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Lecture notes, cheat sheets
Brief summary of works of Russian literature of the first half of the 1893th century. Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky 1930-XNUMX
Directory / Lecture notes, cheat sheets Table of contents (expand) Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky 1893-1930 Cloud in Pants - Tetraptich Poem (1914-1915) The poet - handsome, twenty-two years old - teases the philistine, softened thought with a bloody patch of his heart. There is no senile tenderness in his soul, but he can turn himself inside out - so that there are only solid lips. And he will be impeccably gentle, not a man, but a cloud in his pants! He recalls how once in Odessa his beloved, Maria, promised to come to him. Waiting for her, the poet melts the window glass with his forehead, his soul groans and writhes, his nerves rush about in a desperate tap dance. Already the twelfth hour falls, like the head of the executed from the chopping block. Finally, Maria appears - sharp, like "here!" - and announces that she is getting married. Trying to look absolutely calm, the poet feels that his "I" is not enough for him and someone stubbornly breaks out of him. But it is impossible to jump out of your own heart, in which a fire is blazing. One can only groan in the centuries the last cry about this fire. The poet wants to put "nihil" ("nothing") above everything that has been done before him. He no longer wants to read books, because he understands how hard they are written, how long - before he starts to sing - the stupid roach of the imagination flounders in the mire of the heart. And until the poet finds the right words, the street writhes without a language - it has nothing to shout and talk with. In the mouth of the street, the corpses of dead words are decomposing. Only two words live, fattening - "bastard" and "borscht". And other poets rush away from the street, because these words do not sing a young lady, love and a flower under the dew. They are overtaken by street thousands - students, prostitutes, contractors - for whom a nail in their own boot is more nightmarish than Goethe's fantasy. The poet agrees with them: the smallest grain of sand of the living is more valuable than anything he can do. He, ridiculed by today's tribe, sees the sixteenth year in the crown of thorns of revolutions and feels himself to be its forerunner. In the name of this future, he is ready to trample on his soul and, bloodied, give it like a banner. It's good when the soul is wrapped in a yellow jacket from inspections! The poet is disgusted by Severyanin, because the poet should not chirp today. He foresees that soon the lampposts will raise the bloodied carcasses of the meadowsweet, everyone will take a stone, a knife or a bomb, and the sunset will be red like a Marseillaise in the sky. Seeing the eyes of the Mother of God on the icon, the poet asks her: why bestow radiance on the tavern crowd, which again prefers Barabbas to the spat on Calvary? Perhaps the most beautiful of the sons of the Mother of God is he, the poet and the thirteenth apostle of the Gospel, and someday children will be baptized with the names of his poems. He again and again recalls the unfading beauty of his Mary's lips and asks for her body, as Christians ask - "give us our daily bread today." Her name is equal in majesty to God, he will take care of her body, as an invalid takes care of his only leg. But if Mary rejects the poet, he will leave, watering the road with the blood of his heart, to his father's house. And then he will offer God to arrange a carousel on the tree of the study of good and evil and ask him why he did not invent kisses without torment, and call him a dropout, a tiny god. The poet is waiting for the sky to take off his hat to him in response to his challenge! But the universe sleeps, putting a huge ear on a paw with flared stars. About this - Poem (1922-1923) The theme that the poet wants to talk about has been covered many times. He himself circled in it like a poetic squirrel and wants to circle again. This theme can even push a cripple to paper, and his song will ripple in the sun with lines. There is truth and beauty hidden in this theme. This theme is preparing to jump into the recesses of instincts. Appearing to the poet, this theme scatters people and affairs like a thunderstorm. This topic, whose name is love, rises to the throat with a knife! The poet talks about himself and his beloved in a ballad, and the mood of the ballads grows younger, because the words of the poet hurt. "She" lives in her house in Vodopyanny Lane, "he" sits in his house by the phone. The impossibility of meeting becomes a prison for him. He calls his beloved, and his call flies like a bullet through the wires, causing an earthquake on Myasnitskaya, near the post office. The calm second-cook picks up the phone and slowly goes to call the poet's beloved. The whole world is relegated somewhere, only the unknown is aiming at it with a tube. Between him and his beloved, separated by Myasnitskaya, lies the universe, through which a cable stretches like a thin thread. The poet does not feel like a respected employee of Izvestia, who will have to go to Paris in the summer, but like a bear on his ice-floe pillow. And if bears cry, then just like him. The poet remembers himself - such as he was seven years ago, when the poem "Man" was written. Since then, he was not destined to crawl into everyday life, into family happiness like a cockerel: with ropes of his own lines, he is tied to a bridge over the river and is waiting for help. He runs through Moscow at night - along Petrovsky Park, Khodynka, Tverskaya, Sadovaya, Presnya. On Presnya, in a family burrow, his relatives are waiting for him. They are glad of his appearance at Christmas, but are surprised when the poet calls them somewhere 600 miles away, where they have to save someone standing on a bridge over the river. They do not want to save anyone, and the poet understands that relatives replace love with tea and darning of socks. He doesn't need their chicken love. Through the Presnya mirages, the poet walks with gifts under his arms. He finds himself in the petty-bourgeois house of Fekla Davidovna. Here the angels turn pink from the iconic gloss, Jesus bows graciously, lifting a thorny wreath, and even Marx, harnessed to a scarlet frame, drags the philistine strap. The poet is trying to explain to the townsfolk that he writes for them, and not because of a personal whim. They, smiling, listen to the eminent buffoon and eat, rattling their jaws against their jaws. They, too, are indifferent to some person tied to a bridge over a river and waiting for help. The words of the poet pass through the townsfolk. Moscow is reminiscent of Becklin's "Isle of the Dead". Once in the apartment of friends, the poet listens to how they chat with laughter about him, without ceasing to dance the two-step. Standing at the wall, he thinks of one thing: just not to hear the voice of his beloved here. He did not betray her in any of his poems, he bypasses her in curses with which horror smashes everyday life. It seems to him that only his beloved can save him - a man standing on a bridge. But then the poet understands: for seven years he has been standing on the bridge as a redeemer of earthly love, in order to pay for everyone and cry for everyone, and if necessary, he must stand for two hundred years without waiting for salvation. He sees himself standing over Mount Mashuk. Below is a crowd of inhabitants, for whom the poet is not a verse and soul, but a hundred-year-old enemy. They shoot at him from all rifles, from all batteries, from every Mauser and Browning. On the Kremlin, poetic shreds shine like a red flag. He hates everything that is hammered into people by the departed slave, that settled and settled by life even in the red-flag formation. But he believes with all his heartfelt faith in life, in this world. He sees the future workshop of human resurrections and believes that it is he, who did not live and did not love his own, that the people of the future will want to resurrect. Maybe his beloved will also be resurrected, and they will make up for the unloved stardom of countless nights. He asks for resurrection, if only because he was a poet and was waiting for his beloved, throwing aside everyday nonsense. He wants to live out his life in that life where love is not a servant of marriages, lust and bread, where love goes to the whole universe. He wants to live in a life where his father is at least the world, and his mother is at least the earth. Authors of the retelling: Slava Yanko, Alexandra Vladimirova << Back: Fyodor Kuzmin Sologub 1863-1927. The Little Demon - Novel (1902)) >> Forward: Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov 1899-1977 (Mashenka - Novel (1926). Defense of Luzhin - Novel (1929-1930). Camera Obscura - Novel (1932-1933))
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