Wednesday, 31 August 2011

Alla Pugacheva Sings I Like, the Poem by Marina Tsvetaeva




I like that you are not obsessed with me,
I like that I have no obsession either,
And not for once in the eternity
The heavy earth beneath our feet will wither
I like I can be funny and be free,
Be careless with words and never bother
To be betrayed by tide of blush when we
Brush with our sleeves when passing one another.

I also like that in my company
You’re confident enough to hug the other,
You don’t foretell infernal suffering
To me for being kissed by other lovers.
I also like you never call in vain
The sweet  inflection of my name, my sweetie
And that we’ll never live to see the day
When wedding bells hail us with nuptial greetings.

I thank you from the bottom of my heart
For loving me so much quite unawares:
For nightly peace that you will never thwart,
For twilight dates that can not be more scarce,
For moonlight walks that we will never start,
And for the sun above that'll never wear us,
For you, alas, who’re not obsessed with me,
For me, alas, with no obsession either.

May 3rd, 1915

Marina Tsvetaeva: These my poems, written so early…


These my poems, written so early
That I did not know then I was a poet,
Which having tore, like droplets from a fountain,
Like sparks from a rocket,
Into a sanctuary, where there is sleep and incense
Like little devils having burst,
These my poems about youth and about death,
This unread verse!
Scattered through shops in piles of dust
Where nobody picked them up or does,
These my poems, like precious wine,
Will have their time.

RT

Denis Matsuev Plays Rakhmaninov 3rd Concerto

Sunday, 28 August 2011

Arkady Averchenko: The professional

Not so long ago he burst into my room and anxiously exclaimed: “Why don’t you answer the door?” “Someone has broken my door bell. I will call a serviceman and get an electric one instead.” “My friend! And you’re telling me this? Me, who was born an electrician…Who else will fix it for you, if not me?” His eyes were glistering with tears of sincere joy. “Usatov!” I said sullenly “You shaved me once and I had to call two doctors. You tuned my piano and I had to call a tuner, a joiner and a polisher to come in.” “Oh, you called a polisher?! Dear! You could have told me, and I would have…” He had already taken off his coat, not listening to my objections, rolling up his sleeves: “Glasha! Go buy me twenty meters of wire. Ivan! Run to the electrical store on the corner and get two buttons and a double pressure bell.” Since I did not know anything about fixing door bells, the term “double pressure bell” brought me hope that electricity was something I can trust my old friend with. “Maybe,” I thought, “he is a professional at exactly that.” But when they brought in the wire, I asked the professional with suspicion: “Listen…Why is it not isolated?” “From what?” said Usatov, mock pity in his tone. “What – from what?” “Isolated from what?” “Nothing! From itself” “What do you need that for?” Since I was not in need for it, I quietly let him work. “We already have the holes in the door. We need to put through the wire, tie the button to it and fasten the bell in the kitchen. You see how easy it is!” “Where are all the elements?” “What elements?” “The bell will not work without the elements!” “What if I just push the button a little harder?” “You can hit it with your head…The bell will be silent as an old shoe.” He was thinking. “Just drop the wire” I said “Let’s go have lunch.” Nevertheless he was sad to part with the door bell. He was eagerly attached to this simple instrument… “I will take it with me” he declared “There is probably something else I can do with it.” There was something else he was able to do. He tied the bell to the hanging lamp. Immediately after, he tore the lamp off the ceiling and directly after that he scalded my little son with hot soup. Translated by Maria Aprelenko, RT

Saturday, 27 August 2011

Great dynasties of the world: The Romanovs

Early on the morning of 17 July 1918, Tsar Nicholas II of Russia, and his wife Alexandra, their son, Alexei, and their four daughters – Tatiana, Olga, Maria and Anastasia – were gathered in the basement of Ipatiev House in the city of Ekaterinburg, in the Ural mountains, along with the family doctor, a footman, a housemaid and a cook. They had been imprisoned, in different locations, after the February revolution of 1917 and Nicholas's subsequent abdication. In Ekaterinburg, the local Bolsheviks, led by Yakov Yurovsky, feared that the family might be liberated by advancing monarchist forces. Yurovsky entered the room where the family were waiting and announced: "Nicholas Aleksandrovich, by the order of the Regional Soviet of the Urals, you are to be shot, along with all your family." The family and their servants were then shot, bayoneted, their bodies hacked to pieces, set alight, doused with acid, and the remains thrown into a mine shaft. It was the end of the Romanov dynasty. There are too many bad books, terrible films and TV mini-series about the Romanovs, and too many crackpot sentimentalists and conspiracy theorists. The family have became the stuff not so much of legend as of lurid fantasy. Reliable and readable recent English-language histories of the last days of the Romanovs include Greg King and Penny Wilson's The Fate of the Romanovs and Helen Rappaport's Ekaterinburg: The Last Days of the Romanovs. But what of the beginnings of the dynasty? Eighteen Romanovs ruled Russia from the early 17th century to the early 20th century. Famous Romanovs include Peter the Great, Catherine the Great, Alexander I, Nicholas I and Alexander II. But there are others, less well known, but equally extraordinary. Ivan V and Peter I, who ruled together. Anna Ivanovna, who built the famous ice palace in St Petersburg. Feodor III, the shy, bookish invalid. Between them, over time, the Romanovs established the modern world's largest and most powerful empire. The reign of the Romanovs began in the so-called troubled time, after the death of the last tsar of the Rurik dynasty in 1598. Boris Gudonov – immortalised in Mussorgsky's opera, based on Pushkin's play – seized power, and the country was plunged into 15 years of crisis. There was famine and plague. There were invasions, massacres, battles, rioting. Somehow, according to the historian Chester Dunning, in his massive history Russia's First Civil War, modern Russia emerged from this chaos in 1613 with the election of Michael Romanov as tsar, aged just 16. Michael was the perfect compromise candidate for Russia's feuding elites: the Romanovs were a noble family with distant claims to the throne. ...

Dormition Cathedral - Uspensky sobor, Moscow

7039 - Moscow - Dormition Cathedral
Uspensky sobor - Dormition Cathedral 

Friday, 26 August 2011

Wooden Masterpieces of Karelia

Wooden Masterpieces of Karelia: We invite you to the museum of woodcarver Kronid Gogolev localed in Karelia. So let’s admire his wooden masterpieces. Location:Sortavala, Karelia via di7foto

Thursday, 25 August 2011

Russian Dance - Summer (Leto). Igor Moiseev's Ballet

Anton Chekhov - Portrait

Portrait by Valentin Serov, 1903

The Pechorsky Monastery of Nizhny Novgorod

russia - nizhny novgorod

Lunacharsky: Pushkin as Critic

Translator: Irving D. W. Talmudge; Source: Pushkin: Homage by Marxist Critics ed. Irving D. W. Talmudge, Critics Group, New York, 1937; Transcribed: Sally Ryan for marxists.org, January 2000.

