LITERARY JOKES
It must be said that there is no need to worry about the health of the majority of litsite residents; in the event of a sudden closure of Internet resources, they will not faint with their heads on the asphalt, die from a broken heart or go crazy, because for this you need to have a mind, a heart and , at least, the head...
The mentality of modern poets and prose writers not only excludes their ability to read anything other than the title of a “literary work,” but even to pronounce competently, in a literary form and with appropriate dignity: Eh, mob tvayu yat!
Well, don’t be shy, Mr. Administrator of the Litprichal site, but honestly tell us how you managed to master 50 professions in your short and drunken life, and all of them “at a professional level,” with the exception of your only and last profession of director of a rural boat station?
I will probably refrain from further listing all the merits of this amazing man!
For some reason, our prima donna, the Incomparable Violetta - Marinavladi, is no longer called a fool; probably, her former popularity at drunken literary gatherings is falling catastrophically.
Small and big meannesses that make the very existence of authors on literary forums disgusting, we, the poets of the golden XXI centuries, must increase with enthusiasm. A real poet deserves recognition only when all the frostbitten idiots on the forum begin to talk to him as if on an equal footing and affectionately call him “Slavochka.”
If I hear dirty swearing and idiotic jokes on the forum from the lips of our “pride of the site” Poems org, then I immediately remember my radiant childhood, kindergarten or, at worst, a mental hospital on the Pryazhka River near the house-museum of A. Blok.
There are boys who only crawled until they were three years old, then wore girls’ dresses and peed in their pants when they were already young pioneers. However, this did not prevent them from entering the list of the most popular and outstanding writers of our time.
How far can an intelligent person go if he is given a responsible and important assignment? So, to the nearest drinking establishment! One day I asked a poet and literary critic to buy me some newspapers on the way home. He bought newspapers, of course, but he also got drunk on vodka and beer.
A smart boy loves not his grandparents, but ice cream. A smart writer loves not literature, but literary prizes and the opportunity to inform everyone that he is not just anyone, but a People's Poet and a member of the Writers' Union. D. Kravchuk.
A talented poet is predisposed to all sorts of outrages. He is extremely aggressive in his apparent tolerance and desire for justice. This is a damned cosmopolitan, a terrorist and a destroyer of the foundations of democracy and Russian statehood. A talented poet and a Patriot of Russia are incompatible concepts.
In order to clearly and categorically express his intelligent thoughts, the Administrator of the Reading Hut is obliged to intimidate and bully all the authors of the portal in advance. If he does this constantly, calmly and with the fanatical enthusiasm appropriate to the occasion, then the status of Admirarch of All Izba is guaranteed to him until his last farewell.
All negative, I would say, phenomena on litsite forums are organized and provided by completely “normal” people, whose creative impulses are not properly controlled by the Russian Ministry of Health and the administration of literary portals, yes, for some reason...
But many have not yet realized that modesty, chastity and reluctance to trail behind every literary skirt are an asocial phenomenon that does not correspond to democratic principles and borders on sexual perversion.
Remember and write down, gentlemen poets and writers of fables: if I do ride over your puny asses, then I will ride on a tank, so that you finally understand what Russian literature is, and what your transsexual costumed sideshows with dressing up and quasi-literary masturbation.
As soon as I, with international enthusiasm and with creative, I would say, inflexibility, explain to another regular of literary forums who he really is, he immediately begins to act out the final act of the tragedy “Russia on Fire,” and I myself am a patriot.
Sometimes you just want to sing to one of the best contemporary poets and prose writers in Russia:
“With whom are you bastard twirling your love,
Who do you share a cigarette with?
You can’t foolishly buy a ticket to Vnukovo,
To fly over me at least once.” (like plywood over Paris)
I know well, Mr. Great Russian Poet (GRP) I. Ragulin, that in a fit of inspiration you are still capable of convincing an elderly literary diva that a hanging horseradish from a patriot is better than a cheerfully raised horseradish from an internationalist, since you are a rare demagogue and pervert. But don’t delude yourself especially – you will take my sparkling humor and unconditional success with women of reproductive age with you even to the grave.
GRP Ilya Iosifovich Ragulin
I don’t ask why the half-Arbat poet and musician A. Trubin drinks so much. I ask why he drinks such crap?
