home › Fuel system › We crossed the river on an unsteady raft (1) made of three logs tied together (2) and went to the right (3) keeping (4) closer to the shore. A collection of ideal social science essays Let's give examples of the definition of means of communication in a small text

We crossed the river on an unsteady raft (1) made of three logs tied together (2) and went to the right (3) keeping (4) closer to the shore. A collection of ideal social science essays Let's give examples of the definition of means of communication in a small text

The majestic and diverse Russian painting always pleases the audience with its inconstancy and perfection. art forms. This is the peculiarity of the works famous masters art. They always surprised with their unusual approach to work, reverent attitude to the feelings and sensations of each person. Perhaps that is why Russian artists so often depicted portrait compositions that vividly combined emotional images and epicly calm motifs. No wonder Maxim Gorky once said that an artist is the heart of his country, the voice of the entire era. Indeed, the majestic and elegant paintings of Russian artists vividly convey the inspiration of their time. Like aspirations famous author Anton Chekhov, many sought to bring into Russian paintings the unique flavor of their people, as well as an unquenchable dream of beauty. It is difficult to underestimate the extraordinary canvases of these masters of majestic art, because truly extraordinary works of various genres were born under their brush. Academic painting, portrait, historical picture, landscape, works of romanticism, modernity or symbolism - all of them still bring joy and inspiration to their viewers. Everyone finds in them something more than colorful colors, graceful lines and inimitable genres of world art. Perhaps such an abundance of forms and images that Russian painting surprises with is connected with the huge potential of the surrounding world of artists. Levitan also said that in every note of lush nature there is a majestic and unusual palette of colors. With such a beginning, a magnificent expanse appears for the artist's brush. Therefore, all Russian paintings are distinguished by their exquisite severity and attractive beauty, from which it is so difficult to break away.

Russian painting is rightly distinguished from world art. The fact is that until the seventeenth century, domestic painting was associated exclusively with religious theme. The situation changed with the coming to power of the tsar-reformer - Peter the Great. Thanks to his reforms, Russian masters began to engage in secular painting, and icon painting separated as a separate direction. The seventeenth century is the time of such artists as Simon Ushakov and Iosif Vladimirov. Then, in Russian the art world The portrait was born and quickly became popular. In the eighteenth century, the first artists appeared who switched from portraiture to landscape painting. The pronounced sympathy of the masters for winter panoramas is noticeable. The eighteenth century was also remembered for the birth of everyday painting. In the nineteenth century, three trends gained popularity in Russia: romanticism, realism and classicism. As before, Russian artists continued to turn to portrait genre. It was then that world-famous portraits and self-portraits of O. Kiprensky and V. Tropinin appeared. In the second half of the nineteenth century, artists more and more often depict the simple Russian people in their oppressed state. Realism becomes the central trend of painting of this period. It was then that the Wanderers appeared, depicting only real, real life. Well, the twentieth century is, of course, the avant-garde. The artists of that time significantly influenced both their followers in Russia and around the world. Their paintings became the forerunners of abstractionism. Russian painting is a huge wonderful world talented artists who glorified Russia with their creations

(1)Once, starlings flew to me on a watch, October, autumn, rainy.(2) We raced in the night from the coast of Iceland to Norway. (3) On a ship illuminated by powerful lights. (4) And in this foggy world, tired constellations arose ...

(5) I left the cabin on the wing of the bridge. (6) Wind, rain and night immediately became loud. (7) I raised the binoculars to my eyes. (8) The white superstructures of the ship, rescue whaleboats, covers dark from the rain and birds fluttered in the windows - wet lumps fluffy by the wind. (9) They rushed between the antennas and tried to hide from the wind behind the pipe.

(10) The deck of our ship was chosen by these small fearless birds as a temporary shelter on their long journey to the south. (eleven) Of course, I remembered Savrasov: rooks, spring, there is still snow, and the trees woke up. (12) And everything in general was remembered what happens around us and what happens inside our souls when the Russian spring comes and rooks and starlings arrive. (13) You can't describe it. (14) This brings back to childhood. (15) And this is connected not only with the joy of the awakening of nature, but also with a deep sense of the homeland, Russia.

(16) And let them scold our Russian artists for the old-fashioned and literary plots. (17) Behind the names of Savrasov, Levitan, Serov, Korovin, Kustodiev lies not only the eternal joy of life in art. (18) It is Russian joy that is hidden, with all its tenderness, modesty and depth. (19) And how simple the Russian song is, so simple is painting.

(20) And in our difficult age, when the art of the world is painfully looking for general truths, when the intricacies of life necessitate the most complex analysis of the psyche of an individual and the most complex analysis of the life of society - in our century, artists are even more one should not forget about one simple function of art - to awaken and illuminate in a fellow tribesman a sense of homeland.

(21) Let our landscape painters not know abroad. (22) In order not to pass by Serov, one must be Russian. (23) Art is art when it evokes in a person a feeling of happiness, albeit fleeting.(24) And we are arranged in such a way that the most piercing happiness arises in us when we feel love for Russia. (25) I don’t know if other nations have such an inextricable link between an aesthetic sense and a sense of homeland ...

(According to V. Konetsky)

Composition

Who among us does not remember Shishkin's landscape "Rye", was not amazed at the tenderness of the colors of Levitan's "Golden Autumn", did not stop in admiration for the majestic and touching at the same time columns of birch trunks of the "Kuindzhi Birch Grove"? Russian landscape painters sang the beauty of discreet Russian nature, the simplicity of rural landscapes, the vast expanses of Russia. V. Konetsky is trying to resolve the question: what is the purpose of art, or rather, why are the landscapes of Savrasov, Levitan, Serov, Korovin, Kustodiev, the great Russian landscape painters, so close and understandable to us, the Russian people.

The reason for serious reflections to the author was an episode when once on a watch at sea, starlings flew to the ship. Small fearless birds immediately reminded Savrasov's landscape: "... rooks, spring, there is still snow, and the trees woke up." V. Konetsky realizes that this meeting and the memories inspired by it are connected not only with the joy of the awakening of nature, but also with a deep sense of the homeland, Russia. He emphasizes how important it is in our difficult age to "awake and illuminate the feeling of homeland in a fellow tribesman."

