About commenters. She writes about Facebook commenters, but this is also true for comments on LiveJournal, on individual blogs, and so on. I quote in full for those who do not have a FB registration. When you write a post - or link to one you like - commentators come running. And it’s interesting to follow the dynamics of comments and the mood of commentators.
According to my observations, first there is a short, swift wave of likers: they have not yet had the physical opportunity to read the text, much less comprehend it, but no, like!
Then people come out applauding: brilliant! Wonderful! Ahaha! Great! Bravo! etc. They usually repost.
If the post seemed funny, they come howling gratefully, usually women: she sobbed, cried, howled, rolled on the floor, hooted, woke up her children, husband, neighbors with a wild neigh, scared the dogs; The roof collapsed and the ground opened up.
Then - and in parallel with the cliques - thoughtful ones arrive with information. They have their own opinion, whether it’s literate or not, and they express it. You can talk to them, you can friend them. The birds of paradise are over, the people have gone.
Then the first muddy wave of sullen idiots rises with comments like: “why are you writing about this? Is there really nothing else to write about?” If your post contained the slightest mention of financial expenses, the crimson buboes of reproaches are filled with bad pus: these are the outrages the world bourgeoisie is doing! no, to give everything to sick children!
(Individual leftists are galloping past: in your post they see a fresh signal that the world of purity is rotten and is about to collapse, and all that exists will be covered again by waters, and God’s face will be reflected in them. The greedy paws of bloodsucking spiders will open, and the flows of free gold will flow to the leftists.)
The second wave is the hebephrenic detachment of those who cannot read multi-letters. With seagull cries they once again report this.
Then a ringing prude comes out to inform you that she is going to unfriend you for using a swear word! forever! she's disappointed!
Individual, wandering fireflies fly by, not understanding anything: “Huh?!” "What was it?" "What are you talking about?" "What?"
And finally - not immediately - some outlandish, hating people come out: you, your words, your thoughts, your views, your friends, etc. At the same time, they come not only to cough up in your space, but also to steal the text for reposting on their FB, so that there, together with their friends, they can rejoice at your obvious worthlessness. These are amazing creatures, like flies: first they must turn the meaning of the text into shit, and only then happily savor the text, roll around and roll in it, rub their paws and burst into joyful buzzing.
I want to say that in order to maintain eco-balance, it is necessary to maintain an even, uniform existence of all the named categories in your FB. It’s unbearable to be poured with syrup and covered with marshmallows and marshmallows. You definitely need to nurture (and feed) your fool, your gloomy grumbler, preferably also the prude who turns pink from simple Russian words (although this one is more difficult to keep). There is such an elegant, bright feathered lout that it’s even a shame if it leaves your plot and goes to other pastures.
Correct selection is the key to a healthy account.
Writer Tatyana Tolstaya met with her readers on the Erarta stage. Violetta Pustovalova posted Tolstoy’s most interesting answers to public questions.- Tell me, how do you feel about the fact that you “entered the school curriculum”?
I'll say this. I'm used to being studied here and there. At first it was, of course, shocking. Then I got used to it, they started studying me abroad, including me in various collections... In general, at first it seems funny, then it irritates and in the end it becomes “nothing.” And this is annoying because a writer, unlike other creative professions, can control what he does. And when the texts begin to be studied, the writer realizes that he begins to lose this control. How people will understand the texts and how they will interpret them is unknown. They once gave me a brochure from some conference where they studied various texts under the guidance of a Russian researcher. There they analyzed my story “They sat on the golden porch...”, a story about childhood.
My childhood was spent at the dacha, in the garden, naturally, the first phrase of my story sounds like this: “In the beginning there was a garden. Childhood was a garden." It would seem clear - when they give you “In the beginning there was a garden,” what do we have? Paradise. Because that's where it all began. This is generally the most common metaphor that can be found in literature. What's unclear here? But the researcher must somehow twist everything out in a special way. And she writes: “In the beginning there was a garden. This is the Marquis De Sade”... Do you understand? What follows is a nightmare and sadomasochism, she, armed with this, tries to find some kind of BDSM in my completely innocent text... God knows what! Naturally, you begin to hate all researchers... So in any such “study” there is such a danger.
