Biography of the Yu Levitan

Time, a fearless artist, as if on white pages, writes something and writes on human faces. Still early. Half -Sumrak, half -light. And then the sun is on the roofs, but there is no one on the walls yet. And then the window suddenly lights up in the wall. The sound of the piano arises. Cinema begins. And he woke up, and swayed, the ball of the earth spun. Ah, mechanic, for the sake of God, what are you doing with me!

This ray, straight and sharp, this light strip makes me cry and laugh for two hours, be a participant in events, drink, love, go to the bottom ... My life, cinema, black and white cinema! Who was written the script? What kind of strange dreamer is this an equal brilliant and crazy director? How freely he mounts various pieces of glee and despair, fun and longing!

He does not forgive the actor for a poorly played role - whether it be a comedian or tragic, whether it is a jester or king. Oh, how difficult it is, how beautifully it is to be a face in this drama, where just between the beginning and the end of two hours, or even less, only a moment ... My life, cinema, black and white cinema! I do not immediately notice how you lose from a lack of bright colors, from involuntary dumbness.

You scream still soundlessly. You take me at first the expressiveness of gestures replacing the words. And your actors are in a hurry, they all run, they run - black tears flow along their cheeks with white and white. I believe them with blacks, I cry with them at the same time ... My life, cinema, black and white cinema! You accumulate experience, and in the flow of these years, although slowly, but still gain sound and color.

Your sound is harsh in these years, too rude voice. Too red sunrises. Too blue eyes. Too black from your blood on your hand, a spot ... My life, initial age, childhood of our cinema! And then the shades will come, and then the halftones, then the ability, such freedom that only maturity is given. And then this maturity will also become a child at some time, the first steps of those that will live after us, participate in events, drink, love, go to the bottom ...

My life, my color, panoramic movie! I love your light and dusk - an old spectator, I am ready to occupy any place in the cramped of your rows. But in this great drama, I, with everyone, too, in essence, I play the role that I got.

Even if I stand somewhere with the edge in front of the camera, even because I do not play, I play my role. And, participating in the plot, I look from the side of how my moments flow, my years, my dreams, how this thin thread is weaving with others, where I, to regret, can’t change anything, because in this drama, whether you are jester or the king, do not play a role twice, only once play a role.

And I cry over my own role and laugh. What I see, with what I saw, I want to put in one. What I saw, with what I know, help to associate in one, my life, cinema, black and white cinema! But as for cats, I was always indifferent to them. So I would live in the world, but, where - we don’t know ourselves, we have a taller cat, small, but with a mustache. A sort of tiny fools with the habits of the Psa-Zadira, an uncorgected king of animals on the scale of our apartment.

And I made friends with this cat for the fact that he listened to me as much as possible, and, moreover, listened very willingly. My poems to him on the gut, and he sniffs with an elegant motion to my pen with undisguised respect. So, we are excited and quiet, we are sitting next to us for hours, smoke tobacco, read poetry and move a mustache. And now I am ready to admit - let me not condemn me: there are very sensitive people among the cats!

The fight of the heart and reason. Sometimes reason wins: he argues rather soberly, the healthy expresses thoughts - well, and wins in this sense ... The heart beats, the heart does not give up, for the heart remains with the heart. Let it win more often! It somehow convinces more. In a wooden post, the posts - tea will be brewed, boots are dried, and warm things will be taken out of the furnace.

In these huts, in this snowy width, breathing with white frosts, she has long lives - Siberia is generously bakery. If anyone else is, maybe that the steps of hearing at the gate, he will lay his door on the valve, the bucket will not bring water, and he will bring it uncontrollably with every new heel - let this vein over his iron chest shake it! How many times in the peasant hut I was invited to a modest table!

They put only on the bed for the night, they spent the night on the floor. Seeing to the fence in the morning, they said, smearing tobacco, - they say, what they were rich, and they are happy. Sorry, if something is wrong! .. In the house, opening the doors to yourself, without melting either thoughts or feelings, to be worthy, even to some extent, I study this highest generosity.

In order to divide in sympathetic anxiety everything that I have behind my soul, with a person who has lost from the road, a traveler who wandered through the forests. So that, saying goodbye to him at the fence, smearing in a friendly tobacco, say: - What are rich, and even happy. Sorry if something is wrong! Gudzenko was late a letter. The letter was late. You won’t get it, you won’t open it and you won’t write to me.

He threw back the blanket. He turned to the wall tired. And the hand fell. And you don't see. Do not hear. You do not breathe. That's all over. Since then, you are not old and not young, and there will be neither a bit, nor years, nor rain, nor sunrise.One endless cold remains forever - the continuation of the distant winter of the forty -first year. Death flew over us, was almost noticeable.

We were a blizzard of white mourning, we and weaves. But the war, only noting a bullet, spared you to kill a few years after our victory. Here is another mound under this large sky. Obelski, plywood stars - there is no limit to them. This snow midnight stands on Earth Pantheon, where without the edge of the grave of the dead for a just cause. The heavy colonnade was frozen in the distance of waterfalls.

The Milky Way will be thrown over them like an eternal arch. And rows of granite steps go to the Carpathians under the solemn dome, where the stars flicker non -yarn. How many hills in the world! Like tombstones stingy. This is the mournful milestones of my generation. I am going between them. The lips have been bought to the blood. For a moment, at your grave, I am kneeling. And I lose you.

The words of comfort are useless. What should I do with sadness! My generation is on the march. But the iron law of attractions to the non -verses, where our peers, have not been subject to years, has not been subject to years. Talking to the breaths of the wall, gossip and debate of philosophical knowledge. Apparently, after midnight. I am wounded involuntarily, I jump out from under the blankets.

What did I dream about? I dreamed of a pure field, somewhere in the Bircho field stood. I scream for this wall: - Wait! The wind in the field bends the birch. Dress yourself, - I say, - and go out, somewhere in the Birch Field. Five minutes, I scream, - enough for the training camp. We will become at once against the wind and frost ... - Passing behind the wall, conversations.

It freezes somewhere in the Birch Field.