V. Konetsky clearly defines his vision of the problem of the purpose of art for a Russian person: “Art is art when it evokes in a person a feeling of happiness, albeit fleeting. And we are arranged in such a way that the most piercing happiness arises in us when we feel love for Russia. F the function of art is to awaken and illuminate in a fellow tribesman a sense of homeland.

Of course, it is impossible not to agree with the author's point of view. Each of us is dearest of all our small homeland, probably, I was struck by the landscapes of the Honored Artist of Russia P. M. Grechishkin, our Stavropol landscape painter. I am happy that I was able to visit art gallery Grechishkin, to see the landscapes of the native Caucasus, Stavropol, our entire vast Motherland ...

Confirmation of the conclusions of V. Konetsky can be found in fiction. So, in one of the episodes of A.P. Chekhov's story "Three Years" it is told that for a woman who is used to seeing the goal of art so that objects and people are like real ones, something else suddenly opened up. She saw a landscape with a river, a log bridge, a path, a forest and a fire, there was nothing unusual in it, but for a moment the true purpose of art was revealed to her: to awaken in us special feelings, thoughts, experiences, the opportunity to come into contact with the homeland.

And in B. Ekimov's story "The Music of the Old House" there are also reflections on the role of art in human life. The author recalls how first came into his life classical music and then Russian landscape painting. Music helped him to hear the unknown music of life, the paintings of Serov, Polenov, Savrasov allowed him to see the beauty in the ordinary: “Every day I see the beauty of the earth, people, life.”

So, V. Konetsky helped me understand what is the true influence of native art on the Russian people. It helps to become even for a moment happier, to realize how dear your native land is to you.

According to I. Gontsov. For some reason, many modern pop "stars" speak with particular pleasure ... The problem of the influence of pop "stars" on teenagers

(1) For some reason, many modern pop "stars" talk with particular pleasure about how poorly they studied at school. (2) Someone was reprimanded for hooliganism, someone was left to

the second year, someone brought teachers to a fainting state with their breathtaking hairstyles ... (3) One can treat such revelations of our "stars" in different ways: some of these stories about a mischievous childhood lead to tenderness, others begin to complain grumblingly about the fact that today the path to the stage is open only to mediocrity and ignoramuses.

(4) But what worries me most is the reaction of teenagers. (5) They have a strong conviction that the shortest path to fame lies through the children's room of the police. (6) They take everything at face value. (7) They do not always understand that stories about a “crazy” childhood, when the future “star” amazed everyone around with their exotic originality, is just a stage legend, something like a concert costume that distinguishes an artist from ordinary person. (8) A teenager does not just perceive information, he actively transforms it. (9) This information becomes the basis for his life program, for developing ways and means to achieve the goal. (10) That is why a person who broadcasts something to an audience of many millions must have a high sense of responsibility.

(11) Does he really express his thoughts or unconsciously continue the stage play and say what the fans expect from him? (12) Look: I am “my own”, just like everyone else. (13) From here and

an ironically condescending attitude towards education, and coquettish scoffing: “Learning is light, and ignorance is a pleasant twilight”, and arrogant self-admiration. (14) But now the transfer is over. (15) What is left in the soul of those who listened to the artist? (16) What seeds did he sow in trusting hearts? (17) Whom did he make better? (18) Whom did he direct on the path of creative creation? (19) When a young journalist asked these questions to a well-known DJ, he simply snorted: yes, you go, I’m not for that at all ... (20) And in this bewildered indignation of the “pop star”, her civil immaturity, her human “ undereducation." (21) And a person who has not yet built himself as a person, has not realized his mission in society, becomes a humble servant of the crowd, its tastes and needs. (22) He may be able to sing, but he doesn’t know why he sings.

(23) If art does not call to the light, if it, giggling and winking slyly, drags a person into “pleasant twilight”, if it destroys unshakable values with poisonous acid of irony, then a reasonable question arises: does society need such “art” worthy of whether

Task 17

Fill in all the missing punctuation marks:

But this is just an intro (1)

or rather (2) saying one.

Here (3) was Lenin happy in life,

without reservations and in full?

Of course (4) was.

And not in part

and the formidable will of the leader,

when happiness boiled around

bayonets and flags of October.

Yes, there was, although without idylls,

when again, having attached bayonets,

went to the front without songs

Moscow and Peter regiments.

He was happy, laughing like a child,

when, carrying the banners,

for the first time its Soviet holiday

Russia celebrated the whole.

He (5) by the way (6) was happy at home,

in the forest when it's still dark...

But this happiness is familiar to everyone,

and that is not given to everyone.

(Yaroslav Smelyakov)

Task 18

Indicate the number(s) that should be replaced by a comma(s) in the sentence.

The works of Kuindzhi, Polenov, Savrasov, Levitan (1) each (2) of which (3) aroused great interest of the audience (4) represented different directions within the unified framework of the Russian realistic landscape.

Task 19

Place all punctuation marks: indicate the number(s) that should be replaced by a comma(s) in the sentence.

Forest rangers are called upon to prevent fires in the forest (1) but (2) if a large amount of dead wood accumulates in the forest (3) then the rangers themselves deliberately set up small artificial fires (4) to reduce the likelihood of spontaneous combustion in the future.

Task 20

Edit the sentence: correct the lexical error, eliminating unnecessary word. Write out this word.

Often works of art are autobiographical. It is known that, while creating the story "Flight to America", Alexander Grin wrote his autobiography.

Task 21

Which of the statements correspond to the content of the text? Specify the answer numbers.

1) Russian painters are accused of old-fashioned subjects.

2) Arriving rooks reminded the narrator of a famous painting.

3) The names of our landscape painters are not known abroad.

4) The purpose of art is to awaken and illuminate the feeling of homeland in a person.

5) Russian song is not as simple as painting.

(1) Once, starlings flew to me on a watch, October, autumn, rainy. (2) We raced in the night from the coast of Iceland to Norway. (3) On a ship illuminated by powerful lights. (4) And in this foggy world, tired constellations arose ...