Pushkin was not what one might call a theoretician of the arts. He had no systematized body of principles underlying his evaluations. In the long evolution of his aesthetic concepts he never attempted to express in writing any theoretical ideas relating to the different stages of this evolution. Pushkin passionately loved art and especially literature. The significance of literature in social relations is a question which he never pondered. Nor did he ever consider for whom the artist should write. He envisioned before him a hazy collective face--the 'reader' and in that alluring, sympathetic countenance Pushkin discerned his friends, members of his own social group; beyond that--dimly-perceived contemporaries, and a posterity who would accept with delight the gifts of his muse. Actually, the face of Pushkin's reader changed during the span of his life. At first his reading public consisted mainly of the genteel salon stratum. As time went on it became more and more representative of the Russian educated classes; it was gradually augmented by democratic elements until at the close of his life Pushkin was read by tens of thousands of persons, the majority of whom were new readers--in other words, the bourgeois and petty-bourgeois intelligentsia, including even a thin section of the peasantry. To put it more generally, it may be said that at first Pushkin actually wrote for the aristocratic reader and saw before him a genteel audience, while toward the close of his life his reading public consisted chiefly of the "bourgeoisie" (to use the term in its wider connotation);and he realized that he was writing for this social group specifically. Correspondingly, Pushkin's concepts of the poet in general, and of himself as a poet in particular, underwent a process of evolution. At first the word poet implied an assured person, a man of the world, who, without compulsion, motivated by the loftiest calling, surrenders himself from time to time to the inspired mission of poesy, finding in it a luxurious complement to his human, or, to be more exact, his lordly existence. Even though subjectively the poet does not feel that riding Pegasus is the most important and the most satisfying experience in life, it is at best a fine form of dilettantism. More and more frequently one finds, in the later works of Pushkin, lines breathing recognition of the fact that what is perhaps most important in him is not the lord, nor the squire, nor the gentleman of the Emperor's bed-chamber, but, specifically, the writer. Pushkin does not attempt to conceal the fact that the principal role in this deduction is played by the economic factor. Writing becomes the occupation which feeds him and his family. He sells the product of his labor. He is a professional--a special type of craftsman. Who, then, pays for his labor? His labor is paid for by a vague but numerous public which extends beyond the limits of the genteel salon. ... Lunacharsky essay on Pushkin as Critic

Wednesday, 24 August 2011

Falling House Of Vladivostok

Falling House Of Vladivostok: If you stay in Vladivostok be ready that your house can be destroyed at any time. This one you see in the picture was built in 1950 and never reconstructed since then. According to official sources, one part of the … Read more...

Tuesday, 23 August 2011

Mikhail Yelizarov: The Librarian

This novel became the subject of controversy last December, when it was unexpectedly awarded the Russian Booker prize, one of the most conservative literary awards in the country. For years, the Russian Booker was primarily associated with the most traditional wing of the domestic literary scene, and on most occasions the prize went to books that are utterly conventional, often to the extent of being boring. By the award’s standards, Yelizarov’s novel about a cult following formed around books by a fictional mediocre Soviet writer Gromov, which allegedly have a magical effect, shouldn’t have even been short-listed in the first place. And the fact that it was not only nominated, but ended up winning the award was too much for some in the literary establishment to process. Writer Alexander Kabakov dismissed the book as “low-value fascist trash,” while prominent critic Andrei Nemzer said that he wanted to forget the awards ceremony as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, quite a number of people in the literary community highly praised the novel. What upset the literary establishment, apart from the fact that this important book prize was awarded to “an outsider,” (which doesn’t happen very often with the Booker), was that some of the passages could be interpreted as nostalgic for the Soviet times, which does not resonate with the liberal ideology of many in literary circles. However, this is just one way to look at the book, which, being a “postmodernist” work as opposed to a “realist” one, certainly leaves quite a lot of room for interpretation, like any multi-layered novel with plenty of subtext. This could be one of the reasons behind the favorable reviews by some critics and the scathing criticism of others. In any case, The Librarian came as a big breakthrough for Yelizarov, who was born in Ukraine, lived for several years in Germany, and published the novel Pasternak and two collections of short stories, Nails (Nogty) and Red Film (Krasnaya Plyonka) before winning the Booker. The Librarian’s story begins with the main character, Vyazemtsev, traveling to a provincial Russian city where his uncle, who has recently passed away, left him an apartment. Unexpectedly, Vyazemtsev, who knows nothing about Gromov and whose only goal is to sell the apartment, finds out that his late uncle used to be a “librarian” in one of the groups of Gromov’s followers, and that he has now inherited this title along with the apartment. Ideology aside, the novel has a prominent action component, which features a detailed description of “battles,” in which followers of the Gromov cult take part, with several different groups fighting for the possession of one of the writer’s precious volumes, of which only very few still exist. Clad in bizarre home-made armor, the “fighters” are not just bizarre, “post-modernist” characters, but they could also be looked at as people who found themselves in an utter ideological vacuum following the collapse of the Soviet system. Their fight over the “magical” books can be perceived as an allegory for human beings searching for some ideological or moral guidance. ...

