Russia lost Russia
writes Evgeny Evtushenko in the poem “Loss”.
How relevant these lines are! It is not necessary to prove that our society is in pain, that it is experiencing spiritual starvation. And a person is looking for ways of self-expression, a form of self-expression. At all times people have sought to know themselves, to find their place in life, despite all sorts of social cataclysms. Literature, painting, music always came to the aid.
And now – the soul of modern man. Empty, uninhabited and not self-conscious. When there is a struggle in it, the desire to show the world its “I”, it often ends in acts of inhumanity, cruelty. Let us recall Voltaire’s words: “Anyone who is fit only for himself is not
Human and society. This problem remains topical, urgent for many centuries. And a real citizen writer can not bypass her today. So, in V. Rasputin’s story “Fire” a deep, talented analysis of modern reality is presented. The author in the work speaks of the lack of spirituality of people who, at a grave moment, do not think about saving the people’s goods, but about personal gain. The story calls: stop, look at yourself, so whether we live. After all, life is given to realize yourself as a person among people: happy, kind, wise.
To this truth comes the hero of the story of V. Astafyev “Tsar-fish” only in the face of death. And only when in a trembling voice he asks for forgiveness for everything he has done in life, the king-fish lets him go. And here the author calls us to think about the consequences of each step.
Time flows, good impulses go out. And when we recollect it, it’s too late. It is worth remembering the words of Chaadayev, who wrote in the 19th century that Russia was created so that the whole world could see how not to live, and, indeed, the fate of Russia at all times was difficult. But I believe: better days will come, and society will be reborn through the improvement of the soul of each person. And not only beauty will save the world, as F. Dostoevsky claimed, but also kindness, mercy, humanism.
We in the mists of those knee-deep in the blood staggered.
Enough, God, to punish us.
Forgive me, sorry.
Are we really extinct?
Or not yet born?
We are born again, and again – even harder.