(10) The deck of our ship was chosen by these small fearless birds as a temporary shelter on their long journey to the south. (11) Of course, Savrasov remembered: rooks, spring, there is still snow, and the trees woke up. (12) And everything in general was remembered what happens around us and what happens inside our souls when the Russian spring comes and rooks and starlings arrive. (13) You can't describe it. (14) This brings back to childhood. (15) And this is connected not only with the joy of the awakening of nature, but also with a deep sense of the homeland, Russia.

(16) And let them scold our Russian artists for the old-fashioned and literary plots. (17) And the names of Savrasov, Levitan, Serov, Korovin, Kustodiev hide not only the eternal joy of life in art. (18) It is Russian joy that is hidden, with all its tenderness, modesty and depth. (19) And how simple the Russian song is, so simple is painting.

(20) And in our complex age, when the art of the world painfully searches for general truths, when the intricacies of life necessitate the most complex analysis of the psyche of an individual and the most complex analysis of the life of society - in our age, artists should all the more not forget about one simple function of art - to wake up and to illuminate the feeling of homeland in a fellow tribesman.

(21) Let our landscape painters not know abroad. (22) In order not to pass by Serov, one must be Russian. (23) Art is then art when it evokes in a person a feeling of happiness, albeit fleeting. (24) And we are arranged in such a way that the most piercing happiness arises in us when we feel love for Russia. (25) I don’t know if other nations have such an inextricable link between an aesthetic sense and a sense of homeland ...

(According to V. Konetsky)

Task 22

Which of the following statements are true? Specify the answer numbers.

Enter the numbers in ascending order.

1) Sentence 1 contains a description element.

2) In sentences 5, 7, 8 events occurring one after another are listed.

3) Sentence 13 contains a conclusion from what is said in sentences 11-12.

4) In sentences 22-24, reasoning is presented.

5) Sentences 16-17 contain a narrative.

Task 23

Which word is used literally in the text? Write out this word.

tired (sentence 4)

white (proposal 8)

awakening (sentence 15)

hiding (sentence 17)

Task 24

Among sentences 7-13, find one (s) that is (s) connected with the previous one using a personal pronoun. Write the number(s) of this offer(s).

Task 25

Read the review snippet. It examines language features text. Some terms used in the review are missing. Fill in the gaps with the numbers corresponding to the number of the term from the list.

“The starlings awakened in the soul of the author of the text memories of the Motherland and many other warm feelings, for which he is trying to find the exact words, while resorting to the use of such visual means, as (A) _____ (“the trees woke up”), (B) _____ (“remembered at all” in sentence 12, “Savrasov remembered ...” in sentence 11) and (C) _____ (“piercing happiness” in sentence 24 ). The position of the author is helped to express such a syntactic means as (D) _____ (sentences 17-18).

List of terms:

1) lexical repetition

2) impersonation

3) syntactic parallelism

4) parceling

6) rows of homogeneous members

7) colloquial word

8) rhetorical appeal

9) comparative turnover

Write down the numbers in response, arranging them in the order corresponding to the letters:

A	B	IN	G

Task 26

Write an essay based on the text you read.

Formulate one of the problems posed by the author of the text.

Comment on the formulated problem. Include in the comment two illustration examples from the read text that you think are important for understanding the problem in the source text (avoid over-quoting).

Formulate the position of the author (narrator). Write whether you agree or disagree with the point of view of the author of the read text. Explain why. Argue your opinion, relying primarily on the reader's experience, as well as on knowledge and life observations (the first two arguments are taken into account).

The volume of the essay is at least 150 words.

A work written without relying on the text read (not on this text) is not evaluated. If the essay is a paraphrase or a complete rewrite of the source text without any comments, then such work is evaluated by zero points.

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For a long time I could not understand why stars appeared in the rainy sky, in rain and fog. And why the outlines of the constellations are so unfamiliar to me. And why the constellations are tired, they cannot keep their rightful places in the Universe.

We raced through the night from the coast of Iceland to Norway.

Motor ship illuminated by powerful lights.

And in the cold cabin, as always, it was dark. Only the rudder position indicator, tachometers and red fire alarm lights were lit. And a myriad of particles of water shone in front of the windows of the cabin with a slightly noticeable, unsteady, cemetery light - fog and rain. And in this misty sea, weary constellations arose. They trembled and sometimes flashed brightly. And rushed along with us.

I left the cabin on the wing of the bridge. The wind, rain and night immediately became loud. Eyes watered. I turned the back of my head to the wind and raised the binoculars to my eyes. White superstructures swayed in the windows, rescue whaleboats, covers dark from the rain and birds - wet lumps fluffed by the wind. They rushed between the antennas and tried to hide from the wind behind the pipe, behind the whaleboats, on the deck.

They really were tired constellations. And the sailor on duty was already running towards me with birds in both hands.

“Starlings,” he said. We tried to feed them, but they don't eat.

So starlings flew to me on a watch, October, autumn, rainy. Of course, Savrasov remembered, spring, there is still snow, and the trees woke up. And everything in general was remembered what happens around us and inside our souls, when the Russian spring comes and rooks and starlings arrive. You can't describe it. It brings back to childhood. And this is connected not only with the joy of the awakening of nature, but also with a deep sense of the homeland, Russia.

And let them scold our Russian artists for the old-fashioned and literary plots. Behind the names - Savrasov, Levitan, Serov, Korovin, Kustodiev - hides not only the eternal joy of life in art. It is Russian joy that is hidden, with all its tenderness, modesty and depth. And how simple a Russian song is, so simple is painting.

And in our complex age, when the art of the world is painfully searching for general truths, when the intricacies of life necessitate the most complex analyzes of the psyche of an individual and the most complex analyzes of the life of society - in our age, all the more, artists should not forget about one simple function of art - to awaken and illuminate in compatriot a sense of homeland.

Let our landscape painters not know abroad. In order not to pass by Serov, one must be Russian. Art is then art when it evokes in a person a feeling of happiness, albeit fleeting. And we are arranged in such a way that the most penetrating happiness arises in us when we feel love for Russia.

I don't know if other nations have such an inextricable link between the aesthetic sense and the sense of the homeland.

