ran communications to the battalion; battalion - to the regiment, and then I don’t know what was done and how, then the connection was rarely damaged, and the signalmen already called themselves telephone operators, they were well-fed, washed and looked at us, trench shrews, with lordly arrogance.
While running along the communication line, I more than once noticed Abdrashitov digging in the park. Small, with clumsily wrapped windings, he was already covered in clay and plaster, emaciated and completely blackened, and to my lively “salaam alaikum!”, smiling quietly and guiltily, he answered: “Hello!” I asked him if he had eaten. Abdrashitov goggled his black, absent eyes: “What did you say?” I told him to at least hide during shelling - they’ll kill him, but he said detachedly, with poorly hidden annoyance: “What does it matter!”
Then Abdrashitov was joined by a lame Pole in a crumpled hat, from under which gray hair was escaping. He had gray sunken cheeks and also had highly curled hair. A Pole walked, leaning on a gnarled walnut stick, and said something loudly and angrily to Abdrashitov, poking with this stick at the naked, beaten goddesses.
You yourself are a spy! - the junior lieutenant laughed. - Leave them alone. They talk about great creators and artists. Let them talk. Coming soon.
Creators! - Vasyukov grumbled. - I know these creators... In 1937, such creators almost blew up a bridge in our village...
The goddess above the fountain was repaired by Abdrashitov and the Pole. They covered the wounds on her with unclean plaster, collected the breast, but collected it without the nipple. The goddess became ugly, and even though the bloodless veins appeared on her, she did not cheer up at all. The patched goddess still mournfully bent over the silent fountain, in which the fish were rotting and the slimy lilies were turning black.
The Germans got wind of something about our offensive and watered the front line with everything they had at their disposal.
My partner and I scoured the park, repaired communications and cursed everyone who came to mind.
On a rainy, cloudy morning, our guns struck - artillery barrage began, the ground shook under our feet, the last fruits fell from the trees in the park, and a leaf began to spin overhead.
The platoon commander ordered me to unwind the communications and, with a coil and a telephone, follow them into the attack. I happily rushed along the line to reel in the wires: although it was cozy in the master’s hut and estate, I was still tired - it’s time and honor to know, it’s time to go forward, fooling the German is still far away from Berlin.
The shells rushed over me with multi-voiced screams, purrs and whistles. The Germans responded rarely and randomly - I was already an experienced soldier and knew: the German infantry was now lying with its nose buried in the ground, and prayed to God that the Russians’ supply of shells would soon run out. “Let it not end! They’ll be hammering for an hour and ten minutes until they crush you, the villains,” I thought with a feverish elation. During artillery preparation it’s always like this: it’s creepy, it shakes everything inside and at the same time the passions in the soul flare up.
As I was running with a coil around my neck, I stumbled, and my thoughts were cut short: the goddess Venus stood without a head, and her hands were torn off, only her palm remained, with which she covered her shame, and near the fountain covered with earth, Abdrashitov and the Pole were lying, covered white fragments and plaster dust. Both of them were killed. It was before the morning that the Germans, concerned about the silence, launched an artillery attack on the front line and fired a lot of shells into the park.
The Pole, I established, was the first to be wounded - a piece of plaster was not yet dry and crumbling in his fingers. Abdrashitov tried to pull the Pole into the pool, under the fountain, but did not have time to do this - they were covered again, and they both calmed down.
A bucket lay on its side, and a gray plaster dough fell out of it, the broken head of the goddess was lying there, and with one glassless eye it looked into the sky, screaming with a crooked hole punched below the nose. The mutilated, disfigured goddess Venus stood. And at her feet, in a pool of blood, lay two people - a Soviet soldier and a gray-haired Polish citizen, trying to heal the beaten beauty.
The Dome Cathedral
House... House... House...
Dome Cathedral, with a cockerel on the spire. Tall, stone, it sounds like over Riga.
The vaults of the cathedral are filled with the singing of the organ. From the sky, from above, there floats a rumble, then thunder, then the gentle voice of lovers, then the call of the vestals, then the roulades of a horn, then the sounds of a harpsichord, then the talk of a rolling stream...
And again, a menacing wave of raging passions demolishes everything, again a roar.
The sounds sway like incense smoke. They are thick and tangible. They are everywhere, and everything is filled with them: the soul, the earth, the world.
Everything froze, stopped.
Mental turmoil, the absurdity of a vain life, petty passions, everyday worries - all, all of this remained in another place, in another world, in another life, distant from me, there, somewhere.
“Maybe everything that happened before was a dream? Wars, blood, fratricide, supermen playing with human destinies in order to establish themselves above the world.
Why do we live so tensely and difficultly on our land? For what? Why?"
House. House. House…
Blagovest. Music. The darkness has disappeared. The sun has risen. Everything is changing around.
There is no cathedral with electric candles, with ancient sculptures, with glass, toys and candies depicting heavenly life. There is a world and I, subdued with awe, ready to kneel before the greatness of beauty.
The hall is full of people, old and young, Russian and non-Russian, party and non-party, evil and good, vicious and bright, tired and enthusiastic, everyone.
And there is no one in the hall!
There is only my humble, disembodied soul, it oozes with incomprehensible pain and tears of quiet delight.
She is being cleansed, my soul, and it seems to me that the whole world is holding its breath, this bubbling, menacing world of ours is thinking, ready to fall to its knees with me, to repent, to fall with a withered mouth to the holy spring of goodness...
And suddenly, like an obsession, like a blow: and yet at this time somewhere they are aiming at this cathedral, at this great music... with guns, bombs, rockets...
This can't be true! Must not be!
And if there is. If we are destined to die, burn, disappear, then let now, let at this moment, fate punish us for all our evil deeds and vices. Since we cannot live freely, together, then at least let our death be free, and our soul depart to another world lighter and lighter.
We all live together. We die separately. It's been like this for centuries. It was like that until this moment.
So let's do it now, let's do it quickly, while there is no fear. Don't turn people into animals before killing them. Let the vaults of the cathedral collapse, and instead of crying about the bloody, criminal path, people will carry into their hearts the music of a genius, and not the bestial roar of a murderer.
The Dome Cathedral! The Dome Cathedral! Music! What have you done to me? You are still trembling under the arches, still washing the soul, chilling the blood, illuminating everything around with light, knocking on armored breasts and aching hearts, but a man in black is already coming out and bowing from above. A little man, trying to convince him that it was he who performed the miracle. A wizard and a singer, a nonentity and a God, to whom everything is subject: both life and death.
The Dome Cathedral. The Dome Cathedral.
There's no applause here. Here people cry from the tenderness that stuns them. Everyone cries for their own reasons. But together everyone cries that the beautiful dream is ending, that the magic is short-lived, the deceptively sweet oblivion and endless torment.