Ivan Ivanovich Shishkin - landscape painter

Saturday, 20 August 2011

Rimsky-Korsakov: Capriccio Espagnol, Op. 34



Nikolay Andreyevich Rimsky-Korsakov (1844~1908)
Capriccio espagnol Op. 34

I. Alborada
II. Variazioni

Kirov Orchestra of Mariinsky Theater
Valery Gergiev

Mariinsky Concert Hall
Jan 2007

Anatoly Aleksin: The Actress

The house my grandma used to live in is no longer there. It was demolished to make the street more spacious. I think Grandma would only be happy about that. She was such an amazing person. For example, she liked that instead of a quiet backyard, her old-style balcony overlooked the sidewalk, with its non-stop, 24-hour bustle. “That makes a good excuse for my senile insomnia!” she would say. She had four daughters. But only my mom lived in the same city. Well, actually, not just in the same city, but around the corner, a stone’s throw from us. Or, to be more precise, a 27-step distance away… I once counted the number of steps from our place to Grandma’s. “It’s good we don’t live together, in the same apartment,” Grandma used to say. “I’ve always loved to go out and visit people. They see you in, see you off… They take care of you, in other words!” Aside from dropping by at her friends, she also liked to travel. She enjoyed reminiscing about how she used to go to the countryside several years in a row to see her brother, the teacher. He was actually a cousin, but judging by Grandma’s stories, they were very close. She stopped visiting him after the war, though…. Because he was killed. “He was the kindest of all our family,” Grandma said. “And I am not saying that because he was killed… I said that all the time.” On the New Year’s Eve Grandma always hoped that her daughters, who lived in two other cities, would invite her over. She was even window shopping for the gifts she planned to bring to her grandkids. Her daughters sent postcards. They told her how much they missed her. They obviously loved her. They just didn’t have a clue… Of course, I could write to them about it. And once I was close to actually doing it … But Grandma stopped me. “I heard you get F’s for prompting at school, right?” “Right,” I said. On the eve of that distant year I am talking about, the 6th graders of our school were to be taken on a field trip. Although the trip was to the children’s theater, we had three chieftains: a mother from the PTA, and two class supervisors. A couple of days before, we found out that the 6th B class, the one I was in, was given tickets to the pit stalls, while the 6th A class got to sit in the dress circle, though they were just as good as us. I thought that class was even better, because Galya Kozlova studied in it. I bought two tickets for the children’s show. “I will walk up to Galya,” I thought," and say casually, ‘By the way, I have an extra ticket. The pit stall is better than the dress circle. You can have it if you want.’ And I will sit next to her the entire show! This is how the year will end… And I will think of it as the happiest year in my life!” At the end of December, all of mom’s sisters sent us postcards. They all wished all the best for Grandma, mom and dad, and even me. They wrote they missed us a lot, and could hardly wait till we could meet! “Waiting has its own advantages -- everything is still ahead,” Grandma said quietly. Mom and dad began to explain sadly that they had to join some company, which they didn’t want to see, but had to, and I said just as sadly, “And I have to go to the theater tomorrow.” On hearing that, Grandma pretended she was looking for something in her purse. Suddenly, the words just came out of my mouth… I said, “Let’s go to the theater together, Grandma! I have an extra ticket!”
Translated by Ekaterina Shubnaya, RT

Friday, 19 August 2011

History of Russia In Photos

History of Russia In Photos: Here is a set of old Soviet photos. Private stories in the whole history of the country. A street photographer, 1920. “Do not sing songs. Do not drink vodka. Be quiet”. A fight in the courtyard of a dosshouse, 1895, … Read more...

Dmitri Hvorostovsky in Tchaikovsky's Queen of Spades



Prince Yeletsky's Act 2 aria from The Queen of Spades.
Gala concert at the Mariinsky Theatre, St Petersburg, 2003.

Thursday, 18 August 2011

Nikolay Trubetskoy - Short Biography

Nikolay Sergeyevich TRUBETSKOY (16. 04. 1890, Moscow — 25. 01. 1938, Vienna) — Russian linguist and philosopher. Trubetskoy was a member of one the noblest families in Russia. His father was rector of Moscow University and his brother Eugeny was a well-known religious thinker. From the age of 15 he published a number of works on Finno-Ugrian folklore. In all he learned more than 12 ancient and live languages. In 1913 he went to Leipzig University to study Indo-European Comparative Linguistics. In 1915 he became an Associate Professor at Moscow University. His thesis on (Pre) History of languages was lost during the evacuation in 1919. Trubetskoy left Russia in 1920, and taught his course in Comparative linguistics in the University of Sophia. After he moved to Prague, he became a central figure of the Prague School of Linguistics, and was noted as the author of its most important work on phonology: 'Grundzüge der Phonologie' ['Principles of Phonology'] (1939). From 1922 he lived in Austria, where he became Head of Slavic linguistics at Vienna University. There he taught more than 100 courses and published about 150 works. He died tragically at the age of 47. The draft of his book On the Pre-History of Slavic Languages was confiscated and destroyed by the Gestapo in 1938 and his most famous book was eventually published after the death of its author. Trubetskoy was one of the most important linguists of his time; he was influenced by Saussure and in turn influenced Roman Jakobson. Trubetskoy does not consider writing to be the key element of language. That is why he turns to the reconstruction of oral language, which appears to be the origin and source of writing and thinking. The idea of 'origin' and truth-into-speech was criticized by Derrida, and Derrida's term (archi)écriture contrasts with Trubetskoy's Pre-History. Derrida tries to show that in Trubetskoy's linguistics writing is misunderstood as a secondary lingual practice; in reality there is no original oral (pre-historic) language and secondary writing history, because the two cannot be separated. We can reconstruct ancient speech through written texts only, just as pre-history can only be understand with the help of historical sources. Derrida criticizes Trubetskoy as the representative of the phonological orientation in linguistics; he writes, 'Phonology, it is often said today, communicates its scientificity to linguistics, which in turn serves as the epistemological model for all the sciences of man'. (De la grammatologie. Paris: Minuit, 1967. — p. 146). Trubetskoy was a disciple of Saussure's project, and wanted linguistics to be the science of language. There is no doubt that Trubetskoy's linguistic ideas were more prolific and important for world philosophy than his philosophical researches of spirituality and the Asian origin of the Russian nation. ...

Monday, 15 August 2011

Vladimir Nabokov: The Vane Sisters

Being a conversationalist more verbose than thorough, she could never describe in full the theory of aura intervention that she had somehow devised. Fundamentally there was nothing new or unusual about her personal beliefs, since they supposed quite conventional likelihood, a silent solarium of immortal souls (sewn together with mortal surroundings), the main entertainment of which involves occasionally hanging over the souls of their living friends. What is of interest is the strange practical quirk that Cynthia gave to her tame metaphysics. She was certain that her existence was influenced by many of her dead friends, each of whom took turns in ruling her fate, in exactly the same way as if she were a homeless kitten, which a passing school girl picks up and presses to her cheek, and again carefully puts down near some suburban fence - to be stroked again by another passerby or carried to a world of doors by a kindly lady. 