- Tell us about the program “School of Scandal”, how it developed...
Well, what difference does it make now how it developed? She died. It developed in the same way as our country developed, as censorship developed. When we started, there was really no censorship, but now it has risen with terrible force. You can’t say anything like that anymore, there is no live broadcast and there won’t be... Previously there was more variety in the choice of invited guests, but then they began to limit this. There is no point in inviting politicians anymore; politics is dead. Previously, there were some parties and elections. But now it’s not - and what’s interesting about such a policy now? We were asked questions: “Why don’t you invite media people?” And their media person is Maxim Galkin... Or if she comes down, then Alla Borisovna herself. But what interesting things can she tell now? Then they began to prohibit inviting all kinds of humanists, the intention was to invite people of science to show that we have a scientific life, people are engaged in interesting projects, and not just cooking some kind of endless food on TV... That there is something else. And then, towards the end, when things got really bad, apparently with censorship, they tell us: “Call the poets.” They realized that with poets everything would be easy, they would tweet about their own things, read an incomprehensible poem, and that’s all. Nobody will find fault. And then the end.
- Where do you visit more often now, Moscow or the States?
I live in Moscow. Sometimes I live in St. Petersburg. I love St. Petersburg very much, but there is no point in living here permanently, since both work and family are in Moscow... Therefore, I just love coming here, for me it’s like a gift. You can’t live in a gift all the time.<…>But there is nothing particularly beautiful in Moscow. Moscow was once beautiful with its little houses, some alleys, its curvature, it was like such a complete settlement, and not the center of the city. The village was such a big village, interspersed with palaces - it was wonderful. And then everything collapsed during the Soviet era, almost turned into ruins. Then Luzhkov came and cleared the ruins, but he cut down everything he could, because he and his people-architects had the following idea: to have a sparkling, polished house, with a turret on top of it. For example, not far from my house there is a building, either a hotel, or a bank, and on it, at the top, there are gigantic pieces of sawn harps, pipes, and some kind of piano. Well, this reminds me most of Las Vegas right now. Only in Las Vegas everything still sparkles with lights, but here nothing sparkles. There's just all this crap on the building. But people like it. This generation has come (I don’t know where it came from, perhaps it was always lurking in residential areas) that loves such beauty. This showed the architectural tastes of our nouveau riche. To have a lot. But at the same time, I feel sorry for the money. So they would build incredible golden palaces for themselves, but the toad is strangling... Therefore, they did nasty things, but not so huge. There is no project, no single image. In St. Petersburg they didn’t get to this point. Of course, I know that they also complain a lot, but it’s not like in Moscow.
We live in an atmosphere of a renaissance of everything Soviet, this can be seen in the social and literary context. What, in your opinion, conveys the essence of the Soviet?
This is a very long and complex question. Indeed, lately we have had an aesthetic that is perceived as Soviet. This is true.<…>However, after the collapse of the Soviet Union, people who grew up in it began to notice that much was “Soviet” and not “Soviet” at all. Yes, it is part of that culture, but also part of culture in a broader sense. It existed before the revolution.<…>Over time, it became clear that everything unpleasant that we attributed exclusively to the “scoop” was, in fact, ourselves. The absurdity of bureaucracy, terror - all this existed in the 19th century, and in the 20th, and continues to exist now, in the 21st. We live the same way. Can we do something about the elections? No. Can we do something about police brutality? Probably not. Can we fight the bureaucratic system in a global sense? How? Is all this horror unspeakable? No. This horror is not unspeakable. People who say now: “We live like in 1937” are wrong. There is no such nightmare right now. In any case, if you don’t like it, go to Finland. Take a minibus, and that’s it, it’s not even cheap. What to do with all this? Don't know. I wrote “Kys” about this. Someone else may decide this issue differently for themselves.