It’s clear why our new Saltykov-Shchedrin N.L. assures everyone that he reads everything, but a lot and drunkenly. God forbid, someone will think that he hasn’t read anything and doesn’t know how to read at all, but has only learned to write, always the same thing, but breaking his novel of the century into fragments of feelings and the bile of petty insults.
Say what you will, but if no one calls the Administrator of the reading room an asshole anymore, then it’s time to find him something else to do, for example, appoint him editor-in-chief, so...
. . . . . . .
That literary circle was small -
words are empty and thoughts are light, -
to sit like chickens on a roost
and crow like roosters,
rock the hut on chicken legs,
drain the sludge, lick the butts
and sprinkle with sponge crumbs like a cake
dunes of words, sand of nonsense,
grumble with saliva, suffer from kidney disease,
swallow Borzhom, holding my breath,
keep no secrets, by the way,
and one, but the press secretary...
and so that the plugs don’t burn out,
Chicken legs didn’t make my sides swell,
to be like a haberdashery store,
and like the suspenders of a retiree, -
Parteigenosse of our housing office -
the idol of flatterers and faint-hearted ladies,
thief on trust again
and planted “Agdam” three times a day -
get drunk, get drunk, get drunk,
take a sip of kvass, run around the hut
in law the head of administrations,
or even a primer starting with the letter “be”,
tremble like a leaf, fly up like a bath broom,
count sins, wear out coats
until Monday turns black
turning everything into unnecessary nothing,
until the rats jumped overboard -
everyone is ranked, without distinguishing their faces...
There was a chairman, which means there were splashes
champagne, and a suicide club.
_______________________________________
/"Journey" chapter 12/
If I could tell the gang of Litberth admins what I think of them as scoundrels, it would cause a sparkle in their eyes and an ineradicable desire to screw someone else over.
An unafraid writer is not inclined to complain and inform, but if he is properly frightened, then perhaps he will someday turn out to be a decent sexist.
If an elderly man writes that all the women give him, one should understand this exactly the opposite. If some old bitch talks about how young her husband is, it means the dildo has not yet failed for technical reasons.
Lost illusions are still better than fruitless dreams, and the LitSadness website is an indisputable confirmation of this.
The plump, snub-nosed blonde Olga had it written on her forehead that she was an excellent student and a perfectionist.
Of course, I didn’t check, but there was probably only one phrase in her certificate:
- “I confirm the inscription on my forehead”
Signature stamp…
Olya, like a caring hen, tried to take care of everyone around her and this was very valuable, because we were engaged in the most mentally exhausting activity - going to college.
Anyone who entered a competition with 16 people per place will not let you lie.
Olya memorized history and literature; it seemed that she knew all the guardsmen by last name, nicknames, preferences in weapons and boot sizes, and Pavel Vlasov was Olya’s classmate in general...
Those who had already failed the exams, one and all, came to cry on her mother’s breast. Olya gently stroked the poor fellow’s head, saying:
- Nothing, nothing, you’ll prepare better, and next year you’ll come back to enroll, then everything will work out. You'll see, the main thing is not to despair.
What can I say, she even wrote “Spurs” to us in her own hand, and this despite the fact that we were all each other’s worst competitors. Holy woman:
- Well, here you will have all sorts of pre-war dates, and here you will put “NEP” behind the cuff. The girls in the dean’s office told me that almost everyone is driven according to the NEP. Well, no worries. Yes, and don’t forget about five-year plans - What? When? And what were they called? For those who don’t remember, here’s my piece of paper. Come here to the window, stand, teach, you must be in time...
Finally, my exams in literature, my specialty, are behind me, so I jumped out of the history classroom with an A. All the worries are behind me, I don’t believe my absolute happiness - this time - it seems that I did...
But the joyful and excited crowd in the corridor was in no hurry to disperse into the summer; everyone stood patiently and waited for our Saint Olga. No one, of course, doubted that she would pass with an A, but still. After all, she “warmed up” each of us in one way or another, some with a textbook, some with a spare pen, some with dates, and all without exception with a kind word.
But what is it, almost everyone left the office, but she was still not there, they looked through the crack - she was sitting, her face sad, getting ready. The most recent...
Everyone became very excited. Will our Olya turn out to be a shoemaker without boots and ruin history?
Finally, the high door opened and the Roaring Olya came out. Her body trembled with choked sobs, mascara ran down her plump cheeks.
