And the “conscience of the nation” standing on the low start is just waiting for Pugachev to give up someone resonantly banging or scandalously giving birth to someone — somewhere and all at once into her panties! Hooray, there is a reason to expose your civil position, get together in the studio and show off a polemicist talent! Some distinct answers to civil questions and doubts in the end are zero - but the main thing is that we, as they say, “raised a locomotive”! Well, they didn’t raise them, but as they tried, vigorously discussing the “difficult” topic and basking in the light of press spotlights!
And this is really a serious skill: to be sharp, bright, but in the heat of controversy you should not blurt out something, for which you can please later in the stop list. And the grateful public right there let us exaggerate on the Internet loud articles and speeches of press stars, competing in their comments. What is the use of this? Yes, no: all this tickling for the brain on the well-fed and not tired at work belly does not give rise to nothing.
But all this “raising a steam locomotive” is a good aversion from the nasty essence of the matter: that our productions are dying, the country is degenerating into a raw materials appendage. Yes, and sometimes it is written and said about it, but it is a voice from the dustbin for those press stars, who are ignited in exchange for their silence in essence. What is it to them, polished and fragrant, to some deaf Perm collective farm and its collective farmers, looking like cakes? This “conscience of the nation” eats all Turkish and conducts its talk shows in Turkish for the Russian heartland language!
Here is something loud, pleasant for a man in the street who is craving to tickle his snickering nerves - yes! And to climb, like in a bottle, into the hopeless life of a country, in order to tie its ends to ends, which requires a different level of work and skill - dismiss it! Therefore, the very genre of journalism, awakening civic consciousness, in which Shchedrin and Dostoevsky, Engelhardt, Ovechkin and Mozhaev shone, was curled up into a pipe for small spitting into our opponent. Even the publications themselves, where 200 years before the onset of the current press freedom was printed and avidly read by the enlightened public a lot of journalism, are now gone.
But like the bloody poisonous Hogweed Sosnovsky, who scored our fields, this weedy, parasitic journalism blooms and smells. It does not crave the truth, does not awaken the mind and conscience, but only looting on sensations that do not live longer than two weeks. They killed the guy in Biryulyovo with a loud echo - well, there is something to warm up; the main thing is to be in time until the hot corpse is cold! And two weeks have passed - and he, like many others, is forgotten. The whole pack waits for a new sensational food in the form of a new ringing murder, a scandal with a deputy or Volochkova's naked boobs.
All her passionate, even brilliant at times debates - such a yank, that by the very idea should not lead anywhere. For each, even a fair opinion is always reserved, for heating the public, the opposite. Must be distributed to all weapon - do not; introduce visas for migrants - do not enter; to plant for economic crimes - not to plant; extinguish gay propaganda - do not extinguish. Well, and so on.
And since there is no single coordinate system in society and the general concept of good and evil, anything that one brilliant talker rolls out, the other will refrain, no less colorfully. A country that remains spiritually unrepentant after the barbaric extermination of communist morality needs some kind of new reconciliation like air. These torii should serve his agonizing search, not sleeping at night, suffering from this search, like Blok in his drafts - then you can only suffer something. But they are attracted by this one controversy, in which only to personally get out of one's shoulder - and the grass does not grow further! It does not grow: all their big conversations leave behind them, like behind some kind of destructive skating rink, an ever larger wedge of our unplowed hectares.
Our heroic hussar Denis Davydov wrote sometime:
They say they are smarter,
But what do we hear from anyone?
Jomini da Jomini -
And about vodka not a word!
Now just about vodka is enough; not a word about what, in my deep conviction, can only serve as a fulcrum and the basis of the entire coordinate system — about work. For labor is the head and the guarantee of the survival of any nation. Without difficulty, we can’t get out of our vicious pond, where, under an eye on the scandalous offspring of Pugacheva, the development of our open spaces by foreigners is in full swing. It goes unevenly, with all sorts of knots and hitch, sometimes bloody - but this is only evidence that the process itself is lively and dynamic.
And here all the wind-up disputes about the introduction of visas for the hordes advancing on us and the strengthening of the law is an idle talk. No laws ever stories they did not prevent the internally welded barbarians-conquerors from conquering more cultured but decayed nations. And our masters of minds, without sowing anything rational, kind, eternal, labor, just glide, like surfers, in the wake of a general disintegration.