Elena CHERNYAEVA
(Chapter from a book I am preparing for publication“The history of Russian Amazons - in faces and tragedies.”)
PUPUNCHIKI AND MUMUNCHIKI TATYANA TOLSTOY,
A FEW STROKES TO THE PORTRAIT
Epigraph No. 1: « Americans don’t want to be murderers, they want to perform surgical operations on humanity, at best targeted bombings.” Tatiana Tolstaya.
Epigraph №2 : “Here, let him fucking... shove pissing rags down his throat to the entire depth of his larynx...”, “Dude, have you heard the word “dick”? Go there, they’re already waiting for you there.”Tatyana Tolstaya (LJ)
This article of mine was published in Literary Russia - http://www.litrossia.ru/2009/20/04115.ht ml
The career of the writer Tatyana Tolstoy, as a novice author of a dozen quite passable baroque stories, deserves study, because it is replete with some moments that reveal open secrets for the inquisitive, seeking the truth, who have not lost their sense of justice, goodness and beauty.
And it did not belong to the pen of Tolstoy, but of another writer - Irina POLYANSKAYA.
Here are passages from this wonderful story about first love, explaining where everything came from - this rush of virtuoso stylistics, lyrical pressure, plasticity, polyphony, musicality...
“...Hello, cute watering can with a dented side, manual rain! Hello, you too, the beds on which they bloomed, grew, ripened... And you, hose, great, a snail with a heavy inside of water, a peacock plumage of moisture over the currants, a garden full of butterflies, like moles - hello!
How do you live, a plum tree on which nothing grows, which lives by itself with a brood of ducklings in its lordly shadow, how do you live, a cherry tree with a ladder leaning against its sticky dark side? The well depth of the cans is too much, I’m picking cherries, and let Seryozhka gooseberries, no, I was the first to say, we won’t sit with Lenka, let’s go over the fence and to the river, look what we came up with; the Martian chirping of grasshoppers at night, and the veranda on the ropes of wild grapes still soared into the sky like a swing...
... No one will respond, no one.
But still the jungle unravels, swirls, fogs dissipate, branches part, revealing paths in raspberries, nettles, junipers, while I write about the abandoned homeland that I remember with my eyes closed; Someday, with the memory of my whole life expiring, I will return here, lay my head on the roots of the hazel tree and die to the sound of juniper leaves.
And what if there, in the summer city, the name of which the bird sings with all its velvety being, grandmother still walks in galoshes, watering the beds of cucumbers and moths above them, she walks and adjusts grandfather’s felt hat, which he managed to try on, on the stuffed animal, but he didn’t have time to vilify, there is a scarecrow walking along the fences above the corn and waving his sleeve at the swifts, there are swifts hovering over a schoolboy with a violin in his hands, now he will finish rosining the strings and will play scales on the veranda, the forced sounds of student music will flow down the steps one after another to the garden, where Sasha still sits among the sunflowers in the sun, and dragonflies fly over his head, the tailless beast Jerry fawns over him, and behind the gate, as always, children race on bicycles; not lower than the clothesline on which Aunt Lyuba’s light summer dress is drying, but not higher than the swifts - an influx of clouds, clouds, clouds... And if anything happens to me - whether I disappear, where I’ll go - look for me in my aunt’s garden beds; there, like a magic lantern, a bicycle wheel rolls motionless, there we are all still alive, we are all still together and, God, how good it is for us - a past as beautiful as the bottom of the sea ... "
Irina POLYANSKAYA’s story “How the Steamships Are Seeing Off” (so defiantly bright! talented! innovative in style against the gray background of the then Soviet literature!..) was published in the March issue of the Aurora magazine for 1982 and, of course,he could not ignore the attention of the Leningrad woman Tolstoy. A couple of months later, POLYANSKAYA’s first story, “Proposed Circumstances,” was published in Litucheb, which delighted many critics and especially Alla Latynina, who devoted an entire page to its analysis in her annual review article. By this time (by the end of 1983), Irina Polyanskaya had already prepared a book of stories and stories, which she submitted to the “Young Guard” editorial office for work with youth (harm - S. Rybas), where she, surrounded by enthusiastic reviews, began to slowly, persistently and habitually spread rot, carrying it out from year to year, and in response to the author’s complaints, offering him a “ticket to a Komsomol construction site” (!)