We almost burst into tears ourselves...
I asked:
- Olya, what? Troika?
She couldn't speak and just shook her head.
- Deuce?
And then Olya burst into tears and, choking with grief, she answered:
- Five.
- Five? So why are you, you fool, roaring and scaring us!?
She tore the handkerchief from her face and suddenly said loudly:
R-R-F-fish!!! N-R-R-R-Aviates!?
And her “R-R-R” was so Leninist, so childish, cheerful and booming that we could not hold back our laughter and this made Olga sob even louder.
By that time, we had known Olya for two weeks, but we didn’t even realize that until now, none of us, she had not yet said a single word with the letter “R-R-R.” Her brain always worked like a powerful computer and without pauses , in real time, constructed phrases so that this hated “R-R-R” never slipped through.
But any computer sooner or later runs into an impossible task and freezes, and at the most inopportune moment.
The examiner stopped the enchanting answer to the first question and asked to move on to the second.
Olya batted her eyes, but the computer malfunctioned, it could no longer help, and then she herself had to bleat something absurd:
- Before the appearance of Jesus in this world, there were still not one or two, but a little more than a thousand years left. About two more than one. And so, in the place where the present-day Caucasus is located, there is a very high place, almost the highest, and this...society arose near it...
The examiner took off his glasses, raised his eyebrows in surprise and finally stopped this thoughtful answer:
- Listen, calm down, pull yourself together, you answered the first question so well that I was already thinking about giving you an A and letting you go, but with such an answer above a two... What happened to you? Concentrate and say something intelligible on this issue, I must evaluate your knowledge. Not tears.
Then Olya looked at the teacher with hatred and screamed defiantly:
- In the t-R-R-R-th millennium before our e-R-R-R-s, in the p-R-R-R-edgo-R-R-Rie go-R-R-R-s A -R-R-R-a-R-R-R-at about-R-R-R-the state was called-R-R-R-State U-R-R-R-a-R-R-R- that!!!
Probably no one present had laughed like that before in their life.
Laughter is laughter, and almost a quarter of a century has passed since then, but even today any of us, applicants of that time, hearing the word “Urartu”, will probably smile kindly and answer without hesitation: What kind of Urartu is this? When? What is it eaten with and what mountain was it formed on...? One fine, warm Soviet day, the Politburo of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union announced a decisive struggle against various kinds of religious sects and similar interest groups.
The KGB replied: “Yes!” and with all the responsibility of the KGB, he began to dig deep and wide throughout the country.
Operational data indicated that in one undistinguished regional center a very odious sect of eunuchs was operating.
Members of the sect were people of both sexes, and even its male members, not all of them had dismembered members. Only the most ideological went to this terrible execution in order to pacify the flesh and in order to... Yes, I don’t even know what else...
It was this sect that the regional KGB department decided to slam down and not just slam down, but everything according to the law - with courts, “proof of evidence” and the imprisonment of the ideological elite for malicious self-mutilation of the Soviet people.
Naturally, they started with the introduction of a “sent Cossack”.
For the role of the Cossack, they quickly chose an unemployed, twenty-five-year-old scoundrel, who, after serving in the army, had already fallen asleep stealing a motorcycle. The guy was on probation, but that wasn’t enough for him and soon he was caught stealing some collective farm hay.
The potential Cossack was “invited” to the KGB and forced to choose:
- Either you go to the fullest for a motorcycle, hay and parasitism, or you help your family and become a hero, and as a reward all your criminal cases are immediately annulled, plus the executive committee, meeting the authorities, gives you a two-room apartment in the regional center.
And the Cossack, driven into a corner, gladly agreed to cooperate, especially since there was no danger, everything was under control. And with such and such an apartment, it’s not difficult to get married, just whistle, and a whole herd of village beauties will come running.
That's when they shook hands.
And so, at the next underground meeting of the eunuchs, a new person appeared. At first, naturally, they treated him very suspiciously, but the guy was so modest, so diligent and handsome that sooner or later he managed to get into the wonderful world of emasculation...
Over time, the Cossack became an indispensable member of the sect. He carried out extensive explanatory work with the population, collected donations, very boldly stored and distributed prohibited literature, and most importantly, organized underground meetings in his house. In short, I was getting closer and closer to the main secrets of self-mutilation.