For several hours or several days – in a row or recurrently in an irregular series, spread over a monthly period, or even a year – everything that happened to Cynthia after the death of a given person, assumed, as she insisted, his mood and habits. These events could turn out to be extreme, life changing, or a chain of small insignificant incidents, hardly visible against an ordinary day, and then fading into an even less-detected nonsense while the aura gradually faded. The influence could have turned out to be good or bad; the main thing was that its source could be identified. She said that it resembled a walk through a person’s soul. I tried to argue, saying, that she might not always be able to determine the exact source, since not everybody has a recognizable soul; that there are such things as anonymous letters and Christmas presents which almost anybody might send; that in fact an “ordinary day”, as she calls it, can be itself a weak solution of mixed auras or times, when a tame guardian angel takes the routine shift. And what about God? Did or did not people who would resent any omnipotent dictator back on earth look for one in the heavens? And wars? What a dreadful thought – dead soldiers still fighting with living ones, or phantom armies attempting to knock each other down, through the lives of disabled old men. 

Translated by Maria Aprelenko, RT

Sunday, 14 August 2011

Mikhail Veller: The Guru

"Your ignorance is boundless, and not even amusing..." This was the first sentence I heard from him - the slide-tackle to my fate that forever changed its course. But, to hell with the intimate details. Everything I am, I owe to him. Everything. It is too late now to know who he really was. He liked being mystical. Very much. I would come to his doghouse of an apartment with a bottle of port and a hunk of salami, or a loaf of bread, or a package of dumplings, or a carton of cigarettes. And, before my finger touched the doorbell, the confident, successful, well-dressed educated young man turned into something I really was - a young pup. He was a master who, from the mountain peaks of enlightenment, had scorned the trades. He was a sage. I - a frantic and arrogant brat. He hated order, clothes, reputation and public opinion. He hated money, but he hated conceited poverty even more. Good and evil didn't exist: he belonged to the caste of hunters of the truth. He shunned the farce of everyday news and sluiced for truth's precious grains; he panned for it like a prospector. Like a careless farmer, he scattered the golden sands of his truths by the handfuls, paying with it for everything. His currency had limited circulation and his life could be called a history of struggle if it weren't a history of beatings. He was hardened and scarred, like a saxaul tree in the desert. Flinging open the door, he squinted his farsighted eyes with valor and contempt for me and, through me, for the outside world. His scorn leveled the scales of his view of life: in the other cup rested his love rejected by the world. I understood it much later than expected. He took my gifts like one would take groceries from the neighbor's boy who was sent to the store while the housekeeper was sick. Every time I was afraid that he would give me a tip - I wouldn't know how to behave if he did. Deliberate with his old man's squeamishness, he silently pointed his finger at the coat rack and then, at the door to his room. That was my invitation. In his room, he pointed in the same way at the curio cabinet the age of Noah's ark and a chair. I took out the wine glasses and sat down. He tossed down the port, lit a cigarette and in the formless mass of an old man's face appeared discrete features - hard and unhappy. He was one of those who never quit and kept going until the end. But, since everything alive is forever changing, he, with his unstoppable momentum, went too far and ended up empty-handed. But in that emptiness, he possessed more than those who perceptively followed every fluctuation of the living world. He remained with nothing - but with the very essence of reality, gripped and preserved by his caustic consciousness; and in his consciousness, it stayed forever undistorted. "My boy," he always started this way. "My boy", he would say, and the air, vibrating with his voice, stretched like a membrane about to explode under the unavoidable and powerful pressure of his internally concentrated thoughts, rapidly expanding, turning into words, like gun powder turns into gas and, expelling the projectile out the barrel, with one tight shockwave explodes the air. "My boy", he crowed angrily, now animated, with his two eyes stabbing me like two fingers, "did you happen to read some of this American scribe named Edgar Allen Poe? Accidentally, perhaps?" I answered yes, not afraid of the ambush, but certain that I will end up in the puddle of mud anyway, from which I will be lifted by the scruff of my neck, only to be dipped into it again. "So, then, my boy," he continued, and from a barely perceptible gesture I knew to pour more into his glass. He drank, stood up and didn't look at me again as he spoke. I was the outside world. He consulted the world. No more, no less. "All grief comes from ignorance," he said. "And ignorance - from lack of respect for your mind. From happiness of being a sheep in a herd. Ignorance. Dishonesty. Stupidity. Subservience. Cowardice. The five things, each one able to destroy creativity. Honesty, intelligence, knowledge, independence and courage - these are the things you must develop to the greatest extent, if you want to write, my boy. Those honored by their contemporaries are not writers. Edgar Allen Poe is a writer, my boy," and he placed his hand on the spine of the book as if it were the shoulder of E.A. Poe. He was acting, but when I replayed these talks in my head later, I found nothing abnormal in his acting. Maybe, we act every time we stray from the spontaneity of expression. "About honesty," his voice lowered and turned hoarse, hissing like a worn out stylus of a turntable, dulled by the unbearable energy of the recording - the energy mixed with the aggregate of knowledge, suffering and anger. "You must be completely aware of your own motives. Your true feelings. Don't be afraid to see a monster in yourself. Be afraid of being a monster, and not knowing it. And don't think that others are better than you. They're just like you! Don't be deluded and don't be offended. Then, you will understand that every man possesses everything. All the feelings and motives, the sacred and the evil." His finger was a barrel in a firing squad aiming for the bridge of my nose. I pressed my back into the chair and sweated. "These are words from the primer. You are ignorant, but I don't fault you for that. You should have known this at seventeen, even if you couldn't understand it. But you are twenty four! What were you doing in that college of yours, you feeble-minded amateur?" Hot drops of perspiration left my armpits and rolled down my sides. "Without honesty there is no knowledge. To be dishonest is to close your eyes to half of this life. Our feelings, our system of knowledge and perception of reality are a magician's glass through which we can see an otherwise invisible picture of the world. But there is only one point from where that picture can be seen undistorted, in harmonic balance with all its parts. That point is truth. The point of enlightenment is absolute truth, without the need for judgments. ... Translated by Eric Gillan

Saturday, 13 August 2011

Nina Kaptsova in The Sleeping Beauty - Bolshoi Ballet

Nicholas G. Chernyshevsky: The Aesthetic Relations of Art to Reality

Written: 1853;
Source: Russian Philosophy Volume II: The Nihilists, The Populists, Critics of Religion and Culture, Quadrangle Books 1965;
Transcribed: Harrison Fluss, February 2008.