I am not kidding! That was all. Irina showed me all these letters from the well-known Svyatoslav Rybas, who, openly amusing himself, marinated Irina’s finished book for 6 (six) years. The magazines nipped all of Polyanskaya’s new attempts to get published in the bud - those were not the times, and the prose was NOT THE same.
Tatyana Tolstaya admitted that she wrote her first story in 1983 and published it in the same “Aurora”, it was called “They sat on the golden porch.” It was, of course, dedicated to childhood, to the impressions of childhood holidays, just like Polyanskaya’s “How the Steamships Are Seeing Off.”
Here you go. Everything comes together in time.
Only Tolstoy’s works, soon one after another, without the slightest pause jumping out of the inkwell onto the magazine page, were no longer published in the “children’s” Aurora and Lituchebe, but in the best magazine in the country - Novy Mir. Polyanskaya did not even dare to step onto the threshold.
Tolstoy didn’t intend to cover the thresholds of magazines herself; others did it for her.
It happened like this...
Serious forces were involved - firstly, Natalya Ilyina (who is some kind of aunt of Tolstoy - that is, a relative), and secondly, Veniamin Kaverin, the sacred buffalo of the St. Petersburg-Moscow intelligentsia, (somewhere in Georgy Elin's LiveJournal blog I came across a description of Elin’s visit to Kaverin, who pushed Georgy over the threshold because he was waiting for the arrival of “Tolstoy’s granddaughter with brilliant stories”). The prose department of the New World was then headed by a certain Margarita Timofeeva - a languid lady with traces of intellectual beauty and a great pretension to elitism, I must say, a lady with good taste, but extremely, fantastically chilling, least of all concerned with fulfilling the direct duties of editor and director. I took my orders to her several times, and each time I received them back “unopened.” Authors of the old school remember this technique - to check whether your manuscript was opened by the editor or not, its pages are slightly glued to each other. Timofeeva one fine day saw Natalya Ilyina, her bosom friend, on the doorstep, and heard Kaverin’s voice on the phone - and the matter began to turn, Tolstoy’s career went forward and forward - publications in the New World one after another, participation in the Meeting of Young People, giving the go-ahead for a book in the “Young Guard”, all in the same youth editorial office, and soon the book itself in 1987, jumped out of a cannon, while Polyanskaya’s book lay there “in the dark” until the beginning of 1989. Nothing more from it was published in logs failed. The stories were invariably returned with an insulting and indispensable wish to “stop imitating T. Tolstoy.”
It's funny, but several of the best stories from this book still ended up in Timofeeva's "New World", lay on her table and... died. For seven long years.
Seven years later, a bell rang in Polyanskaya’s apartment - a male baritone, worried, asked for Irina Nikolaevna, and then explained that he had found several of her stories in the closet of the prose department and really wanted to publish them. This was Mikhail BUTOV, a wonderful prose writer and editor who had recently arrived at the prose editorial office of Novy Mir, and who conscientiously began raking in the inheritance he had inherited from Timofeeva. By this time, the book had been published, and some publications had already begun, and the writer was not deprived of the attention of readers and critics, but the moment for a bright takeoff was missed - the time had changed, and the stolen style had already been widely replicated by the zealous granddaughter of the author of “Buratina” .
The time has really changed - a whole group of women writers appeared on the scene, who decided to publish collections of women's prose and announced the creation of the creative union "New Amazons" - Svetlana Vasilenko, Larisa Vaneeva, Valeria Narbikova, Nina Gorlanova and others.