Six months later, the leadership of the sect finally believed and made recommendations: “Brother has matured to the point of conscious emasculation.” Even though they tried to dissuade him and threatened him with the irreversibility of the procedure, nothing helped: “I want to, but I can’t, I’m already tired of this “immoderate” flesh. If you don’t help, then I’ll rip it out myself! In the end, what kind of eunuch am I if I’m not a eunuch?!”
Hunting is worse than captivity, and then, one fine warm evening, the guy was finally told the good news that the chief executor with his assistants had come from Ukraine especially for him, so, rejoice, son, tomorrow they will cut you off at first light. Don't go anywhere, stay home.
The Cossack thanked him warmly and, with the speed of a tornado, rushed to his curator.
The curator listened, rubbed his hands and gave a ts.u: “Don’t be afraid of anything, the house will be surrounded by a double ring. Your task is to get as close as possible to the emasculation itself, and ours is to break in and prevent it in time. At the trial you will testify that they tricked you, confused you, persuaded you and that’s it, you’re free. Prison awaits them all, and you have a “kopeck piece” in a house with an improved layout. Now to the details: When you come home, immediately take the glass out of the window and keep it open. Then look at the situation, when you feel that there is no more than a minute left before castration, as if by chance close the window - this will be a conditioned signal to capture. If you suddenly can’t close it, don’t hang out, or, as a last resort, shout, we will hear. Any questions?"
In general, there were no questions.
Before dawn, there was a knock on the Cossack woman’s house. A huge bearded man came in with two silent middle-aged women.
They brought everything they needed with them: a wooden chair with a large ominous hole in the seat, a copper basin, a suitcase with medical supplies, and even a wide white ritual shirt for the hero of the occasion.
They told me to strip naked, put on a shirt and sit on a chair with a hole, under which they placed a basin.
I changed my clothes, sat down, the shirt turned out to be so wide and long that it even covered the chair. Women were fussing all over the house: one was unwrapping bandages, the other was boiling something on the stove, straightening the basin and soothingly stroking the “lucky” guy on the head.
The time has come for the huge bearded guy. He opened the suitcase and took out a hefty, creepy-looking cleaver from it - almost a saber, went to the far corner and began to sharpen his sacred braid. The sound was so sickening and disgusting... men can easily imagine it, but let women take its word for it.
So the scary guy stopped the grinding and asked the hero of the occasion:
- How strong is your desire to become a eunuch? Tell me, don’t be afraid, if you change your mind, I can still stop everything. We will say goodbye and leave immediately. Just tell me. This is not shameful; many refuse at the last moment. Don't worry, you will still remain our brother.
But the Cossack boy looked proudly at the butcher and answered with the determination of Pavka Korchagin:
- I decided everything for myself a long time ago. Come on now, don't be tormented.
The man sighed, shrugged and continued sharpening his huge knife.
The decoy eunuch decided that he had had enough, it was time to give the signal to begin the operation, he stood up, reached out, slammed the window and sat down.
Seconds began to knock at the temples and much lower.
And the unsuspecting man, in the far corner of the hut, was still slowly testing the sharpness of his pig cutter on a piece of paper.
Not even ten seconds had passed when the front door fell with a roar and the window frame flew out. The hut was filled with ringing noises and shouts: “Everyone stay where they are! Police! Hands behind head!
But all these sounds, with a large decibel margin, were blocked by the heart-rending howl of the deported Cossack and a resounding “smack!” was heard. - his cut-off household stuff plopped into a copper basin under the chair... And I had a supervisor who took me because I was the ONLY one in his entire scientific career who came to ask for a list of questions and recommended literature for the entrance exam. The man, it must be said, is an honored person within the institute, with many titles, plus the head of this very department. And it’s not easy to become a graduate student with him. But sometimes I didn’t understand him) I asked Dovlatov to keep him company. I'm sharing Sergei's story
Dovlatov, without adding anything and without throwing anything away.
We sat at the table. Nekrasov poured half a glass of vodka for himself and Dovlatov.
We drank to mom's health.
Mom: - Victor Platonovich, do you know French?
Nekrasov: - Very good. I learned French as a child and for a long time
lived with my aunt in Paris.
Again I poured half a glass for myself and Sergei. We drank to the writers living in
emigration.
Mom: - Tell me, do you sometimes have nostalgia, do you yearn for Russia?
