Solzhenitsyn often thought about those moments in our history when the country were able to open the other, no bloody way. Why these paths are closed, leaving the people in hopelessness for many years? Something breaks in the mechanism of Russian life at the crucial moment?
About all this a lot of thoughts and hard-won in the “Red wheel”, and “Russia in collapse”, and the current journalism.
We all know how historical upheavals were reflected in the fate of Alexander Solzhenitsyn. Opportunities, loss of country, take these opportunities and each of us. Do not be a revolution, Civil war, Gulag, and again the war – we all would have been different.
But I think Alexander Solzhenitsyn would be particularly different.
In this case, where would be a fireball of his personality – in mathematics or physics, philosophy or historiography, space research, or teaching?.. Or is it- in the Russian literature?
I think that in literature he would inevitably come, but different. We can only guess what. Lyricist tulchevskaya school or novelist Turgenev leaven. But I don’t think a publicist and preacher. To lyrics his name would be and Kislovodsk infancy in the foothills of mount Elbrus, and the stars of the steppe of childhood, and an unquenchable thirst for middle zone of Russia.
Solzhenitsyn goes out of Matrona, the heroine of the story “Matrenin yard.” 1994, D. Milcov. Photo: Gennady Popov / TASS
Many times he admitted that the camp was saved by poetry – and those he could remember, and his, concocted in the conclusion. To memorize their poems helped him a rosary made of bread crumbs. “My necklace, a hundred balls of bread, // all chasms leading out the thread! //Iterating through your chain of lines morojennyh,// Doomed to death, I managed to save. // Don’t reach you I’m a tired mind, – // Was used less than one poem sung, // Had more b one of the tomb a hill…”
In Solzhenitsyn has not only a strong fervor, assiduity and public engagement, but the love of contemplation and seclusion. His large-scale books were born of this rare ability, for a time completely removed from the world.
Wrong those who bring Solzhenitsyn exclusively from historical circumstances (and it has already become common place in studies of the classics). They say, don’t be disasters of the twentieth century, there would be Solzhenitsyn.
I’m sure it would take place in any historical weather. Not only in a storm and a Blizzard.
Yes, about the extent of his lifetime of fame in this case, we can only guess, but whether it was Alexander Solzhenitsyn? I don’t think. If he wanted something for himself, the complete fulfillment – even beyond their own strength.
Dmitry Sergeyevich Likhachev said his early biographers: “it is Not necessary to bring my life to a happy end”.
The life of Solzhenitsyn is not necessary to reduce to the triumph of “prophet”. Among what he lacked time and soul, poetry.
Mikhail Bakhtin, a lot reflects on the fate of literature in the twentieth century, came to the conclusion that Russian poetry after 1917 was breathless. Lyrics, he said, impossible on the icy wind on the draft. This, he explained, “failing to appear” in the twentieth century poet, proportionate to Alexander Pushkin.
Yes, the new sound came, but created by the poets of the twentieth century, it was saved from the cold of his contemporaries and warms us.
Among what is written in the draft, – the surviving poems and “bugs” by Alexander Solzhenitsyn. Reflection “the other Solzhenitsyn”, which I managed to feel.
I only had two or three meetings with Alexander Solzhenitsyn. And every time I walked away from it with a strange feeling. Solzhenitsyn did not combine I with that image that created the media.
It was the sadness of an old math teacher who knows the course of the planets.
A single notebook by Alexander Solzhenitsyn
When I leaf through sadly
The Russian chronicle of the earth
I kings bless
With whom the war we never fought.
When someone boundaries not pushed,
When someone the capitals are not built,
Not pacified of revolts, –
Were born, lived, died
In the deep circle, into their family.
I began the heart of the pores,
I road those minutes,
Those years of life, which,
Looking for a great historian
Careless writes two lines.
Dark. Quiet and warm.
Snow and evening sprinkles.
On the caps of the towers went white,
The thorn down was removed
And in the dark glitter lime.
Brought the track to the entrance
And the lights oneil…
My love, my sparkling!
Is the evening over a prison,
How going over the will before…
In that December evening
We walked with you once-
It is as the light of a lantern
The finely sown, grief,
Then completely cut down, star.
You fur collar
He was nasalsa, flashing,
In dewdrops melted on his cheeks,
Long was shaking hands
And on the eyelashes melted.
Evening snow, evening snow!
And the branches of the lime trees grey…
The yard of the prison, as in a dream,
Go – and broke out in me
All the feelings young…
100 years ago, on 11 December 1918 in Kislovodsk was born Alexander Solzhenitsyn.