But Tolstaya was already out of reach...
Such political-ethnic mechanisms and elevators have already turned on, built into the picture of inter-time and lifted the author like a rocket to such Olympus of fame that “my pale pen,” in the words of Georgy Sviridov, who devoted half a page to a cartoon portrait of T. Tolstoy in his Diaries, here nothing to do…
This afternoon I listened to the radio<ературную>broadcast from London (not from the beginning), conversation in English<ийского>correspondent (of course<...>emigrant) with some woman from Sov<етского>Union. This lady spoke very excitedly, very assertively (aggressively), the tone was a kind of intelligentsia vulgarity, something similar, on the one hand, to Moscow<овскую>lit<ера-турную>a lady, and on the other hand, a merchant from Kyiv Podol (like Tatyana Ryabova, but not cultured). But the tone... arrogance... know-it-all... cannot be described with my pale pen...”
In the foreign popularity of T. Tolstoy, the leading role was, of course, played by the author’s surname - everyone had heard about the Russian writer Leo Tolstoy, so Tolstoy’s granddaughter was received with a bang, and few Westerners went into detail about the fact that there were at least three Tolstoys. In the wake of the Gorbachev boom, Tolstaya went along with “perestroika,” “acceleration,” and “glasnost.” Even Petrushevskaya faded into the background and third place - too serious, too ponderous next to this champagne outburst of style and taste, lacy mannerism, innate feminine grace...
“I am a world-famous writer!..” - this is how she presented herself from the podium urbi et orbi great-niece of Buratina (in a televised debate with Podberezkin).
Let's imagine for a moment that such a statement is made from the podium in front of a large crowd of people... well, let's say, Pasternak, Nabokov, Platonov, Sholokhov, Shukshin, Bitov, Iskander, Petrushevskaya... Funny, right? You'll laugh. Dostoevsky? Chekhov? Even funnier. Chekhov, when asked about Dostoevsky’s thunderous novels, once expressed himself this way: “Somehow immodestly...”.
Today I am leafing through what was given to me back in 1987 by Galya Roy, the editor of T. Tolstoy’s first book “They Sat on the Golden Porch” (there was also a miracle of an incredible amount of vulgarity, careerism and stupidity - she, by a bizarre twist of fate, was the editor of Irina’s long-suffering book Polyanskaya’s “Suggested Circumstances”, who plunged her hand up to the elbow into her finely instrumented, magically shimmering fabric of prose, as if into the depths of an organ or symphony, and mediocrely, stupidly broke out of it one note, then another - she, of course, did not do this with Tolstoy allowed) a thin book with a paper cover and I can’t understand why all the fuss flared up?...
Because of these ladies' stories, which are modest in modern times? This homemade, not even salon, handicraft? Because of this 16th strip of “LG” with dancing and twisting of knees in different directions? Lacy twists of cold, self-centered, self-intoxicated intonation? These self-sufficient metaphors, designed for an immediate burst of laughter, a condescending cackle (“chicken youth” (chicken), “a wolf in a woolen coat,” “a cement wife on the eaves”)?..
I remember how Tatyana Nikitichna once declared on TV with an undisguised threat in her voice: “I am a very good reader!”
Yes, of course. On our heads.
The recipe is simple: carefully read and re-read, and then rewrite in your own words. Travesting Petrushevskaya, travestying Polyanskaya, blindly copying Victoria Tokareva - themes, plots, intonation - the choice at that time was small. And all this is translated into a commercial version of the lacquer box, the comic book, the aesthetics of litcomics, best developed by the authors of the 16th page of Litgazeta in its heyday.
Well, here you go, offhand:
Lyudmila Petrushevskaya:
Father and mother
* * *
Where do you live, cheerful, light Tanya, who knows no doubts and hesitations, who does not know what night fears and horror of what might happen are? Where are you now, in which apartment with light curtains have you built your nest, so that children surround you and you, fast and light, manage to do everything and even more?