Nekrasov: - It varies. On the one hand, I'm lucky, I live in
one of the greatest cities in the world, near the Louvre, Versailles, Paris Cathedral
Mother of God... On the other hand, I am a person of Russian culture, and, of course, sometimes
I miss her.
Poured it. We drank to the great Russian culture.
Mom: - Who do you communicate with in Paris?
Nekrasov: - I am friends with Picasso, Ilya Ehrenburg, Sartre. Also
meeting Aznavour, Maurice Chevalier and other young
talented people.
He poured it and, without any toast, poured it into the firebox in one gulp.
Mom: - Viktor Platonovich, who is your favorite writer?
Nekrasov (to Dovlatov): - Seryozha, he’s going well. Pour it out. And to mom: -
There are several of them - Diderot, Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Dostoevsky.
Again, without toast, I swallowed another half glass.
Mom: - Viktor Platonovich, you can be envied. Do you live in the city
such a culture, do what you love, meet interesting
people...
Nekrasov, without pouring for anyone, poured another half glass himself. He paused.
- You know, mother, Paris, the Louvre, Dostoevsky - this is all bullshit. Here under
Stalingrad, I remember: we were sitting in a trench. Not eating a damn thing, frost is a minus
thirty, my ass is fucking frozen to the ground, and the German, with all his guns,
screws you up, and you think - that’s it, fucked up! And sooner, you think, fucked up, on
Fuck this life is fucked up!
Lyudmila Stern, horrified: - Viktor Platonovich, mom is here!
- Yes, I actually wanted to fuck my mother!
Mom looked at Nekrasov with joyful surprise and said tenderly:
- Yes...?
Dedicated to the First of April: on the “Golden Words” website we decided to make a selection of jokes about writers, as well as funny tales about literary work. Read and smile!
In a good way, a writer should not worry about typos and other errors in his own texts. It’s not for him to read.
Two writers talking:
In case I suddenly come up with something interesting at night, I always keep a notebook and pen in front of my bed.
And just in case, I keep a secretary in my bed.
Alexandre Dumas once dined with the famous doctor Gistal, and this Gistal asked the writer to write something in his book of reviews. Dumas wrote: “Since Dr. Gistal is treating entire families, the hospital must be closed.”
The doctor exclaimed:
You flatter me!
Then Dumas added: “And build two cemeteries...”
Mark Twain once received a packet of bad poems entitled "Why Am I Alive?" Returning the manuscript to the unknown poet, Mark Twain wrote to him: “Because they sent the poems by mail, and did not come to the editorial office in person.”
Mark Twain, while at a social event, talked with one lady who was not very pleasant to talk to. Deciding to compliment her, he remarked:
You are charming!
To which the rude woman replied:
I can't say the same about you.
Mark Twain smiled and said:
And you do as I do - lie!
***
Bernard Shaw, already a famous writer, once collided with a cyclist on the road. Fortunately, both escaped with only a slight fright. The cyclist began to apologize, but Shaw objected:
You're out of luck, sir! A little more energy and you would have earned immortality as my killer.
One persistent lady asked Shaw how to write better to become a famous writer.
From left to right,” Shaw replied.
***
Shaw went to the doctor and asked to examine his leg. The doctor asked:
How long has your leg been like this?
Two weeks.
How could you walk for two weeks with a broken bone? Why didn't you contact me earlier?
You see, doctor, every time I say that something hurts, my wife demands that I quit smoking.
Memorial plaque at the Literary Institute:
"Not one of the great Russian writers studied in this institution."
Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov was a doctor by profession, and became famous as a writer. This is what happens when a doctor has legible handwriting...
***
Once Ilf and Petrov were asked if they had to write under a pseudonym. To which they replied:
Of course, Ilf sometimes signed himself Petrov, and Petrov Ilf.
Two alcoholics talking:
It turns out Faulkner, Hemingway, Edgar Allan Poe and other writers were chronic alcoholics.
I always told you that we have a great company.
***
While working on the novel Notre Dame de Paris, Victor Hugo, in order to deprive himself of the opportunity to tear himself away from her, cut off his beard and head in half, and threw the scissors out of the open window. By doing this, he forced himself to stay at home until his hair grew back, and therefore was able to finish the novel on time.
