“The Fourth Prose” of Mandelstam in brief
Some people try to save others from being shot. But they act in this way in different ways. The wise calculation of the Odessa Newton-mathematician, with which Veniamin Fedorovich approached the matter, is different from Isaac Benediktovich’s stupid troubles. Isai Benediktovich behaves as if the shooting is a contagious and sticky illness, and therefore he can also be shot. He remembers all the time that he had a wife in Petersburg. Chlapocha, referring to influential people, Isai Benediktovich seems to be inoculating himself from the execution.
Animal fear governs people, scribbles, beats on lying, requires execution for captives. People demand killing for a body kit on the market, an occasional signature, a hidden rye. the black horse blood of the era splashes with a fountain.
The author lived for some time in the building of Tsekubu. The local servants hated him for not being a professor. People who came to Tsekubu took him for their own and advised which republic
The author does not have any manuscripts, no notebooks, not even a handwriting: he is the only one in Russia who works with the voice, and does not write as a “thick-headed bastard.” He feels like a Chinese, whom no one understands. His patron died, the People’s Commissar Mravyan-Muravyan, “naive and curious, like a priest from a Turkish village.” And never again go to Erivan, taking with them courage in a yellow straw basket and an old stick –
In Moscow’s psychic nights, the author does not tire of repeating the beautiful Russian verse: “… did not shoot the unfortunate on the dungeons…” “Here is the symbol of faith, here is the true canon of the real writer, the mortal enemy of literature.”
Looking at the literary critic Mitka Blago, a dairy vegetarian from the House of Herzen, who is guarding the rope of the striker Seryozha Yesenin in the special museum, the author thinks: “What was the mother of philology and what became… There was all the blood, all intransigence, but became a psyakrel, intolerance… “
The list of killers of Russian poets is being replenished. On the forehead of these people can be seen the Kainova seal of literary killers – as, for example, in Gornfeld, who called his book “The torment of the word” … Gornfeld met with the author in those days when there was no ideology and no one to complain if you are offended. In the twenty-ninth Soviet year, Gornfeld went to complain about the author in the “Evening Red Newspaper.”
The author comes to complain to the receptionist Nikolai Ivanovich, where on the threshold of power the nurse is a frightened and compassionate squirrel-secretary, guarding the bearer of power as seriously ill. He wants to sue for his honor. But you can only appeal to Alexander Ivanovich Herzen… Writing as it was in Europe and especially in Russia is incompatible with the honorary title of a Jew who is proud of the author. His blood, weighed down by the legacy of sheep breeders, patriarchs and kings, rebels against the thievish gypsy writer writer, to whom the authorities assign places in the yellow quarters, like prostitutes. “For literature everywhere and everywhere fulfills one purpose: it helps the chiefs to keep the soldiers in obedience and helps the judges to repair the doomed.”
The author is ready to bear responsibility for the publishing house of the mill, which has not been agreed with the translators Gornfeld and Karyakin. But he does not want to wear a solid literary coat. It is better to run in the same jacket over the boulevard rings of winter Moscow, just not to see the illuminated Judas of the window of the writer’s house on Tverskoi Boulevard and not to hear the sound of the silver pieces and the counting of printed sheets.
For the author in a donut, a hole is valuable, and in labor – Brussels lace, because the main thing in Brussels lace is the air on which the pattern is kept. Therefore, his poetic work is perceived by all as mischief. But he agrees. He regards the stories of Zoshchenko, the only person who showed the worker and who was trampled into the mud for this by the labor Bible. That’s who the Brussels lace lives!
In the night Ilyinka goes jokes: Lenin and Trotsky, two Jews, a German organ-grinder, Armenians from the town of Erivani…
“And in Armavir on the city coat of arms it is written: the dog barks, the wind wears”.
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