The most important thing is in what black despair this radiance of the morning came to light, grew up and was brought up, this girl, active, as the eldest daughters in a large family can be active, and it was in such a family that Tanya in question was the eldest.
Tatiana Tolstaya:
Fire and dust
I wonder where crazy Svetlana, nicknamed Pipka, is now, the one about whom some with the carelessness of youth said: “Is Pipka really a person?”, and others were indignant: “Why are you letting her in? Books should be saved! She’ll take everything away!” No, they were wrong: all that’s on Pipka’s conscience is a light blue Simenon and a white woolen blouse with knitted buttons, and even that elbow was already darned.
Did you feel the difference?
On the one side -“...this girl is active, just like the eldest daughters in a large family can be active” (Oh, how good!)
On the other hand - “nicknamed Pipka...”, “Is Pipka really a person?”, “You should have taken care of the books...”, “blouse... and even that one’s elbow was already darned.”
Everything is somehow going downhill - shallow, flat, childish.
And here's another example:
Irina Polyanskaya:
Proposed circumstances
Just think, these fragile clowns with Chinese eyes, painted with a chemical pencil, are still kept among our Christmas tree decorations, and for a long time Albert is no longer with us, no father, no grandmother in the world, lost strength, years lived, no bulky furniture, silk lampshades - only a homemade eggshell toy survived a shipwreck, this fact makes me think that in order to survive, you don’t have to be big, like closet, strong as a stool, tough as a camel, yes, here it is, an incredible shell fragility and strength, not crushed under the pressure of time and events, we look at it, and the sunspots of memory continue to move from object to object...
Tatiana Tolstaya:
Most Favorite
However, the meat grinder of time readily crushes large, bulky, dense objects - cabinets, pianos, people - and all fragile a little thing that even appeared in the light of day accompanied by ridicule and squinting eyes, all these porcelain dogs, cups, vases, rings, drawings, photographs, boxes, notes, trinkets, baby dolls and mummies - pass through it untouched...
As we see, the PRESS OF TIME from Tolstoy’s Polyanskaya story with a deft movement of the hand turned into the MEAT GRINDER OF TIME, the CABINET remained a CABINET, the PIANO was also preserved - because this entire chapter from the magic story “Proposed Circumstances” is dedicated to the purchase of... A PIANO.
But it’s clear that the admiring reader’s head was buzzing so much and the admiring reader’s hand was so itchy that the pen itself, unable to resist, carried this, that, and the third to itself... And that would be nothing, theft is different from theft (Pushkin did not disdain ), - but just, having compared the two options, I want to exclaim: How is it with you, Madam author, in comparison with the model, everything is mediocre, wingless, and you don’t know how to steal something with your soul: instead of poetry, music, beauty, passed through the heart, all of you are some kind of FINTIFYUSHKI, PUPUNKHIKI and MUMUNCHIKI, accompanied by ridicule and squinting of the eyes...
But here is a piece of Victoria TOKAREVA with her signature mannerisms, deliberate stupidity of intonation and emptiness, emptiness...
Tatiana Tolstaya:
Mammoth hunting
A beautiful name - Zoya, isn't it? It was as if bees were buzzing. And she’s beautiful herself: good height and all that. Details? Please, details: legs are good, figure is good, skin is good, nose, eyes - everything is good. Brown haired. Why not blonde? Because not everyone is happy in life.
When Zoya met Vladimir, he was simply shocked. Well, or, at least, pleasantly surprised.
- ABOUT! - said Vladimir.
That's what he said. And he wanted to see Zoya often, often. But not all the time. And this upset her.
And now there’s a whiff of Zoshchenka...
Tatiana Tolstaya:
Sleep well, son
In 1948, Sergeyeva’s mother-in-law had her astrakhan fur coat stolen.
The fur coat was, of course, wonderful - curly, warm, the lining was trophy: woven lilies of the valley in lilac; I couldn’t get out of such a fur coat for ages: my feet were in my boots, my muff in my hands - and off I went, and off I went! And how they stole it - boorishly, brazenly, rudely, just pulled out from under my nose!..