So, we hurried to the northeast, home, to the pier of Murmansk. And suddenly the starlings flew in, huddled in different secluded places to rest. And since we already missed home, we thought about Russia and the quiet drunkard Savrasov. And then, when you see a small land bird over the sea, you somehow become limp in your soul. After all, from childhood I read about lighthouses, in the light of which birds fly and break. And remember the pictures in the textbook. True, you already know that a flight across the ocean is an exam for the right to be called a bird. And the one who does not pass the exam will die and will not give weak offspring. And you know that there is nothing special about long flights for birds, generally speaking. For an ordinary summer day, the swift flies a thousand kilometers to feed the family. Training. It is already known that birds are guided by the magnetic lines of force of the Earth. In flight, they cross them at different angles, and the current induced in the conductor when the conductor moves in a magnetic field depends on the angle. And the birds can somehow measure the strength of the current, and according to them the angle of movement relative to the magnetic poles of the Earth.

There are birds that live forever in the light of the sun, that is, they never live in the night. They fly around the planet in such a way that the sun always shines on them. They always live in the middle of the day, light and joy. And they die if the night catches up with them even once.

I have already learned a lot, but when you see a bird struggling with the wind, tumbling over the waves, your heart will ache from tenderness for it.

Seabirds are another matter. They cause admiration and envy for their perfection. It is very rare to see a seagull flapping its wings in the ocean. It is on the rivers and near the banks that they wave as much as they like, like some kind of market pigeons. And in the ocean, you can look at a seagull for tens of minutes, and it will still rush over the waves in front of the bow of the ship - at sixteen miles per hour - and not flutter its wings. Her flight is eternal fall, eternal planning.

When it storms, seagulls rush in the hollows between the shafts. There, in the water gorges, between the water mountains and hills, they take shelter from the wind.

First Officer Volodya Samodergin appeared, delicately, imperceptibly checked whether everything was normal on my watch, felt the sea with a radar, said, of course, the very thing that I had just been thinking about:

- It's a pity for the birds, isn't it, Viktorych?

– Do you know that the ancient Normans carried ravens with them across the seas instead of a compass? I asked to show off my erudition. But there was no need to brag.

“I know,” Volodya said. - They released birds to determine the direction to land, to the near shore. Even Noah did that. Only he had a dove, right? .. Shall we go to the concert?

On the last day of the flight, through the efforts of the pompolit and many activists, an amateur concert program was created. And it was always interesting, talented and funny, although a little naive.

We in four hands prepared the watch for surrender. He took coordinates, instrument readings - I wrote it down in a journal. I called the car and gave a report for the watch, and he again and again felt the inclement sea with a radar. We have learned to work well with him in four hands. And he repeatedly caught me making mistakes, and in all the joint voyages I could never catch him on anything.

He had an amazing, bird-like instinct, intuition. He turned on the radar exactly when the mark appeared on the screen. In a calm drift, he ordered the cars to be ready ten minutes before the iceberg tucked under our stern. Moreover, such an iceberg, which was almost completely in the water, which was not taken by the radar and which was not visible in the fog.

His funny last name comes from a peasant grandfather who pulled his own beard all his life.

We handed over the watch, had dinner and went down to the music room. The polished wood of the salon walls gleamed noblely with chandeliers. daylight. The inlays of ancient caravels shimmered in the wooden walls. The caravels sailed and sailed, inflating their pot-bellied sails.

The salon was packed. Our seats were empty, waiting for us in the center. At last our captain arrived, the captains of the trawlers whose crews we carried from the shores of America, and their pompolites.

And the evening before parting began. In a day we will be at the Passenger berth of the Murmansk port. The fishermen will go down the ladder. And maybe we'll never meet again. And maybe we will meet, but no one knows.

Our girls, excited and pretty with excitement, in dazzling white blouses and black skirts, banged their heels with impatience. But the radio engineer Semyon confidently took over the evening. It was a professional entertainer. He went to the microphone with a cheeky gait, checked the tension of the ropes with which they were tied musical instruments, and said:

– Dear comrades fishermen! Now I will read a poem by Simonov about an unfaithful wife. This poem refers to the war, but you are fishermen, and this topic is familiar to you, since you are away from your families for a long time!

And in deathly silence, howling and making gestures, he read the “Open Letter”: “... We didn’t read yours for good, now we are secretly tormented by bitterness: what if you weren’t the only one who could, what if someone else gets it? ..” And so on and so forth. I thought for a moment that the fishermen, in response to delicacy and sensitivity, would throw cans at Semyon, but nothing happened. On the contrary, he was applauded loudly. And once again I realized that I do not understand anything in the psychology of today's people.

In general, the melodrama turned out to be highlight of the program. Our baker-radio operator, who once cried in the radio room, also shook with antiquity. She came to the forefront, striding broadly and resolutely, like Mayakovsky. She was wearing black stockings and had red spots on her cheeks.

- "Boatswain Bakuta"! Reality! - The baker folded her heavy, dough-weary hands on her chest and led the story: - Once our ship entered Naples. Boatswain Bakuta went ashore. Near a luxurious hotel, he saw a ten-year-old beggar woman of extraordinary beauty. None of the bourgeois served a wonderful Italian. Boatswain Bakuta took the girl to the ship and listened to her songs with emotional excitement. Then the boatswain collected money from the crew and took the beggar girl to the store. He dressed the baby like a princess and arranged for the famous professor of singing. Then we took off from Naples, carrying the image of Janina in our hearts - that was the name of the girl. Ten years have passed. The ship, on which the boatswain Bakuta sailed, came to Marseille. The city was plastered with posters of the famous Italian singer. The boatswain recognized Janina. He burned with impatience to see her. With the last money he bought a ticket and went to the theater with a modest bouquet of spring flowers. After the performance, he entered Janina and gave her a bouquet. "Who you are? she asked dismissively and tossed the bouquet back to him. “I don’t accept such flowers!” Bosun Bakuta returned to the ship and wrote a letter to Janina: “I remember an orphan angel on the streets of Naples ... really Rich life ruined it like that?"

When the ship was already giving up, a huge car flew into the pier. Janina jumped out. She was veiled in black and stood at the edge of the dock like a statue. But it was too late - Marseille melted into a haze ... And just recently we heard songs of extraordinary beauty on the radio. Then the announcer announced: “Janina Bakuta sang!”