Once, speaking at a debate on proletarian internationalism at the Polytechnic Institute, Vladimir Mayakovsky said:
Among Russians I feel like a Russian, among Georgians I feel like a Georgian...
And among fools? - suddenly someone shouted from the hall.
“And this is my first time among fools,” Mayakovsky answered instantly.
Mayakovsky and Bulgakov did not like each other. One day they met in a store. Bulgakov approached Mayakovsky and said:
Listen, I'm writing a story (it was the story "Fatal Eggs") and I need a surname for a character. Such that it would be immediately clear that this is a professor and that he is a bad person.
Timerzyaev... - Mayakovsky reacted instantly.
But the professor in the book was still called Persikov.
The real name of the satirist writer Grigory Gorin was Ofshtein. When asked about the reason for choosing the pseudonym, Gorin replied that it was an abbreviation: “Grisha Ofshtein decided to change his nationality.”
Isn't it funny? A classic, but he throws a stick...
One day, the wonderful children's poet Daniil Kharms composed several jokes about great Russian writers. The jokes turned out to be funny and stupid (that’s why they were funny). People retold them to each other with pleasure. Later, absurd jokes appeared about Chapaev, and then about Stirlitz; The founder of this genre was Daniil Kharms: “Pushkin had four sons and they were all idiots...”
Daniil Kharms. Scary? Or funny?..
Then the employees of the children's magazine "Pioneer" Natalya Dobrokhotova-Maiskaya and Vladimir Pyatnitsky continued to compose literary jokes - in imitation of Kharms. But we are also employees of a children's magazine, why are we worse?
...In fact, Kharms was like that.
Of course, stupid children and adults should not read our jokes. Anyone who is new to the life and work of these writers will not find it funny; he will not understand anything in these anecdotes. They're smart!.. (That's why they're funny...)
Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy loved to teach peasants wisdom. It used to be that he would come out to the peasants from the very dawn, teaching and teaching, but he would be so excited that he would not notice how the day passed. The peasants, of course, listen, but what to do when their master is very literate. And after the day has passed and the master goes to rest, they go to the field to plow. There's nothing you can do about it - work is work. They even put together this saying: they say, learning is light, but lack of learning (work, therefore) is darkness.
Gogol was extremely fond of scary stories. He’ll come to Pushkin in the evening and let’s scare him. He talks and talks, and says such things that Pushkin then dreams of different things at night. And Gogol is happy. And if he gets really frisky, he would put on an overcoat and run to Nevsky Prospekt. He will hide behind some monument, wait for a passerby, jump out and shout at the top of his voice: “Give me back my overcoat!” The passerby ran away, and Gogol chuckled and rubbed his hands. That's what it was like.
Tolstoy really disliked sweeping. His wife Sofya Andreevna starts cleaning, and Tolstoy immediately runs into the field and, well, plows the land. Looks like he's very busy. Everyone praises Tolstoy for this. Here, they say, is our count, look, what a fine fellow. What a hard worker. It's been winter outside for a long time, but he keeps plowing and plowing.
Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky, when he fell in love, immediately fainted. As soon as he falls in love, he immediately faints and lies down. This amused Nekrasov and Turgenev very much. Dostoevsky will fall in love and faint, and they will giggle. They were such fun people.
One day Pushkin went to a duel with Dantes. He walks along Nevsky, doesn’t bother anyone. Suddenly he sees Gogol hiding behind the monument.
He’s acting weird again, Pushkin thought and turned off Nevsky. I’ll go around, he thinks. Suddenly he looks - again Gogol is ahead, waiting behind a bush.
What are you going to do, Pushkin thought. And again he turned into the alley. And there again Gogol sat on a bench, feeding the siskins with bread crumbs.
“This can’t be true!” – Pushkin got angry... And he woke up. He sat down on the bed and rubbed his eyes. “Oh, so it was just a dream...” And he remembered that he had to go to a duel with Dantes today.
Well, no, he thinks. Will not go. And then suddenly the dream turns out to be prophetic.
This is how Gogol saved Pushkin from a duel.
Lermontov used to walk around, tormented, looking for someone to challenge to a duel. He approached Pushkin, but Pushkin refused. “I can’t,” he says, “brother Lermontov, I promised Dantes, but it’s good - I dreamed about Gogol.”
"ABOUT! - thinks Lermontov. - But this is an idea! I'll challenge Gogol to a duel. But if he doesn’t agree, then I’ll definitely give up everything and go to the Caucasus to write poetry. By the way, people there are more responsive.”
Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy was sitting in Yasnaya, on his estate, waiting for lunch. But they still don’t bring lunch. He sits for an hour, then another, three...
They don't carry it.
Lev Nikolaevich was offended and came to his wife’s kitchen.
“Why are you,” Sofya Andreevna says, “haven’t you fed me until now?”
“Oh,” she answers, “Leon, we have meat pies for lunch today.” So I, not wanting to offend your feelings, told you not to serve it.
“Well,” says Lev Nikolaevich, “I’m the master of the pies.” Not the pies for me. And then, it never hurts to be simpler. And he ordered the pies to be served.
What kind of vegetarianism is there when you want to eat?
One day Dostoevsky came to see Chukovsky.
“Here,” he says, “Korney Ivanovich, listen to what I wrote.” Just your topic.
“Of course, of course,” Chukovsky answers. (No joke! Dostoevsky himself stopped by.)
And I got ready to listen. And Dostoevsky struck a pose and recited.
“Once upon a time,” he says, “there was a cockroach in the world.” Cockroach from childhood. And then I fell into a glass full of fly-eating...
Dostoevsky finished reading and looked at Chukovsky. I looked and looked...
- Well? - asks.
“Yes, Fyodor Mikhailovich, this is in some way... a thing... yes, definitely a thing,” Chukovsky answers.
- Well, will you take it? - asks Dostoevsky.
“We need to think,” Chukovsky answers.
“Well, think about it,” said Dostoevsky and went home to drink tea.
And Chukovsky, without thinking twice, wrote “The Cockroach.” What if it’s his theme?
One day Chekhov was slowly walking along Nevsky. He lost his glasses and wandered almost at random. And Gogol, as always, scared passersby. Gogol saw Chekhov and was delighted. Let him think I'll give him a good scare. But Chekhov was without glasses and wasn’t scared at all. Because I didn’t really see anything. Gogol was offended and left for Italy. Why waste energy in vain?
Grigorovich and Nekrasov once read Dostoevsky’s new novel and then ran along Nevsky Prospect to Belinsky. They run so happy.
– A new Gogol was born! A new Gogol is born!
And Gogol was sitting in ambush on Nevsky. As usual, he scared passers-by with his overcoat. I heard this and was offended. Why do they need a new Gogol, he thinks, when the old one is not over yet. And he immediately got ready to go to Italy. When he was offended, he always went to Italy.
One day Turgenev dreamed that all the dogs suddenly stopped barking and began to moo like cows. He also dreamed of janitors who suddenly completely forgot how to speak like humans.
- That's it! - thought Turgenev, waking up. - So after this, read Chukovsky for the night... “The cats grunted, the pigs meowed”...
He yawned, turned over on his other side and fell asleep again. He also needed to look into his dreams about hunting.
Leo Tolstoy used to sit in his Yasnaya room - and everything was clear to him about everyone. And Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky sits underground. Sad. How can one not feel sad when it’s still far from lunch, they haven’t paid money and the tea is almost cold.
His wife, Anna Grigorievna, took pity on him and gave him a game console. Dostoevsky played once, twice... and got carried away. I used to write books at night, now I play video games.
Anna Grigorievna will come up, look at this matter, and sigh. And what kind of demons, Fedenka says, have taken possession of you, like some teenager, you’re already seeing double, so it won’t be long before you turn into some kind of idiot. I really regretted giving such a gift to my husband. In the end, I took this console with all its video games, and threw it out the window.
And Leo Tolstoy passed by. He caught the console and took it to Yasnaya Polyana with him. And I also stopped writing books. And Dostoevsky began again. This is what video games drive people to.
“Leo Tolstoy loved children very much...” And he told them jokes!
– How does infinity work?
– Where does the universe end?
– What is the theory of relativity?
– What were the real names of the three musketeers?
– How does a masterpiece differ from an ordinary painting?
– Why is Malvina’s hair blue?
– Where is the border between living and non-living?
The magazine "Luchik" tells stories about this - for inquisitive children and parents.
Articles about literature, mathematics, astronomy, history, biology, painting. Activities and puzzles for the whole family to do together. Classes on TRIZ (the theory of solving inventive problems), school for young writers, discussion club. Hope you enjoy!