Right. And I won't.
And then they read and engrossed, rolling their eyes in admiration.
A little there, a little here, you look, and there’s enough for a story. For selection. For a whole book.
(FINISH THE ARTICLE HERE:
From an interview with writer Tatyana Tolstaya to the Delfi portalWhen we talked to you in 2008, you said that your dream was to be a Russian lady in your own land. But today we are immersing ourselves deeper and deeper into the virtual space of the Internet, breaking away from our beloved land. What is this connected with?
In my heart I would like to have a house buried in lilacs, somewhere in a peaceful Central Russian zone, with vegetable gardens, fields and orchards - I like the land and the feeling of it, but... Firstly, these are dreams for the young, not for those who has back pain. And secondly, all this is beautiful only in my dreams, which I have no intention of realizing. In Russia, rural life is dangerous and unpleasant, especially in the suburbs - there are always some kind of attacks and other nasty things. We had a dacha - and it was sold because no one wants to be exposed to it. Here you have to live under guard and behind barbed wire, but this is not the same. What's good about virtual reality? You can create any estate there...
By what principle do you build your virtual politics - make parishioners, make friends, ban them, get into, excuse me, fights?
My “friends” are a very narrow circle of people who are familiar and pleasant to me. Next is a circle of people who are either interesting to read, or they get interesting links that I myself never get around to. I am also friends with very nasty people - you need to be aware of what is going on there and what they are focusing on. There are absolutely disgusting creatures there! Once I set up an experiment - I called the most disgusting ones, it was almost a menagerie. A lot of people came running: take me, I’m a scoundrel too... That wasn’t enough for me. I needed someone who wouldn’t come and ask—well, just a nit. From time to time I find “promising” people and join them, I think they are terribly surprised by this.
- It’s scary to imagine who you’ll ban then!
People who come out with outright rudeness. I keep an eye on everything out of the corner of my eye, and these guys are immediately obvious: they’ve come to be rude. It’s not that he awkwardly expressed himself or formulated it crookedly - no, he’s thinking, I’ll give this Tolstoy a bad name! Don't be rude, because you'll fly out right away. I bathe and erase his stinking comments. I don’t like it when you come home and there’s a bunch of shit piled up there - I won’t leave it in the name of democracy. It is fair that I am also banned from some people whom I outrage.
- Do you know them?
Yes. But everyone still has second accounts through which you can secretly climb and see what they do there and how they live.<...>
- When you and Avdotya Smirnova conducted the “School of Scandal,” it seemed that you were a kind of dual unity and inseparable water...
The art of directing!
- Do you maintain relationships and can we expect other joint events and projects of yours?
Common projects are not possible. Times have changed, and she is doing completely different things. For me, the world of rich politicians - God forbid, it can’t get worse, I don’t need all this.
Like many famous Russians, Avdotya Smirnova is actively involved in charity work today - does this attract you?
Don't compare me to Dunya. Firstly, she has completely different financial opportunities (in 2012, Avdotya married Anatoly Chubais - approx..). Secondly, this entire oligarchy has always traditionally been engaged in charity and should do so. Charity is like coercion for them: they have to do it. They distributed among themselves: who gives to hospices, who to other diseases, and who to other charities of varying strengths and directions. There are wonderful and almost hopeless projects related to reaching out to officials and ministries - putting pressure on them, trying to force them to return money to the people that officials want to appropriate in some way. For example, the problem with medicines, when prices for some drugs for cancer patients increased 10-20 times. Despite the fact that initially the prices for these American and German medicines are already inflated tens of times.
Something terrible is happening with these medications. I read an article about how an American bought the only pharmaceutical company somewhere in Latin America that produced an important drug for tropical malaria, and raised the price by hundreds or a thousand times. People are dying, despite the fact that a course of medicine itself costs a maximum of one hundred dollars. But the price was set so that no one except the rich could afford it.