Believe it or not, but tears welled up in my eyes. And the fishermen, who had killed millions of fish and seen the devil knows what species, also tried not to turn their heads to each other, so as not to betray excitement, an unworthy man. And I thought that the most win-win plot is “The Lady of the Camellias”. Melodrama transcends centuries and borders and without a miss strikes the most diverse hearts.

Then our girls came out, hugged, blushed, stepped over the slowly swaying deck with their heels and sang: "The girls are standing." This song talks about the fact that the girls stand near the walls in the club and do not dance, because there are only nine guys for ten girls. We sang with mood and sadness, but it turned out funny, since we had four dozen guys for each of them, and they couldn’t complain heartily about this.

Because the hall frankly neighed.

And the appearance on the stage of a black Caucasian man with the inevitable black mustache and jigit habits turned out to be handy.

He spoke about an old Kabardian who carried his wife in a basket behind his back all his life so that she could not cheat on him.

Snapping his fingers, rolling his eyes, he showed how the old man puffed when he had to climb the mountain. And how he opened the basket on the top of the mountain and saw his old woman in it, along with an old neighbor.

The hall rolled and from delight sometimes exploded with abuse.

Of course, such a loose plot had to be balanced. And this balancing act was built into the program.

The root cook came out and read the poignant verses of the famous contemporary poet: “Let love begin, but from the soul - not from the body!” And let there be passion too, but “passion, but not dogs and not cats”! She read the cookbook from a piece of paper, often lost her way, but they also patted her. And I proudly thought of our poets. These guys can write whatever they want. They don't have police. These are guys of desperate courage. They can only be envied.

Then the dancing and the game of "mail" began.

In Murmansk, we took four musicians from the Arktika restaurant on a flight. At first, of course, they swayed and lay vomited for several days, and there was no way to lift them up so that they cleaned the cabin.

Then they departed.

The idea was this: professional musicians will raise the level of our amateur performances. In addition, they had to play at dance parties. Everyone knows that dancing to live music is more interesting than dancing to a tape recorder.

Musicians first came to play in white shirts and ties.

Then they got bold.

The soloist trumpeter sat in a deep armchair, his loose belly dangling between his knees, his bare fingers sticking out of tattered slippers.

His name was Harry. All restaurant vulgarity thickly anointed his puffy face, which had forgotten the sunlight.

The drummer, in a pullover worn right over his naked body, and also in slippers, effeminate, plump, youthful, ruddy, with curls at his temples, often closed his eyes and threw back his head, habitually expressing musical ecstasy.

The double-bass player shone with slicked-back, weak hair and was mortally depressed by his stupidity. These guys, of course, did not know at the time of hiring that there would be no restaurant here, no tips either. That they have to swing in the ocean for two months for an ordinary salary. Their official title was “music worker”.

The most respectable impression was made by the pianist. He had a badge of the Kyiv Conservatory. He sat with his back to the audience, wide - from pitching - with his legs splayed. He was probably talented and despised both himself and his Labuh friends, and fishermen, and everyone in general.

Dancing couples tottered on the leaning floor of the music room, stumbling over the folds and holes in the old carpet. The carpet was torn by the legs of the chairs when they watched a movie here in a storm.

The fishermen were stylishly sticking out their well-fed backsides, covered - in fashion - with tight-fitting trousers. Muscular paws protruded powerfully from the rolled up sleeves of the shirts. The non-dancers, as expected, sat under the bulkheads, chewed the girls with greedy eyes and exchanged appropriate remarks about them.

Suddenly, Harry got up from his chair and invited his fishing friends to play drums or sing themselves. There were no applicants. Then Harry decided to sing himself.

... The night is cold, and fog, and dark all around.
The little boy does not sleep, dreams of the past,
He stands in the rain
And it looks a little bit humpbacked,
And sings in his native language:
"Friends, buy cigarettes!
Come, infantry and sailors,
Come on, don't be shy
Warm up my orphan
Look, bare feet...
Friends, I don't see at all;
Merciful I will not offend you, -
So buy for God's sake
Cigarettes, matches too -
By this you will save the orphan!.."

The ship rocked, waves thumped under the side, spit-filled urns clogged with cigarette butts swayed in the corridor. The fishermen stomped around and listened, Vaclav Vorovsky listened sternly and sadly from the golden frame. And it was time to go to bed. But I listened to the song. She created a strange, painful impression.

I am a boy, I am an orphan, I am sixteen years old,
Help for God's sake, give me advice,
Where could I pray, where could I take shelter,
I don't like white light anymore...
My father is in a fierce battle
The death of the brave fell.
German in the ghetto with a gun
Shot my mom
And my sister is in captivity,
I myself am wounded in an open field,
Why did I lose my sight...
Friends, buy cigarettes!
Come, infantry and sailors...

Hoarse, voiceless Harry perfectly conveyed the intonation of a blind carriage singer. Suffered suddenly wagon smell - windings, hunger and military makhorka. And all this was somehow connected with the ugly stomping on the tattered carpet of young, women-starved men and with the stern face of Vaclav Vorovsky.

For some reason, I thought that the sentimentality of an amateur concert and what will happen tomorrow at the Murmansk pier somehow do not fit.

Never so casually did I return from the sea and so casually go into it, as on these voyages to Georges Bank with the fishermen.

There are sailors, captains, who pull the horn drive three times when parting with another ship or port, but they do it because it is supposed to. And there are sailors who swim all their lives for the sake of these three horns, for the sake of the excitement that arises in a person at the words of gratitude, farewell or meeting.

Three times we moored in Murmansk, and the pier was almost empty. A small handful of people met the fishermen who fought back with the ocean for four months.

It is impossible to convey in words how the silence and silence of the pier crushes when you approach it. How you want revival, waving of hands, women's happy faces, children raised in their arms.

Probably, Murmansk is a harsh city. Silence and few people he meets the fishermen, if they have not done something super-wonderful, super-planned.

But most likely, this is how it should be. After all, floating people always have one thing in front of them - a long and long road ...

Past France

In the Square of the Star, in the rain, a negro swept fallen leaves from the sidewalks. The black man was in rubber boots ... "The lilac black man gives you a mantle ..."

On the corners of the streets, flower sellers sat quietly in pavilions... "Violets of Montmartre..."