The sea is beautiful; looking at it, we never think of being dissatisfied with it, aesthetically. But not everyone lives near the sea; many people never in their lives get a chance to see it. Yet they would very much like to see it, and consequently seascapes please and interest them. Of course, it would be much better to see the sea itself rather than pictures of it; but when a good thing is not available, a man is satisfied with an inferior one. When the genuine article is not present, a substitute will do. Even the people who can admire the real sea cannot always do so when they want to, and so they call up memories of it. But man’s imagination is weak; it needs support and prompting. So to revive their memories of the sea, to see it more vividly in their imagination, they look at seascapes. This is the sole aim and object of very many (the majority of) works of art: to give those people who have not been able to enjoy beauty in reality the opportunity to acquaint themselves with it at least to some degree; to serve as a reminder, to prompt and revive memories of beauty in reality in the minds of those people who are acquainted with it by experience and love to recall it...

Thus, the first purpose of art is to reproduce nature and life, and this applies to all works of art without exception. Their relation to the corresponding aspects and phenomena of reality is the same as the relation of an engraving to the picture from which it was copied, or the relation of a portrait to the person it represents. An engraving is made of a picture not because the latter is bad, but because it is good. Similarly, reality is reproduced in art not in order to eliminate flaws, not because reality as such is not sufficiently beautiful, but precisely because it is beautiful. Artistically an engraving is not superior to the picture from which it is copied, but much inferior to it; similarly, works of art never attain the beauty and grandeur of reality. But the picture is unique; it can be admired only by those who go to the picture gallery which it adorns. The engraving, however, is sold in hundreds of copies all over the world; everyone can admire it whenever he pleases without leaving his room, without getting up from his couch, without throwing off his dressing gown. Similarly, a beautiful object in reality is not always accessible to everyone; reproductions of it (feeble, crude, pale, it is true, but reproductions all the same) in works of art make it always accessible to everybody. A portrait is made of a person we love and cherish not in order to eliminate the flaws in his features – what do we care about these flaws? we do not notice them, or if we do we like them – but in order to give us the opportunity to admire that face even when it is not actually in front of us. Such also is the aim and object of works of art; they do not correct reality, do not embellish it, but reproduce it, serve as a substitute for it...

While not claiming in the least that these words express something entirely new in the history of aesthetic ideas, we think nonetheless that the pseudo-classical “imitation of nature” theory that prevailed in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries demanded of art something different from the formal principle implied by the definition: “Art is the reproduction of reality.” In support of our statement that there is an essential difference between our view of art and that contained in the imitation of nature theory, we shall quote here a criticism of that theory taken from the best textbook on the now prevailing system of aesthetics. This criticism will, on the one hand, show the difference between the conceptions it refutes and our view, and, on the other, will reveal what is lacking in our initial definition of art as reproducing reality, and will thus enable us to proceed to a more exact development of concepts of art.

The definition of art as imitation of nature reveals only its formal object; according to this definition art should strive as far as possible to repeat what already exists in the external world. Such repetition must be regarded as superfluous, for nature and life already present us with what, according to this conception, art should present to us. What is more, the imitation of nature is a vain effort which falls far short of its object because in imitating nature, art, owing to its restricted means, gives us only deception instead of truth and only a lifeless mask instead of a really living being.[2]

Here we shall observe, first of all, that the words, “Art is the reproduction of reality,” as well as the sentence, “Art is the imitation of nature,” define only the formal principle of art; to define the content of art we must supplement the first conclusion we have drawn concerning its aim, and this we shall do subsequently. The other objection does not in the least apply to the view we have expounded; from the preceding exposition it is evident that the reproduction or “repetition” of the objects and phenomena of nature by art is by no means superfluous; on the contrary, it is necessary. Turning to the observation that repetition is a vain effort which falls far short of its object, it must be said that this argument is valid only when it is assumed that art wishes to compete with reality and not simply serve as a substitute for it. We, however, assert that art cannot stand comparison with living reality and completely lacks the vitality that reality possesses; we regard this as beyond doubt...

Let us see whether further objections to the imitation theory apply to our view:

Since it is impossible to achieve complete success in imitating nature, all that remains is to take smug pleasure in the relative success of this hocus-pocus; but the more the copy bears an external resemblance to the original, the colder this pleasure becomes, and it even grows into satiety or revulsion. There are portraits which, as the saying goes, are awfully like the originals. An excellent imitation of the song of the nightingale begins to bore and disgust us as soon as we learn that it is not a real nightingale singing, but some skillful imitator of the nightingale’s trilling; this is because we have a right to expect different music from a human being. Such tricks in the extremely skillful imitation of nature may be compared with the art of the conjurer who without a miss threw lentils through an aperture no bigger than a lentil, and whom Alexander the Great rewarded with a medimnos of lentils. [3]

These observations are perfectly just, but they apply to the useless and senseless copying of what does not deserve attention, or to the depiction of mere externals devoid of content. (How many vaunted works of art earn this biting, but deserved, ridicule!) Content worthy of the attention of a thinking person is alone able to shield art from the reproach that it is merely a pastime, which it all too often is. Artistic form does not save a work of art from contempt or from a pitying smile if, by the importance of its idea, the work cannot answer the question: Was it worth the trouble? A useless thing has no right to respect. “Man is an end in himself”; but the things man makes must have their end in the satisfaction of man’s needs and not in themselves. That is precisely why the more perfectly a useless imitation bears external resemblance to the original, the more disgust it arouses. “Why were so much time and labor wasted on it?” we ask ourselves when looking at it. “And what a pity that such lack of content can go hand in hand with such perfection of workmanship!” The boredom and disgust aroused by the conjurer who imitates the song of the nightingale are explained by the very remarks contained in the above criticism: a man who fails to understand that he ought to sing human songs and not make the trills that have meaning only in the song of the nightingale is deserving only of pity. ...

Friday, 12 August 2011

Meanwhile In the Kronotsky Nature Reserve

Meanwhile In the Kronotsky Nature Reserve: "The Kronotsky Nature Reserve holds unparalleled spectacles for even the most experienced travelers. There are warm waterfalls flowing down from rocks, groves of sea plants and noisy bird colonies on the coast, narrow paths with walls of giant grasses and … Read more..."

Thursday, 11 August 2011

Dushanbe Flea Market: Hello From the Soviet Past

Dushanbe Flea Market: Hello From the Soviet Past: "Welcome to the flea market in Dushanbe. It seems you get to the Soviet past once you come here and it looks strange that things you would certainly throw out are sold and even maybe bought by somebody… However real … Read more..."