- And who needs the population to become intoxicated?
No one, just no one cares. Why are they selling drugs to the people of Latin America? Because the psychopath and the thief want to live now, and the rest - at least don’t live. When you ask about mowing down the population, you at least imagine some kind of long-term perspective, but they don’t even think that far - they now want to break the bank. And with this attitude, people were able to rise to the pinnacle of power. The same thing happens with us. So, if we return to the topic of charity, we have wonderful projects in which people have the opportunity and strength to fight so that officials do not break away from real life. These are very important projects that require a lot of mental and other strength. Those who are not ready to put their lives on it, like me, simply send money to someone once a month. There are an endless number of calls for help online - you choose and transfer money. It’s clear that you can’t scoop out the ocean with a sieve, but if you’re depressed that you haven’t helped anyone this month, find someone and help, and your heart will calm down for a while.
July 20th, 2017 , 11:00 am
Kind and Fat
Tatyana Nikitishna, Tema's happy mother, Tolstaya. I mean, her last name is Tolstaya, and the texture matches it. See for yourself:
Photo: Reedus
Yes, fat. But, like all fat people, she is very kind. Tatyana Nikitishna loves to quietly take pictures of people, post their ugliness on social networks, laughing with a bunch of fans in her fist.
Well, for example, kind and fat Tanka is going on vacation from righteous deeds. He will sneak into the airport and click the camera shutter!
From the latest - Tatyana Nikitishna posted a photo of a fat mother with a thin son.
She named the still life classically - no, not horns and hooves, but arms and legs. According to Tolstaya Tanya, the members in the photograph are discordant, it’s such a laugh - you’ll just choke and choke on sarcastic phlegm!
Photo: Social networks
Naturally, the commentators pointed out to her - Tanya, well, it’s ugly and sometimes you behave disgustingly! Why quietly take pictures of someone else's misfortune? Posting it on social networks and laughing meanly is undignified, disgusting!
Tolstoys are always offended by the truth. She also offended Fat Tanya. And when it’s your own fault, who should you point the fingers at?
Have you already guessed who is to blame? Not yet? Read the direct speech for yourself:
Just now I posted a photo of a woman with a boy. The woman had very full arms, the boy had very skinny legs. If you looked at them separately, separately, it was not striking, but together they created a funny contrast.There was no text in the post, with the exception of one phrase: “Arms and legs.”
Hordes of hypocrites and neurotics immediately poured into the comments. The main content of their cry was: how embarrassing is it to laugh at a person, I should look at myself! to court! to court!
In other words, we are witnessing a special kind of everyday fascism - persecution of people whose weight (and volume) exceeds the standards established by Party Genos Lena Miro.
This public is sure that being fat is a shame, that plump forms cause laughter, a desire to point fingers and cackle, so you have to pretend that you don’t notice, hastily turn away, lower your eyes, or, conversely, roll them up to the sky and thank the Lord that carried this cup past, and also ask to deliver them from the Evil One, who slips either a pie or a bun.
This is how Lena Miro teaches them!
During their school years, these people bullied their fatty classmates. And also, of course, bespectacled people. Well, a bunch of them: short people, lame people, stutterers and redheads.
They are sure that this is all FUNNY. That's why the photo is posted for laughs. There are no other options.
Rubens, Titian, Kustodiev, Vladimir Lebedev also painted their paintings for laughs - my commentators, if they happened to go into a museum, or even just google pictures, they choke with laughter, gasp, wipe away tears, bend over, - have a good time .
They themselves are slender, lean, thin and tanned.
It means that I am neither in sleep nor in spirit, but I am guilty. Fascist. Rubbish.
The fat one is sawing the photo - Lena Miro is to blame. Tolstoy's friends laugh at the unfortunate people - Miro is to blame. They made a big fuss on their fucking Facebooks - who is to blame? Again, Lena Miro. Partaigenosse, leader of the fitness fascists.
Tanya, what did I want to say? You are fat. It's just really thick, really thick.