The sidewalks were deserted, and thousands of cars raced around Zvezda Square... Cars?.. Something of Mayakovsky.

Motorcyclists writhed between the cars in capes, buttoned around their necks and on the steering wheel.

There was a triumphal arch. Beneath it lay the Unknown Soldier.

At the pedestrian crossings, red traffic lights were lit: “Attande!” - Dangerous! Wait! Ah, this is where our childish warning cry comes from: “Atanda, boys! Milton! Our childish cry arrived in distant Rus' from the banks of Place de l'Etoile in Paris. And someone told me that this is the exclamation of a banker, stopping the bets of the players.

At the Avenue Foch, a gentleman approached me with a wet map in his hand:

“Monsieur, perle merle ale?”

I rarely laugh, but then rolled. I was mistaken for a Frenchman and asked for directions! Why not frolic a little?

“Perlet henri junk,” I explained, pointing my finger into nowhere.

- Merci, monsieur!

– Sil wu ple!

Rain like a bucket.

Obviously, the transition to the Arc de Triomphe is somewhere underground.

I bank around the square.

About fifteen fifteen-year-old boys pounce on me from around the corner, hit me in the back, slap me on the shoulders, grab my jacket, and thrust a rattling iron box with a slot up my nose. And not a single cop! Mom, help! Atanda!

- Arles! Murle! Kurle! Vietnam!

Lord, glory to you! They are going to Vietnam!

I put a franc in the slot. They stop beating and pounce on the girl with the ponytail. She behaves like Joan of Arc - with her handbag from right to left - bang! bang! Either she is a potbelly stove, or they managed to cuddle her in between. Everyone laughs. One covered himself with a tricolor French flag. portraits of Che Guevara. An extremely courageous bearded face - the idol of French youth. Down with de Gaulle! Viva revolution in Latin America! Viva Castro! ..

It was raining and plane-tree leaves, like maple leaves, but harder, noisier.

At the descent into the underground passage stood, hugging and swaying, kissing a couple. I passed a couple and dived down. Fallen leaves lay densely on the steps of light stone, and I picked up a whole branch of a plane tree with two prickly cones.

The lamps illuminated the underpass with light reflected from the ceiling. It was deserted, my steps solemnly sounded through the underground. And suddenly I realized that I was going to the tomb.

Azhan, in a black cape with red aiguillettes on his left shoulder, was freezing in the damp draft. My jacket was also black from the rain, my cap was dripping, my trousers were soaked on my knees, I had a branch of a plane tree with cones in my hands. Ajan followed me with an incredulous look. I have long been accustomed to such views.

In four spans Arc de Triomphe I watched wet Paris, the Champs Elysees went into the lilac from the exhaust gases.

The Unknown Soldier had wreaths of roses - pink, red, pale, tender, rough. The Eternal Flame was burning, the wind was pulling at the roses in the wreaths, the fire and smoke were rushing over it.

I looked up, and my head swam softly - the vaults of the Arc de Triomphe closed above me so high. Its walls are covered with golden, solemn, incomprehensible words.

I stood by eternal flame thinking only about the fact that perhaps it is supposed to take off your hat here. But for some reason it was inconvenient to take it off.

From the Place de l'Etoile I sail in the direction of the Eiffel Tower.

The rain stops, and the quiet sun immediately shines in transparent puddles. Streams flow along the sidewalks, washing the tires of resting cars. Roofs of cars in patterns of fallen leaves. At the entrances there are garbage cans, they are full, there are also heaps of garbage around. The cleaners are on strike. There are magazines with such seductive covers lying in the rubbish heaps that you just want to steal them and leaf through them.

I walk alone along Avenue Kleber. The mansions of very rich people are fenced off with metal cast bars. Trimmed bushes, unfamiliar huge trees. Desert. Silence. Sunday. And for some reason it becomes sad. I turn somewhere off the avenue, I look at the windows of expensive shops. And I think about how good it is that my dear women do not see these shop windows. Women are not men, they need things more. Perhaps an elegant trinket or fashionable underwear able to prolong a woman's life.

Women's underwear and all sorts of women's things are everywhere in Paris. They coexist peacefully with the bearded Che Guevara on the fences.

On the sides of the buses, comfortably leaning back, lies a naked Parisian, only her breasts are slightly covered with lace. The subway tunnels are decorated with girls in very short blue shirts, the girls are hugged from behind by a young man. The meaning of advertising is this: "Buy shirts that are equally pleasing to the body of a woman and the rough hands of a man!" In the tram car above the stop sign there are two legs in seductive stockings, they say about such legs that they grow right from the ears. Now wild, now affectionate, now submissive, now mysterious female eyes they look from shop windows, from the walls of houses, from canning labels, from magazines and newspapers. And with respect you remember the wisdom of our great compatriot, who briefly said that it is impossible to embrace the immensity. That's probably why we don't decorate cities beautiful women so as not to get upset in vain, so that we, men, would be calmer, so as not to wag men's nerves, not to shorten our lives.

Without a goal, without haste, I circle the narrow streets, I smoke cigarettes. Jena Street... Kepler Street... Baudelaire Street... Some kind of boulevard turned into a market, into an endless still life.

Colors and smells hit the eyes, the nose, caress, rattle, writhe under the transparent plastic roof of the boulevard market.

Pineapples, oranges, apples, shells, pink chickens with blue labels, cucumbers, onions, asparagus, butchered hares and rabbits, garlands of fur legs around vendors, bananas, strange fish, nuts, colorful juice cans, meat, meat, meat, mountains carnations to the very roof, pounds of roses, centners of terry daisies, cannes fountains, again oysters, sea urchins, shrimps, lobsters, dazzling aprons and caps; female economic noise-talk, as in all markets of the world...

The end is not in sight. I'm going out to the square to make up my mind. I'm drawing a plan. It turns out that the market is President Wilson Avenue.

The president must be delicious in the next world.