The main thing - I was given to ring out! Of course, something will be cut out of my tirade, but the main thing is that I stumbled out, laid down on my brother as an embrasure, and this saved the very idea of democracy!
But with this democracy we have a clear dead end - although its singers do not get tired to repeat that nothing better has been invented in the world. Only with this best of all inventions we morally, industrially, scientifically and so on fall lower and lower. Aliens alien to any democracy freely beat them to our even larger nation with a small number. But why?
It is impossible to hang wings on a steam locomotive - and wait for it to take off then. And our democracy, while preserving, first of all, in the minds, the blunt principles is very similar to such a hybrid. On the one hand, it is hit by a strict sieve, often more severely than in the USSR, to whom it is possible to open its mouth, to whom it does not. And for the most ardent democrats, this sieve on the approach to their stands is even cleaner than in power. But at the same time, this democracy is elevated to some kind of absolute, sacred stone, on which everyone swears - although it should serve only as a tool, and not the goal of the life of the whole.
These are not the sacred swan, crayfish and pike, whose quarrel is more important than any movement forward; not necessarily the presence on any occasion of two, three or more controversial opinions. This is such a dispute from which the truth should be born - and if it is not born, how can one argue at all? This is help in choosing the path by including the best minds in the discussion - and not some kind of common stupor, such as curare's poison. Now she is calling us in all directions at once - as a result, we are not going anywhere; but deprived of it, but more friendly opponents in themselves go to us.
Once, in times immemorial, my friend, a rural plowman from the Permian hinterland, Yura Orlov, woke me up in the middle of the night with his bell: “You hear, we were eliminated by the new technology! Three days earlier! Guys send you greetings too! ”
And I drove, like a madman, to the editorial office of Komsomolskaya Pravda, where I served, wrote a note in the issue - that the unmarried link of Yura Orlov was eliminated three days earlier! This sensation, inferior, of course, to Volochkova's boobs, went out on the front page the next day - and no matter how clean-minded intellectuals spat on it, it was important for our plowmen. The furious conjuncture of the perestroika years and further “battles for democracy” completely erased this fundamental truth of life from the newspaper pages. And we, with the current “sensational” journalism, are not interested in knowing it at all. And in vain.
It is terribly difficult to write about the fact that this crop was raised somewhere with the blood of the heart or, on the contrary, ditched it - so much so that it reaches the heart, the soul. But this is precisely, and not in riding on someone's star tits - the highest journalistic aerobatics. This is not a "resonant" fact - but vital; and I am reminded on this score, as the heroic president of Abkhazia Ardzinba once came to one village and asked: “Well, how was the corn sown?” He replied: “Yes, corn is nonsense, how is the policy going to Sukhumi?” : “This is the policy in Sukhumi - this is nonsense. And most importantly - how did you drop out! ”And a natural journalist, and not an empty phrase, will come out of the skin to reach this“ corn ”and light it up with a great, eternal truthful audience.
Yes, it was compromised in due time by that opportunistic journalism, which reflected our construction sites and crops with a blunt official word, through the left shoulder. But instead of this Soviet half-truth, the present complete lie has come: de neither plow, nor sow, nor build at all is not necessary, it is the de atavism of the past “scoop”. We will buy everything over the hill, and the business of writing and talking stars is not to go into these "soviet" matters, but to please the people who are sprawled around TVs and computers with selective scandals.
Let these Turks, who supply us with food, write on their agricultural topics. And to us, the self-interested consumers of other people's work, give about Pugachev and Galkin - what is really hidden in their underpants! And our “conscience of the nation”, not knowing shame, gives it all to our idle public.
On a loud turquoise corpse, all our trump journalists stumbled and bulged. And that the general contempt for labor, now devoid of all the rattles, killed my friend Yura, his collective farm, his posterity, the very idea of their own agricultural production - ugh. Not the trump card, where you can make a name for yourself and an advertisement, a fact.
And all of our journalism today runs on this low start. Who is war and who is mother; to whom the death of a loved one is a disaster, and to whom - a profitable funeral business, show business as well.
But with such a "conscience of the nation", galloping flea on a sensational corpse, do not go far.