Wednesday, 10 August 2011

Andrei Sinyavsky: IVAN THE FOOL


Chapter 4

The Fool is the folktale’s favorite hero. I would even go so far as to say that he is the most popular and most colorful folktale character, its favorite, and deserving of special attention. In a broad sense, the Fool is a variant of the most worthless and worse person on earth. Only a more compressed, concrete, and tangible variant. The Fool occupies the lowest rung on the social ladder and the human ladder in general. No wonder the word “fool” in Russian (durak) is an oath – both very insulting and very common. No one wants to be a fool. But in the folktale, this oath is the hero’s name, or, in any case, his nickname, a stock epithet that sticks to him. Even the hero sometimes calls himself Ivan the Fool. Everyone despises the Fool, everyone laughs at him, everyone curses him, even thrashes him. In his own family, he is an outcast. Which is why many of these tales begin something like this: “There once lived an old man. He had three sons: two of them were clever, but the third, Ivan the Fool, did nothing; he just sat on the stove bench in the corner and blew his nose.” Or: “he just sat on the stove bench all day catching flies.” Or: “There was once an old man and his old wife. They had three sons: two of them were sensible, but the third was a simpleton. The old woman loved the first two and dressed them in clean clothes; but the last was always ill clad – in a filthy shirt.”

The Fool is further humiliated by his own vices, which, though common and fairly harmless, are nevertheless despised. The Fool doesn’t like to work and doesn’t know how. Lazy by nature, he tries to spend most of his time on the stove bench sleeping. Sometimes the Fool is a drunkard as well. Or he’s a dirty little pig: he refuses to wash or to comb his hair and is forever blowing his nose. Or, worse, rubbing snivel all over his face. In one story (a later version), a beautiful princess consents to marry the Fool: “There was nothing to be done. ‘So this is my lot,’ she said, and they went off to be married. At the wedding feast, Ivan made a complete fool of himself and the princess soiled three handkerchiefs just wiping his nose.”

But, of course, the Fool’s principal distinction is that he is a fool and does everything in his own idiotic way. His actions are out of place, embarrassing, impractical, and senseless. This was especially apparent to the shrewd and practical peasant and is therefore played up in the folktale, making the Fool a figure of fun.

“One day the old parents sent Ivanushko the Little Fool to town to buy provisions for the holidays. Ivanushko bought many things – a table and spoons and cups and salt. He loaded a whole cart with objects of every description. He started to drive home, but his horse, it seems, was not quite strong enough for this heavy load and walked rather slowly. Ivanushko thought to himself: ‘After all, the table has four legs, just like the horse; why shouldn’t it run home by itself?’ So he put the table out on the road. He drove on, a long distance or a short distance, and the ravens circled over him cawing and cawing. ‘The little sisters must be hungry, else why would they cry like that?’ thought the fool, and put out dishes with victuals to treat the ravens. ‘Eat, little sisters, you’re welcome,’ he said. And he rattled on slowly.

“Ivanushko drove through a wood of young trees; along the road was a row of burned-down trunks. ‘Ah,’ he thought, ‘the poor boys have no caps, they’ll catch a cold that way.’ So he put his earthen pots and crocks on them.”

As a result, Ivanushko arrives home empty-handed and is again thrashed, cursed, and called a fool. To be sure, the Fool causes harm to his family, and sometimes to all of society. But he does so out of stupidity, not malice. Which is why we, listeners and witnesses to his outrages, are on his side and gladly forgive him everything. We even begin to sympathize with the Fool because he is so simple, truthful and ingenuous. He is the victim of his own openheartedness – an openheartedness that is measured by his stupidity, by his ignorance of the most basic concepts.

This is why, somewhere in mid-story, the Fool’s luck suddenly turns and he becomes an extraordinarily successful person. His luck changes not because he gets wiser, but because he is still doing the most idiotic things. ...

Translated by Joanne Turnbull in Glas

Flames of Paris Vakhtang Chabukiani



Vakhtang Chabukiani(1910 - 1992). Magnificent and legendary Georgian ballet dancer and choreographer who was a star of Mariinsky (Kirov) Theater of Saint Petersburg. He is considered to be one of the most influential male ballet dancers in history, and is noted for creating the majority of the choreography of the male variations which comprise the classical ballet repertory.

Vakhtang Chabukiani embodied the new Soviet hero in the ballet of the 1930's, combining virtuosic ballet technique with athleticism and a stunningly powerful, vivid stage presence. He originated lead roles in several signature Soviet ballets, among them Vasily Vainonen's "Flames of Paris" in 1932 and Rostislav Zakharov's "Fountain of the Bakhchisarai" in 1934. Also in 1934, he and Tatyana Vecheslova became the first Soviet dancers to tour in the United States. His another name was "Wizard of Dancing"

Musa Gottlieb (Jeanne) & Vakhtang Chaboukiani (Philippe) Music: Boris Asafiev Choreography: Vasily Vainonen 1953 from Film Masters of Russian Ballet

Tuesday, 9 August 2011

Moscow Rooftop Views

Moscow Rooftop Views: "Enjoy beautiful  pictures of Moscow taken from an airplane approaching to land and standing on the roof of a business center. The Maryino region. The South port. The centre of the city. Kolomenskoye, Tsaritsyno. Pokrovskoye cemetery. Chertanovo South. Factories. Yasenevo. … Read more..."

Monday, 8 August 2011

Lev Shestov: All Things are Possible

Part I
  Zu fragmentarisch ist Welt und Leben. Too fragmentary is life and the world. 
 - H. HEINE

1 The obscure streets of life do not offer the conveniences of the central thoroughfares: no electric light, no gas, not even a kerosene lamp-bracket. There are no pavements: the traveller has to fumble his way in the dark. If he needs a light, he must wait for a thunderbolt, or else, primitive-wise, knock a spark out of a stone. In a glimpse will appear unfamiliar outlines; and then, what he has taken in he must try to remember, no matter whether the impression was right or false. For he will not easily get another light, except he run his head against a wall, and see sparks that way. What can a wretched pedestrian gather under such circumstances? How can we expect a clear account from him whose curiosity (let us suppose his curiosity so strong) led him to grope his way among the outskirts of life? Why should we try to compare his records with those of the travellers through brilliant streets?