The Eiffel Tower is within easy reach - just cross the Seine ... In his dying delirium, Maupassant claimed that God from the Eiffel Tower declared him his son, his own and Jesus Christ ... Maupassant dreamed of beautiful landscapes of Russia and Africa in his delirium. Why Russia? We never had it... The Eiffel Tower crushed Maupassant's sick brain with its metallic vulgarity. Today, Maupassant is hardly remembered in France, they are not published, they are surprised if you name him among your favorite writers: “Listen, what kind of stylist is he?” And why the hell be a stylist, if Maupassant is not a stylist already?

I cross the Seine on a bridge gaudily decorated with plywood snowflakes. Snowflakes crown the lampposts - in a month the New Year.

It's raining again. The hay is gray-blue. Steamboats and barges are blue and white. The Seine, of course, is not the Neva, but a muscular river, strong, and firmly held by its stone embankments. However, as in any river, it has a soul and a special river mood. The flow of the river is unconsciously associated with the passage of time, it awakens something lyrical and light-sad in the soul.

Walking to the right of the Concord bridge along the Seine. The Eiffel Tower is already very close. But between her and me, cars are rushing in five rows. I stand at the semaphore for a minute, five, ten. The semaphore stares thoughtlessly at my forehead with red fire. Spoiled? Here is the center of Paris! Cars are rushing by in a continuous stream. Spend the night here, right?

A long, aristocratic-looking old man approaches from behind. And a hefty dog on a belt. Great Dane under a mackintosh... Mackintosh is a French general... The mackintosh is buttoned under the sunken belly of the dog.

The old man approaches the semaphore pole and presses the button. The yellow light comes on. Jackal-cars slow down. Lights up green.

The old man chapa majestically across the embankment. Then a dog in a mac. Then I. Well, why stop traffic if no one wants to cross the embankment? And you need to press the button. Even the dog looks contemptuously.

I sit down on a wet bench in the square in front of the tower. Pigeons and dogs roam around - there are in capes, and in fur coats, and in miniskirts. And naked pigeons are evicted from Paris to special reservations, like Indians in America. Pigeons carry the disease. The last Parisian pigeons roam around in the puddles. Farewell, doves!

What does the power of authorities mean! The Eiffel Tower also seems vulgar to me. Old-fashioned heavy structures, massive rivets, and unclear design. Although a hefty tower - the cap falls. The top, of course, floats, because the clouds float.

Four huge hooves rested on the Parisian soil - northern, southern, western and eastern hooves. Pavilions with souvenirs are in the hooves, flags and balloons flutter. The polygon of the emerald lawn under the center of the tower. Old weeping trees and young, with variegated, bright, wet autumn foliage.

Lots of old men and women. They walk between huge hooves, no one raises their heads, they forgot about the tower, they graze dogs. Quiet and deserted.

Wind. Freshly.

And somehow I do not feel the strangeness of what fate has brought here. I want to evoke strangeness in myself, I want to be shocked, and - it doesn’t work.

With the air of a careless Parisian, I walk back to the embankment in order to indifferently and confidently press the traffic light button. Be it wrong! Not a single car. Obviously, someone upstream stopped them. But for the sake of interest, I still press the button. Obediently lit yellow, then green. I'm walking in pleasant green rays, but it's a little disappointing that I couldn't stop the avalanche of metal, rubber, glass and gasoline.

Then I rise high above the Seine along a narrow footbridge, stop in the middle, lean on the wet railing.

Grey, autumn water in bridgehead whirlpools. A boat flooded under the shore - only the bow sticks out.

Quiet, mother-of-pearl, deserted, and again somehow abandoned, and again sad. Why? From what? For what? For your stupid, lazy life? For a youth that has gone so suddenly, staggeringly suddenly?

And suddenly I realize that I'm saying goodbye to Paris all the time. I am not happy to meet him, but I say goodbye. I cover, of course, the sadness of farewell with external cheerfulness, as everyone does on the platform, but it is in me. I must have reached the banks of the Seine late. The sadness of farewell went with me down the ladder from the plane in Bourges. I started saying goodbye without saying hello.

And this prosaic thought: if time is short, if you still don’t see a thousandth of what you can see in Paris, then why bother to strive somewhere, to fulfill the program? I'd rather stand like this, over the gray Seine. The self-propelled gun, bubbling and rumbling, will rush under a narrow footbridge, will flash among the mother-of-pearl, autumn Paris with a brand new, bright tricolor flag, will remind you of the Neva bridges, the quiet waters of the Svir, the muddy expanses of the Ob Bay. And the Louvre, the Grand Opera - God bless them ... And forget about the temptation to join the chic life of celebrities - you suddenly envy them, then you laugh at yourself for being envious. All this chic limousine life is as far from the truth as the cover of an illustrated magazine is from a Van Gogh painting.

I go down to the water. A stove is burning under the bridge support, three repair workers are frying shrimp, the smell is fried fish and resinous smoke.

Upstream is a clean white-and-blue boat "Petrus", holding on to the frames of the embankment with neat mooring lines.

Gray water flounders in the flooded boat. The high embankment wall hid the city. No Paris. The smell of river water and the faint splash of a wave.

A girl in a black coat comes towards me, climbs the gangplank aboard the Petrus, opens the superstructure door, and immediately a huge dog jumps out, runs ashore, sniffs me. The girl says something. Probably reassures me so that I am not afraid that the dog does not bite.

Perhaps this is a harmful thought: if you cannot see everything, then there is nothing to strive for this. Then why live at all? And to stand all his life on the bridge across the river?

I board a small motorboat. The boat hibernates on keel blocks, it is covered with a tarpaulin cover, but the tarpaulin is poorly fitted - the canvas has sagged, rainwater has collected in it, fallen plane tree leaves float in the water. On the blunt stern of the boat it is written that he was born in France and belongs to the Lyceum Espadon, under the inscription an enamel dolphin frolics.

The Seine flows quickly, in a day the water that I see will pass Rouen, quietly, imperceptibly dissolve into the English Channel, become salty ocean water, meet real dolphins. I remember the black night at Boulogne, the little French sparrow, the warm xue wind... Then the shadows of a forgotten children's book appear in my memory. History of the Franco-Prussian War. The boy leaves to fight the Prussians. Defeat. He hides from his enemies in the forest, goes hungry, finds a dead chicken, roasts it on a fire, eats it half-baked, without salt... Etienne! Etienne was his name! - I remember and I am glad that I remembered the name, the picture in which he is with a knapsack, with an old gun. I remember that in my distant, pre-war childhood, I envied the knapsack, bayonet and gun of this Etienne. And he cried when the French were defeated by the disgusting Prussians.