 2 The law of sequence in natural phenomena seems so plausible, so obvious, that one is tempted to look for its origin, not in the realities of actual life, but in the promptings of the human mind. This law of sequence is the most mysterious of all the natural laws. Why so much order? Why not chaos and disorderliness? Really, if the hypothesis of sequence had not offered such blatant advantages to the human intelligence, man would never have thought of raising it to the rank of eternal and irrefutable truth. But he saw his opportunity. Thanks to the grand hypothesis, man is forewarned and forearmed. Thanks to this master-key, the future is at his mercy. He knows, in order that he may foreknow: savoir pour prévoir. Here is man, by virtue of one supreme assumption, dictator henceforward of all nature. The philosophers have ever bowed the knee to success. So down they went before the newly-invented law of natural sequence, they hailed it with the title of eternal truth. But even this seemed insufficient. L’appétit vient en mangeant. Like the old woman in the fairy-tale about the golden fish, they had it in their minds that the fish should do their errands. But some few people at last could not stand this impudence. Some very few began to object...

 3 The comfortable settled man says to himself: "How could one live without being sure of the morrow; how could one sleep without a roof over one's head?" But misfortune turns him out of house and home. He must perforce sleep under a hedge. He cannot rest, he is full of terrors. There may be wild beasts, fellow-tramps. But in the long run he gets used to it. He will trust himself to chance, live like a tramp, and sleep his sleep in a ditch. ...

Anatoly Aleksin: Ivashov

Everyone in our class knew that Lyalya Ivashova’s father was a “big boss”. Sometimes, he was referred to as “great man”. As years went by, I realized it didn’t always mean the same.
Even back then, before the war, the Ivashovs had a separate apartment. It made my mom excited, as we had to co-exist with eight neighbors. Jealousy just wasn’t in my mom’s nature. If a person possessed something that we couldn’t afford, it meant he had earned it. And if he earned it, she respected him. “The only people I am jealous of are healthy old people,” she would say. “If an eighty-year-old is walking along the street, without any assistance, asking for no favors, having a vigorous memory – this is what I dream about.”
Visiting Ivashov’s place always gave that holiday spirit, I got at Christmas parties. Although I visited them every day, that feeling never went away. And absence of neighbors in his apartment was one of the reasons. And the radio Ivashov had brought from one of his business trips. And a personal driver, who always showed up in the doorway with the same words, “I am here!” All of it was no less an entertainment for me than a Christmas pageant. But on the whole, it wasn’t about the radio and the driver: I, like all of my girl friends, was in love with Ivashov.
One does not only inherit a certain quality from his parents; he also inherits the absence of one: I am also totally immune to jealousy. Feeling this exhausting feeling to Ivashov’s wife was moot: she was gone the day his daughter was born. Mom said, “There’s always one person going to the maternity ward, and there are always two, or even three or four, coming back! In the case of Ivashov, he took one there, and he brought one back. A different one, though, the one we didn’t get to know yet: Lyalya.”
Mom was friends with Ivashov’s wife and claimed she was beautiful. How could that be different! It wasn’t just because, to mom’s way of thinking, all women were in a sense beautiful. It’s Ivashov’s wife we were talking about!
“If you want to know what she looked like,” she would say, “Take a look at Lyalya. This is what she was. And the name is the same. We went to school together.”
So, our friendship with Lyalya was a “family tradition”.
Lyalya-senior didn’t leave a will: in her note-book which mom had hidden from Ivashov (“I had to protect him!”), there was a list of 11 urgent errands, which she intended to run, once back from the hospital. She wasn’t going to die… Mom took care of all of them. They concerned Lyalya-junior and Ivashov.
“I have to protect him!” she always said.
Translated by Ekaterina Shubnaya, RT

Saturday, 6 August 2011

Stylish French Women In Soviet Moscow

Stylish French Women In Soviet Moscow: "In 1959 French models and clothes of Fashion House Christian Dior arrived in Moscow for a fashion week. Soviet people of those times who had just survived the most awful war in history could never forget the beautiful ladies and … Read more..."

Friday, 5 August 2011

Mikhail Glinka: Ruslan and Lyudmila



From Mariinsky theatre St. Petersburg, Russia
The Kirov Opera in assosiation with San Francisco Opera
"Ruslan and Ludmila" magical opera in five acts by Mikhail Ivanovich Glinka

Cast
Svetozar Mikhail Kit
Lyudmila Anna Netrebko
Ruslan Vladimir Ognovenko
Ratmir Larissa Diadkova
Farlaf Gennady Bezzubenkov
Gorislava Galina Gorchakova
Finn Konstantin Pluzhnikov
Naina Irina Bogachova
Bayan Yuri Marusin
Dancers of the Kiron Ballet.
The Kirov Orchestra
Conductor Valery Gergiev
Original designs for sets and costumes by Alexander Golovin

To The North Pole!

To The North Pole!: "Would you like to go to the North Pole on a huge ice-breaker, walk around the ship, feel the ice and drink the purest water in the world?  Enjoy the pictures made during an expedition that was participated by Russian … Read more..."

Maria Fyodorovna Andreyeva

Portrait by Ilya Repin.


Andreeva, Maria Feodorovna (real name Yurkovska) (1868 – 08/12/1953), Russian actress and social activist. A member of the Communist Party since 1904.

Maria Fyodorovna Andreyeva had been the common law wife of writer Maxim Gorky since 1903

Thursday, 4 August 2011

Innokenty Annensky: Sad country

Sad and made of copper
The symbol we are wed,
Even our comedies
End a little sadly….
Our joyful neighbors
Wear their infernal
Hirsute fur coats….
And that only… banal
Are our mangy bears
With prey trembling
In blood-covered lips.
...

Vladimir Korolenko: The Shades, A Fantasy

A month and two days had elapsed since the judges, amid the loud acclaim of the Athenian people, had pronounced the death sentence against the philosopher Socrates because he had sought to destroy faith in the gods. What the gadfly is to the horse Socrates was to Athens. The gadfly stings the horse in order to prevent it from dozing off and to keep it moving briskly on its course. The philosopher said to the people of Athens:
“I am your gadfly. My sting pricks your conscience and arouses you when you are caught napping. Sleep not, sleep not, people of Athens; awake and seek the truth!”
The people arose in their exasperation and cruelly demanded to be rid of their gadfly.
“Perchance both of his accusers, Meletus and Anytus, are wrong,” said the citizens, on leaving the court after sentence had been pronounced.
“But after all whither do his doctrines tend? What would he do? He has wrought confusion, he overthrows, beliefs that have existed since the beginning, he speaks of new virtues which must be recognised and sought for, he speaks of a Divinity hitherto unknown to us. The blasphemer, he deems himself wiser than the gods! No, 'twere better we remain true to the old gods whom we know. They may not always be just, sometimes they may flare up in unjust wrath, and they may also be seized with a wanton lust for the wives of mortals; but did not our ancestors live with them in the peace of their souls, did not our forefathers accomplish their heroic deeds with the help of these very gods? And now the faces of the Olympians have paled and the old virtue is out of joint. What does it all lead to? Should not an end be put to this impious wisdom once for all?”
Thus the citizens of Athens spoke to one another as they left the place, and the blue twilight was falling. They had determined to kill the restless gadfly in the hope that the countenances of the gods would shine again. And yet – before their souls arose the mild figure of the singular philosopher. There were some citizens who recalled how courageously he had shared their troubles and dangers at Potidea; how he alone had prevented them from committing the sin of unjustly executing the generals after the victory over the Arginusee; how he alone had dared to raise his voice against the tyrants who had had fifteen hundred people put to death, speaking to the people on the market-place concerning shepherds and their sheep.
“Is not he a good shepherd,” he asked, “who guards his flock and watches over its increase? Or is it the work of the good shepherd to reduce the number of his sheep and disperse them, and of the good ruler to do the same with his people? Men of Athens, let us investigate this question!”
And at this question of the solitary, undefended philosopher, the faces of the tyrants paled, while the eyes of the youths kindled with the fire of just wrath and indignation.
Thus, when on dispersing after the sentence the Athenians recalled all these things of Socrates, their hearts were oppressed with heavy doubt.
“Have we not done a cruel wrong to the son of Sophroniscus?”
But then the good Athenians looked upon the harbour and the sea, and in the red glow of the dying day they saw the purple sails of the sharp-keeled ship, sent to the Delian festival, shimmering in the distance on the blue Pontus. The ship would not return until the expiration of a month, and the Athenians recollected that during this time no blood might be shed in Athens, whether the blood of the innocent or the guilty. A month, moreover, has many days and still more hours. Supposing the son of Sophroniscus had been unjustly condemned, who would hinder his escaping from the prison, especially since he had numerous friends to help him? Was it so difficult for the rich Plato, for Eschines and others to bribe the guards? Then the restless gadfly would flee from Athens to the barbarians in Thessaly, or to the Peloponnesus, or, still farther, to Egypt; Athens would no longer hear his blasphemous speeches; his death would not weigh upon the conscience of the worthy citizens, and so everything would end for the best of all.
Thus said many to themselves that evening, while aloud they praised the wisdom of the demos and the heliasts. In secret, however, they cherished the hope that the restless philosopher would leave Athens, fly from the hemlock to the barbarians, and so free the Athenians of his troublesome presence and of the pangs of consciences that smote them for inflicting death upon an innocent man. ...

Wednesday, 3 August 2011

Alexandrov Ensemble - Amur waves

Boris Pasternak: Winter Night

It snowed and snowed ,the whole world over,
Snow swept the world from end to end.
A candle burned on the table;
A candle burned.

As during summer midges swarm
To beat their wings against a flame
Out in the yard the snowflakes swarmed
To beat against the window pane

The blizzard sculptured on the glass
Designs of arrows and of whorls.
A candle burned on the table;
A candle burned.

Distorted shadows fell
Upon the lighted ceiling:
Shadows of crossed arms,of crossed legs-
Of crossed destiny.

Two tiny shoes fell to the floor
And thudded.
A candle on a nightstand shed wax tears
Upon a dress.

All things vanished within
The snowy murk-white,hoary.
A candle burned on the table;
A candle burned.

A corner draft fluttered the flame
And the white fever of temptation
Upswept its angel wings that cast
A cruciform shadow

It snowed hard throughout the month
Of February, and almost constantly
A candle burned on the table;
A candle burned.

Russian Tango "Chernie glaza" ("Black Eyes") Jurij Morfessi

Composed by Oscar Davidovich Strok. Jurij Spiridonovich Morfessi - famous russian singer of Tsar's Russia recorded it in emigration in Berlin, in 1930. He recorded in "Odeon" 18 things, "Chernie glaza" was among them

Monday, 1 August 2011

Victor Pelevin - Biography



Victor Pelevin is one of the most vivid and provocative modern figures of Russian literature.

Victor Olegovich Pelevin was born on November, 22nd, 1962 in Moscow. In 1985 he graduated the Moscow Power Institute as an electrician. In April the same year he was admitted to the post of the Engineer of the Electric Transport Chair, and two years later passed exams for postgraduate studies. However, he never defended his dissertation, as he decided to change his occupation.

In 1989 the future writer entered Mikhail Gorky Literary Institute, and then for some years worked in the journal Science and Religion, contributing publications on Oriental mysticism. The year 1989 saw Pelevin's first publication – it was the fairy tale Sorcerer Ignat and people followed by his article Rune divination.

His first stories appeared in sci-fi collections and the magazine Chemistry and life also in the late 1980s. Pelevin’s debut collection “Sini fonar” (Dark blue lantern) was initially overlooked by critics.

In 1990 the author became extremely popular thanks to his short story “Zatvornik i Shestipaly” (The Hermit and the Six-fingered) that won the Gold Sphere international award.

One year after the furor caused by publication of Pelevin’s story “Omon Ra” (1992) in the Znamya magazine, Sini Fonar took the Small Booker Prize as the best collection of stories of 1992, and a year later won the Interpresscon the Gold Snail awards.

Victor Pelevin's creativity is beyond any exact classification and, as critics put it, is on the fringe of postmodernist prose, esoteric tradition, absurdist and satirical science fiction and other genres of literature, and can be referred to science fiction and fantasy for convenience only, though the author often uses devices and plots typical of these genres. Since his first published works, Pelevin has attracted attention with original “popularization” and provocative interpretation of the West European transcendental philosophy, Buddhism and doctrines of modern mystics (in particular, of Carlos Castaneda), the analysis of altered state of consciousness and experiments in creating new mythology on the basis of satirically considered Soviet and Post-Soviet reality.

Pelevin's novel “Generation “P” (1999) became one of the most emblematic novels about the 1990s of Russia. The book is sold all over the world with the total circulation of 3.5 million copies, and has received several literary awards. ...

Lessons Of Architecture

Lessons Of Architecture: "Welcome to the village Nikolo-Lenivetz which belongs to the landscape protected area and is a part of the National Park. Here architects give rein to their imagination and expect visitors to evaluate the work. Since 2000 it has become popular … Read more..."