The Seine and my Parisian time are running fast. The black dog ran back to the steamboat. The girl in the black coat left. Workers have eaten shrimp and are gathering scaffolding under the bridge. The workers put on their helmets and looked like firefighters.

Rain again. Drumming on the tarpaulin of the boat cover.

Paris is beautiful, although one always wants to find a flaw in it, to convict those who praised Paris in exaggerations, in the absence of those who praised own opinion, in their subdivision under traditional statements. But all this does not work. Perhaps it's the beautiful sadness of farewell? Or that he returns to the forgotten, childish? God knows, but Paris is beautiful. And all the artists of the world who painted its embankments, houses, trees, sky and women are beautiful.

Practice. Editing and evaluating essay.

Write an essay based on the text you read.

Formulate and comment on one of the problems posed by the author of the text (avoid over-quoting).

Formulate the position of the author. Write whether you agree or disagree with the point of view of the author of the read text. Explain why. Argument your answer based on knowledge, life or reading experience (the first two arguments are taken into account). The volume of the essay is at least 150 words.

Text.

(20) And in our difficult age, when art world is painfully looking for general truths, when the complexity of life necessitates the most complex analysis of the psyche of an individual and the most complex analysis of the life of society - in our age, artists should all the more not forget about one simple function of art - to awaken and illuminate in a fellow tribesman a sense of homeland.

(21) Let our landscape painters not know abroad. (22) In order not to pass by Serov, one must be Russian. (23) Art then art when it evokes in a person a feeling of albeit fleeting, but happiness. (24) And we are arranged in such a way that the most piercing happiness arises in us when we feel love for Russia. (25) I do not know if other nations have such an indissoluble bond between aesthetic feeling And feeling of home?

K 1	K 2	K 3	K 4	K 5	K 6	By 9	K 10	K 11	K 12

Composition 1.

This article is devoted to the consideration of a number of topical issues, the main of which is the question of what is happiness that arises in us when we feel love for Russia.

In my opinion, the theme of the article lies in the idea that in the works of many authors "hidden not only the eternal joy of life in art, but Russian joy". The focus is on the thoughts and feelings of the author this issue. The author sets essentially one task - to explain that the most penetrating happiness arises in us when we feel love for the motherland. The position of the author is very convincing and true. She inspires confidence. (?) This article is very interesting. I completely agree with the author, since love for the motherland is the most important feeling that arises in a person. But I would especially like to highlight Konetsky’s idea that “the Russians have such (?) inextricable link between aesthetic feeling And feeling of home".

An excerpt from Konetsky's article is a journalistic style text. The main function of the text is to influence the reader. This passage is a discourse text. The beginning of the text is a thesis that is convincingly proved. At the end, the author draws a conclusion that, as it were, unites the beginning and the end. The sentences in the text are connected sequentially. The undoubted advantage of the article is the use of personification ("the trees woke up"), which makes the reasoning more figurative, emotional. In order to make the argument more vivid, the author uses the epithet ("piercing happiness"). In order to draw the most attention to the issues raised, the author uses a rhetorical question ("I do not know if other nations have such an inextricable link between aesthetic feeling And feeling of home?").

I would like to end the work with Konetsky's statement that "in our age, artists should not forget about the simple function of art - to awaken and illuminate the feeling of homeland in fellow tribesmen."

Composition 2.

What is art for? What does it wake up a person? What are its functions? Such questions are put before the readers by the author of this text, V. Konetsky.

To answer all the exciting questions of this topic, the author reflects, shares his impressions, and gives examples. For example, he says that behind the names of Savrasov, Levitan, Serov, Korovin, Kustodiev lies not only eternal joy in art, but also Russian joy, with all its tenderness, modesty and depth. And also that one of the functions of art is to awaken and illuminate the feeling of the homeland in a fellow tribesman.

I absolutely agree with Konetsky that art inspires a person, brings him happiness when you see the paintings of our Russian artists, especially landscape painters, admire their talent to convey the beauty of our nature: Russian forests, fields, quiet lakes, and it seems that there is no prettier places than in Russia, you involuntarily begin to be proud of it.

Every Russian person should love Russia, admire its nature, art, language, and then it will become brighter in his heart. And most importantly, he will be happy with everything that surrounds him.

Composition 3.

Art… What is its purpose? Is there a connection between aesthetic feeling and feeling for the Motherland?

Above these eternal questions thinks V. Konetsky in his article. Relying on personal experience, he gives an example of perception national art far from both art itself and from the motherland. The association with Savrasov's painting "The Rooks Have Arrived" was caused by "small fearless birds". From the memory of the picture came nostalgia for home, Motherland, Russia. The feeling of home for the author is synonymous with a feeling of joy and happiness. Therefore, Konetsky considers one of the functions of art to be a “simple” formula: “to awaken and illuminate ... a sense of homeland”, means to evoke “in a person feeling ... happiness". The connection between the "aesthetic feeling and the feeling of the homeland", according to V. Konetsky, is inextricable and eternal.

It is impossible not to agree with the author. Art as a source of goodness and light should not only promote spiritual growth, but also develop a person aesthetically. Far from the native hearth, feelings are aggravated, the need for a loved one is growing. Art can give, albeit fleeting, a feeling of happiness from being close to home.

"Art is the mediator of what cannot be expressed", - wrote Goethe. It is always difficult for a person to express his feelings, for this you can use this or that art. For example, love for the Motherland.

It can be expressed through the canvas, as Savrasov or Levitan did, or through musical composition, as Tchaikovsky and Rimsky-Korsakov put it. But is the "indissoluble bond between aesthetic feeling And feeling of home"Maybe only Russian? Remember the Dutch painters. When you look at their canvases, the seaside coast of the Netherlands appears before your eyes. And when the Scottish bagpipes sound, do the fields of England appear before you?

Any art, if it is created with soul and deep feeling, has no nationalities and borders. Penetrating into the consciousness of a person, it becomes one with him, inseparable and native. And thanks to such an eternal connection, art and man become one goodness and light.

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